by Jenna Kernan
“The hell with this.” He turned around as the door opened.
There stood an older woman, wiping her flour-coated hands on her long apron. She would have been attractive, except for the deep worry lines that flanked her mouth and the fact that she was thin to the point of being painful to look at. Her smile seemed genuine.
He stepped back a respectable distance and removed his gray Stetson.
“Mr. Tobin?” she asked, and then gave a hopeful smile.
That caught him off guard. “No. I’m sorry. Were you expecting someone?” He pressed on without giving her a chance to answer. “I’m looking for Katherine Wells.”
“She isn’t here. Is she expecting you? She didn’t mention anyone.”
“Who is it, Aunt Ella?”
The woman turned toward the parlor then back at him. “My youngest niece. Ears like a rabbit, that one.”
Mrs. Maguire’s smile deepened the lines in her careworn face, changing them to something welcoming. She stepped aside and swept a hand before herself. “Please come in, Mr….”
“I’m Elijah S. Pickett, ma’am.” He stepped inside, gripping his hat before him.
“My niece is running some errands. You are welcome to wait.” She paused as if only just hearing him and then she gave the reaction he had hoped for. “Did you say…?”
He nodded.
“My stars.”
Sam’s confident smile faded as he realized he had only just heard what she had said. She had said niece. That meant that Miss Wells was…damn it to hell, she didn’t board here. She lived here and had a family.
He backed up a step, bringing him closer to the open door, having decided not to wait or even come back until he learned what kind of a woman he was pursuing.
Mrs. Maguire glanced down the front steps and her face registered surprise. “Why, there she is! Kate!”
Chapter Three
S am whirled and saw her. All apprehension vanished at the sight of her and he broke into a broad smile. “There’s my savior.”
Katherine Wells stood frozen with one small foot perched on the lowest step and a basket of ripe peaches on her arm. She was just as he’d remembered her, only now, in the daylight, he saw the hair beneath her prim bonnet was as curly as a wood shaving and the color of his favorite chestnut mare. She was again dressed like a proper lady, with gloves and shawl. If they hadn’t shared the most magnificent kiss of his entire life, he’d assume from the innocent look of her that she was inexperienced. Her simple cotton dress and absence of jewelry told him she came from humble roots, though not nearly as Spartan as his.
He descended to her and extended his hand, hoping her glove would mask its sudden dampness.
“What an unexpected surprise,” she said.
She did look overcome, judging from the sudden pallor and the way she drew her lower lip nervously through her strong white teeth. That last gesture made Sam’s mouth go as dry as a man three days in the desert.
Surprise, she had said. Sam wondered just what sort of surprise she found it as she rapidly withdrew her hand and backed away as if he were a molester of women. Her gaze darted from her aunt and back to him.
“You seem quite recovered,” she said.
Her voice was sweet and lilting but held a note of apprehension. He gazed down into eyes a perfect mix of green and gray and found he’d lost the ability to speak. He stood staring like a stick of wood. Was she also remembering their kisses? Those sweet kisses had brought him to her as soon as he could walk a straight line.
He moved closer, catching the fragrance of cinnamon and fresh peaches. She stepped back, drawing the basket between them as if it were a shield, and glanced at her aunt.
“You recall my adventure of last evening? This is the man who was attacked.”
“My stars,” said Aunt Ella.
“I’ve come to express my gratitude,” he said. And to see if my savior is as lovely as I recall. She was, more so, for hers was a beauty that can only be truly appreciated in the daylight. He saw in her a rare mingling of vulnerability and strength. My God, her skin looked perfect as a bowl of fresh cream. She was the kind of woman men would travel fifty miles overland just to have a look. Just the sort he needed at Dutch Flats. He could take her up to the mining camps and combine business and pleasure.
“Won’t you join us in the parlor, Mr. Pickett?” asked her aunt. “I’ll make some tea.”
He dragged his gaze from Miss Wells to glance at her aunt. He hated tea for its bitter taste and color that most resembled dirty dishwater and he hated the idea of being trapped in a parlor across from this woman’s guardian while trying to hold a cup that was as fragile as an eggshell. Why didn’t women drink out of good enameled tin, he wondered, even as he forced a smile and nodded his acceptance of the offer. He must have cracked open his skull. That was the only explanation, because he was taking Katherine’s basket and following the women into the house.
He would have followed her anywhere if it meant spending a few more moments with this woman. Her aunt reclaimed the peaches and excused herself before retreating down the hall and out of sight.
Sam had the sudden urge to pull Kate into his arms, but as he moved toward her, he heard the rustling of skirts just before a slim girl appeared in the doorway to the right. The unnatural tilt of her head and the dark glasses told him she was sightless.
She tipped her ear toward them instead of her eyes. Her curly hair reminded him of Katherine’s but it was pale as moonlight. She looked to be somewhere between ten and twelve, and was already as pretty as a bug’s ear.
“Kate?” she said, holding out a hand.
“Here, Phoebe.” She moved to the younger girl and clasped her hand, tucking it into the joint of her elbow and drawing her forward.
“Mr. Pickett, this is my sister.”
Good Lord, first an aunt and now a sister. He slid the thick felt brim of his hat through his fingers, sending it into a slow spin. This was not what he expected.
Kate stood beside her sister who now extended her small, pale hand. Did the girl ever go out?
“May I present Phoebe Jane Maguire. Phoebe, this is Mr. Pickett.”
He shook the hand, marveling at its perfect form, in miniature. He avoided children, as a rule, especially thin, pale ones. But she was well dressed in a clean pale blue cotton dress, a white lace petticoat, bloomers that reached her ankles and a pair of kidskin slippers.
He released the child’s hand and stepped back.
“He’s big,” Phoebe said to Kate.
However did she know that from a touch?
He held his smile, only belatedly realizing the child could not see it. He frightened children, mostly. Did they somehow sense his imperfections? After all, he had lived every child’s nightmare.
Sam now registered what Kate had said. Her aunt was Maguire, her sister was Maguire. Why would she have a different name than her sister? The most obvious reason struck first and he glanced at her left hand, but it was still sheathed in the glove. His heart sank.
Was she married?
“Maguire?” he muttered. “But…”
She must have read his confusion, so poorly disguised. “I am widowed, Mr. Pickett, just a year past.”
“I’m so sorry,” he said automatically, but he wasn’t, not by a mile. Widows were a whole different class. They had experience and little reputation to protect. And if you were discreet, they tended to be more adventurous. Plus, they knew what a man wanted and were more inclined to give it to him.
No, he wasn’t sorry by a mile. In fact he felt inclined to dance the jig he performed each time he had found a sizable gold nugget. She was a widow and alone over a year. Things were looking up.
He cast her a heated glance and she looked away, leading her blind sister into the parlor. Sam followed behind.
“Won’t you sit down, Mr. Pickett.” She indicated a dark pink settee.
He lowered himself into a lumpy mess of springs and horsehair. Beneath the worn fabric on
e spring in particular made a sizable impression. He shifted his seat, thinking he’d be more comfortable sitting on a rock pile.
The sense of unease at the unfamiliar threatened to sink him again. Likely she’d see right through him.
He glanced at the lace doily on the armrest, which was fixed in place with straight pins, and next to the side table, three porcelain figurines from the Orient glared at him. The room was a booby trap for a blind girl, but Phoebe left Kate’s guidance and negotiated it like an experienced riverboat captain avoiding shoals and underwater snags. She slipped silently across the room making straight for a hard-backed chair. He was about to warn her of the knitting needles and yarn upon the seat, but she scooped them up as if sighted. The only indication of her condition she made was the slight reassuring pat she gave the armrest before sitting. Then she lifted her needles and began to knit with lightning speed. Phoebe disconcerted him by knitting while seeming to gaze straight at the ceiling.
“May I take your hat?” Kate offered.
He hoped she wouldn’t put it out of sight. He hated the idea of leaving it behind if he had to ditch and run, but he forked it over. She took it into the hall and returned without it.
Kate sat adjacent to him, tucking her legs beneath her chair. He drank her in. Her aunt had withdrawn and her sister could not see. He unveiled his eyes and watched her flush, showing him that she felt this connection as well as he did.
Why did she sit there pretending not to notice, trying to avoid glancing at him? He wanted to gobble her up, breathe her in like hot air on a frigid day, but instead sat stiff and immobile as one of those ridiculous statues on the mantel beside the clock. Where was the hellion he’d seen in the alley? There was no trace of her in this breathtakingly beautiful lady.
He drummed his fingers on his knee as the clock pendulum swung. How soon before she would accept him into her bed?
Absently he rubbed the lump on the back of his head.
“How are you feeling, Mr. Pickett?”
Hard as a stallion around a mare in heat, was his first thought, but instead he said, “Ma’am?”
“Your head? You were rendered unconscious, I recall.”
“Oh, it would take a wedge and a ten-pound hammer to do my skull any damage.”
She graced him with a smile and he was momentarily stupefied. Then he remembered the man knocking her gun away, grabbing her arm.
He was on his feet in a moment and kneeling beside her. She drew back but he captured her hand. “They didn’t hurt you, did they?”
Kate shook her head, but his instinct told him she was hiding something.
He pushed back her tight sleeve just far enough to reveal the purple bruises encircling her wrist. He exploded to his feet with a bellow of rage. Anger he did not know existed poured through him like molten gold.
“Kate?” called Phoebe.
Kate moved to her sister’s side. “It’s all right. He has just seen my bruises.”
“What bruises?”
So she’d hidden them from her family, as well.
Her aunt rushed in from the dining room, clutching a vicious-looking hat pin before her like a dagger.
“It’s all right, auntie,” said Kate.
The woman’s shoulders sagged as she lowered her pin. Kate explained the situation as Sam reined in a monster he had not even known lived within him. He had seen things, terrible things, and never had he felt the urge for vengeance blaze with such acute force. It jabbed him like a red-hot poker and clouded all sense of reason.
Her aunt released the tiny buttons at Kate’s wrist, drew off the gloves and then rolled up her sleeves, sucking in her breath at each turn of the fabric. Her efforts revealed four perfectly formed purple finger impressions on Kate’s forearm.
The red glaze descended again. He turned his back and found himself staring at Phoebe, who sat clutching her knitting as if it were a stuffed doll. Seeing the child huddled in fear had the effect of throwing a bucket of well water at his face. Shame filled him at having terrified her. He retrieved the ball of yarn that had rolled a good distance across the floor but did not dare return it for fear of frightening her further.
Kate was arguing with her aunt.
“You’ll do no such thing,” she said.
“But it might be broken.”
“It’s not.”
He turned to see Kate wiggling her fingers as if playing the piano that sat between the sofa and the window.
“Katherine.” Her aunt’s tone turned authoritative.
The two faced off. Why was she so stubborn?
“Do you recall our earlier conversation?” said Kate.
Her aunt looked confused.
Kate gave her a look, trying to tell her something without speaking. “About our situation—with the boarders?”
The older woman seemed to understand this cryptic comment.
“For goodness’ sakes, child. Dr. Jefferies won’t expect payment today.”
Kate glanced at Sam and, in her scarlet cheeks and neck, he read the mortification over her aunt’s blunt words. This was about money, then. She had not sought treatment because they lacked the funds.
He was about to offer to pay and then recalled that a man could not do such things without insulting everyone. It was another stupid social convention he did not understand. He had money and yet he was powerless to help her.
He tried anyway. “Mrs. Wells saved my life, the least I could do is fetch a doc.”
“I told you,” said Phoebe, who was following the strand of yarn to the ball he clutched in one fist. “I said he’d give you a reward.”
“He most certainly will not,” said her older sister.
Why hadn’t he thought of that?
“I could very easily.”
“I would not accept it.”
How had this all gone so wrong? For a moment, he wished he was alone in the alley with her once more.
“Then perhaps you would allow me to escort you to dinner as a show of gratitude.” He could arrange to have a physician happen by.
Kate stiffened and he knew that he’d made another mistake, but damned if he knew what this one was. How long did he have to sit across tea tables before he could take her out?
“That is most kind of you, but I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
Damn, he hated proper ladies. Under ordinary circumstances he didn’t stay where he was not welcome, no matter how lovely the woman. But there was something about Kate. This aloof poise was some kind of mask. And he’d keep coming back until he got underneath it again.
“Oh, Katie, no,” said Phoebe, who now reached for her ball of yarn and scooped it from him as bravely as a kitten stealing a scrap from a bulldog’s bowl.
But Kate set her jaw. Her stubbornness only made him want to kiss her more. They were strangers and so she could not accept money or invitations, regardless of her wishes on the matter. But in that alley he had held a wildcat. Her two faces fascinated him.
Perhaps a challenge, then.
“Any woman willing to charge into an alley with pistols drawn is surely brave enough to accept a dinner invitation.”
Her aunt gasped.
Kate’s eyes narrowed. “I think you mistake me, sir. I am a respectable woman.”
“I never doubted it. It is why I know you will accept my attempts to show my gratitude.” He realized he put too much emphasis on the word gratitude, making it obvious that he wanted more.
Kate resumed her seat. “Then you don’t know me at all.”
“I do.” He stared at her, watching her color rise and her eyes twinkle. She was changing into the woman of fire. It was only her obstinacy that kept her from accepting now.
“Please,” he said, meeting her gaze as he remembered that instant in the alley when he took what he wanted without her permission and she had let him. He couldn’t do that now. Here the choice to accept him was wholly hers and influenced by her family standing witness.
He must be crazy, for he c
ould think of no less than two dozen women who would jump at the chance to dine with him, yet here he was courting a reluctant widow who looked far too young to be married in the first place.
He held his breath waiting. How long had it been since he cared so deeply about anything?
During those moments, he realized that he longed for such a woman as this—a woman with fire in her blood and steel in her spine. What he could do with such a woman beside him!
With her by his side, the miners would be falling over themselves to buy railroad shares, just to impress Kate.
And then he saw it again, that flash of danger reflected in her eyes, that spark that had ignited between them when they first met. He hadn’t imagined it. It was there.
She opened her mouth to speak and his breathing stopped. Her voice hummed like the strains of a harp heard by a dying man.
“My aunt runs this boardinghouse. I am needed at mealtimes, so it won’t be possible. Thank you again for coming for a visit, Mr. Pickett. I am so pleased to find you recovered.”
She was on her feet now, showing him the door. She actually gripped his elbow and marched him from the room.
When they reached the entrance, Kate extended his hat and he refused to take it. Her arm relaxed and the hat nestled in the olive-colored folds of her simple work dress. He had never thought to be jealous of his hat before, but now he wished he could trade places.
“Is it because we were not properly introduced?” he asked, his voice now low and gruff.
She shook her head.
“My reputation, then, is that why you will not see me?”
“Rather, it is mine.”
He wondered if she had a reputation to protect or one that she had already lost. Now he was more intrigued than before.
