by Jillian Hart
"We are," Iris said, smiling at Gemma. They were probably the same age, around thirty, and both had gentle, quiet personalities.
"We're having a few friends over," Magnolia spoke up, nearly knocking into the pickle barrel too.
"Oh, that sounds like fun." For a second, a wistful little look passed across Gemma's face before she shook it away. "Well, I hope you have a good time. Who all is coming?"
"Maebry from the Rocking M," Verbena said on her way through the doorway.
"Maebry and I have been friends for years." Gemma smiled warmly, lighting up. "She is such a sweetheart."
"She is, and we love her." Verbena hesitated on the boardwalk, breathing in the rain and damp scent of the storm-drenched little town. Come to think of it, Gemma spent a lot of time running her father's store. Maybe she didn't have much of a chance to socialize. "Elise Hutchinson is coming too. Oh, and the new schoolteacher. Penelope Shalvis."
"Oh, I've known Elise for ages." Gemma followed Iris out the door and stood in the threshold, arms crossed against the chill. "Miss Shalvis has been in several times to pick up a few things for the place she rented. She seems very nice."
"Yes, she does," Verbena answered, mind turning thoughtfully as her sisters crossed the boardwalk, heading toward the waiting buckboard. Cowboys leaped to stay ahead of them. She had to wonder if maybe Gemma liked to sew, too.
"Have a lovely time," Gemma was saying. "Thanks for coming by. Take care of your ankle, Verbena."
"I will be off this thing--" She held up her cane "--the next time I come."
She almost walked away with the rest of her sisters, but something held her back. Gemma seemed so lonely and overworked. Verbena knew how that felt. When they'd lived in Chicago, there had been no time for friends between her parents' illnesses and working hard afterward to pay off debts and make ends meet. They'd been very poor, struggling to scrape by.
But then their life circumstances had changed. Receiving a big house and a fat inheritance could do that. But she hadn't forgotten what it had been like to be trapped in poverty or to feel so lonely for a close friend, someone aside from her sisters. She glanced over her shoulder at her sisters merrily chatting as they settled into the buckboard and brushing rain off their bonnets.
"Gemma, would you like to come this afternoon?" she asked on impulse. "We would love to have you, get to know you better."
"Oh. Really, that's nice of you, thinking to include me, but you've already made your plans. I'd hate to intrude." She blushed furiously and pushed a lock of black hair out of her eyes, looking uncomfortable. As if she were used to being on the outside.
Verbena hung her head, gripping her cane tightly. She knew how that felt, too.
"You wouldn’t be intruding." She met Gemma's gaze, making it clear. Very clear. This wasn't a pity-ask, nothing of the sort. "In fact, you'd be doing us a favor. We're fairly new here, and we haven't had a lot of time to make friends or get to know the people who've been friendly to us. We like you. Do you think you could come?"
"Oh, well." Gemma bit her lip as she considered. "Yes, I'd love to. If my father will let me off for the afternoon."
"Excellent. Tell him this is very important, you know, since we're customers." Verbena winked, liking how happy Gemma now looked. "We're having lunch at one, with soup and sandwiches for everyone."
"That sounds really nice." Delight flickered in Gemma's eyes as she nodded. It looked as if she'd do her best to make it. "I'll talk to Pa."
"Excellent. We'll look forward to seeing you." She backed across the boardwalk. "Bring some sewing to do, although you probably already figured that out."
"I did." Gemma smiled wide, happy, and waved as she stepped back into the shop.
"Hurry up, Verbena!" Magnolia shouted from the buckboard. "The cowboys are restless. They want to get moving--"
"Excuse me," a debonair male voice interrupted, dragging Verbena's attention away from her sister. Lawrence Latimer strode around gruff, tough Burton, who was the last cowboy standing guard on the boardwalk (the others were untying the horses, scanning the street, mounting up). Clearly Burton did not think Lawrence was a danger.
No one would. Thin, short, awkward, Lawrence swept off his bowler hat and grinned widely, which hiked up the ends of his handlebar mustache. "How are you today, my fair lady?"
"Hello, Mr. Latimer." She'd seen him around town, often trailing behind her. He was a strange little fellow with his ill fitting clothes--perhaps they were secondhand and not made for him--and his over-eager awkwardness. She felt sorry for him, but was she interested? No, but she was obligated to be kind. "I'm fine today. How are you?"
"Splendid."
"Good." She nodded, heading toward the steps and the buckboard beyond where her sisters were gesturing for her to join them. She was holding them up, making them wait. She took a bigger step and winced when her ankle complained.
"I couldn't help hearing about your ordeal." Lawrence leaped to accompany her across the boardwalk. He gestured with his hat, still clutched in his hand, in the direction of her cane. "I'll have you know I was one of the men who volunteered to ride that night. I saddled up and joined the sheriff's posse. I wasn't with the posse that found you, but we did important work combing the other side of the mountain searching for you."
"Yes, of course you did." She stopped, turned toward him, thinking of all the people who'd been dragged out of their warm beds and homes and into the brutally frigid night for her sake. She owed them all a debt of gratitude, including Mr. Latimer. "Thank you so much. I owe my life to men like you."
"Well, I do what I can." Lawrence straightened his rather slumped shoulders, puffing out his chest. "I--"
"Move along, Latimer," Burton barked, knuckling back his Stetson to glare at the man. "We don't have time to chit-chat. Let's get you into the buckboard, Verbena."
"Sorry to hold you all up," she told the cowboy. Everyone was waiting, but she didn't want to be rude. After all, Lawrence had potentially put himself at risk on her behalf that night. The storm could have been deadly, not to mention Ernest. She gripped the rail tightly in her free hand as she limped down the steps to the street. "Thanks again, Mr. Latimer. Have a nice afternoon."
"You too, beautiful lady." He bent low in a rather exaggerated bow.
"The traffic in town is picking up," Burton moved in, gripping her elbow to hurry her. "I've got a bad feeling and I can't pinpoint why. We don't see sign of Craddock, but my bells and whistles are going off. Climb in the backseat, get in the middle, between Rose and Iris."
"Thank you, Burton." She patted his arm, touched by the trouble he and his men were going to. As he went to retrieve the horse, she watched him go, thinking how protected she really did feel with the men guarding her, but she didn't think Ernest would return to attack in the light of day. He was a coward at heart. She leaned on her cane and ambled into the street, water splashing and mud squishing beneath her shoes.
She didn't see it coming. Maybe because the buckboard blocked the way, and her sisters were calling out to her, making room for her on the seat. A pair of horses simply trotted into sight, suddenly they were there, a fine pair of bays, manes streaking out behind them in the wind and their dainty hooves splish-splashing in the watery street.
Maybe she would have seen the disaster coming and could have stepped back if her gaze wasn't riveted by the big, dangerous looking stranger holding the reins. Wow, she thought, dazed. She'd never seen any man like him. He radiated pure and total masculinity. Shadowed, with his black hair long and falling to his shoulders, he wore a black duster, black trousers, black boots.
He didn't notice her as he sped on by in his buckboard. The wheel hit the gigantic mud puddle at her feet and water and mud splashed up in an arc. The cold ick slapped her in the face, dripped off her nose and chin and sluiced down the front of her dress.
Chapter Two
Her dress! Verbena gasped, swiping a drop of muddy water off her nose. Nearly every inch of her dress that she could s
ee was muddy. Only a few specks of green showed through the brown--not to mention what it had done to her coat, which she'd failed to button on her way out the door so her beautiful new dress was mostly unprotected.
"Sorry, lady." A man's deep baritone called out, sailing to her on the wind. She didn't need to look up to know the man had stopped, was backing up his horses.
"Uh, uh--" Still a little stunned, she shook off droplets from her hands. All she saw was mud. Everywhere.
"I didn't see the puddle until it was too late." He was even with her now, sitting in his buckboard, a big hulking man with a six-shooter strapped on and a day's growth darkening the strong angle of his jaw. As blunt and abrupt as the man. "You okay?"
She scowled. Look at him. Without a spark of real concern in his cold gray eyes. Just a blank, hard look as if the real problem was that he had to sit there and apologize to her for his reckless driving.
A tiny clump of mud slipped from her bangs, fell onto her cheek and slid down off her chin to land on her dress. Rage began to bubble. She'd been through a lot. Kidnapping, beating, terror, near rape and now this. This was the final insult, her poor soiled new dress. The third new dress she'd ever owned in her life. And it was a mess, a mess because of another thoughtless man. Going about, doing what they pleased. There seemed to be a lot of them in this world. Way too many, and she was mad about that. Something ought to be done about it.
"Well, you're the one driving." She shoved past Burton, who'd returned to assess the situation, shot the cowboy a look that clearly said she'd handle this, end of discussion. She rounded on the buckboard driver, that handsome, gigantic, outlaw-looking man. He had dark hair, just like Ernest. He had cold eyes, just like Ernest. Her hands started to shake. "It was your responsibility to notice the puddle."
"Is that right?" His chiseled mouth turned down in one corner and up in the other. Amused? Or put out? She couldn’t tell but she knew for sure that look on his granite face did not look like remorse. He wasn't really sorry. Not at all. That just burned her up. Bright red hazed her vision.
"What is wrong with men like you?" Furious, determined to right the wrong, she splashed through the huge puddle and grabbed hold of the buckboard frame. She gave him her most intimidating glare, getting madder with every breath she wheezed in. The door to her emotions popped open--the ones she'd been trying to lock up since the night of her kidnapping--and everything just flooded out. She couldn’t stop it. "You ruined a perfectly good dress not to mention my coat."
"I said I was sorry."
"Sorry doesn't clean this up." She gestured toward her muddy garments with both hands. "Look at me. I look like a drowned rat."
"Yes you do." He tipped his hat to see her better. "Here's a word of advice. Don't go around standing in the road at the edge of a mud puddle. You might get splashed. If you were paying attention, you could have stepped back and avoided this situation right here."
"Seriously?" She narrowed her pretty blue eyes at him. "You are trying to blame this on me."
"I was just stating a fact." Zane frowned. He'd said the wrong thing. He had a knack for that when he was dealing with women. Feeling too big, too awkward, he inwardly scolded himself. Boy, he wished he was back on the wide open range or up in the high mountains where there were no women to deal with. He blew out a sigh, he really did feel bad about the dress. "I am sorry, Miss."
"You keep saying it, but you don't look it." Her chin hiked up. She was just a little thing--lean, willowy, hardly much to her at all. That made him feel like a clumsy ogre, and that was the hardest thing about being around civilized women, how it made him feel. It reminded him of the rough, unworthy man he was.
Well, he always did the right thing. That's who he was these days and had been for a long time. Besides, the poor little woman was covered with muddy water. He reached for his billfold and hauled it out of his pocket. "Tell me what will make you happy. Five bucks, ten bucks? I don't know what a dress costs."
"I don’t want your money." She shook her cane at him for emphasis, the look in her stunning blue gaze dismissing him. Mud dripped off her chin. "I want men to stop being so awful."
"I can't help you there." He slid across the seat, pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and swiped her face. That seemed to stymie her. As he swiped, she opened her mouth, said uh a few times. Her forehead crinkled with thought, the furrows filling with little rows of mud.
"You aren't going to bash me with that, are you?" He folded the handkerchief over, made another dab along her cheek. Pretty cheek. And uncovered a bruise. That startled him.
"Oh, the cane?" She shrugged, lowering it. "No, but it is tempting."
He half-grinned, kept swiping, surprised to uncover her stunning beauty. Wide set eyes, cute slope of a nose, delicate high cheekbones, chiseled dainty chin. Hard for a man not to notice that. Not when he lived a rough life, on the trail more often than not, dealing with the bad side of humanity, living alone. Always alone. He didn't see much beauty, and never this fine, this rare.
"I really didn't see the puddle. Your buckboard was in the way," he explained lowering the handkerchief, done. As least most of the wet and mud was off her face, her very bruised face. Looked like she'd been through a lot. Puffy lip, bruises lining her jaw. Bruises from her forehead all the way to her chin. Something was wrong there, someone had beaten her, so he gentled his tone. "Will you be okay?"
"Sure, why wouldn't I be?" She scowled at him, apparently he was only making her madder.
Judging by her face, she had a reason to be mad at someone.
There was that tingle on the back of his neck, warning him he was about to get into some trouble. Hard not to notice the six armed men in the background glaring at him as if they were ready to take him down if he moved an inch to cause her bodily harm. Hmm. It made him think something he didn't want to consider. "Those are quite some bruises you've got there."
"I'm okay." Her chin jutted up defiantly and she stabbed her cane into the ground, as if she were invincible.
Yeah, he'd believe that bravado if her sapphire blue eyes weren't shadowed, full of pain.
"This should cover things." He grabbed up his billfold again, thumbing through his greenbacks. "And a little extra to pay a washwoman to clean up your things. Here."
"I---" She stared at his money but didn't reach out for it. Remorse crinkled in fine little lines across her forehead. "I think I yelled at you unfairly. I don't know what is wrong with me."
"It's nothing to worry about. It'll pass." He grabbed a bunch of bills and held them out to her. "Trust me, I've seen this before. Take it."
"No, I think I might owe you an apology. I shouldn't have yelled." She bit her bottom lip, flushing pink.
"Well, I've heard you ladies take your dresses very seriously." Clearly not one of those uppity type women he'd taken her for. With a sigh, he leaned over and tucked the money into her soggy coat pocket. "We're square now, unless there's something else you'd like to yell at me for?"
"I acted like a crazy person." Her forehead furrowed more deeply. A drip of rainwater sluiced down her delicate cheek. "I really wish you wouldn't be so nice about it."
"Look, I just don't want any trouble. Especially since you're packing." He gestured to her cane. Even though the back of his neck kept tingling, he couldn't take his eyes off the beauty. He gathered up the reins, summoning all his willpower. "Whoever beat you, you didn't deserve it. No one deserves that."
He clucked to the horses, snapping the thick leather straps, and the buckboard surged forward, splashing down the street. Those bruises stayed on his mind, couldn't stop thinking about her. That wasn't like him, not at all. When he spotted the sheriff's office, he reined the horses over, scanned the street behind him.
The woman was storming back to her family's buckboard, surrounded by women. Those bruises just kept tugging at him. She looked like someone who'd been kidnapped and lived to tell about it. He set the brake and hopped down. Couldn't say why his gut instincts were on full a
lert. Maybe because down deep he knew it wouldn't be the last time he would have to deal with her.
Not the last time at all.
* * *
"I do not like that man." Verbena huffed, not able to control her anger and pain as she climbed into the buckboard, hardly noticing the rain, mud or cold. No, she was far too upset. "In fact, I don't like any man. I'm done with them. Every one. Do you know what he said? And look at my dress."
A new dress, which hadn't been handed down from her older sisters. Not that she was materialistic, but after a dress had been worn through the years by four other sisters, what she always received was something akin to a rag. Now it would have to be soaked and scrubbed and likely scrubbed again and all because of a man. A man who pitied her. Oh, she'd seen the look in his eyes.
"I didn't notice the mud until now, I was too busy watching you coming unhinged," Rose said, fidgeting on the seat. Concern marked her face. "It's not like you to go off at someone."
"It was funny," Magnolia commented from the front seat, reins in hand. "Sweet, mild-mannered Verbena hollering at a poor unsuspecting stranger. I thought you were going to bean him with your cane."
"Why?"
"You were waving it around when you were yelling," Iris explained gently. "I don't think you're over your ordeal, sweetie."
"I'm over it, and I'd never hit anyone with my cane." She blew out a frustrated sigh. Maybe she hadn't been hiding her problems as much as she'd thought. She scrunched up her forehead, playing the scene over in her mind. "I guess I was waving it at him."
"Like a mad woman," Iris said scoldingly, pulling out a clean handkerchief. She grabbed Verbena's chin and wiped her face like she'd done when Verbena was little. "You looked like a lunatic."
"I felt like one. I don't know what's wrong with me." Verbena sighed. It was only the truth. "When Ernest broke into our house that night and made me go with him, I would have thought it was the fear that would be the problem. But I just got so angry. And now anger is just bubbling out everywhere. Maybe I'm more stressed then I realize."
