Melly, Unyielding (Lockets And Lace Book 4)

by Abagail Eldan

  Thatcher looked up from where he knelt. “What?”

  “How come she’s with you?” Sam’s feet were firmly planted. His face held a deep suspicion, his eyes narrowed, his chin tilted down, like a bull about to charge.

  Thatcher turned to hide the smile on his face. He finished the dishes and stood, towering over the short, stout man by a good six inches. “You plan to take Melly Harperson away from me?”

  To his credit, the man stayed firmly planted. “Yes. How do I know if you ain’t thrown in with them Berren’s Bandits?”

  “Bandits?”

  Sam scuffed at the ground with his worn boot. “That’s what folks are calling them.”

  “I guess the same way you told Melly. It’s up to you to decide.”

  The men stood toe to toe for a long moment before Samuel stepped back. “Alrighty then. Don’t you think we should go after her?”

  Thatcher smiled. “There she is now.”

  Melly stood at the edge of the tree line, those eyes watching their every movement, like a frightened doe. The gun was still in her hand, but held loosely, no longer pointed at either one of them.

  Melly. It suited her, better than Mrs. Jones. He grinned. Better than Miss Harperson and even better than Carmella.

  Melly. He walked up the slope, Samuel trailing behind, and Sunny bounding ahead.

  Chapter Twelve

  Carmella did not shift from her spot but remained as deeply rooted as an oak. The men stopped a few feet away. The older man shifted from foot to foot, nervously, but Thatcher returned her look with curiosity, calmness, and something unidentifiable in his eyes. They waited silently. Sunny circled, whining softly, but she ignored him for now.

  She surveyed the man who called himself Samuel Dobson. Her memories were hazy, blotted out by all that came after, but the face was familiar. It was him, her Uncle Dob. Her chin quivered when she opened her mouth to speak. No sound emerged.

  The old man took a step toward her. “Melly ...”

  With a great effort, she moved closer to him, casting a sideways glance at Thatcher who gave almost an unrecognizable nod. It gave her the strength to continue.

  The old man smelled of earth, of horses, and leather and oils, a familiar smell, one her nose recognized, even if her brain did not. Uncle Dob pulled her into an embrace, but she didn’t remain long. She pushed away and headed back to the campsite, her head down. Images and feelings, dredged from the bottom of her soul, made her disoriented, as if she no longer existed.

  Only the pain and hurt remained. She longed for something solid, something real, to hold to, to bring her back.

  Thatcher fell in step beside her. “Finished with my gun?”

  His presence filled her with solidity, but it was fleeing.

  He flashed a smile. “My gun? I’ve got to go.”

  The gun was forgotten in her hand. She glanced at it, puzzled as to how it came there. And then she remembered and turned it, so the handle faced him.

  He took it and gave her a nod. “Thanks.” He returned it to the holster and strode ahead to the campsite. He immediately put out the fire and gathered up his things.

  She stood for a moment and watched him. Without thought, she ran and caught his arm. “What are you doing?”

  “Breaking camp. I’ve got to get back on the trail.” He stopped and straightened but kept his head turned away. “Stay with your Uncle Dob.”

  “You’re leaving me?” She made a sound, between a sob and a groan, and dug her fingers deeper into his arm. “You’re leaving me with that man? I don’t know him!”

  Thatcher paused and straightened. “Do you know me?”

  Yes, she knew him, knew him the moment he pulled her from the pit, knew he was strong, safe, comforting. But she shook her head. “No, but ... that man, what if he can’t be trusted?” She hated herself for begging, but she said the words. “Please don’t leave me.” She glanced at Uncle Dob, headed to the creek, and then to Thatcher. She forced herself to release her hold and took a step back, but her eyes remained riveted on him.

  His gaze met hers. “You don’t think he’s Samuel Dobson?”

  “Yes, I believe him. He looks the same as he did fifteen years ago, except for the braids. But ...”

  “But what?” His words were soft, his eyes veiled.

  She grimaced, knowing she herself did not believe it. “What if he’s gone bad?”

  Thatcher laughed, a laugh that washed over her, filled her with an inexplicable yearning.

  He shook his head, still grinning. “No, he’s fine.”

  “You don’t think it’s possible?” Sunny came to her, his head nudging her hand. She absentmindedly gave him a pat.

  Thatcher glanced toward the creek. “No, I don’t think he’s a part of the Bandits.”

  “Bandits?”

  “Sam said folks call them Berren’s Bandits.”

  She sighed. “You’re right. He’s not like the other men I’ve seen with Boyd.”

  “Melly, I need to get back on that man’s trail. Your Uncle Dob will take care of you. I’ve wasted too much time as it is.”

  “Wasted?” She was stricken.

  He held up a hand as if reaching for her, to catch back the words. “Melly, I didn’t mean that, but I’ve got to make up time. It’s going to take some hard riding.” He straightened his shoulders.

  She could tell by the look in his eyes that he’d made up his mind. She reached in her pocket for the handkerchief, but then stopped and instead gave Sunny another pat. She hardened her voice. “Go ahead. Do what you want.”

  She moved away toward the horses and began saddling the mare, not sure what she planned. Maybe go search for Obadiah. One thing was certain. Neither that cowboy or Uncle Dob would decide for her.

  Sam came up to Thatcher and spoke, his voice low, although it carried to Melly. “So, is she going with me? I need to get my horse and pack mule.”

  Thatcher didn’t lower his voice but spoke louder than usual. “I don’t know. You talk to her.”

  Melly threw her Uncle Dob a sideways glance when he drew near. He was uneasy, rubbing the palms of his hands against his pants.

  He cleared his throat. “Melly, stay with me. I’ll take good care of you.” His eyes were hopeful.

  Melly looked beyond him to Thatcher. He had the fire out and covered it with dirt. He always did things like that, taking extra precautions, making sure all was safe.

  It seemed as if she’d known him forever, like he was her oldest friend. She scoffed at herself. Had she ever really trusted that cowboy? Yes, came the answer, unbidden.

  She bit her bottom lip, remembering the two dead men in the shack. The problem was that Boyd had a dozen more like them. Would they simply forget her, allow her to leave? She frowned. If Oba and Boyd were coming after her, they’d already be here, wouldn’t they?

  Uncle Dob stood near, still waiting patiently. She studied him. Yes, she was convinced he was her Uncle Dob, but how could she trust him to keep her safe when he wasn’t Thatcher? Her gaze went beyond him to where the cowboy rolled up his blanket. He drew a response from her that confused her, but he was strong and knew how to handle a gun. Uncle Dob was old and no physical match for Boyd’s men.

  She went back to the saddling of the mare.

  Uncle Dob moved closer, his mouth at her ear. “Melly, I need to tell you something.”

  She cinched the saddle and straightened, without turning her head to him. “What?”

  “It’s about your sister.”

  She stared over the mare’s back. “My sisters are dead.” That’s where she wanted them, six feet under, away from the pain of the world.

  “No, they’re not. Well, I mean one’s not.”

  She turned and moved an arm’s length away. “What do you mean?” She held herself very still, as if waiting for a blow.

  “’Bout six months ago, Abby’s husband tracked me down. Mr. Joshua Flint, if I recollect rightly.”

  “Abby’s husband?” She blinked, c
onfused. Boyd’s men had carried her sister away. She’d seen her sister hogtied and forced into a wagon. Even now, she barely tolerated the memory. Her pain grew into anger. “You’re lying to me. I don’t believe a word you say.”

  Uncle Dob took a step toward her, and she backed farther away. “Her husband showed me a locket, told me to be on the lookout for one like it. He said all you girls had one.” He held up a hand as if to stop her retreat. “I’ll describe it, and you can tell me if I’m right.”

  Melly’s locket was beneath her blouse. As far as she knew, Uncle Dob had not seen it, unless it’d been fifteen years ago. Would he remember the lockets after fifteen years? Surely not. She let her arms fall by her sides and waited silently.

  “It was gold, had a flower engraved in the center, maybe a couple of more around it, with some other doodads.”

  She looked at him skeptically. “What kind of flower?”

  “I don’t know. I ain’t never been good with names of flowers. Kinda reminded me of something Ma used to grow around our house.” He watched her with brightened eyes.

  Hope grew within. Abby, alive and married. Her hand shook as she pulled the necklace from beneath her blouse, unhooked the chain, and held it so he could see clearer. “Did it look like this?”

  A broad smile spread over his face. “That’s it! ’Sactly like that.”

  Her knees weakened, and dizziness consumed her.

  Uncle Dob grabbed her arm. “Thatch! I think she’s going down.”

  And darkness took her.

  MELLY OPENED HER EYES to see Thatcher’s face inches from hers. He moved back, out of her sight. She propped on her elbows, but dizziness overtook her again.

  “Lie back,” Thatcher said, soothingly.

  “Sunny! Get back!” Uncle Dob cried. He grabbed the dog and pulled him away.

  She leaned back. She was on one of the blankets and recognized it as Thatcher’s. He had it wrapped snuggly around her.

  He moved away, and she closed her eyes. Abby. Alive! How had she gotten away? How had she found the strength? Melly’s hand traveled to her pocket and pulled out the handkerchief. She caressed the lace, gathering her own strength.

  Until the men’s angry voices forced her eyes open. This time, she managed to sit, and Sunny came to her and whined.

  Thatcher had the palms of his hands against Uncle Dob’s chest and gave him a push. Uncle Dob stepped back, and Thatcher moved with him, ready to push again.

  “What did you say to her?” Thatcher growled.

  She had to give Uncle Dob credit. He stood his ground against the younger, stronger man.

  He glared into Thatcher’s face. “That’s ’tween Melly and me. Ain’t none of your business.”

  “Stop!” Melly’s voice was a croak, but both men looked in her direction. “Thatcher, don’t hit him again, please.”

  “I ain’t hit him, yet,” Thatcher grumbled. He came back to her and knelt by her side. “Lie back and close your eyes.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not an invalid.” She sat completely up. “I’ll tell you what he said. He told me my sister was alive, and it was a shock, that’s all.”

  Thatcher glared at Uncle Dob before his gaze came back to her. “You think you can get up now?”

  “I can try.”

  It had darkened in the shade of the trees. She hadn’t noticed before, but storm clouds had gathered.

  Thatcher placed a hand under her elbow and helped her to her feet. When she wobbled, he grasped her arm.

  She tilted her head and searched his eyes. “I’m fine now. I plan to stay with Uncle Dob.”

  A muscle in Thatcher’s jaw twitched, and his gaze went back to the older man. “Sam, you’d better take care of her.”

  “I can take care of myself,” Melly said, with more confidence than she felt.

  Thatcher nodded and released her arm. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to check on you, when I finish this job.”

  Melly smiled. “Thank you. I’d like that.”

  “Where you taking her, Sam?” Thatcher asked.

  “The Babbitt ranch in northeast Texas.”

  Thatcher nodded, picked up the blanket and shook it out.

  Melly frowned at Uncle Dob. “I thought you said her husband’s name was Flint.”

  “It is. He’s the foreman. Taron and Ander Babbitt own the ranch.”

  Thatcher looked thoughtful. “I think I’ve heard of them. They own a big spread.”

  Uncle Dob nodded vigorously. “Thousands of acres is what Mr. Flint said.”

  Thatcher had his blanket rolled up under his arm. “I can find it.” He hesitated, waiting, Melly thought, for her to speak.

  She searched for words, but none came. She wanted to feel his touch, a handshake, before he left, but she didn’t, couldn’t, move toward him. Uncle Dob left, mumbling about seeing to his mule, and whistled for Sunny to follow.

  Thatcher tipped his hat. “We’ll meet up soon.”

  And he walked to Johnny Bell, already saddled, tied the blanket in place and took the reins in his hand, holding them loosely, studying her.

  Melly turned away, toward the creek. The wind picked up, and her hair blew across her face. She pushed it away and blinked.

  Thatcher, still holding his horse’s reins, stood in front of her. Neither moved, and lightning split the sky, releasing the rain.

  Still Thatcher remained unmoving. She went to him, and he wrapped her in his arms. His warm lips found hers, and then he released her.

  She shivered at the sudden coldness.

  “I’ll find you Melly Harperson. Count on it.” And then he climbed on his horse and rode away.

  Chapter Thirteen

  After a couple hours of riding, Thatcher emerged from the forest into open country. This was not a level plain, but was filled with dips and rises, an area unfamiliar to him. It offered two things, a place to shelter and a place to hide. Anyone could be watching from one of the rises, lying hidden behind a bush or fallen tree.

  His back prickled from the thought.

  The rain had not abated. The weather was as gloomy as his thoughts. Why had he kissed Melly and promised he’d find her? He had no intention of doing so. He’d known long ago he rode to his death. When the showdown came with Boyd, his own death was certain. Boyd’s gang consisted of too many men for him to ever survive.

  He’d reconciled himself to it, welcomed it after discovering what had happened to his wife. Melly would never see him again, and she’d be better off. He’d given her one more sorrow by making such an empty promise.

  He scoffed. She’d forget him, as soon as she arrived at the ranch and saw men who were stable, hard-working. She didn’t really care for him, barely knew him.

  And yet, hadn’t her lips yielded to his?

  As he rode in the drenching rain, as miserable as he’d ever been in his life, he regretted his decision to leave her. What was wrong with him, thinking about this woman? He hunted Boyd, the man who had killed his wife, who had carried off Melly and her sisters. That was what he lived for, and he headed to it, as straight as any arrow. He was sure now, felt it in his gut.

  But the image of Melly down in that pit, looking up at him with those eyes, shining in the light of the candle, could not be extinguished. He’d known then not to get involved, that he had to stay focused on his quarry. Her beauty had ensnared him, as he had known it would.

  And now he was doing the same thing to her as he had done to Isabella. Riding off and leaving her at the mercy of Boyd and his gang.

  No, this time would be different. Melly was safe with Sam.

  He reached to pull his hat lower, unleashing a stream of water that ran beneath his collar. The rain was a cold one, and he shivered. He needed to find a place to hole up for the night.

  Through the pouring rain, he made out an outcrop of rocks. He’d head there, might even be able to get a fire going, to dry out his clothes.

  He headed up the slope, putting thoughts of Melly behind him. He had t
o stay alert. Not only his life, but Melly’s, depended on it.

  MELLY AND UNCLE DOB sought shelter from the drenching rain in the woods. On his mule’s back, he carried a tarpaulin, and they erected a lean-to with fallen limbs, saving the driest limbs to use as firewood. It was large enough to house, not only them, but the two horses and the mule, crowded though they were.

  Uncle Dob brought her dried kindling, and she soon had a small fire going at the edge of their shelter. Sunny stretched out next to it.

  Melly changed into dry clothes while Uncle Dob rubbed down the horses and mule. He worked quietly, silently, except for a few words to the animals.

  Melly stayed close to the fire, and he soon joined her. Her emotions ran amok, and she tried desperately to get them under control. Sorrow, anger, happiness were tangled, like a vine entwined around her, pressing in. She gasped like a fish on land.

  Uncle Dob observed her in silence for a moment, before he spoke. “Deep breaths, Melly girl.”

  She drew her knees to her chest and hugged them to her, as if curling in would make the pain stop, but she only felt more choked.

  She should never have agreed to go with Thatcher. At the first chance he had, he deserted her. She struggled to take in deeper breaths, as Uncle Dob had said.

  “Get your back straight so you can catch your breath better, put your legs down.” He gave a nod, a pleased look on his face. “I learned a thing or two from them Injuns I trade with.”

  She forced herself to sit straight, brought her knees down, and crossed her legs, Indian style. They fell silent. The rain pattered above, soothingly.

  She chose to come with Uncle Dob because he knew where Abby was. She needed to focus on that and forget Thatcher. He had no intention of finding her, had made a hollow promise.

  Uncle Dob added another stick to the fire. “It’s turning chilly. Wouldn’t surprise me none if we got an early snow.”

  She nodded and stared into the flames. She felt his gaze upon her but did not look at him.

  “You been through tough times. Like Esther.”