by Loree Lough
“And one in particular,” she countered, one brow high on her forehead, “seems to be smart enough to evade an issue indefinitely, even if he has to pay himself an insult to do it.”
She’d sat at his right side and, as she had on the trip into Baltimore, left a good foot of seat between them. Now, however, intense curiosity caused her to sidle closer. So close, in fact, that he could feel the warmth of her skin ebbing through her many-petticoated skirts, could feel her breath against his cheek. He liked having her this near. Liked the way the toe of her tiny boot lined up alongside his big one, and the way her hand rested daintily, almost possessively, on his knee.
Not wanting to do anything that would cause her to move away, Chance shifted the reins from his right hand to his left.
Smart enough to evade an issue, even if it means paying himself an insult, she’d said. Smart, indeed! If he were smart, he’d take her in his arms and….
“Bess,” Chance whispered hoarsely, “I’m not a smart man. You can bet your last dollar on that.”
She leaned nearer still and said softly into his ear, “Lucky for you, I’m not a betting woman. My mama used to say that gambling is evil.”
Sitting there, her face lit by the bright yellow light of the setting sun, he noticed tiny green and gold flecks in her brown eyes. And the lashes he’d believed to be black as coal were, instead, the color of mink. He wondered if the long ride or the intensity of their conversation had heightened the pink in her cheeks. Most of all, he wished she’d stop pursing those pretty, kissable lips….
“Penny-ante gambling ain’t evil,” he grated. At least we’re on a more pleasant subject than my date with the gallows…. “It’s good clean fun, long as it doesn’t get out of hand.”
She shrugged. “Mama wasn’t talking about the gambling that takes control of folks, of course that’s wrong. She was talking about ordinary, everyday bets. ‘Penny-ante’ isn’t evil you say? Well, I say it’s wrong, because for one person to win, someone else has to lose; the winner’s good fortune comes at the expense of a relative, a friend, a neighbor.”
Chance smiled, wondering, Would you take a gamble on me, Bess? So lost in her lively eyes and animated gestures was he that Chance forgot for a moment how the subject of gambling had come up in the first place. And when he remembered, she flashed him an enticing, mischievous grin, all but making him lose track of what he’d intended to say about the subject. “If I were a smart man, I’d hitch this team to that tree over there,” he said, nodding toward a big maple beside the road. “I’d lift you down from this old wagon and set both your pretty little feet on the ground.”
He turned on the bench, so that only their knees touched now. “I’d give you the biggest hug you’ve ever had,” he added, his thumb pushing up the brim of his hat, “then I’d kiss you like you’ve never been kissed before.” He could feel her soft breaths, could see by the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders that she was breathing a mite faster than she’d been before. Chance focused on her lips, then licked his own. “And I wouldn’t stop until you agreed to be my girl.”
He watched her dark eyes flutter as her eyes widened with shock and surprise. Smiling gently, he added, “But I’d never do any of those things, Bess. And do you know why?”
Her lips parted slightly as slowly, slowly, she shook her head.
He could have kissed her right then and there, if he had a mind to, for their noses were nearly touching. But this wasn’t the right time for a thing like that. Who was he fooling? It would never be the time. Frowning, he said through clenched teeth, “I’ll tell you why,” he rasped. “‘Cause I’m not a smart man, that’s why.”
Bess blinked once, twice, three times before taking a deep breath. Squaring her shoulders, she said, “So the man on the dock mistook you for someone else?”
For a long moment, all he could do was stare, disbelieving, into her beautiful face. He’d just announced, in his clumsy way, that he loved her. And how had she responded? Puppy to the root!
Gathering the reins in both hands, Chance threw back his head and laughed, long and hard.
***
He is the strangest man! she told herself. Hours earlier, she’d seen evidence that Chance might be capable of some dark deed. She’d pressed him to the wall for details about the Texan’s accusation. If anything would have invited one of his sullen moods, the scene on the dock and her insistent questioning about it should have. Instead, Chance had sat laughing like a hyena, shaking his head and muttering some nonsense about puppies and roots!
She considered the idea that he might be given to drink. Mr. Cunningham had been a drinking man, and liquor had been the cause of his violent temper…. After a moment of thought, Bess dismissed the possibility. She reminded herself of all the kindnesses Chance had performed since his arrival at Foggy Bottom. He’s nothing like Mr. Cunningham. I have absolutely no reason to be afraid of him…
…do I?
She sighed, and wondered for an instant if all this deep breathing she’d been doing since Chance had arrived at the farm was healthy. She hoped it was at least cleansing…in a breathy sort of way….
For several miles, Chance didn’t speak. And Bess, determined to not give him more evidence to prove his ‘puppy to the root’ theory, wondered silently what might be going on inside that handsome head of his. There’s only one sure way to find out…. “What’s on your mind, Chance?”
Several seconds ticked by before he said, “There are a whole lot of things you don’t know about me, Bess, but I can promise you this….”
Again, he moved the reins to his left hand, then grabbed her wrist with the right. “I give you my word, I’ve never killed a man in my life.”
His pale blue eyes bored into her brown ones, and Bess drank in his stare the way a refreshing rain is absorbed by rich dark earth. She had the distinct impression he was searching for proof that she trusted him, that he seemed to need her to say she believed him, that she believed in him. His strong, lone spirit needed her approval, she realized, and that could only mean one thing:
He loves me!
Bess ignored her fluttering heart and squeezed the hand that held her wrist. “If you say the man on the dock was mistaken, I’ll take you at your word.”
A soft smile gentled his rugged features. “You don’t know how much it means to hear you say that.”
But she did know. She saw such sadness in the depths of those crystal-blue eyes, and wanted, more than anything, to take it away, to make him forget whatever had put it there in the first place. Bess didn’t know what possessed her to do it, but she reached out and pressed both palms against his cheeks. The summer sun had warmed them, and the hours had stubbled them with bristly whiskers. Her thumb traced the contour of his lower lip.
“Ahhh, Bess,” he rasped, combing his fingers through her hair. “My sweet, sweet Bess….”
She’d always liked her name, but never more than at that moment.
Chapter Eight
How her father and brothers had managed to plan such a gathering without her knowledge flabbergasted Bess.
They’d decorated the yard with ribbons and bows, spit-roasted a steer and a turkey and several fat hens, too. They’d seen to it that some of the church ladies brought side dishes, and made sure Bernie was there with his flat top guitar and Bennie brought his fiddle to make the festive music that was always such a part of Freeland get-togethers.
After the partiers had eaten their fill, Micah invited everyone inside, and as they crowded into the parlor, he rested a beefy arm on a huge, sheet-covered box.
It looked suspiciously like the crate she and Chance had retrieved in Baltimore…the one Micah had insisted be stowed in the barn the moment they arrived home with it. How long had it been here in the parlor, Bess wondered, and how had they managed to get it inside without her noticing?
“Like her mama,” Micah said, interrupting her reverie, “my darlin’ Bess was blessed with a musical soul. Why, sometimes, when she sings as she g
oes about her chores, I’m convinced she’s an angel, on loan to us from Heaven….”
“Pa,” Bess said, blushing, “please!”
Micah winked at their friends. “…an angel, ‘til she goes and says something to prove how very much a human woman she is,” he said, winking at her. “As you all know, she’s been the heart and soul of this family for many years. Without her, we’d likely have lost the farm, and if that had happened, we would have starved to death.”
“By the looks of your old man, you’ve done a fine job of keepin’ the wolf from the door, Bess,” hollered one of the hands.
Micah chuckled and patted his ample belly. “Keep a civil tongue in your head, Sammy, or I’ll eat your share of the birthday cake!” he teased good-naturedly. “Why,” he continued, “we’d have worn dirty, tattered rags. Would’ve been forced to kick our way through rubbish and debris just to get from one side of the house to the other!”
Again, the laughter of the Beckley’s friends filled the cozy, people-crowded room.
“Most of you knew my dear, sweet Mary, and couldn’t help but love her. She was a wonderful, giving woman.” Micah stopped speaking for a moment. Took a deep breath, then swallowed hard. “I loved Mary more than life itself. For awhile there after she died, I believed she took the best part of me with her.”
He gestured for Bess and the boys to join him. Draping an arm over each twin’s shoulder, he smiled fondly at his daughter. “A good friend helped me to see that, in reality, she left the best part of me, right here.” He tugged his boys closer.
Micah held up a hand to silence the heartfelt awws and ahs that filtered around the room, then lay that same hand upon Bess’s cheek. “Your mother was a wonderful woman, my darlin’ girl, but life was easy for her. From the moment Mary was born, she never had a worry in the world. You, on the other hand have lived a hard life. A life that’s—”
“Pa,” Bess interrupted, blinking back hot tears, “hush now, why don’t you?”
Micah thrust out his chest in defiance. “I’ll not hush!” he insisted, loosening his black string tie. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking these past months, about something my good friend, Chance Walker back there, said.” Micah nodded toward the front door, and focused on his daughter again. “He helped me see that you pretty much single-handedly saved our bacon.”
Paternal love glowed in Micah’s damp eyes. He coughed and cleared his throat. “The Bible tells us that to do a good deed in secret is to secure ourselves a place in Paradise. Well, Bess, my darlin’, there’s not a doubt in my mind you’ll have a home up there someday, because you’ve devoted your life to giving us a taste of heaven, right here on earth.”
The tears she’d been trying to blink back now rolled freely down her cheeks. Very few of their guests’ eyes were dry, either. Matt and Mark stared at Bess, obvious adulation glowing on their fresh young faces. The Widow Reddick nodded her head in agreement. Pastor and Mrs. Higgins smiled approvingly. But Bess didn’t see them, not because of the tears that blurred her vision, but because she only had eyes for one person…the tall, muscular man in the back of the room who leaned against the door jamb, casually maneuvering a blade of grass from one corner of his mouth to the other. Lord help her, she loved that man!
Almost from the first moment he walked into her kitchen with his quietly flirtatious attitude, he’d stolen her heart. He’d befriended her brothers. Taught them to be proper farmers. Why, thanks to Chance, the boys could now hold their own on a Texas cattle ranch if they had a mind to! she admitted. He’d saved Matt’s life and, unbeknownst to her, had been Micah’s sounding board and confidant. Bess didn’t know for certain if he’d committed a murder or not, but she knew for certain that Chance was a thief…for he’d stolen her heart.
She had no idea what gift Micah had hidden beneath the white sheet. She didn’t know what might be in the boxes her friends had tied up with bright ribbons and big bows. But it didn’t matter, because the best gift had already been presented: She had her father back!
She saw in Micah’s gray eyes the once-familiar loving smile, and on his bearded face, a serene expression. The way he stood there, tall and strong and proud, told Bess that her prayers had finally been answered. Her father had at long last set aside his grief over losing his beloved wife, and decided to start living, really living again.
He’d said flat out that Chance had been responsible for the magnificent change. Bess didn’t think she’d live long enough to receive such a more meaningful gift, and she had Chance to thank for it.
Her heart throbbed at the mere sight of him. She wanted to run across the room, throw her arms around his neck and kiss him soundly. She wanted to tell him what she ought to have told him on the way home from Baltimore, when he’d said he would hug her and kiss her until she agreed to be his girl: I am your girl!
“You’ve been the only music in our lives for eight long years,” Micah was saying. “So the boys and I decided it was high time we put some music into yours.” With that, he stepped aside and whipped the sheet from the box. “Hand me that crowbar, Matthew,” he instructed, grinning.
Board by board, the box was dismantled, and bit by bit, the lovely instrument appeared.
Bess ran her fingertips lightly over the smooth ivory and ebony keys, stroked the polished mahogany of the upright piano. Her voice trembled when she whispered, “Oh, Pa, it’s…it’s so beautiful.”
“Not half as beautiful as the lady who’ll play it,” said a deep voice from the back of the room.
All heads turned to see who’d issued the compliment.
Bess knew without even looking up who’d spoken. She’d have recognized that wonderful, wholly masculine voice anywhere. Much to her disappointment, when she turned toward the place where she’d last seen him, Chance was gone.
***
For a brief moment, he’d clung to the hope that Bess had fooled the ex-deputy, and he could live at Foggy Bottom with her forever. But reality set in as he watched the birthday festivities, and he couldn’t bear to stand there a moment longer, looking at the woman he wanted…but couldn’t have.
Chance turned slowly and headed from the house, and though he walked at a slow, steady pace, he was running away. Again.
It seemed he’d been on the run from one thing or another most of his life…Sheriff Carter and his deputies, Texas Rangers, U.S. Marshals, bounty hunters, the hangman, and now his love for Bess.
During those lonesome years, he’d been shot at, kicked, punched, survived cattle stampedes and border wars between ranchers. He’d seen death and dying more times than he cared to remember, and felt the scrape of the Grim Reaper’s scythe a time or two, himself. But none of what he’d lived scared him half as much as what he felt for Bess.
One short month from now, his job at Foggy Bottom would be done. The corn and soy crops would have been harvested. The fences would have been mended. The outbuildings would shine under fresh coats of white paint. Chance knew if he wanted it, he’d have a position here at Foggy Bottom for the rest of his life. And the Good Lord knew he wanted it….
But sadly, he couldn’t accept it.
The Texan had told the constable that he’d made a mistake by identifying Chance as a wanted man. But Chance heard beyond the words, saw the shrewdness in the man’s eyes. He’d return, and when he did, he’d bring trouble with him. Trouble Chance could not afford to expose Bess and her family to.
Neither feeble explanation nor fine words would satisfy the greed and bloodlust of these lawmen-turned-bounty hunters. Men determined enough to travel fifteen hundred miles through wilderness and over hard-scrabble roads to hunt him down wouldn’t be satisfied until they’d pocketed their thirty pieces of silver.
The thought made his heart ache. Leaving here, in his mind, could be compared to a slow, torturous death. Even the hangman’s way was more humane than that. He’d stay and face the music and hope for the best…if he could predict the outcome. But the scuffle that was sure to take place when the Texan c
ame back to claim “his man” would likely require loaded guns. Only a shoot-out would buy Chance his freedom, but at what cost? He would not put Bess and everyone else at Beckley’s Hollow in the line of fire, not even to save himself. These people had been good to him. Had invited him, open-armed, into their family.
Yes, soon his job here would be done. And when it was, he’d pack his meager possessions, saddle his horse, and quietly go.
If only there was a way to prove he hadn’t killed Horace Pickett! At least then, he’d have a glimmer of hope that he could live free again. Free of the hangman. Free to love Bess. Free to spend the rest of his life, happy beside her. But the only witness who came forward to testify about the murder had been his uncle.
Chance had been in Lubbock that fateful day, running errands for his Aunt Polly, when Horace Pickett stormed into the general store. “Francine,” he’d bellowed, “just the little lady I want to see.”
Francine Miller had lost her young husband a year earlier, and had been struggling ever since to keep up with the payments on their fifty acre spread. But the banker, greedy and demanding, had snapped continuously and mercilessly at her heels. Horace didn’t seem to care that in the year since her Billy’s death, Francine had worked so long and so hard that she looked sixty instead of thirty. Didn’t seem to care, either, that she had three young children to feed and clothe, or that she had no kin to turn to for help.
“Francine,” Horace had repeated, cornering the terrified young widow in the middle of the store, “you’re three weeks late with your September payment.”
“I know, Mr. Pickett, I know,” she said, her voice quaking with quiet fear, “and I’m right sorry. But I’m about to harvest….” Francine wrung her hands pitifully. “I ran out of money and had to let my hired hand go last week, so the young’uns an’ me, we’re gonna have to do it by ourselves. It’s gonna take a mite longer than I hoped, but it’ll get done. I promise you that. And when I’ve sold the crops, you’ll get your—“
