by Lisa Plumley
“I can’t stand here jawing all day. I have work to do.”
“Yes.” Uncomfortably, Daisy shifted. “So do I.”
Owen cleared his throat, unwilling to leave things on such tense terms between them, but unsure how to rectify the situation. He settled on asking, with stiff politeness, “Are things going well? With Élodie’s lessons?”
“Very well. Élodie and I made biscuits a while ago.”
“Fine.” Owen rubbed the back of his neck. From beneath the cover of his overlong hair, he peeked sidelong at Daisy. “I like biscuits.”
Unexpectedly, she laughed. “That’s what Élodie said!” Somehow, her laughter made the tension between them fall away. “In almost exactly that same tone of wonder and delight, too.”
“Like father, like daughter,” Owen allowed, smiling too.
“So don’t dawdle,” Daisy went on in a mock-lecturing tone. “The biscuits are fresh now, but they won’t stay that way long.”
“I won’t dawdle, I promise,” Owen told her.
He watched with genuine, puzzling relief as Daisy accepted his assurance with a nod. Lifting her skirts, she turned away.
“And I’ll watch what I say around Élodie, too,” Owen called after her, belatedly recalling why she’d visited his stable in the first place. “I’ll be more careful in the future.”
Daisy nodded again. “Thank you. I’d appreciate that.”
Feeling somehow at a loss still, Owen searched his mind for the reason. He reached only one conclusion. “Daisy?”
At the foot of the stairs now, she paused. “Yes?”
I’ll tell you about my past, if you really want to know.
On the verge of making that impossible promise, Owen stopped. “Save me a few biscuits. I’ll be upstairs directly.”
As though she’d sensed, somehow, that he’d been on the verge of confiding in her, Daisy frowned. Then she nodded.
“You can count on me!” she promised him.
Then, just as though that were true, Daisy blew him a kiss and headed upstairs…this time, carrying a little piece of Owen’s heart with her—just when he’d decided for certain that she needed her baby’s father in her life, no matter what.
Chapter Sixteen
It was past lunchtime by the time Owen recalled the note in his pocket. Happily sated with vegetable-barley soup, buttered biscuits with mesquite honey and the promise of more delicious treats to come—courtesy of Daisy and Élodie—he stopped at the water pump, where he’d gone to collect water for Daisy.
He felt ridiculously pleased that, this time, she hadn’t argued with him over the need for him to perform that strenuous task. It was good that Daisy let him care for her a little bit. She needed help, and Owen wanted to give it. That was that.
While reaching for the pump handle, Owen heard something crinkle in his shirt pocket. Puzzled, he glanced downward. He retrieved the slip of paper he’d stashed there, then unfolded it, absently scanning those few neatly hand written lines.
To: Mr. Conrad Parish
Horton House Hotel, San Diego, California
I’m sorry. I hope you can forgive me.
Please do not tell Barker & Bowles what I have done.
I will make it right somehow. I promise.
Yours Fondly, Daisy Walsh.
Fondly. Staring at those words, Owen frowned. Yours fondly.
He wondered what Daisy possibly had to feel sorry for. He wondered why she wanted forgiveness, when he couldn’t imagine her doing a single thing that warranted absolution. He wondered how Daisy meant to make things right and what—exactly—she was so desperate to keep a secret from her publisher, Barker & Bowles.
Most likely, Owen reasoned, she wanted to hide her pregnancy. Most likely, Daisy had decided there were no further denials possible. She’d penned this message to Conrad Parish, to beg his forgiveness and ask for his help.
Looking at that name again, Owen felt his frown deepen.
With all his heart, he hoped Conrad Parish was worthy of Daisy’s esteem. He hoped the man wasn’t the scurrilous bastard Owen assumed he must be, to have left her on her own. He hoped Daisy knew what she was doing by promising to make things up to him. Owen hoped further, as he looked at her message again, that Daisy would understand why he couldn’t possibly send it.
Crumpling the note in his fist, Owen shoved it back into his pocket. He grabbed the pump handle, then gave it a vigorous tug.
Later he’d visit the telegraph office himself, he decided. Later he’d dictate another message in Daisy’s name—a more appropriate message. He’d deliver a message that would bring Conrad Parish to Morrow Creek in person to do what was right—to care for Daisy the way she deserved to be cared for.
By the time the man arrived, Owen told himself, Daisy would be grateful to see him. Because in her delicate condition, what she needed most was a good man to love her. And no matter how much Owen might want to be that man, he knew he never could be.
Renée had made that more than clear.
Maybe, he hoped, Conrad Parish could do better.
But only if he knew where to find Daisy. Only if he believed she wanted to see him. Only if he knew for certain about the baby Daisy was carrying…and the complicated future she was facing on her own. Surely, once he knew all that, Conrad Parish would do the right thing and make Daisy his wife.
Then, if Owen were truly lucky, Parish would take Daisy far, far away. He’d take her someplace where Owen would never have to see her again—someplace where he’d never have to wonder what might have been between them…if only things were different. If only he were better, and had the wisdom to stay that way.
But since Owen knew he couldn’t be better—and he didn’t have the luxury of time to fool himself about that fact—he had to act now. So that’s exactly what he meant to do.
For Daisy’s sake.
It was surprising to Daisy how quickly she fell into an enjoyable routine while tutoring Élodie. Each morning, she awakened to the sounds, sights and delicious smells of Owen preparing breakfast—a task he insisted on not relinquishing.
“Mmm!” she exclaimed on one such morning, giving the rumple-haired, sleepy-eyed Owen a fond smile. The sight of him always cheered her. “I think I must be having a positive influence on you. Your toasting skills are improving.”
“Nonsense. You’re only growing more tolerant,” he said.
“I’ve always been tolerant,” Daisy disagreed. “And you’ve rebuffed my compliments long enough! You must believe me. You are improving with your cooking.” Encouragingly, Daisy patted his brawny shoulder. “At this rate, you’ll be writing your own cookery book, and making my own book obsolete.”
“Hardly. My skills scarcely compare with yours.” Owen smiled at her—a sight that never failed to delight Élodie—then urged her with a shoulder shrug toward her chair. “Sit. Enjoy.”
Obediently, Daisy took her place at the table, a place that unfailingly made her feel at home every morning. Afterward, she and Élodie cleaned up. Next, they typically had sewing lessons together—or, more recently—embroidery tutorials. The little girl had proved to be a very adept learner. Already Élodie had stitched up two dolls’ dresses, a tea towel and a pillowcase with a dropped hem. Daisy was proud of the little girl’s accomplishments—and proud of her own achievements in tutoring Élodie, as well.
Here no one criticized her methods, the way Conrad had. No one complained or made snide remarks. Given a few days without such treatment, Daisy found herself feeling downright liberated. This was what she’d felt like before—before Conrad, before her speaking engagements tour…before her baby.
Even that situation was becoming easier to cope with. At first it had been difficult—especially on that day in the stable, when Owen had pressed Daisy to confirm that Conrad was her baby’s father. Owen had seemed to take the news particularly hard, although Daisy couldn’t understand why. Someone had to be her baby’s father, after all; Owen had plainly guessed who.
Daisy’s confirmation of that fact couldn’t have surprised him. Yet Owen had seemed almost downhearted. It was very odd.
Now, though, those days had passed. With Owen’s support and encouragement—and ginger tea—Daisy made it through her next few bouts of morning sickness more easily. With Owen’s reassurances, she gradually dared to speak aloud about her baby. With Owen to listen, she even sometimes indulged in the occasional daydream about her baby—and their future together.
“I think he’s a boy,” Daisy confided in Owen one afternoon while Élodie was occupied in her bedroom. “That’s what Élodie wants—a boy. She’s suggested I knit booties for him.” At Owen’s unusual expression, Daisy hastened to explain. “It won’t be too difficult. After all, they’ll be very small booties.”
“That’s a good idea. I’m glad you’ve…accepted things.”
“Yes. It’s getting easier.” Not wanting to go into detail, Daisy smiled brightly at him. “And so are you! You didn’t even notice that I carried that heavy Dutch oven by myself just now.”
Owen gave a disgruntled sound. He looked gorgeous, even while being his most curmudgeonly self. Unhappily, he glanced at the aforementioned pot, which she’d placed on the stove top.
“I know how to fix that.” He strode to the hall, moving with his usual mixture of strength and straightforwardness. “Élodie! Hurry up with your hair brushing. We’re going out.”
“Out?” Daisy balked. It was one thing to come to terms with her situation while safely ensconced in Owen and Élodie’s household. It was another to confront Morrow Creek directly. She’d spent some time with her brother, of course, but Thomas still didn’t know about her baby—and she wasn’t ready to tell him. “But I have yeast dough rising, and a rug-hooking lesson to finish, and I don’t have a single presentable thing to wear—”
“You look very pretty to me,” Owen said. “As always.”
Torn, Daisy dithered. Through force of habit, she held out her calico skirts, performing a dutiful turn. “Do you think this dress will do? It’s borrowed, and it’s not a very good fit—”
Blandly, Owen gazed at her. “Are you asking me to wear it?”
Daisy boggled at the very notion. “Of course not. But—”
“Then all that matters is what you think of it.”
Well. That was true. Chagrined to have allowed Conrad’s long-standing control of her behavior to resurface, Daisy dropped her skirts. Truthfully, she’d only been tossing out ready-made excuses, preparing herself, as always, to deflect unfavorable judgment. But now, she no longer needed to do that. Now she’d struck out on her own. “Well, then…I think it’s fine!”
“Good.” Owen nodded. “I agree. Let’s go.”
“In fact, I think it’s more than fine!” she elaborated giddily. “It’s very flattering! This color looks marvelous on me!” With a sideways glance at the reflective surface of the nearest window, Daisy lifted her chin. “My hair looks nice today too.”
“All the more reason to show yourself off.” Obligingly, Owen crooked his elbow, offering himself as her escort.
At the same time, Élodie emerged from her bedroom. She saw her father’s proffered arm, glimpsed Daisy’s obvious hesitation, then marched over to them both. With an utter lack of subtlety, Élodie forcibly tucked Daisy’s hand where it belonged.
“Your hand goes here, Daisy,” the little girl explained with an air of helpfulness, “right in the crook of Papa’s arm.”
“Thank you, Élodie,” Owen said, darting a glance at Daisy.
“Yes.” Awkwardly, Daisy cleared her throat. She felt wildly aware of Owen’s warmth and strength and closeness. “Thank you.”
“You two look a right picture!” Élodie announced with evident satisfaction. She clapped proudly. “I’m very pleased!”
“I blame you,” Owen grumbled to Daisy from the corner of his mouth. “You’re the one who’s taught her to be so forceful.”
But Daisy could tell he was only joshing. The twinkle in his eyes gave him away. “There’s nothing wrong with a female who knows what she wants. Someday, you’ll thank me for that.”
With his free hand, Owen touched Daisy’s chin, urging her to look directly at him. Startled, Daisy did. She smiled.
“I already thank you,” he said sincerely. “Thank you for all you’ve done for Élodie. And for me.” He gazed into her eyes, his thumb still on her chin. He stroked her there—just the merest whisper of a touch that set her senses aflame. “It’s high time I showed you a little gratitude for all your hard work.”
With that, Daisy found herself whisked outdoors for another adventure, with Owen by her side and Élodie dogging their steps…and her teeny unborn baby kicking up his heels, too.
Chapter Seventeen
“Over here.” Owen waved, coming to a stop in the uneven shade of a ponderosa pine. “This looks like a good patch.”
Daisy hurried over. Holding an empty bucket, she gazed at the ground with surprise. “Are those wild strawberries?”
Owen nodded, happy to have pleased her. “All you can pick and then some.” He gestured. “Hand me your bucket. I’ll start.”
“I didn’t expect to find strawberries in the Arizona Territory.” Daisy hunkered down beside him to help. Her skirts flowed in a circle around her, lending her an angelic appeal. “But then, it seems I’ve found much more than I dreamed of here.”
Sensing her gaze fixed meaningfully on him, Owen went on picking strawberries. He didn’t dare hope that Daisy meant what it seemed she meant. “This isn’t the desert, or Tucson or Tombstone. Here in the high country, things are different.”
“I can see that.” Adeptly, Daisy added a handful of tiny, ripe red berries to their shared bucket. She glanced around the hillside where Owen had brought her and Élodie, a short distance from Morrow Creek. Nearby, the town’s namesake stream trickled past. It had already lured Élodie to take off her shoes and wade in its shallow, sun-dappled waters. “Thank you for this.”
Uncomfortable with her gratitude, Owen shrugged. “This? It’s the same kind of chores you’d be doing, except outdoors.”
“Joke all you want,” Daisy said, her gaze still pinned on him. “That doesn’t change the fact that it was kind of you to bring me someplace so beautiful. And so peaceful. Thank you.”
She acted as though she didn’t deserve it. Perturbed by that realization, Owen frowned. “If you thank me again—”
Daisy startled him by popping a strawberry in his mouth.
Automatically, Owen chewed. The berry tasted sweet and luscious, full of juicy goodness. “I’ll go on strike,” he said.
“Go ahead,” Daisy dared him, full of merriment—and more handfuls of strawberries. She fed him another. “That only means you won’t have any strawberry pie. Or strawberry jam. Or strawberry shortcake. Or strawberry tart. Or strawberry—”
This time, Owen was faster. This time, he fed Daisy.
Her eyes widened. She chewed, her eyes briefly closing in apparent ecstasy. Owen began to doubt the wisdom of his actions. Seeing Daisy in the throes of pleasure was dangerous, indeed. It only made him imagine her in other, more carnal, situations.
“Fool,” she burst out. “Strawberry fool,” she went on, doubtless continuing her sham threats from earlier. “It’s a mixture of stewed fruit, folded into whipped cream, then—”
“I know what a fool is,” Owen interrupted. It’s me. It’s me, because I can’t stop wanting to be near you. “Believe me.”
Daisy didn’t seem to hear the warning in his voice. Wearing the same dreamy-eyed look she’d had in his stable days ago, she leaned nearer. She’d stopped picking strawberries, Owen noticed abstractedly. Instead, she’d apparently decided to stare at him.
At his mouth, to be precise. Damnation.
She wanted to kiss him, he realized. God help him, he wanted that too. He wanted to kiss Daisy until neither of them knew what day it was—and neither of them cared a whit.
Owen refused to take advantage of Daisy
that way. Desperate and determined, he blurted, “You asked me to tell you what I’ve done that’s so bad? Fine. I’ll tell you right now.”
Surprised, Daisy leaned back. She blinked. “All right.”
Good. The truth was already working to protect her. Knowing that what he was about to tell Daisy would likely erect a permanent barrier between them, Owen nodded. “You were right about me,” he began. “I did do some gambling. Lots of gambling.”
“Oh.” Appearing relieved, Daisy smiled. “See? That’s not so bad! Owen, I don’t know what you were so worried about.”
Was that compassion in her eyes? He didn’t deserve it.
“Including riverboat gambling,” Owen told her. “The kind of gambling that fleeces gullible travelers looking for adventure.”
“Gullible?” Like me, she seemed to think…at least to Owen’s mind. Her gaze turned wary. “I see. Is that all?”
“No. I had unwise affairs with women too. A few of them married,” Owen admitted. “They were unhappily married, but I still shouldn’t have done it. I shouldn’t have taken advantage.”
Daisy seemed to sense what he meant. “I’m not married.”
That wasn’t the point. She would be married—and deserved to be—once Conrad came. And, Owen realized with dismay, he still hadn’t banished the wistful look from Daisy’s eyes. What kind of hellacious admissions would it take to make her see the truth about him? Whatever they were, he vowed to make them. For her.
Ruthlessly, Owen pushed onward. “I did some stealing when I was younger. Some fighting, too. I had the occasiona l tussle with the law. Most of the time, I wasn’t gainfully employed. I spent money rashly and widely.” He glanced sideways, making sure Élodie couldn’t overhear him. She was still happily playing in the creek. He gazed at the sky, trying to recall his other transgressions. Renée’s voice came to him, reminding him of them all. “In my youth, I was an awful layabout,” Owen confessed to Daisy. “All I wanted to do was visit gambling halls, drink myself into oblivion and make mischief with my friends—preferably all at the same time.” Owen quirked his lips, remembering. “All of them were equal miscreants, I promise.”
