Outlaw's Bride

by Maureen McKade

  Startled out of his memories, he shook his head. “No, thanks. I think I’ll stick around this morning and see if your ma needs some help.”

  Andy’s expression dimmed and Clint knew he’d hit his target. “Maybe I should, too,” the boy said reluctantly.

  “I think that’d be a right fine idea, Andy.”

  Mattie glanced at Clint, then her son. “I could use some help picking peaches. I’d planned to do it yesterday.”

  Indecision spread across Andy’s face. “Well, I suppose I could give you a hand.”

  “I will, too,” Clint volunteered.

  Herman had the look of a mouse caught in a trap and he stood, pushing away his empty plate. “With the three of ya workin’, ya won’t be needin’ me.”

  “I think a fourth helper would come in handy. How about you, Mattie?”

  Her eyes twinkled mischievously. “It would make the job go faster.”

  The old man dropped back into his chair with a heavy sigh.

  “What do you say after we finish with the peaches, we all go fishing for an hour or so?” Clint suggested.

  Andy and Herman brightened considerably.

  “I think you just won them over,” Mattie said.

  Clint leveled his gaze on her. “How about you?”

  Flustered, Mattie drew her napkin across her lips. “No, that’s all right. I have other things to do.”

  “If you don’t go, none of us can. You just tell us what needs to be done, and we’ll give you a hand so you can go with us.”

  She shuddered. “I don’t like worms.”

  “I’ll bait your hook,” Clint said with a crooked grin.

  She met his gaze squarely and accepted his dare. “Only if I don’t have to clean anything I catch.”

  “What do you think, Andy? Will you clean your ma’s fish?” Clint asked, keeping his eyes on Mattie.

  “Sure, though I bet she doesn’t catch anything,” Andy said.

  “I wouldn’t be so quick on that bet, young man,” Mattie said. “When I was younger than you, I caught Fred.”

  “Who’s Fred?” Andy asked.

  “He was the biggest and oldest fish in the pond. Smartest one, too.” Mattie looked at Herman. “Isn’t that right?”

  Herman chuckled. “Your ma’s right, Andy. Everyone in Green Valley was out to get him, but she was the one who caught him when she wasn’t much bigger than old Fred herself.”

  “My father used to take me,” she said quietly. “My mother used to come sometimes, too, and we’d make a day of it.” Specters of the past flitted through Mattie’s eyes, and Clint could see the effort it took her to smile. “That was a long time ago.”

  The sadness in her face touched him. Mattie had endured more than her share of heartache.

  But he had no right offering her sympathy. He had a killer to catch—a vow to keep—and he would be leaving here soon to do it. He’d already been at Mattie’s too long.

  She stood and gathered the dirty dishes. “I’ll clean these if you three will get the pails from the barn.”

  “Sounds like a good deal to me,” Clint said.

  “I’d rather be fishin’,” Herman muttered.

  Clint’s lips twitched, but he wasn’t about to let the older man out of doing his share around here. Mattie fed him and gave him a place to live—he owed her for that. By the looks of it, he was a member of the family, and family were supposed to help each other out and take care of one another.

  Guilt caught him off guard—he’d failed to do that for his own wife.

  Mattie placed her old straw hat on her head, wishing she had one of Amelia’s fashionable ones. Sighing, she knew wishing for the impossible was a waste of time. She decided not to wear her gloves, preferring to feel the softness of the peaches’ velvet skin as she picked the fruit.

  It would be odd to have company in the small orchard. She’d worked alone most of her life, even after she’d married Jason. He’d rarely been home, leaving her to take care of their garden and house by herself. When Andy was born, she’d had Ruth, but the older woman had been bedridden and unable to help Mattie with her infant son. Though Ruth had offered advice—more than her share—the burden was on Mattie’s shoulders, just as it always had been.

  Then came Clint Beaudry, who insisted on helping her with her chores and getting her son and Herman to do the same. No one had been so concerned about her welfare since her parents had died. Her throat tightened, but her heart felt lighter than it had in years.

  The thought of fishing for the first time in twenty years also brought a rare bubble of excitement. How had Clint known she would enjoy such a simple pleasure?

  With a spring in her step, Mattie left the house and joined Andy, Clint, and Herman, who stood by the corral with pails in their hands. As she approached them, Clint lifted his head. His steady gaze seared her clear down to her pantaloons.

  “Everyone ready?” she asked with a breathy voice.

  “Lead on, pretty lady,” Clint teased.

  Mattie led the way, grateful Clint couldn’t see the heat in her cheeks. As soon as they arrived at the small orchard, Clint assigned each of them two trees. There was no doubt he was a man who was accustomed to giving orders and having them followed without question.

  She reached up and plucked a gold and red peach from the tree. The smell of the fruit rose around her and she inhaled deeply. She loved the scent of growing things, whether it be the sweetest flower or a patch of skunkweed. It reminded her of the eternal rhythms of life—the seed germinating, the young plant burrowing through the soil to reach for the sun, then growing healthy and strong under the warm rays.

  Mattie picked another peach and glanced at her son, who was growing healthy and strong just like her peach trees. She wanted to give him so much, especially the time to laugh and enjoy life. She didn’t want him to work from dawn to dusk as she’d done in the orphanage.

  “It looks like you have a good crop this year, Mattie,” Clint remarked.

  She touched one of the tree’s branches. “Nearly ten years ago, when they were barely as big as a twig, I spent a lot of time here, keeping the weeds from choking them and giving them water when they looked thirsty. After they got big enough to fend for themselves, I didn’t need to do as much.”

  “They must feel like your children.”

  Mattie thought about that for a moment, and realized Clint was the first person to understand. “Yes, they do.”

  Clint grinned and returned to his task.

  Mattie allowed her appreciative gaze to move across his black-clad figure. The dark trousers molded to his backside and his shirt was stretched taut across his shoulders as he reached for a ripe peach. His shaggy hair beneath the black wide-brimmed hat hung past his collar, giving him a raw, untamed appearance that suited him. Although he once again looked like the man who’d first come to her door asking for a room, her fear of him had disappeared. And it wasn’t simply because he wasn’t wearing his holster and revolver. She’d seen the person beneath—the man who repaired chicken coops and picked peaches.

  Mattie checked on Andy and spotted him in one of the trees, balancing on a limb eight feet above the ground. Her breath caught in her chest and her heart skipped one beat, then two. “Andy! Get down from there!”

  “I couldn’t reach them,” he called back.

  Mattie’s knees trembled. “I don’t care. Get down from there right now!”

  The boy reluctantly began to climb down.

  Clint laid his hand on Mattie’s arm. “He’s just doing what boys always do.”

  Anger sparked through her. “Trying to kill himself?”

  He shook his head calmly—too calmly. “Finding out what he can and can’t do. Every boy has to get a few cuts and bruises in order to learn his limits. That way he won’t get hurt even worse when he’s older.”

  Mattie kept her eyes on her son, willing him to move down the tree slowly and carefully. “I don’t want Andy to ever get hurt.”

  “
If you raise him to know right from wrong, he’ll be fine. Just let him be a boy.”

  She risked a quick glance away from Andy, and put a heavy dose of sarcasm in her voice. “I suppose that includes him learning how to use guns, too.”

  Clint met her gaze unflinchingly. “That’s right.”

  Bitter anger filled her—she’d been blinded by her attraction to him. “You haven’t changed, have you? You’re still the same gunslinger you were before you were shot.”

  He stared at her, no emotion in his chiseled face. “I never claimed to be anybody else.”

  Tears burned in Mattie’s eyes, but she refused to let him see them. Andy made it safely back on the ground and relief made her light-headed. “What have I told you about climbing trees?”

  The boy met her gaze, and in his eyes Mattie read defiance. “You wanted me to pick peaches.”

  Andy’s insolence startled Mattie, then made her angry. “Don’t sass me, Andrew Jason St. Clair.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She didn’t hear any repentance in his tone. With helpless frustration, she grabbed his shoulders and barely restrained herself from shaking him. “Don’t you ever do that again, do you understand?”

  Andy’s lips thinned, but he nodded.

  Mattie released him and her son moved back to his tree, his shoulders straight and his lower lip stiff.

  “He’ll do it again,” Clint said.

  Mattie yanked a peach off the tree. “Not if he knows what’s good for him.”

  “You can’t stop him. You can only be there to catch him when he falls.”

  Mattie whirled to face him, fury pulsing through her. “Don’t you dare tell me how to raise my own son. I don’t need you or anyone else telling me what to do.”

  She turned away from him and continued plucking peaches. Her buoyant spirits had disappeared, trampled by anger and doubts.

  Clint’s hand on her shoulder halted her in midmotion. “You’ve done a fine job, Mattie.”

  She expected him to add something else. Instead, he squeezed her shoulder gently, then withdrew, leaving her feeling empty and alone.

  Chapter 8

  “You gonna make a peach pie for supper tonight, Ma?” Andy asked as they ate dinner.

  Mattie shook her head somberly. “No.”

  Both Andy and Herman stared at her as if she’d just kicked a puppy.

  “I’m going to make three pies.” She didn’t bother to hide her smile.

  Andy cheered and Herman grinned.

  Mattie glanced at Clint, who’d been unusually quiet since their confrontation in the orchard. Maybe she had overreacted, but Andy was all she had.

  “Do you like peach pie, Clint?” she asked.

  He lifted his gaze and his green eyes glittered, making her stomach flutter. The man knew just how to use those devastating eyes to set her pulse racing. Did other women fall prey to him so easily?

  “Almost as much as I like fishing,” he said. “The deal was we’d help you pick peaches if you went fishing with us.”

  Mattie fingered her napkin. She wanted nothing more than to spend a carefree afternoon, but she had responsibilities. “I’ve got to take care of the peaches. Besides, I have to make pies for supper.”

  “You mean you’re going back on a promise? What kind of example are you setting for Andy?” Clint asked with exaggerated disbelief.

  He had her boxed in and they both knew it.

  “Yeah, Ma, you did say so.” Andy twisted the knife a little deeper into her conscience.

  The hopefulness in his young face tipped the scales and Mattie nodded reluctantly. “All right, but if the pies aren’t done tonight, it won’t be my fault.”

  “Pies can wait, fish can’t.” Clint winked at her, sending her heartbeat into a flat-out gallop.

  She reminded herself he was a gunman who didn’t see anything wrong with teaching a little boy how to shoot, that he lived a life of violence, and most importantly, that he would be leaving soon. One brick at a time, she must build a wall around her heart that even Clint’s teasing couldn’t penetrate.

  Mattie stood to collect the plates, but Clint beat her to the task as he piled his dish atop Andy’s, then picked up Herman’s.

  “You go skin the peaches,” he said.

  “I thought you said—”

  “If you don’t make those pies before you go, you’re going to worry about them like a dog worrying a bone and you won’t be able to relax.” He gave her a gentle nudge. “Go make your pies and us men will do the dishes.”

  Herman snorted.

  “Huh?” Andy asked.

  “You heard me,” Clint said firmly. “Come on, let’s help your mother so she can have some fun, too.”

  Unexpected tears stung Mattie’s eyes. Nobody had ever cared if she had fun or not.

  Nobody until Clint.

  Make that two very tall, very solid brick walls around her heart.

  Clint’s side throbbed, but it was tolerable and he wasn’t about to spoil Mattie’s afternoon by canceling or complaining. Sitting under a tree in the late summer with a fishing pole in hand wouldn’t be too strenuous.

  He glanced at Mattie walking in front him, her arms swinging loosely at her sides and her backside swaying enough to kick his imagination into gear. Not that he needed a whole lot of incentive to start picturing her in nothing but a smile. He’d painted that portrait hundreds of times in his mind, and each time it brought the same inevitable reaction.

  Lust, pure and simple.

  Or was it that pure and simple? It wasn’t just her body that attracted him, though it was a damned good beginning.

  Her tireless energy amazed and fascinated him. Before they left, she’d made three pies in less than an hour, ready to bake when they got back home.

  After all the work she’d done that day, she still carried her shoulders erect and moved with the willowy grace of one of her peach trees bowing in a gentle breeze. He’d bet she brought that same energy to lovemaking, too.

  Clint carried Mattie’s fishing pole with his as the four of them walked down the path to the pond. She and Herman led the way, while Andy walked beside Clint. He recognized the boy’s thirst for a father, and even though he wouldn’t be here much longer, Clint felt a certain paternal protectiveness toward him. Before he left, he hoped to teach Andy to help out his ma and do his chores before playing. There was no doubt Mattie was a good mother to the boy, but he couldn’t understand why she spoiled the kid.

  “Here it is,” Herman announced. “Home of Fred number two.”

  “Looks like I’ll have to show you all how it’s done,” Mattie said with a saucy grin.

  Her violet eyes danced with mischief and Clint marveled at the carefree change in her. He couldn’t help but smile at her playfulness.

  He handed her a fishing pole, then dug into the can of worms Andy had brought with him. His fingers closed around a plump juicy one and he held it up to Mattie. “Here you go.”

  She wrinkled her delicate nose and took a step back. “Part of our agreement was that someone had to bait my hook.”

  “I’ll teach you how to do it,” Clint offered.

  “I already know how, it’s just that I won’t.”

  Andy rolled his eyes. “Aw, Ma, don’t be such a baby.”

  “I’m not. It’s just that I …” She shrugged awkwardly. “Feel sorry for the worm.”

  “A worm don’t feel nothin’, Mattie,” Herman said.

  “How do you know? Have you ever asked one?”

  “If you ain’t the most dang-blasted softhearted woman I ever met.” There was unmistakable fondness in Herman’s gruff tone.

  Clint reached for her line. “Give me your hook.”

  She handed it to him, then turned away. Mattie’s vulnerability grabbed at his heart, surprising him with the strength of the tug. He’d already seen through her disguise as a tough-as-nails widow, but he hadn’t realized the extent of her compassion and sensitivity. Or his inability to steel his own he
art against it.

  He wrapped the worm about the hook. “You can look now.”

  Mattie quickly tossed the line into the water, clearly not wanting to see the sacrificial worm. She lowered herself to the ground, sitting cross-legged and keeping a close watch on the cork connected to her line.

  Smiling, Clint found another worm in the dirt-filled tin can and baited his hook, then he joined Mattie, resting his back against an oak tree’s wide trunk. Herman and Andy moved to a place about fifteen feet away, whispering anxiously to one another.

  Clint leaned toward Mattie and spoke close to her ear. “I’ll bet they have a secret hole where they figure old Fred is hiding.”

  “Fred the Second,” she corrected. “My mother fried up Fred number one twenty years ago.”

  He chuckled. “That’s right. Mattie the Magnificent caught him.”

  She blushed, but she met his gaze without hesitation. “My father used to call me that.”

  “You loved him a lot, didn’t you?” he asked quietly.

  “Yes.” She smiled sadly. “I overheard you telling Andy that fathers were for taking their sons fishing.” She turned her attention to her line. “A father also takes his daughters fishing.”

  Her soft words made Clint’s breath falter. And in that moment, he made a silent vow that if he had children, he’d take them all—sons and daughters—fishing.

  Clint watched a pair of mallards at the other end of the pond, their tails pointed skyward as they nibbled on the plants beneath the water’s surface. A blue heron flew in, landing with ungainly grace in the shallows not far from the ducks.

  The smell of honeysuckle and pond lilies drifted to Clint’s nose, and an occasional whiff of Mattie’s rose scent curled through his insides. Cicadas buzzed shrilly, their voices dwindling to nothing, then starting the cacophony all over again. A redwing blackbird, sounding like a rusty gate, warned another bird away from his stand of pussy willows.

  In this peaceful setting, Clint found it hard to imagine that his wife had been killed in such a gruesome manner. But she had, and he owed her for not being there … for not protecting her like he had promised.

  Restlessness skated up and down his spine. The killer’s trail was already three weeks cold.