A Kiss in the Shadows

by Marie Patrick

  “Yes, thank you.” Stevie Rae stood as well and ran her hands along her split skirt though there were no wrinkles that needed smoothing out before she stuck out her hand as Brock had done. “And thank you for seeing us.”

  The gambit failed as Sonny struggled to his feet, using both his cane and the table to aid him. Again, he waved off any help, though his face turned red then white and beads of sweat dotted his forehead despite the sudden gust of cold wind that swept across the patio. Regardless of his obvious pain, he took her hand and raised it to his lips. “The pleasure has been all mine, lass. Please, come and see me anytime.” He kept her hand in his and drew her a little closer. His voice lowered. “He’s a good man, MacDermott is. Keep him safe.”

  “Yes, sir. That is my plan.”

  “Good lass.” He sighed then, but Stevie Rae couldn’t be sure if the sigh was because he was in pain or because they were leaving or for some other reason. She decided it was a combination of those things and more as he slumped into his chair and waved them away, as if suddenly exhausted from fighting his constant pain—or perhaps too much whiskey had made him drowsy. “Brynna will show you out.”

  As good as his word, Brynna waited by the patio door, their hats in her hand. “Thank you so much for coming,” she said as she led them toward the gate in the side yard, where a garden filled with herbs scented the air.

  “Will he be all right?” Stevie asked, recognizing the melancholy some people experienced. Her mother suffered from it on and off for as long as Stevie could remember. Her father, too, after Raelene had passed away.

  Brynna nodded and glanced away, but not before Stevie Rae saw the sheen of tears in her eyes. “Today was a good day. Who knows what tomorrow will bring?” She shrugged then turned toward Brock, the brightness in her eyes now not caused by tears but by simple joy. “You will never know how much he looked forward to your visit. It was all he could talk about from the moment he received the message. I know he would like for you to come back and visit again.” She took his hand in hers then bit her lip, as if undecided. After a moment, she drew in her breath and said, “We’ve only met a few times, Brock, but my father speaks of you often, always with the highest praise, and I feel I must say this to you. Please, do not let your hunt for this man do to you what it has done to my father.” She glanced at Stevie, her eyes filled with sadness. “After Mama passed, I’m told, he became reckless and irresponsible. Uncaring. Single-minded to the distraction of everything else in his life, obsessed with finding Logan. Perhaps he became that way from grief. Perhaps it was the bargain he’d made with God when Mama was so ill. I’m not sure, but I am glad my mother did not see the man he’d become. I am glad I did not see him that way either, as I was married by then and living here.” The tears were back in her eyes and her voice grew hoarse, as if she fought the urge to cry. “It is only by the grace of God he did not die from Logan’s bullet, but I know, there are times when he wishes he had.” She let go of Brock’s hand and took a deep breath as she opened the garden gate and ushered them through. “I will say no more except to wish you peace.”

  The gate closed and Brynna disappeared around the corner of the house at a run before Brock could gather his wits. He stood looking at the wooden slats of the gate with his mouth still open, then turned toward her. Clearly confused by Brynna’s behavior, he shook his head. “Why did she run off like that?”

  “Perhaps she’s afraid she said too much.” Or didn’t say enough. How much of that was meant for me?

  Brock did not respond, but his eyes closed, as if he considered her words. When he opened them again, he reached for her hand and led her toward the front of the house and the waiting horses. He said not a word about Brynna’s message. Instead, as he helped her into Willow’s saddle and handed her the reins, he asked, “What did he say to you?”

  “Who?”

  “You know very well who.” He mounted Resolute then clicked his tongue and started the horse on a leisurely walk back to town. “When Sonny was saying good-bye, I saw him lean over and whisper something in your ear.”

  Determined not to let Brynna’s warning ruin a perfectly good afternoon, Stevie Rae shrugged as her gaze met his, then lowered to his kissable mouth, which was parted now in a half smile. Desire swirled low in her belly and a warm tingle raced through her veins. She could have told him the truth, but she couldn’t resist teasing him a little. “He said I should have my way with you.”

  “What?”

  The look on his face made her want to laugh. Actually, it made her want to pull him from the saddle, peel off his clothing, and kiss every inch of him right there in the drive. “He said I should have my way with you.”

  “Sonny said that?” His smile widened, the mustache on his upper lip twitching. Gray eyes darkened with passion as he moved Resolute closer to her.

  “He did.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Are you going to take his advice? I can be accommodating.”

  “Thinking about it.” She giggled, which astounded her, then sank her heels into Willow’s sides and led the way back to town. And hopefully, to bed.

  Chapter 16

  Rain from the storm Sonny had predicted dripped from the brim of Brock’s hat, saturating his clothes, despite his duster. Streaks of lightning lit up the sky, followed quickly by a crack of thunder so loud, he nearly jumped out of his skin. Brock turned in the saddle and glanced behind him. Stevie Rae was just as soaked as he, her duster as ineffectual as his against the driving rain, which sometimes came straight down, but more often had a tendency to slant sideways.

  They had to find shelter to ride out the worst of the storm.

  A deep sigh escaped him as he faced forward again. Weariness, not only of the body, but of the mind and heart as well, overwhelmed him. What was he doing? The longer he searched for Logan, the more hardened and embittered he’d become, but something had changed and it surprised him to realize he wanted…more. He wanted to stop chasing a man who didn’t want to be caught. He wanted a happy home. A woman who loved him. And children.

  Most of all, he wanted peace.

  Was it because of Stevie Rae?

  Most definitely.

  He turned again and searched the landscape around him. If he remembered correctly, they were in the vicinity of a cave he’d found a few months back, but with the rain obscuring his vision, he wasn’t quite sure. That first time, he’d been in the same circumstances as now: cold and wet and needing shelter desperately. He’d been back a time or two since that first night. The last time, he’d left it well supplied with wood. Hopefully, no one else had found it. Or if they did, they replaced what they had used.

  He pulled his hat lower to keep it from being swept up by the wind, and more water poured from the brim, dripping onto his saddle and anything that wasn’t protected by his duster. He studied the terrain to his right, squinting against the driving rain, then turned to his left to get his bearings. If he could figure out exactly where they were, he could direct them to the cave and safety.

  He slowed Resolute to a walk and motioned for Stevie Rae to catch up. He shouted against the howling wind when she reached him, “There’s shelter not too far from here.”

  “A house?”

  He shook his head. “A cave, but it’s dry and big enough for us, the horses, and Whiskey Pete, too.”

  She tipped her hat, trying to keep the slanting rain from hitting her in the face. “How far?”

  “Maybe a mile.”

  “How far is Mora?”

  “Maybe five miles or so.” Brock almost smiled as she tugged on her bottom lip with her teeth, which she always did when she considered her options. “Look, the cave isn’t much, but it’s shelter. The last time I was there, I stocked up on wood, but that was months ago. I can’t promise it’s still there.”

  Her lips held a tinge of blue and her teeth chattered as she adjusted the collar of her duster, drawing it closer to her neck. Not only was she wet, she was c
old, too. Finally, she shook her head. “If it’s all the same to you, we should keep going to Mora. We’re already soaked to the bone—and cold. I’d much rather sleep in a warm, dry hotel room than a dark, damp cave.” She peered up at him, and despite the water dripping in her face, smiled. Brock’s heart rate picked up its pace, and peace, that elusive goal he so wanted, filled him.

  “Mora it is. Stay close.”

  By the time they rode into Mora, Brock was miserable and cursing himself for a fool. He should have insisted they find the cave and stop. True, there might not have been wood for a fire and they might have spent a very uncomfortable cold, damp night, but at the very least, they’d be out of the elements. He’d ridden in foul weather before, but this was different. They were lucky they’d made it. Several times, he doubted they would. Rain like this, in a steady deluge, could be dangerous. Swollen rivers and massive flooding could carry a man—and his horse—to their deaths.

  And it hadn’t let up at all. In fact, it seemed to come down harder, pounding on them in big, fat, freezing drops or stinging exposed skin like little needles. A full-blown gale gusted first one way then another, stronger than anything Brock could remember, pushing water into his face though he had pulled his hat as low as it could go to shield his eyes, nose, and mouth. Several times, the force of the wind had buffeted him so hard, he’d gone off the trail…or what he thought was the trail. Thunder rumbled and boomed. Lightning lit up the sky, turning night to day and making it easier to see that the road they followed had turned to mud. It sucked at the horses’ hooves to make travel much harder than it had to be. An ache settled in his shoulders and back from trying to guide Resolute through one of the most vicious storms he’d ever seen.

  And if he was miserable, then Stevie Rae had to be as well. She hadn’t said a word though, hadn’t complained at all. He glanced at her and the feeling of peace, the one he liked so much and found himself needing more and more, rushed through him. He couldn’t help the smile from parting his lips. Despite the water dripping from the brim of her hat, plopping onto her already drenched duster, she was still the most amazing woman he’d ever known.

  Brock shook his head as emotions swept through him. As he did so, he spotted a small sign swinging from the post of a porch to his right, just over Stevie Rae’s head. He squinted against the darkness and the constant drip of the rain from the brim of his hat to read it, but he couldn’t quite make out the words. He thought—hoped—it was a hotel, but at this point, it didn’t matter. The building attached to the porch was shelter from the storm. Soft lantern light spilled into the street through the windows, an invitation to come inside and stay awhile. Hopefully they had rooms available. And if luck was with them, perhaps there would be some hot food to appease the gnawing hunger in his stomach.

  He shouted her name over the howling wind, drawing her attention, and pointed toward the newfound safe haven.

  She nodded once, then nudged Willow and headed in the direction Brock suggested. Whiskey Pete followed behind, his bellowing hee-haw a sign of his displeasure. On the side of the building, the eaves of the roof created an overhang. It wasn’t big, but it did stop the rain from hitting them in the face and protected their rides somewhat.

  Stevie dismounted and let out a startled squeak as her foot sank several inches into the mud beneath her. Brock caught her before she fell face-first into the thick, sucking mire, then physically lifted her and moved her closer to the side of the building. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m just a little stiff.” She pushed her hat back a little. In the lamplight spilling through the window he saw her face and sucked in his breath. A weary smile crossed her lips but her eyes glowed warmly. “Would you grab my valise and saddlebags? It’ll be nice to change into clean, dry clothes.”

  “Of course.” He released her, then grabbed her saddlebags from Willow’s back. He slung them over his shoulder as he untied her valise from Whiskey Pete.

  He didn’t hold out much hope. What little clothes she’d stuffed in her saddlebag might be dry, but he doubted the same could be said about the items in her valise. The bag felt heavier, the cloth sides just as soaked as everything else. He tied their horses’ reins to a hitching post, then grabbing her hand, raced around the building to the front steps and the wide porch. As they climbed the stairs, he noticed a hat stand had been set up beside the front door. Drops of water hit the floor and pooled beneath the garments hanging from the hooks before running in little rivulets to the end of the porch and the muddy road as he helped Stevie with her hat and coat. Her teeth chattered as she shivered. “I’m sorry, Stevie. I should have insisted we find that cave when I thought of it.” He removed his hat and shrugged out of his duster, hanging them up to dry, then wrapped his arms around her.

  “No need to be sorry. I was the one who thought we should move on to Mora. Who could have predicted we’d be in the middle of Noah’s flood?”

  He chuckled, despite the fact they were both cold, wet, and exhausted. “Come on, let’s get you inside and dry.”

  Warmth from the flames that crackled and popped in the fireplace hit him as soon as he opened the door and stepped into the lobby of the small, quaint inn. Several towels lay on the bare floor beneath his feet and he took a moment to wipe the mud from his boots as his gaze swept the room. Beside him, Stevie did the same, then edged a little closer to him.

  A man mopped excess water from the wood floor near the registration desk, his movements quick and methodical…it was obviously not the first time this night he had done so and it likely wouldn’t be the last. Tomorrow, when the rain stopped and guests stopped bringing in water and mud with them, Brock was certain the man would unroll the rug now pushed up against the wall and cover the bare wood.

  Brock closed the door, but didn’t venture farther into the room. He cleared his throat. When that didn’t get the man’s attention, he tried again. “Excuse me.”

  The man stopped swabbing and squinted at them, then moved his spectacles from the top of his bald head down to his nose. “Ah, that’s better,” he mumbled almost to himself in an accent that was definitely not from this part of the country…and might not have been from this country at all. He stood the mop in its bucket and leaned the long, thick handle against the desk before grabbing a towel from a nearby chair and rushing forward. “Come in, come in. Welcome to Rose Cottage. I’m Milton Winthorpe, proprietor. Mind you don’t trip now.” He gestured to the towels on the floor, then gave the one he held to Stevie Rae. He smiled and his light brown eyes glowed with sympathy behind the lenses of his glasses. “This night is not fit for man nor beast.”

  “On that we can agree. We’d like a room.”

  “Sure. Sure. This storm caught everyone off guard, but you’re in luck. I have one room left.” He moved away from them and slipped behind the desk, a monstrosity of gilded wood and brass that should have been in a museum or a castle, and pushed the register across its surface along with an inkwell and pen. Brock stepped up to the desk, dropped his saddlebags on the floor, and signed the ledger while Mr. Winthorpe grabbed a key hanging from a small hook behind the desk. “It’s my best room. You and your wife will be quite comfortable. Most importantly, you’ll be warm and dry.”

  He handed Brock the key, then rang the bell on the desktop. “Top of the stairs and to your right. Room three.”

  Brock immediately handed the key to Stevie Rae. “Why don’t you head on up?” The key disappeared in her trouser pocket. “I’ll join you as soon as I get everything settled.” His gaze roamed her face, noticing the circles beneath her eyes and the paleness of her skin. She looked exhausted. And hungry. And still soaked, although her hair had stopped dripping down her back, courtesy of the towel Mr. Winthorpe had given her, which now lay over her shoulders like a mantle.

  She gave a quick nod, then headed for the stairs. He watched her take the risers, one hand gripping the banister like it was a lifeline, the other clasped tightly around the handles of her valise. He turned away and spoke
to the innkeeper as Stevie stepped onto the landing and walked down the hall.

  “Do you have a dining room? Or can you recommend someplace close where we might get a bite to eat?”

  Mr. Winthorpe grinned and adjusted his glasses on his nose, which had a tendency to slip downward, and he fixed them by pushing at the nosepiece with his middle finger then swiping his hand across his bald head in one smooth, continuous motion. “Don’t have to leave Rose Cottage at all. The dining room is closed for the evening, but the wife is an excellent cook. Best in town, if I do say so myself. I’m certain we can rustle you up something to eat.” He glanced at Stevie Rae as she let herself into room three and his grin widened. “I’ll have some hot water brought up, too.”

  “My wife”—lightning didn’t zap him for keeping up the assumption the innkeeper had made though he fought the urge to duck—“will appreciate that.” He gestured to the front door. “We have horses—”

  “And we have a stable. No need to worry—” He peered at the ledger, his finger pushing at the nosepiece of his spectacles once more, followed by the hand swipe over his bald head. “We’ll take care of everything, Mr. MacDermott.” He looked to his left as a young man entered the lobby, his boots loud on the hardwood floor, a rain slicker slung over one arm. Water dripped from his hair onto the collar of his shirt. Still, he was dryer than Brock. “Ah, there you are, Will. Would you please see to Mr. MacDermott’s horses? Then have water for a bath brought up to room three.”

  “Yes, sir.” The boy turned away, and started to go back the way he’d come, but the innkeeper’s voice stopped him. “Please ask Martha to see me before you go.”

  “Yes, sir,” he repeated, not even bothering to turn around. He slipped his arms into the rain slicker, then passed through an arched doorway into what Brock assumed was the dining room. Mr. Winthorpe watched the boy, then turned his attention back to Brock. “Give us a few minutes. I’ll have a tray brought up as quickly as possible.”