He shrugged. “As I said, my mistake.”
“Hmm. Obviously you are expecting trouble.”
Sweet heavens! How could this woman read him so thoroughly?
“Yes,” he admitted, then turned about and called over his shoulder. “We’ll suffer Mrs. Bigby’s wrath if I don’t get you back for dinner.”
Thankfully, they hadn’t far to go, for Miss Gilbert shot out questions in rapid fire—and he thanked God for years of experience in dodging bullets. As soon as they stepped through the cottage door, Wenna pulled Miss Gilbert aside, enlisting her help in serving up bowls of pottage.
The rest of the evening passed by uneventfully, though he kept a sharp ear for any telltale noises outside, purposely manning the chair nearest the window for such a purpose. While the Bigbys, Cleaver, and Miss Gilbert chatted amongst themselves, his mind wore ruts with alternately trying to decide if he ought to say anything about George and his unlikely return, and the message on the log and what it could mean.
“…morning, Captain?”
He snapped his gaze across the small room, where Miss Gilbert’s brown eyes pinned him in place. Clearly she’d been speaking to him, but he’d not heard a word. “Pardon?”
“I asked if we are to leave early in the morning.”
“Yes. Daybreak.” Standing, he swiped his hat off a peg on the wall, jammed it on his head, then dipped a farewell. “Good night.”
He strode to the door—and the floorboards creaked behind him. His hand paused on the latch when the faint scent of orange blossom curled over his shoulder.
“You did the right thing,” Miss Gilbert murmured low.
His brow folded, and he turned, surprised to see she stood hardly a breath away. “What’s that?”
She stepped closer, pressing her hand against his sleeve. “You let the Bigbys keep their hope. You are a good man, Captain, and I thank you.”
The admiration glimmering in her gaze crawled in deep. And her touch…Lord have mercy. Against his better judgment, he leaned into it, and his heart skipped a beat. Ahh, but he was starting to crave this woman’s nearness. Her warmth. Her smile. All the delicate fierceness that made up the petite form of Abby Gilbert.
Abby? Heat settled low in his belly. Since when did her Christian name come so easily to mind?
Without a word, he turned and fled into the night, glad for the slap of cool air against his face. The sooner he delivered Abby—Miss Gilbert—to her baronet, the better.
Chapter Twenty
Outside the stable, crickets chirruped. Inside, Cleaver snored. Samuel lay wide-eyed, annoyed by both.
Some nights just weren’t meant for sleeping. He’d learned that lesson as a young lad, when long after his father’s shouts had ended and his mother’s weeping had subsided, he’d lain awake. Staring in the darkness. Wishing he were somewhere else. This night was no different save for the reason—a brown-eyed vision chasing off his sleep. Even now he could hear the thick emotion in Abby Gilbert’s voice as if she lay right next to him.
“You are a good man, Captain.”
Rising slightly, he punched the straw into a thicker wad and whumped back down. Good man. Him? Oh, not that he didn’t yearn to be—try to be—but that same little boy who lived deep inside him still huddled in a corner of his heart, crushed by his father’s words of long ago.
“Get your worthless backside out o’ my house! I’m done with you.”
And so, at only eleven, he’d left to live on the streets, vowing to never turn into the same drunken bully as his father.
Though no one could see it, a small smile curved his lips. Apparently, leastwise in Abby Gilbert’s eyes, he’d succeeded. And that one, singular truth prodded him to flip over yet again. He should run from the tenderness he’d heard in her voice, flee the fondness he’d read in her eyes. He knew it in his head, the same as he knew he should’ve left his father’s house sooner than he did. But in his heart, ahh, that misguided organ…His heart demanded he not only stay but also win Abby over to him alone.
He flung his arm across his eyes. It wasn’t good, this growing attraction he harboured for the woman, not when she belonged to another. Though Farmer Bigby had told him—hardly two paces away from where he now lay—to love with abandon, whether returned or not, somehow it felt wrong. Abby Gilbert deserved more than a worn-out lawman with enemies skulking around every corner. She should have a quiet home filled with love and peace, especially after escaping such a dismal existence with a family that neither cared for nor valued her. Indeed, a man of means such as her baronet was exactly what she merited, not a broken horse patrol captain…and the sooner he got her to her baronet, the better, before he did something stupid like fall in love and ruin her chances with the man.
He punched the straw again and tossed to his other side, then stilled, listening past Cleaver’s heavy breathing. A solitary bird chirped. Then another. Soon the farmer’s rooster would cock-a-doodle-do the official start of morning.
Weary to the marrow of his bones, Samuel stood and arched his back, working out a kink with a satisfying pop. He moved on to his neck, stretching one way and the other until it cracked. One stall over, Pilgrim stuck out her head, eyeing Samuel’s movement. A horsey smirk twitched the animal’s nose, mocking his creaking body. Condemning him as an old man. Samuel smirked back. He couldn’t agree more.
Grabbing his riding cloak off the workbench, he threw it over his arm and snatched up his hat. Then he stalked over to where Cleaver yet lay snoring and nudged the postilion with his boot. “Time to move.”
Cleaver bolted upright, bits of straw sticking to his coat like a poorly stuffed scarecrow. After a curse and a “What the…,” his gaze followed the length of Samuel’s leg up to his body, then finally to his face. “Oh,” he yawned. “Aye.”
Outside, early-morning vapors rose like prayers, blurring the countryside into a mystical softness. Samuel glanced at the sky, pregnant with the promise of morning. Still a deep grey, but no clouds. A good day to travel. A better day to put space between them and whoever left that carved message in the branch yesterday.
The next hour passed in a flurry of hitching horses, reloading Miss Gilbert’s chest, and downing as much porridge as Wenna could possibly ladle into their bowls. Emma surprised them all by finally allowing the farmer’s wife to hold her without crying, though it lasted for only a moment before she wrenched around and shot out her arms toward Abby.
Thunderation! She should be Miss Gilbert to him, not Abby!
After helping her and Emma into the carriage, he strode over to Pilgrim. Farmer Bigby followed him while Wenna darted to the coach’s side to say her goodbyes at the window.
The farmer clapped him on the back. “Keep in mind what I said, Captain. Don’t let that one”—he hitched his thumb over his shoulder, aiming at the carriage—“slip from your hands.”
Samuel turned his back on the man and his advice and swung up onto his horse. Grabbing Pilgrim’s reins in a loose hold, he looked down at Bigby, purposely changing the subject. “Thank you for your hospitality. You and your wife have been more than generous.”
“Just sharin’ what the good Lord provides.” Bigby squinted up at him. “Godspeed, Captain.”
Samuel gave the man a sharp nod, then trotted ahead, getting a lead on the carriage horses. No branches in the road would miss his observation today. In fact, just to be safe, he sped ahead, intending to scout the length of the Bigbys’ curvy route all the way to the main thoroughfare.
Leftover mist clung low to the ground, but only in spare hollows where the land dipped at the sides of the road. As the sun rose higher, nothing but shimmery dewdrops remained. Samuel gazed past the beauty, scowling as he urged Pilgrim onward. It didn’t seem right to ignore God’s handiwork in favor of looking for evil, yet that was his job, always his job. And by all that was righteous, how it wore on him. It wouldn’t be soon enough to receive the baronet’s payment and retire on his own piece of land.
Pilgrim’s ears tw
itched. Samuel stiffened and listened beyond the thudding of his own horse’s hooves. Rounding the last bend to the main thoroughfare, he peered into the distance—and saw what had snagged his and Pilgrim’s attention.
To the east, a cloud of dust rose above the brush along the main thoroughfare. A horse and rider. And by the looks of it, coming fast. The sight wasn’t that unusual. Maybe someone rode hard for a surgeon. Or perhaps the rider tore hell-bent for a midwife, his first child on the way. Any number of innocent reasons could drive a person to move at such a frenzy this early in the day.
But when the rider turned off the main road and onto the Bigbys’ lane, all his speculations darkened to a dangerous shade. No one should be eating up ground that quickly to get to an old farmer and his wife.
Unless the rider wasn’t coming for them.
In one swift movement, Samuel snatched out his gun and dug in his heels. Pilgrim shot ahead. Thirty yards away from the approaching rider, he angled Pilgrim sideways and stopped the horse perpendicular in the middle of the road. A blockade of sorts—made all the more deadly when he jerked up his arm and steadied the pistol muzzle on the crook of his elbow.
“Stop!” he yelled.
The rider didn’t.
No choice, then. Samuel pulled off a warning shot—the only warning he’d give.
With one hand, the rider yanked on his reins. Too hard. The horse reared, and the man fell.
Samuel leapt off Pilgrim, pulling his knife with one hand and flipping his gun around with the other to use the grip as a bludgeon. All the while, he sprinted to where the rider rolled to a stop. He planted his feet wide, ready for anything. “Who are you?”
The man pelted him with curses. “You’d better have a good reason for threatening me on my home land!”
Samuel cocked his head, wary yet curious. Home land?
The man shoved up one-handed to his knees, still calling down brimstone and all manner of other oaths upon Samuel’s head. His other sleeve was empty, pinned to his chest. And when Samuel caught full sight of the man’s face, he gasped.
A jagged scar crawled like an earthworm from his chin to his cheek, stopping briefly at an eye patch, then emerged out the other end to disappear into his scalp. But it wasn’t the wound that punched Samuel in the gut. It was the man’s ears, sticking out like handles on his head, and a hook nose that might serve as a sparrow’s perch…the very image of a young Farmer Bigby.
George? No wonder the man hadn’t returned home in two years. With those wounds, it was a wonder he’d returned home at all.
Samuel lowered his gun and knife, yet kept a grip on them in case he was wrong. “Do you live in the farm cottage down the lane?”
The man glowered up at him. “Not that it’s any of your business, but aye.”
Samuel stored his weapons and offered his hand, relieved he’d been wrong about George not coming back—and even more relieved that he’d said nothing about his suspicions to the Bigbys.
George slapped his offer away and rose to his feet, a bit wobbly but on his own power.
Allowing the man a moment to collect himself, Samuel turned and snagged the lead of George’s horse, then returned the animal to his master.
George snatched the lead from his hand. “Who the devil are you, and why gun me down?”
If looks could kill, Samuel would be bleeding out on the dirt. He lifted his hands and backed away, edging toward Pilgrim. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Bigby. I made a mistake. Please, continue on your way.”
George narrowed his eye. “Do I know you?”
“No.” Just then, the carriage rounded the bend, and Samuel tipped his head in that direction. “We were simply passing by, and your family took us in. I daresay you will be a welcome surprise. Once again, my apologies.”
He swung up on Pilgrim and cantered down the road, chagrined by his blunder. Of course his drastic precaution had been a necessary evil. What were the odds of George Bigby returning home on the very day he rode out looking for trouble? His offense had been the right thing to do. The only thing to do.
So why did his gut twist and his heart burn?
Putting pressure on the reins, he guided his horse onto the main road. Thank God he hadn’t shot the man. From now on, he’d be more careful. Use a bit more discernment before pulling out his gun and—
“Easy,” he rumbled and put pressure on the reins, halting Pilgrim at the side of the road, hardly believing his eyes.
There, on a rise of thicket grass that led up into a stand of trees, strategically placed rocks spelled out letters, three feet high. Two feet wide. Vindicating his gun-pulling. The single, ominous word kidney-punched him:
DIE
A morbid enough message, but when added to the previous two he’d already received, his pulse took off at a breakneck speed.
Soon. You. Die.
Abby fanned herself with her hand, debating yet again if she ought to ask the driver to stop so she could retrieve an actual fan from her chest at the back of the coach. Oh, why hadn’t she thought to remove it when the big chest had sat in the Bigbys’ cottage? Even with both carriage windows down, the air stifled, making her want to crawl out of such a heated cage. Or maybe it was Emma who she really wanted to escape. Ever since discovering her mobility yesterday, the girl was a scrambling squirrel.
Instant remorse pinched Abby’s conscience, and for at least the twentieth time in the past hour, she shot out her arm to block Emma from diving off the seat.
“Gee!” Emma squealed and bounced, then, thankfully, lunged for the opposite window and pulled herself up to peer out.
Abby leaned back against the seat, closing her eyes as the wheels rumbled along. Was this what it felt like to be a mother? To be driven to such extremes, loving wholeheartedly and desperately wishing for a minute alone? Or was she being selfish? Either way, God bless each and every self-sacrificing mother on the planet.
Exhaling her frustration, she tucked up a hank of hair loosened by Emma’s grasping fingers. The child truly had at least four arms, each of them out of control. With a last look to make sure Emma’s feet were safely anchored away from the edge of the seat, Abby leaned sideways and poked her head outside the opposite window, not caring that she probably looked like a beagle riding with its ears flapping in the breeze. Propriety be hanged! The wind on her face was so worth it.
Ahead, the captain rode tall on Pilgrim and glanced over his shoulder as if he detected her breach of decorum. But he didn’t see her. Not really. She’d learned that hours ago when she’d waved at him and received no response. Ever since they’d left the Bigbys’ cottage early this morning, he’d been looking back, and sideways, and straining to see up front—where he’d been riding all day.
Abby narrowed her eyes and studied his broad shoulders. In the heat of the afternoon, he’d forsaken his riding cloak, shoving it into the leather bag he kept strapped behind his saddle. He rode loose, his body rolling with the horse’s movement, his muscles slack. Still, it didn’t fool her. Pulling a gun on nothing but a branch. Pitching rocks away from the side of the road. Scanning his surroundings like a spinster bent on finding a husband. Something festered inside that man. Something he wouldn’t tell her, no matter how many times she peppered him with questions.
A squeal ripped out of Emma. “Ah-be-da! Ah-be-da!”
Abby pulled her head back inside the carriage, curious yet dreading what might’ve caught Emma’s attention. Ah-be-da could be any number of things. Scooting sideways on the seat, Abby neared the child and peered past her.
The road gave way to a large field, and on the opposite end of the big clearing, all manner of coloured tents, flags, people, and animals spread out. As the road curved and they drew closer, the sounds of music and laughter, hawkers clamoring about their wares, and showmen begging for an audience all filled the air. Abby smiled. Ah-be-da, indeed! She’d always wanted to visit a country fair.
Once again, she shoved her head out the window. “Stop the carriage!”
The postilion slowed the coach to a stop and barely had the step out for her to exit when the captain rode up, his usual glower in place as he swung from his mount.
“We’re nearly to the inn. Why stop here?”
She peeled Emma’s fingers from her face, then turned the child around and angled her head toward the merriment. “The fair, of course.”
His dark gaze drifted to the revelry, then cut back to hers, sharp as a knife. “No. Absolutely not.”
Truly, he needn’t have said anything. The steely set of his jaw and stiff way he held his neck screamed he’d rather be drawn and quartered than escort her and Emma to a fair.
Abby pursed her lips. Good thing opposition was a commodity she’d learned long ago to trade in deftly. She blinked up at him, determined to win the battle. “While you have enjoyed the fresh air all day, Emma and I have been slowly cooking inside the carriage. She needs this outing, Captain. As do I.”
A tic twitched at the side of his eye. “It’s not safe.”
“Maybe not, but that is why I hired you, hmm?”
He glanced around, his eyes slowly grazing the entire length of the fairgrounds. His mouth flattened into a straight line, and he shook his head. “It’s a bad idea.”
Abby shifted Emma to her hip, stalling for time. How was she to convince him? Her sisters would’ve fluttered their eyelashes or maybe let loose a single, fat tear, but that wouldn’t work with this man.
So she met his gaze, hard and even, and softened her tone. “Please, Captain? Despite any dangers you may perceive, I know that Emma and I shall be perfectly safe in your company.”
As if on cue, Emma stretched out her arms toward him. “Ah-be-da?”
Finally, he broke.
A growl rumbled in his chest, and he pulled Emma from her arms. “Very well. But we’re not staying long.” He turned toward the postilion. “See to my horse and the lady’s belongings, then secure us two rooms. Also, arrange a carriage and fresh horses for the morning. We’ll settle with you later.”
The Noble Guardian Page 19
