But maybe part of this was his fault. He’d been doing his best to keep her in the dark about the dangers. Maybe it was time that he told her just exactly why he felt it would be better for her to return to Boston. Time to come out with the full truth, even if that scared her a little. If she knew the Waddell gang planned to kill her, maybe that would put some sense into that stubborn head of hers. He nodded, decision made.
He strode back to the group, still seated on Doc Griffin’s blanket, and looked down at her. “Miss Brindle, may I have the honor of a dance?”
Charlotte’s eyes widened, and he saw her swallow. She opened her mouth, and he had the distinct impression she was on the verge of declining him, but at that moment her focus honed in on something near the bridge. Reagan followed her gaze.
Butch Nolan was headed this way with a purposeful gleam in his eyes. Butch stroked one hand down his long red beard—which he’d braided sometime between the auction and now—and had the audacity to send a wink Miss Brindle’s way.
Reagan folded his arms, leaned into his heels, and grinned down at Charlotte.
Charlotte scrambled to her feet like a mouse that had suddenly felt the breath of a feline. “Yes. Dancing sounds lovely, Sheriff. Let’s go now.” She clapped one hand to Reagan’s arm and practically dragged him to the gate, where he barely had time to hand over the money for their dance tickets before she hauled him onto the floor.
But when the music started on Rose Pottinger’s crackly phonograph, Charlotte held herself as far from him as possible.
Perhaps because of the way she tackled every obstacle with such zest, Reagan had forgotten just how petite Miss Brindle was. Her forehead barely reached his chin as they swayed across the open field, and her waist beneath his hand was so slender he had a feeling that were he to wrap his other hand around her also, his fingers could touch front and back. Tonight her mass of dark hair was pulled into a tight twist at the back of her head, but her curls must be as stubborn as she, for several had made an escape and wisped fetchingly about her cheeks and forehead.
Though he looked at her steadily, she fastidiously kept her face averted.
He sighed. Here was more proof that maybe the way he’d chosen to handle the threats against her hadn’t been the wisest course of action. He’d hurt her with all his urgings to return to Boston. She felt certain he wanted her to go home because he didn’t think she could handle the job of teaching in Wyldhaven and because he was a selfish boor who simply wanted to make his own job easier.
But she was wrong. Truth was, swaying across this field with her in his arms, he’d have given just about anything to have her stay. But if she stayed and something happened to her, he’d never be able to forgive himself. So for her own safety, though his heart was no longer in it, he ought to convince her. He fought against the urge to coddle and console her, and plunged in.
“I know you think you’ve made the decision to stay.”
Her green eyes snapped.
He hurried on before she could interrupt. “But there are dangers here. I really must urge you once more to reconsider and instead return to the safety of Boston.” The words cost him.
She still didn’t meet his gaze, but her pert little nose tipped a fraction higher. “I assure you, Sheriff, I have carefully considered your multiple requests for such and have decided against your advice.”
His jaw ached, and he realized his teeth had clenched together very tightly. “Miss Brindle, I assure you, you don’t truly understand my reasons for requesting your leave.”
“Don’t I?” She turned limpid green eyes, full of hurt, on him. The tone of her voice said she knew otherwise.
He felt his throat tighten up. He’d had a string of words put together that he’d practiced several times. Words that would softly bring her around to seeing it was only out of concern for her that he was asking her not to stay on. But with her looking at him all petulant and full of wounded pride as she was, his mouth turned dry, and he’d be hornswoggled if he could remember anything, much less string two words together.
“As I thought.” She looked away again.
He gave himself a mental shake. But before he could try to correct her misperception, she had somehow collected herself, thrown back her shoulders, schooled her features, and leveled him with another look. This time her expression held a hint of lava and smoke. “How do you know Miss Fontaine?”
“Who?” It took him a moment to associate an image with “Miss Fontaine.”
Charlotte huffed and jutted her chin to one side.
“Wait…Liora?!” His feet tangled together, and they nearly bumped into the couple dancing next to them. He almost laughed. No one called Liora “Miss” anything. But the hurt that suddenly weighed down Charlotte’s features kept his face straight.
Could this be part of the reason for her obvious peeve with him? But wouldn’t that mean… The realization hit him like a plank to the side of the head. His mouth turned drier than sawdust. Charlotte Brindle, despite all her citified proper ways, harbored some feelings for him? His first instinct was to whoop with joy over the realization, which of course he didn’t do, because the people of his town might just think he’d gone crazy and vote him out of office. But his second instinct was sheer terror. Because if she was already in danger all on her own, she would be in even more danger if he allowed her into his life. He had a dangerous job that could spill over onto any person he loved.
Loved? Whoa. Take a step back, Callahan. No one said anything about love.
But in that moment, Sheriff Reagan Callahan knew he was deceiving himself. For it was suddenly clear to him that he’d fallen in love with Miss Charlotte Brindle, likely the first moment he’d seen her when she stepped off the stage in that gaudy green feathered hat.
Charlotte sighed and blinked rapidly a few times.
He’d taken too long to answer her question. How was it he always seemed to be hurting this woman without even trying? “I assure you that I don’t know Liora in any way except for the fact that I see her now and then when my rounds take me to McGinty’s.” At the very thought of what she was implying, irritation mixed with a great deal of hurt began a slow simmer in his stomach. “If the Lord should one day give me a wife, I’ll want her to know she’s enough for me just the way she is. I would have hoped you knew me well enough to at least understand that by now, Miss Brindle.”
She swallowed visibly. “I’m sorry. Back in Boston…” She started to pull away, but he firmed his grip just enough to let her know he didn’t want her to flee.
He gentled his tone. “Back in Boston…”
She rolled her lips in and pressed them tight, but then must have decided to forge ahead, because she said, “There was a man who told me that not a man alive didn’t…didn’t at some point…” A blush swept over her face, and she couldn’t seem to go on.
Anger curled a tight fist in Reagan’s stomach. And this time it wasn’t directed anywhere near Miss Brindle. “A man betrayed you, didn’t he? By…consorting with such a woman?”
She released a puff of breath. Nodded.
He would like to get his hands around the man’s neck for just a few seconds. And yet only a moment ago he’d watched her try to befriend Liora. She had a tender heart full of compassion. Was it any wonder he found himself falling in love with her? He lowered his voice. “Who was he, if I might ask?”
“His name was—is—Kent Covington. He is a journalist who works for the Boston Tribune.” There was a dry, gritty, undercurrent of pain in her words. “I’d thought he was a godly man. And still after I caught him, he wanted me to marry him. He made it sound as though I had expected too much of him. And before Kent, there was Senator Sherman. He…well…that time it was Father’s secretary.”
Reagan suddenly wished they were in a much more private setting. He wanted to cup her face in his hands and make sure he had her full attention when he said the next words. He settled for leaning close to speak them right into her ear instead. “Any man who wo
uld cheat on you is a fool. A woman like Liora never has, nor ever will, fit into my…recreational plans.” He leaned back slightly and tilted his head until he could capture her gaze. “Not because I don’t see her beauty”—Charlotte flinched a little, and he hurried on—“but because I value my relationship with my Savior too much to sully it with such idolatrous behavior.”
She blinked. He felt her relax. “It is idolatrous, isn’t it? Putting such desires above what is pure and right.”
“I believe any desire that makes us long for it more than we long to please our Creator is an idol, yes.”
Her gaze flicked to his. “For once we agree, Sheriff.” A soft smile took any sting from her words.
He cleared his throat, his earlier thought begging to be voiced. “Even after a man betrayed you with such a woman, you still tried to befriend Liora?”
He felt Charlotte slump a little in his arms. “She looked so lonely and discouraged when I met her up in the field earlier today. I get the feeling she’s a very sad person who puts on a mask of happiness, and I keep feeling the urge to befriend her.” She huffed a little. “My finishing-school mistress, Miss Gidden, would tell me I’m being very unwise with my reputation. And perhaps that’s one reason that, as I mentioned, I find it difficult to do what I know is right. But I suppose it’s similar to what you just said a moment ago. I value my relationship with my Savior too much to waste it on petty meanness toward a hurting woman who needs to feel His love so much. Also, what you said inside earlier reminded me my sins are no less egregious than hers.”
Reagan’s admiration for the woman rose several more notches. “I would just encourage you to proceed with caution.”
She angled him a look, one corner of her mouth tilting up into a small smile. “Does that mean you are going to relinquish your attempts to get me to return to Boston, Sheriff?”
Reagan swallowed. With his growing feelings for the woman, and the realization that she might even have some for him in return, he certainly wasn’t going to keep urging her to return to Boston where a man waited who had treated her with such disdain. Yet neither could he let her stay without warning her of the local dangers to her person. “Miss Brindle, there are circumstances—”
“Mind if I cut in?”
Reagan’s eyes fell closed. Blast if Flynn Griffin didn’t have the worst timing. Reagan pegged the man with a glower, tightened his grip on Charlotte, and kept dancing. “Aren’t you supposed to be out checking on the Ferndales’ new baby?”
Flynn grinned. “You know, I ran into them over near the wood-chopping contest. Didn’t think they’d come out, with the little guy being so new and all, but they had him wrapped up real good to keep any chill away, and he’s put on at least half a pound this week. He’s gonna be a strong little fella. Anyhow…” He shrugged and looked expectantly toward Charlotte. “Saved me the trip.”
Reagan hesitated through several more beats. However, he couldn’t seem to come up with a good excuse not to give the doctor a turn at dancing with the pretty new schoolteacher, so after only a moment more, he handed her off.
And Charlotte leapt into Flynn’s arms like a frog lurching from a campfire frying pan.
Reagan stalked away. It was about time to get the ax-throwing contest underway. Maybe he’d even join in himself.
Too bad he couldn’t put Flynn in front of the target.
Patrick heard Lenny slink back into camp and knew immediately that something had happened. Normally Lenny came all the way into the cave to give him the latest news he’d discovered while sneaking about town, but today his footsteps shuffled only as far as the fire built just inside the mouth of the cave to hide its light from searchers. Patrick heard him grouse beneath his breath as he sank onto one of the stones.
Patrick gingerly scooted off his bedroll. Curling his still-injured arm against his chest, he soft-footed to the cave front to peer at the man. Firelight danced along his face, revealing the sharp red line of a scratch along his chin. Lenny morosely stabbed a long twig into the coals and watched the stick burn.
Waddell cursed the man silently. He better not have done something to get himself noticed.
“What happened?” Patrick stepped out of the shadows and stood over Lenny, wanting to make sure to get a good read on his expression.
Lenny sucked in his lower lip. Shrugged. “Nothing.”
If there was one thing he couldn’t tolerate in his ranks, it was a liar. Patrick slapped him hard, open palmed. His broad, thick palm connected solidly, and Lenny hurtled sideways off his rock perch.
He cowered on the ground at Patrick’s feet, arms curled over his head.
Patrick squatted beside him and leaned his forearms against his knees as casually as he could. It wouldn’t do for Lenny to see that the slap had sent a ricochet of pain through him that made him glad to sink to his haunches. He pulled in a slow, steadying breath, willing away the shards of pain slicing through his arm. “Don’t you lie to me. What happened?”
“I found her. Almost had her. But then the sheriff came along, and…I lost my advantage.” Lenny tried to scoot away from him, along the ground.
Patrick leaned forward and pinched the man’s face between his fingers, angling it toward the firelight to get a better look at the scratch. “How’d you get this? Were you seen? Followed?”
“No! I swear I wasn’t. It was a rosebush.” Lenny whimpered. “When the sheriff came up sudden like, I let go of a branch, and it smacked me in the face. But I wasn’t detected. I was real careful-like.”
Patrick sighed audibly to reveal his disgust. “Might have known you weren’t competent enough to even bring in a slip of an eastern woman, Smith. I might have known.” He stood and stalked back to the warmth of his blankets.
“I’ll get her next time!” Lenny called after him. “I will. I have a plan and everything.”
“You mess up again, Lenny, and you better pray they lock you in a deep, dark hole or else fill you with lead, because I won’t be so understanding the next time, you get me?”
“I get you, Boss. I do.” Patrick heard him scrambling to his feet.
Patrick stifled a moan and held his arm close to his chest as he eased down onto his bedroll. Some jobs were better done on your own, but this arm must have been busted up but good. He was still seeing white lights every time he moved it. He needed a little more time to heal. Just a little more time, and then the sheriff of Wyldhaven would rue the day he’d ever heard the name Patrick Waddell, much less tried to capture him.
Chapter Seventeen
Liora woke with a groan of pain. She covered her eyes with a trembling hand and inhaled slowly, trying not to wince. Exhaled equally slow. McGinty had assured her this would get easier. McGinty had been wrong.
She’d loathed herself for many years. But never had Liora loathed herself as much as she did this morning.
A knock sounded at her door, and she realized that must have been what had awakened her in the first place. She squinted at the window. The sun already streamed through and puddled on the floorboards. From the angle of the light, it must be close to ten.
Gingerly, she rolled from the mattress and made her way to the door. The last person she’d expected to see when she opened it was Deputy Rodante, but he stood on the other side nonetheless, hands crimping the brim of his black Stetson, staring down at the floor, an expression of sheer sympathy furrowing his brow.
He had bad news then. And he’d gone to see Ma this morning. She clutched at the door, bracing herself for whatever bad news he’d come to tell. There was no other reason an upstanding man like him would be outside her door at this hour of the morning.
But the moment he laid eyes on her, his expression shifted. He took in her face. “What happened? Are you all right?”
She’d momentarily forgotten the beating she’d taken last night. Before she’d gone to bed, she’d sat at her dressing table and met her gaze in the chipped triangle of mirror. One eye had already been turning black, and she hadn’t eve
n been able to inhale without shards of pain from ribs that had likely been broken. She probably looked a sight worse this morning.
Some men were rough. But McGinty’s rules were that she had to simply grit her teeth and bear it unless she felt her life endangered. For those times he’d strapped a derringer to the underside of her dressing table. But it had come with the dire warning that if she shot a man, she’d never work for him again, no matter the circumstances.
She brushed aside Joe’s concern. “There was a…misunderstanding with a…client. Ewan took care of him.” The lie slipped free easily. She couldn’t have the deputy tracking down Ewan’s clients. Ewan would never stand for it. And she’d be the one to pay yet again.
Joe studied her for a minute but then seemed to accept her story. He sighed, hung his head, and gripped the back of his neck with one hand. “Listen, I have bad news.”
She closed her eyes. Please…
“It’s your ma. She isn’t…wasn’t…she was…gone when I got there this morning.”
Liora’s knees buckled, and though she clung to the door for support, it wasn’t enough. She sank to the floor. She pressed her cheek to the smooth cool wood and just sat there. Empty. Broken. Numb.
When she opened her eyes again, he was squatting before her, arms propped along his knees, hat dangling from one hand and an envelope in the other. “I used some of your money to pay her final expenses. This is what was left.” He held her envelope out to her.
She took it. Crumpled it into one fist. What did she care about money? She’d only taken this job so she could help Ma. And now… “She wasn’t always a whore, you know.”
He just looked at her, holding his silence. But his expression invited her to tell him more.
“When I was very young, my father worked the mines. But he was an”—she filtered through a list of several ready-to-mind curses and finally settled on—“intolerably cruel man. He left us when I was ten.” She huffed. “Best year of my life.” She flicked at the corner of the envelope with one fingernail. “Ma tried to make it as a laundress for a year. But…it was hard. I remember always being hungry.”
Not a Sparrow Falls (Wyldhaven Book 1) Page 21
