by Pam Crooks
Would he despise Grace for it? Would he feel contempt for the allegiance any daughter would feel for her mother, however misguided, even reluctant? Would he see it as wrong?
And then, of course, there was Carl, in trouble again and refusing to atone for his actions. Jack didn’t know of Carl’s avowal to kill him; he’d only know how much he disdained her half-brother for the wrongs he’d committed, and Grace dreaded the confrontation that Carl warned would ensue.
At least, once Jack took her out to the Wells’ ranch, he’d be spared Carl’s intentions for a while. And Carl would be spared Jack’s.
Reassured, at least for now, Grace wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and left her room. She descended the stairs, and fragrant coffee tantalized her senses. The warm aroma of pancakes and bacon, too.
It appeared the other boarders had already eaten and gone about their day. The dining room table was empty, though the careless placement of the chairs showed their use earlier. Recalling Camille’s encouragement to help herself to whatever she needed, Grace headed for the kitchen.
Mixing bowls, utensils, and a cookbook lay open on the big table, but the room was empty. A pot of coffee sat on the impressive six-burner stove, and finding a clean cup, Grace poured herself some, added sugar, and stirred it in.
An enamel pan of soapy water sat in the sink, and she added her spoon to the rest of the breakfast dishes waiting to be washed.
Most likely, Jack Hollister’s were among them. A frivolous thought, but a stubborn one. He struck her as being a man who wouldn’t let grass grow under his feet. An early riser. A shrewd lawman like him would make the most of each and every day.
She wondered what time he’d awakened. What he’d eaten. Where he’d gone after breakfast….
Grace blamed her musings on the fact his room was next to hers, and every sound that seeped through the walls last night reminded her he was there, compelling her to imagine what he was doing. How and why. She’d fallen asleep with him heavy on her mind, and the memories of what he’d done to set up her mother’s gang warred with the sheer rugged powerful appeal of him.
Pensive, Grace sipped from her coffee and meandered to the window. The warm kitchen had fogged the cold glass panes, and she rubbed away the moisture to better see the blurred shape of someone outside.
Now that she could, the sound of his shovel scuffing against the boardwalk became more evident. Though she couldn’t see his face, she knew it was Jack from the way he moved, lifting snow and tossing it aside in steady, rhythmic motions, leaving a long row of neatly piled snow in his wake.
Her glance lingered over him. He made the job look easy, but Grace had shoveled snow often enough in her childhood to know it wasn’t. She imagined his muscles working beneath his heavy coat, rolling and bunching across his shoulders, back, and down his arms, too.
She sighed, long and frustrated. There she went again. Thinking of him in ways she shouldn’t.
She had to remember he would never have a place in her life. She couldn’t think of him as Jack Hollister, Camille’s son. That he shoveled snow for the convenience of the patrons of Lindell’s Boardinghouse shouldn’t matter. She had to continually remind herself of what Carl had told her—he was Jack Ketchum, and not so long ago, every outlaw with a lick of sense would have feared him and hated him, all at once.
Including Bess Reilly.
Footsteps at the back door shattered her somber thinking, and she turned just as Camille awkwardly maneuvered her way into the kitchen, her arms loaded with firewood stacked to her chin.
Grace rushed over to shut the door behind her.
“Thank you, and good morning,” Camille said in a cheerful voice, her eyes bright from the cold. “I see you found the coffee.”
“I did, thank you.”
Camille strode toward an iron rack in the corner, close to the stove’s wood box. The rack’s supply of wood fuel had dwindled, and she clearly intended to refill it.
Grace hastened to set her cup on the big table before reaching for the cut wood. “Here, let me help you.”
“Have you eaten?” Camille asked, standing while Grace stacked. “I left bacon for you in the warming closet. It won’t take but a minute to whip up some pancakes to go with it.”
“Thank you, but I’ll just have toast, if that’s all right, and I’ll make it myself.”
Grace refused to have Jack’s mother cook for her when Grace was perfectly capable of preparing her own meal. Camille worked hard, both here in the boardinghouse and at Margaret’s Eatery, and since it didn’t appear she had a husband to take care of her, commiseration welled inside Grace. She knew what it was like to be alone, too. Losing Grandmother, being left to fend for herself, hadn’t been easy.
Which only reminded Grace yet again how she had to keep Carl safe. Somehow. He was all the family she had left.
Grace gave into curiosity and peered up at Camille from her bent position. “Are you employed here at the boardinghouse, too?”
“No, no. Margaret’s Eatery keeps me plenty busy. But I like to help with the baking when Mrs. Lindell needs time away. Her elderly mother has taken ill, and she’s gone to spend the night with her. She’ll be back in time for dinner.”
“I see. Well, I still think you deserve a day off now and again,” Grace said firmly, rising after the last of the wood had been stacked. She smiled. “Which means I insist on making my own toast.”
Smiling, too, Camille nodded. “Then I’ll let you. The bread is on the sideboard. While you do that, I’ll get more wood. I have several days’ worth of baking ahead of me. The oven will be fired up all afternoon.”
“Let me,” Grace said. It was the least she could do after all Camille had done for her. Besides, what else did she have to do until she could ride out with Jack to see Allethaire?
“All right, then. There’s an open shed outside, close to the house. We’ll need a couple more loads.”
Since Camille hadn’t bothered to wear a coat, Grace didn’t, either, but she pulled her shawl close to her shoulders, bracing herself for the cold after the warmth of the kitchen. Stepping quickly onto a shoveled path—compliments, no doubt, of Jack—she found the stacked wood just as Camille instructed.
Careful to protect the sleeves of her dress as best she could, Grace filled her arms with the first load. By the time she returned from the kitchen for the second, she was a bit out of breath and invigorated from the weather. So intent on filling her arms again, she didn’t see the man stepping around from the back of the shed until he was close enough to touch her.
“Hey, why is he still here?” Carl demanded.
In her startled surprise, she nearly lost the pile in her arms.
“Good morning, Carl,” she retorted, knowing too well who “he” was.
“I mean it. What’s Ketchum doing hanging around this place? How come he ain’t gone yet?”
She straightened to face him. “His name is Hollister now. You’d do well to call him such.”
“He’s still a lawman, and he’s still breathing down my neck, no matter what he goes by.”
“And if you’d follow the law, you’d have no concern with him.”
His eyes, as blue as her own, narrowed. “Don’t go getting all uppity on me, Grace.”
Exasperation tugged at her patience, and she was hard-pressed to keep her voice even. Carl had always been volatile, and she’d learned long ago he needed to be handled with a gentle hand. Besides, it was too cold to stand out here and engage in a useless argument with him.
“I’m not being uppity, Carl. I worry about you, that’s all,” she said. “Jack will be leaving soon. He’s only here to help with a few chores.”
“‘Jack’?” he mimicked, regarding her suspiciously. “You on a first name basis with him already? Like you’re getting all friendly with him?”
“He’s been nothing but kind to me.” She refused to tell him that she intended to ride with Jack out to the Wells ranch later this morning. Imparting the informati
on would only lead to more trouble between them. “I’ve no quarrel with him.”
“Yeah, well.” Carl hunched his shoulders in an insolent movement. “He’s not on your tail. You’d hate him as much as I do if he was.” His dark expression pulled into a scowl. “I should’ve done him in last night when I had the chance.”
The shoveling had stopped, and the realization tripped Grace’s heart into a fast beat. What if Jack happened along this side of the boardinghouse? What if he found Carl talking to her? Or worse, heard him?
“Hush, Carl.” Grace couldn’t keep the horror from her voice. “You mustn’t plot against him. It’s wrong, and no good can come from it.”
“Would’ve been a cinch to go into his room when he was sleeping and unaware.” Immersed in his fatal fantasy, Carl’s eyes gleamed with ferocity. “Just put the gun to his head—” he mimicked the action, using his fingers for a make-believe revolver, placing them at his temple and pulling the trigger “—and bang! He’s dead. Just like that, my life gets easier.”
“No. Your life would only get more precarious.” A violent shiver racked Grace. She hated seeing this side of him and hearing the twisted logic that consumed him. “Go away, Carl.” Her voice shook from the plea and the cold gripping her body. The blood chilled in her veins. “I don’t want you to come here anymore. It’s not safe.” For you, for me. But mostly, for Jack. She whirled and headed toward the door.
“Wait. I’ve got something for you, Grace.”
Against her better judgment, she halted. Why could Carl control her like this? Why did she let him? “What is it?”
“A message.” He reached inside his coat and withdrew a folded paper. He held it out to her. “From Boone.”
She made no move to take it. Even if she wanted to, which she didn’t, her arms were full, and her hands were numb. She was purely frozen, and if she didn’t go inside soon, she’d have to be carried in.
But she gave into careful curiosity. “Who’s he?”
Carl squinted a glance around him, for the first time appearing uneasy. “A friend. He and I are holin’ up in the hills a spell.”
Grace didn’t like the sound of “holin’ up.” And she knew too well the questionable characters of his “friends.” “Why? What have you done this time?”
His chapped mouth pursed. “You gonna keep your mouth shut if I tell you?”
She swallowed hard. “Yes.”
“We hit up a train awhile back.” His voice lowered. Again, his unease showed. “Things are pretty hot for us right now.”
“Oh, Carl.” She groaned her dismay.
“But Boone needs to talk to you.”
“Why?” She wasn’t sure if Carl was telling the truth or if this was one more scheme up his sleeve. “I don’t know him, and I don’t want to. I can’t imagine why he’d want to talk to me about anything.” She pivoted, the kitchen and its hot stove pulling her like iron to a magnet.
“He already tried once to talk to you. Yesterday. Leastways until Hollister came along,” Carl blurted.
“What?” Assaulted by the memory of the stranger in the fringed coat, she sucked in a horrified breath. “He was your friend? Boone?”
His head jerked in a quick nod. “He wants to talk to you about Charles.”
She’d lost most of the feeling in her lips, but she managed to whisper the name in surprise. “What about him?”
He waggled the paper in front of her.
“It’s all right here. You want me to read it to you?” His brow arched innocently.
At the cruel taunt, hurt spiked through her. He’d always known how to pour salt in her most vulnerable raw spot, especially when they were young, and he poured now, with relish.
Irrational tears welled up. He was only manipulating her, using her biggest failure as a weapon against her. Maybe he was telling the truth about Charles, and maybe he wasn’t, but if the savage named Boone was using Carl to get to her, to kidnap her, she wanted no part of it.
“No,” she gritted. “I don’t care about your stupid note. Just go away, Carl. Far away. I don’t want to see you anymore.”
This time, when she swung away from him, she kept heading to the back door. She refused to let him stop her, no matter what he said or did.
“Hey! Gracee!” Carl’s footsteps quickly sounded behind her. “I’m supposed to take you to him. Okay? Just read the note. Here.” He stuffed the paper into her numb fingers. “Take as long as you want to read it. I’ll be waiting for you, all right?”
Somehow, she managed to wrestle the door open without speaking to him, looking at him, or acknowledging anything he’d done. She stumbled into the kitchen, and Camille glanced up from her bowl of bread dough.
“Is something the matter, Grace?” she asked, a slight knit to her brows.
“No, no. Everything’s fine.” She kept her eyes averted while she forced her fingers to stack wood. It wouldn’t do for Camille to see her upset. She’d only want to know why, and Grace couldn’t let her know about Carl. Or Boone. Or the vendetta against Jack. She forced calm into her voice. “I’m just c-cold, that’s all.”
“I noticed you were outside quite a long time. I should’ve insisted you wear a coat. Stand by the stove and warm up. I’ll get you a cup of hot coffee to wrap your hands around.”
Grace’s hands were already wrapped around the note Carl had given her, and she couldn’t let Camille see that, either.
“I’m fine, really.” Only herculean effort kept her teeth from chattering and her tears from showing. Why had she let Carl affect her like this? “I think I’ll go up to my room and thaw out.”
Camille appeared surprised. “But it’s warmer here in the kitchen.”
“I’ve forgotten something up there.” It had been so long since she’d had to lie, but Camille hadn’t given her a choice with her concern and persistence. “Really, I’ll be fine in no time.”
“But—”
“I said I’d be fine!”
The words shot out much sharper than Grace intended, and at Camille’s stricken look, immediate regret hurtled through her. Tears welled up anew. The woman was only being kind. Her concern had been genuine, and she didn’t deserve Grace’s rudeness.
Grace spun away. She didn’t want to see how badly she’d hurt Camille’s feelings, and she rushed out of the kitchen, through the dining room toward the stairs.
The front door opened, and Jack stepped in, bringing the wintry air with him. His shadowed eyes locked with hers, and Grace’s escape faltered.
Dark and ominous, Carl’s words thundered into her brain.
Just put the gun to his head… and bang! He’s dead.
Sick to her stomach, Grace lifted her skirts and raced up the stairs to her room.
Chapter Six
What the hell?
Jack closed the door and stared after her. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear Grace was crying about something.
A loud slam upstairs confirmed her upset. He swung a frowning glance toward his mother, hurrying toward the foot of the stairs, flour on her apron, and a towel in her hand.
She halted and cast a worried look upward.
“Oh, dear,” she said to herself.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know.” She sighed and turned toward him, watching while he hung up his coat and hat. “She was fine until she went out for the second load of firewood. When she came in, she acted—” she hesitated, as if trying to put her finger on it “—different.”
Jack pondered the closed door. “That so?”
“I don’t understand. She was out there longer than usual. Longer than she should have, I guess. Something must’ve happened, but what?”
“No way I’d know.”
But he intended to find out. He didn’t normally involve himself with teary females, but in the short time she’d been in Great Falls, Grace had had more than her share of trouble.
And there was something in Jack that wanted to smooth the rough spots she was go
ing through. A woman alone, with her only friend miles away at the Wells Cattle Company—who else did she have to look after her but him?
He headed toward the stairs and took them one at a time, his ear peeled for any sound that might come from her room. At her door, he knocked and only managed to catch her muffled response.
He couldn’t know what that little bit of noise meant, so he turned the knob and went in. He found her bent over her trunk, rummaging through its contents until she found what she was looking for. A delicate, embroidered handkerchief.
“You okay?” he asked gently.
She started, as if the sound of his voice was the last thing she expected to hear. She straightened, nodding in jerky movements, and since it looked like she was holding a piece of paper in one fist, she fumbled one-handed to shake out the folds of her handkerchief.
“Of course, I am,” she sniffed.
“That’s what I thought,” he said dryly, closing the door and moving closer. “Need some help with that?”
“No.”
He took the lacy scrap of fabric, anyway, opened it up and handed it back to her. She dried her nose and dabbed her eyes and avoided looking at him. She drew in a breath and let it out again.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” she said, calmer.
He ignored the comment. More concerned with the lone teardrop on her cheek, he took her handkerchief again.
“You missed one,” he said in a low voice, then carefully blotted the drop away.
Odd how she wouldn’t look at him. Just as odd, she didn’t move away, either. Probably because she was preoccupied with something else, which tromped out any protests she would’ve been inclined to make.
Jack took heart from her melancholy. He used it to his advantage by knuckling her under the chin to get a good look at her.
Finally, their gazes met. Her eyes were darker now. A turbulent hue of blue. Whatever troubled her, troubled her deep. Moisture thickened her lashes. The wintry air had turned her nose and cheeks rosy, and a corner of his mouth lifted.
“Your chin is cold,” he said and ran his thumb along the soft curve to prove his point.
