He watched her, surprised when she leaned down to kiss him.
“What was that for? I’ve been more hindrance than help.”
“You deserve more than a kiss. You have every right to be cross.”
He shook his head. Once again she kept him off balance. She had had her say and now took care of him. Her lips parted a little as she leaned over to apply the salve to his back. So he deserved a kiss…
“Catherine, I want to make love to you.”
She stepped back, a trace of a smile on her lips. “You just did. Several times. At least I thought that’s what we were doing. Lie down,” she said, pushing against his chest. ‘‘You rest here with the cloth on that bruise. I’ll take care of the evening chores and be back before you know it.”
He sat up. “Why aren’t you angry? Lord knows you have every right to be.” He studied her as if he were fitting the pieces of an intricate business deal together. He knew what he felt for her, but just realized that he didn’t know Catherine at all.
“Get dressed. I’ll wait downstairs for you.”
They shared the chores that evening, ate very little and shared his bed that night. The days that followed fell into an unpredictable pattern.
But there was an underlying problem that nagged at Catherine.
She ignored the possessive gleam in his eyes. She relied on patience rather than pride when he revealed his efficient plans to run her egg business with an eye toward higher profits.
If she followed his suggestions.
She agreed to think about them.
He was not satisfied with so vague an answer.
That was first on a list she compiled of grievous sins. He hired Ramon to work every day. He purchased baked goods. He conspired with Caroline or Ramon’s mother to cook dinners. He charmed the ladies sewing circle, whom he met at church, his manner that of a recovering invalid, which helped put to rest Mrs. Pettigrew’s gossip.
Her emotions ran the gamut from grateful to exasperated. All within the span of an hour at times.
And he spoiled her. Most mornings she woke to find him gone. Chores would be almost finished. Coffee waited. He had learned to make a delicious brew. On the good days she relished every sip and lavished praise. On the bad ones, she reminded herself that anyone who bought the most expensive roasted beans could make an aromatic brew to savor.
The Jobe family loved to see him enter their grocery store. He shopped with the abandon of a struck-it-rich miner. J. P. Crabtree actually stepped outside to the boardwalk when he heard Greg was in town and invited him inside. He asked Greg’s advice. He wasn’t the only businessman to do so.
Greg thrived like Mary’s garden after decomposed straw, manure and wood ash were spread on it and watered from the rain barrels.
She silently observed the changes in him, some with dismay, others with joy that he was accomplishing all that his sister and doctor wanted from this trip.
In a modest way, she knew she contributed.
He had no stomach ailments. Even after eating chilidrenched beef at a barbecue. He went back for seconds, too. She couldn’t count the times her gaze strayed to him. He was tanned and fit from all his work. He never fretted about his business. Rarely did he mention the city or his associates unless it was to relate some amusing tale.
Catherine did break one rule, but it was their secret. She allowed him to read the daily paper. She knew he had lengthy discussions about the state of expansion in the western territories with Peter Austin and Ridley Beam, the newly elected and first mayor of town.
He shared her pleasures in the simplest of things: a walk in the woods, a picnic by the stream, a buggy ride in late afternoon into the mountains.
She had come to love her home and the land around it. Greg proved a willing pupil as she taught him all she knew, sharing colorful and sometimes sad stories of men who opened up the area to settlement.
They visited a few of the working mines that were not deep into Apache territory. At the Silver Bar she introduced him to Michael Cooney, once a customs inspector in New Orleans until he heard of his brother’s death.
Without asking, Michael showed them the tomb he had carved in the canyon wall in memory of his brother. It was sealed with ore from the mine.
Greg was fascinated with the workings. His questions and their answers from Michael only led to more until she reminded him they’d drive home in the dark if they didn’t leave now.
On the way home, at Greg’s request, she told him the sad story of James Cooney’s death. Both Mary and Sarah had met the charming cavalry officer who had waited out his enlistment to file his claim. He had begun the mining rush in this area five years ago. But after the death of Victorio’s son-in-law at Alma, the Apache raids increased. James was going to sell off his claim and go home to marry his sweetheart, who waited all this time for him.
In that lonely canyon the Apache found and killed him.
In the encroaching darkness, his hand found hers. There was no need for words. Their touch conveyed the sadness for any unaccountable death, and joy that they were alive and together.
If the shadow of fleeting life hovered within the room as they loved each other, it only made their joining sweeter, for it was a slow taking and surrender that left them spent.
Most evenings they sat before the fire in the front parlor, where she strummed her guitar and sang to him. He had a rich, mellow voice and she often coaxed him to join her. But mostly he liked to listen to her.
Greg made her laugh with his droll wit until her sides ached. She returned the gift of laughter to him.
He loved her with all but the words.
She stored moments into memory, every happy moment she spent with him. Love gave her sharpened senses, everything was precious to her.
Even Lord Romeo had reached a truce with Greg. He only hissed when Greg chased him from whichever bedroom they were sleeping in. Catherine knew he was unaware that she knew he slipped the cat fish that he paid Ramon to catch for him.
He could deny his caring, gentle heart all he wanted. She viewed him with eyes of love.
But as the days became weeks, Catherine could no longer hide the subtle knowledge that was piling up. Dismay blossomed into full-blown fear.
Gregory Michael Mayfield the third turned into Louis Hill the second.
It was wrong to think ill of the dead. She tried not to do it. She held back as long as she could.
There was no one she could talk to. Most of the women she knew would lynch her for feeling as she did.
But a woman who had fought so hard to realize a measure of independence after twenty-two years of male dominance, first under her father then her husband, had to do what she had to do to preserve her state.
Even if it meant destroying the little time they had left together.
Love like this happens too rarely. Don’t throw it away.
Catherine didn’t listen to the nagging voice.
She would confront him or never live at peace with herself.
Even if it shattered her heart.
Even if it meant losing him forever.
Chapter Seventeen
It all began because of the grocery bill. Rather, it started because the bill never came. When she went into town to inquire what had become of it, Mr. Jobe—his nervousness evidence of his flustered state—said that Greg had paid it.
She wasn’t alarmed then. She was perplexed.
The same happened at the butcher. Now an alarm bell rang. But not too loudly.
Mr. Botts at the livery informed her that her feed bill had been paid in full. “What’s more,” he added in his slow drawl and roundabout way, which required saintly patience, “he tol’ me he’d be doing the ordering on account of his figuring that buying in small lots costs you more. Man’s got himself a fine head for business, Mrs. Hill. You hold on to him, you hear.”
She heard. She heard him so clearly and so loudly she felt the beginnings of a headache. And the alarm bell jangled.
She
decided to wait before confronting Greg about his high-handed butting into her business. The next morning, she left for town to collect the moneys due her.
The first stop was the café, and there, Caroline offered another shock.
“But, Catherine, I already paid my bill. Not only what I owed you, but I paid a month in advance just as Greg suggested. I swear, woman, that man of yours has a mighty fine head for business. I saved enough to order a new pair of shoes. Oh, you should see the fine leather the Wormells have to offer. I couldn’t make up my mind.”
“The Wormells?”
“They just opened a shoe store. He does such nice repair work, and when I saw the boots he made for Mrs. Jobe, I just had to have a pair. You’ll meet them at service on Sunday. And don’t forget there’s a box lunch social afterward. The money goes into the school fund.”
“Caroline, I’m happy you’re going to have a new pair of shoes. I know how your feet hurt standing all day. But getting back to my eggs? Who exactly did you pay the money to?”
“Why, I did what Greg suggested. I had Buck Purcell deposit it from my account to yours. This way you won’t have to worry about collecting it or walking around town with too much cash. You heard about Mrs. Vaughan? She was bringing money to the bank after her husband finished the pews for the church and two men robbed her.
“Honestly, Catherine, stop looking at me so strange. Greg’s idea was a good one. Buck takes the money each month and I don’t have to worry about it, either.”
“Just like Greg suggested?” Catherine asked in a very soft, sweet voice. Caroline nodded, then turned to wait on a customer. She never noticed the black fury bloom in Catherine’s blue eyes.
As Catherine started for the door, Caroline reminded her about the box lunch social. “And don’t forget to bring that handsome devil with you.”
“If he’s still here,” Catherine muttered to herself.
The alarm bells were clanging when Nita hailed her. Catherine lifted her skirt hem and petticoats to cross the street. She had to wait while a creaking farm wagon in need of greasing passed in front of her.
There was hammering going on at the far end of the street. She stood a moment and watched as a sign was being hung. Two men stood in a wagon bed, holding the large wooden sign, while a third held the team of horses steady.
The hammering resumed once the sign was hoisted into place.
“Wormell’s Finest Footwear for the Family,” she read. There was other writing, smaller in size, but Nita waved for her to come inside the dress shop.
“Mighty glad I saw you, Catherine. Saved me from making a trip out to your place. Just in time, too. That shipment of trimmings arrived. Greg said he’d be bringing you by to choose—”
“Not you,” Catherine cried out. “Not you, too.”
“Land sakes, Catherine, what’s wrong with you?” Nita hurried out from behind her counter and ushered Catherine into her private quarters in the rear of the store.
“If that woman said one word again to you—”
“No. I thankfully haven’t seen Mrs. Pettigrew. It’s been a trying morning.”
“Your eyes are all squinted up. Bet you’re getting one of your headaches. Just set yourself down on the divan and I’ll get the lavender oil. Bless Mary for thinking of giving me plenty. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve used it. Fixes you up in no time.”
Catherine leaned against the thick-buttoned, tufted back of the divan. Nita returned in minutes and with a fresh hankie dabbed a few drops of oil on Catherine’s forehead.
“There, close your eyes and rest. No one will bother you back here.”
Catherine closed her eyes, inhaled deeply of the potent scent, but thought it would take a great deal more to rid her of this headache. She didn’t think Greg would disappear if she sprinkled him with lavender oil. Of course, she was getting desperate enough to try.
She must have dozed off, for Nita woke her with a gentle shake.
“I made us tea and closed the shop. We’ll sit and be quiet until you recover.”
“Nita, I’m afraid my problem won’t go away that easily. But I appreciate your doing this for me.”
“Nonsense. Talk if you want. Or don’t.”
Catherine looked into her kind eyes but couldn’t bring herself to tell her. She had to deal with this on her own.
When Nita removed the tea tray, Catherine rose to leave.
“Now, I’ve got just the thing to cure you. Never knew a woman who didn’t forget her troubles when she was buying something new to wear.”
“But, Nita—”
“Now, you come along and help me pick out the trimmings for your gowns.”
“But I didn’t order…Nita, I can’t pay for—” Catherine stopped short. “Did Greg shop here?”
“You can’t think I’d be telling anyone that he bought—”
“No, Nita. You won’t tell anyone what he bought because he didn’t buy it. I won’t accept any of whatever he—”
“Where in tarnation do you think I’d find another woman with your figure? Got that cloth cut and almost sewn.” Nita took hold of her arm. “I never was one to pass judgment on another. He was like a little boy in a sweet shop, wanting everything he saw for you. Then he settled down and rejected half of what I showed him.
“The man, my dear, has exquisite taste. I’ve lived longer than you. Take and enjoy. No one need be any the wiser about where it came from.”
“Nita! He’s doing this all over town!”
“Sounds to me like a man ready to cut his filly from the herd.”
“No!”
“If you say so.” She shrugged. “Now, come pick out the trims. I got them sent all the way from St. Louis.” She removed a large box from the shelf behind her and set it on the counter. Opened, it revealed an array of braids and cords, beads and silks that dazzled the eye.
She held up a length of cream trim. “Just look at this new silk moss. The cording is woven to look like tiny roses.” She took a swatch of plaid material and held it out to Catherine.
“This is for a day gown. The dark forest green plaid with its cream background goes perfectly with this trim. And this, look at the sultana mohair braid. I’ve never seen a prettier shade of bronze. It will look lovely on the navy blue. Of course, if you’d rather have it in light gray or cardinal—”
“No.”
“You like the bronze, too. I thought you would. Matter of fact, so did Greg. I have this open-worked silk gimp that I thought—”
“Nita, you pick the trims. I’ve always admired your taste. I know that Mary did, too. Whatever you choose will be fine. Excuse me. I really do have to get home.”
“But, Catherine, I need to fit—”
“Thank you for the tea, and the oil.” Catherine closed the door carefully. She was a woman, not a child to slam doors. Besides, Greg’s fingers weren’t there to get caught if she gave vent to the fury bubbling inside her. She moved off at a sedate pace, her eyes straight ahead.
“Catherine,” Caroline called from the café’s doorway. “I forgot. He said you approved of his plan. Everyone agreed to it.”
“That was all I needed.” Catherine maintained her steady pace to the livery. She climbed up on her wagon’s seat and cautioned herself to a slow ride home.
She wanted time to simmer and burn. Greg had a lot to answer for.
She wondered how he would feel talking to the business end of her gun.
Greg lay on the hay up in the barn’s loft, unaware he was marked for murder. When he was young, the loft was a favorite place to dream about changing the world.
But he had never been as content, felt as lazy as he did today. He shifted, inhaling the fragrance of hay, and heard the cow’s stanchion rattle. He couldn’t remember the last time he watched dust motes on filtering beams of sunlight. He nibbled on a long spear of hay, his hands crossed beneath his head. He closed his eyes to enjoy these moments. Soon Catherine would return.
Catherine. The thought of her
brought a smile. He heard the wagon in the yard. He would stay and let her find him. The hay was thick, and soft, the afternoon theirs, and what better way to wile away the hours than loving the delectable Catherine.
The slamming of the back door jarred him. He heard Catherine calling him and she didn’t sound loverlike.
In minutes she was below him. ‘‘Where are you, you mangy, conniving polecat?”
Above in the loft, Greg relished the idea of Lord Romeo getting his just desserts at long last.
“Hiding won’t save you,” Catherine announced. She found the tack room empty. Turning around, she saw Miss Lily come out of the far stall, cackling for all she was worth. She pecked at the wood of the ladder and Catherine looked up.
She knew he was hiding up there. If she moved the ladder, Greg would be stranded, but she burned for confrontation. She gathered her skirt and petticoats and climbed.
There he was, sprawled in the hay, all enticing shadows and sunlit male splendor. She caught her breath seeing his smile. The man had enough comfort and sweetness for every woman who baked to put in her cakes. She ignored his temptation.
“Mayfield, if you value your life, you’d better shake out your tail and get down from there.”
Greg caught a brief glimpse of the upturned tip of her nose, her eyes and a poke bonnet he longed to shred. And then she was gone.
Gone? What happened to his fantasy? Where was his lover? He winced when he heard the back door of the house slam once more. Was there no justice? The damn cat had her miffed, not him.
He roused himself to go smooth ruffled feathers. He’d better, or he would be sleeping alone tonight. There had been that kind of sound in her voice.
But as he climbed from the loft and crossed the yard, he struggled to think what he had done to upset her.
He opened the kitchen door and stepped inside. Had he used the mild word upset? Catherine was in a fine, blood-boiling, tear-the-hide-off-someone fury.
“You,” she said, pointing a finger at him, “sit at the table. You will not speak. You will listen. You will do this, or you will pack your bags and leave.”
“Just as I thought, Catherine. We’re going to have an adult, sensible, rational session of ‘I accuse, and you are condemned.’”
Catherine Page 17
