After he conducted his business with the owner of the lumberyard, a very obliging man who was more than happy to accommodate him, Eamon left the buckboard with one of the employees as instructed. By the time he, Theo, and the children finished their ice cream, his order should fill the wagon, and they could be on their way home.
He strode up the street, peering into the windows of the shops he passed. At the cobbler’s shop, he watched Theo hand money to the shoemaker. He couldn’t hear the words he and Theo exchanged, but he could certainly discern the conversation. Thomas was growing like a weed, almost three inches seemingly overnight, hence the need for new shoes sooner than Theo had expected. His gaze dropped to Thomas’s feet, then Charlotte’s, and finally, Gabby’s. All three sported new footwear. He couldn’t see Theo’s shoes but assumed she hadn’t gotten a new pair for herself. As frugal as she was, she wouldn’t spend the money unless it was absolutely necessary.
He leaned against a post that held up the awning in front of the building to wait and watch the passersby. He nodded a few times in response to a greeting thrown his way, touched the brim of his hat in deference to the ladies. No one, not one person, recognized him. What had he thought? That people would look at him and point, proclaiming him a coward for hanging up his guns?
He turned around and focused his gaze on the shops on the other side of the street. A man stood at the big, plate glass window of the building directly across from him, hands on his hips, shirt sleeves rolled up past his elbows, the top of his bald head coming just beneath the words “Edwin Dancy, Editor” painted on the window in black and gold. Above that, also painted in black and gold, the letters bigger and bolder, was The Pearce Intelligencer. He recognized the name, though he hadn’t read a newspaper in years. Quincy, however, read every word of the Intelligencer and often shared what he read aloud, believing that everyone needed to know what happened in the world beyond Morning Mist.
The bald man he assumed was Edwin Dancy stared at him, then, as if embarrassed to be caught being so rude, he gave a quick nod and moved away from the window. Eamon didn’t give it another thought. He turned his attention back to the shoemaker’s shop as the bell over the door jingled. Gabby rushed toward him, her grin angelic, even with her two missing front teeth. “Look, Mr. MacDermott, I got new shoes!”
“Very nice, Gabby.” He moved away from the post and turned his attention to Charlotte, who hung back just a little. “What about you, Charlie?”
The girl beamed, as he hoped she would. She was still shy around him, but she was getting better, especially when he called her “Charlie.” She showed him her shoes, then hid behind her brother.
Theo approached him, and for a moment, there was no one else in the world . . . just her. She handed him a burlap sack with the children’s old shoes and glanced past him. “You finished sooner than I expected. Where’s the wagon?”
“I left it at the lumberyard. Our order should be completed by the time we finish our ice cream.” At the mention of ice cream, the children’s faces broke into grins of surprise. He moved away from the post and held out his arm. “I thought we could walk.” He grinned as his gaze passed over the children’s footwear. “Give those new shoes a chance to break in.”
Theo slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. She gestured to the sack in his other hand. “I thought we’d drop those off at the church. They’re still in good shape, and I’m sure Pastor Engvall knows someone who could use them.”
“Of course.”
Chest puffed out with pride, Eamon strode down the raised sidewalk. He had Theo beside him and the children he thought of as his own in front of him. Nothing could dim the happiness coursing through him.
“Get the hell outa my way!” The belligerent tone accompanied a man pushing his way through the batwing doors of the Cattleman’s Saloon, stopping Eamon in his tracks.
In an instant, the world disappeared—the people on the sidewalk and in the street, Theo beside him, her hand tucked into the crook of his elbow, the children walking in front of him. Eamon’s breath wheezed in his throat, his lungs demanding life-saving air that seemed just out of reach. The bright sunlight of only a moment before faded to the sepia tone of photographs as his eyes took in the hellish visage of Tell Logan. His heart raced even as his blood froze.
He’d never forget that face. Or that voice. How could he? He saw it every day . . . in his nightmares and even when his eyes were wide open. That face had emblazoned itself in his memory, along with those of Kieran, Mary, and Matthew. That face belonged to the man who’d shot him and left him for dead on the front porch of Whispering Pines, his brother’s ranch, so long ago.
His stomach clenched, and bile rose to the back of his throat as the man sauntered down the raised wooden sidewalk as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Without conscious thought, Eamon dropped the burlap sack in his hand and reached for his guns, but they weren’t there.
They hadn’t been for a long time. Even if they were, there wasn’t much he could do, not with all the townspeople crowding the sidewalk, and most definitely not with Theo and the children nearby. He would never put someone in harm’s way. Never. Least of all those who had become more important to him than breathing.
“Eamon? Are you all right?” He heard her voice as if through a dense mist. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
He took a gulp of air. “I think I have. We should go.”
“But we promised the children ice cream, and we have to drop off the shoes.”
Eamon studied her face, then glanced at the children. Anticipation had put smiles on their features. He couldn’t deny them this small pleasure, despite the anxiety churning in his gut.
“I’ll meet you at the ice cream parlor.” He reached down and picked up the sack he’d dropped, then handed it to her. “There’s something I need to do.”
“But Eamon—”
He didn’t let her finish. He brought her hand up to his lips and kissed her knuckles, then repeated, “I’ll meet you there.”
She gazed into his eyes for what seemed like forever, but in reality, was only a moment or two before she gave a slight nod. “All right, Eamon.” She squeezed his hand, then ushered the children across the street. She turned once, her gaze intent, gave another slight nod, and headed toward the town square, Gabby’s hand in hers.
Eamon forced himself to breathe as he watched her, his mind in turmoil, every muscle in his body tense and poised to go after the man who had so drastically changed his life. Without his pistols though, he’d be asking for certain death . . . and he had too much to live for now to let that happen, but that didn’t stop him from following the man.
Chapter 15
With the children finally settled in bed, Theo wandered downstairs, intent on brewing a cup of Granny’s special tea. It might just take the hurt away from her head. She didn’t hold out much hope that it would do anything for her heart.
Something happened today—something bad—but she couldn’t exactly say what it was, except that Eamon had changed. And she didn’t know why, nor could she explain it to the children, though they’d peppered her with questions. He’d gone from smiling and laughing to shutting her out—shutting them all out—in a split second, all the excitement from their excursion gone in the blink of an eye.
He arrived at the ice cream parlor long after they’d finished their treat, his features taut, his dark mustache standing out in stark relief against the paleness of his perspiring face, but it was what she’d seen in his eyes that frightened her the most, and the ride back to the farm was made in eerie silence. Eamon wouldn’t look at her or the children, and the expression on his face did not invite questions. Nothing had changed by the time they’d arrived home, and as soon as he took care of the horses and the lumber, he shut himself in his room. The summons to dinner had come and gone, the nightly chores completed without his help.
Quincy was waiting for her when she entered the kitchen, a bottle of brandy and two glasses on the table. She
didn’t want to talk, but it didn’t look like she had much choice. At least, it was just Quincy and not Marianne. Or Granny. She didn’t know if she could handle the expressions on their faces, though she had suffered through their kindness and concern all through dinner as they had seen the change in Eamon immediately. He hadn’t been rude, he’d just . . . closed in on himself, becoming sullen and so utterly sad.
“You know I love you like my daughter, right?” Quincy asked as he pulled out a chair for her, his voice so gentle and concerned, it brought a lump to her throat. She nodded as she took her seat.
“And you know I’ve grown quite fond of the big guy outside, right?” Again, she nodded, unable to speak. He poured a glass of the brandy and handed it to her, then asked, rather bluntly, “What happened in town today?”
Theo took a sip, letting the warmth of the liquor ease some of the tightness in her throat. “I don’t know. Everything was fine one minute, and the next, it was . . . different.”
“What were you doing when it became ‘different’?” Quincy pulled out the chair beside her, then poured his own glass of brandy.
She shrugged and tried to put the pieces together so she could explain, but how could she when there was no explanation? “We were walking to that new ice cream shop you told him about. He was happy, laughing at something Charlotte said, when someone came out of the Cattleman’s Saloon—a man—and almost slammed into him. When I looked at Eamon, he’d gone completely white, like he had no blood left in his body. If I didn’t know any better, I would swear he saw a ghost. I even made that comment, but he didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smile.”
She took a deep breath and studied the brandy in her glass, the amber brew reflecting the light from the candle on the table. “I saw something in his eyes, Quincy, something I never want to see again.”
“What did you see?” Still the same gentle voice, but this time, edged with apprehension.
Tears pricked her eyes, and she blinked as she looked into her trusted friend’s concerned face. “Fear. I saw fear . . . and hopelessness. Despair. It . . . I . . . ” She couldn’t finish as her throat closed over the words.
He gave a slight nod, then grasped his glass and swallowed the contents in one gulp. He opened his mouth, then closed it again and poured himself another, downing that one as well before he said, “You should talk to him.”
“I know. I just . . . don’t know what to say. What if he continues to shut me out? What if he won’t talk to me?”
The older man studied her, his gaze intent on her face. “Just be patient with him. He has something to tell you—something hard—but something you should know considering how you feel about him. And how he feels about you.”
His words were cryptic, and she stared at him, her mind working furiously. The expression in his eyes, which weren’t twinkling as they usually did, told her he may know what happened earlier today, even though he hadn’t been there, but whatever it was, he didn’t feel he could share it with her. “You’re scaring me.”
“I don’t mean to.”
“Can’t you tell me?”
He sighed deeply, then reached for the brandy bottle one more time. He poured the liquor into the glass and took a sip this time. “It’s not my place. It has to come from him.”
Despite her fear, Theo reached deep inside herself and took hold of her courage. She stood, though her knees were quaking. “You’re a good man, Quincy Burke, and a good friend. To both of us.” She squeezed his shoulder gently, grabbed the bottle of brandy and her glass, and then let herself out of the house, closing the door softly behind her.
The stars were out, the moon full and casting a bright light as she made her way across the barnyard to Eamon’s room, her heart pounding, her body trembling, as afraid and unsure as the first time she’d gone to his room.
• • •
Eamon paced, going from one end of his small room to the other, his boot heels loud on the wood floor, then muffled when he trod over the small throw rug between the bed and the chair. Night had descended long ago, though it couldn’t match the darkness in his heart. The small lantern he’d lit earlier couldn’t chase away the gloom either or the thoughts in his mind.
He’d followed Logan as far as the edge of town, his scar throbbing with each fall of his foot, only to lose him when he mounted his horse and rode north. To where? A hideout in the hills, a place where he laid low? Eamon had racked his brain, trying to remember what lay north of Pearce, and could only recall several homesteads and a few small ranches, none of which would willingly hire an outlaw.
Another thought clamored into his head, one that made his stomach twist with guilt and rage. Was it Logan who had been watching them and set fire to the stable? He shook his head, disregarding the idea as quickly as it came to him. Arson had never been Logan’s way of killing—he’d rather just shoot someone and be done with it—but it did raise more questions, adding to the turmoil already in his mind. Did Logan even know he was here? He hadn’t been off the farm until today. He supposed it was possible Quincy or one of the children might have mentioned him to someone in town, but who would talk to Logan? And why would Logan be after him? The outlaw thought he was dead. Unless . . .
Could Logan have been hired to chase Theo away from Morning Mist? Both Theo and Quincy said Pearce had made several offers, even sending his fancy New York lawyers—as well as his son, AJ—to try to convince Theo to sell, but would he sink so low as to join forces with a known criminal to . . . what? Intimidate her into giving Pearce what he wanted? Kill her? Quincy said one never knew what Aldrich Pearce would want nor to what lengths he would go in order to get it. Was he capable of murder? Perhaps not, but he wasn’t above hiring someone else to do his dirty work.
Eamon had no answers to the barrage of questions in his brain, which only served to make him more agitated. He forced air into his lungs and sat on the edge of the bed, but shot to his feet and started pacing again in moments, unable to sit still. If he kept on like this, he’d wear a path in the hardwood floor . . . or make his heart stop. It already hurt, pounding against his ribcage like it longed to be free of his body. He laid his hand over the place where Logan’s bullet nearly took his life and pressed—hard—hoping to stop the familiar ache from spreading and stealing his breath, hoping to find the courage to do what he needed to do, but afraid that taking Logan’s life would irreparably change his own.
Theo.
How could he tell her of his intentions? How could he tell her he’d be gone by the time the sun rose in the morning to search for the man who nearly killed him? Perhaps Logan would finish what he started this time, and when the bullet hit him, he’d draw his last breath.
He forced the thought from his mind. He’d have to make sure that wouldn’t happen. He had too much to live for now.
But even as the knowledge and fear ripped through his mind, he stopped in front of the armoire and reached into the bottom to pull out the burlap wrapped package. He held the parcel reverently in his hand, then sat in the chair next to the small Ben Franklin stove. Slipping the knot in the leather tie holding the package closed, he unveiled the tools of the trade he’d given up—his guns.
A sigh escaped him as he removed one of the pistols from its holster and tested the weight in his hand. Strange, the gun didn’t feel odd or heavy. It felt right. Comfortable. The pearl handle gleamed in the light of the lantern.
A knock sounded on his door, followed by Theo’s husky voice. “Eamon?”
He rose from his chair, slipped the pistol back in the holster, and slid everything beneath the pillow on his bed before striding across the room. He took a couple deep breaths, then, struggling to keep anger and fear from showing on his face, opened the door, but not enough so she could come in.
Theo didn’t push her way into his sanctuary. She stood on the little porch and stared at him. She said not a word, but she made it clear with her expression that she was coming inside whether he wanted her to or not.
After a mo
ment, Eamon opened the door wider. She stepped past him, shoved the brandy bottle into his hand, and sat on the bed where they’d made love the night before, her hand coming perilously close to the guns beneath the pillow. She studied him, her gaze roaming over his face. He saw no anger, only her concern for him . . . and her curiosity. He’d been so careful about not revealing his past . . . or why he ran from it, but he couldn’t do that anymore.
“What happened today, Eamon?”
Eamon opened his mouth, but no words would come forth. Perhaps they’d been locked in his chest for so long, he couldn’t speak of it.
“Please tell me.”
“Tell Logan,” he finally uttered, his throat so tight he could barely get the name out.
“Who’s Logan? Tell him what?” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She patted the bed, inviting him to sit. “Start at the beginning. Help me to understand what happened that made you change from happy to . . . to afraid in seconds.”
The request tumbled from her lips, the expression on her face almost his undoing. He should never have stayed here. Hell, he should never have fallen in love with her. He placed the brandy on the little table near the stove and started pacing again, unable to remain still, hardly knowing how to begin . . . or even where to begin.
He studied her and saw the wariness in her eyes, the tightening of the skin around her mouth. Hurting her had never been his intention, but he was doing that now with his silence. Quincy was right. She deserved to know, no matter how afraid he was to tell her. “I . . . ” He cleared his throat and tried again. “I was a U.S. Marshal. I was good at it, but then, I’d been taught from an early age about the law and enforcing it. My father was a lawman. So were two of my brothers.”
“What happened, Eamon? You aren’t a Marshal now. I don’t think you have been for a while.”
He shook his head. “I walked away from that life. Gave it up.”
A Kiss in the Morning Mist Page 23
