Sam tipped his hat lower, but she still felt his intense scrutiny. If he didn’t stop staring, she was going to start babbling. In fact, her lips were already moving…“How is Jerusha today? Did Doc Smith go out to see her yet? I’ve been so worried—” She broke off when she saw the thunderstorm clouding Sam’s eyes as he loomed over her.
“Have you been following me?” he asked through clenched teeth.
“What? No!” A blush heated her cheeks, and she averted her eyes, remembering she’d considered that exact course of action on several occasions for reasons both personal and writing-related. But she’d never actually done it.
Which was probably why she failed at the journalism thing.
“How did you know I went to Rockin’—”
“Why, Lucy Frederick!” Widow Aurilla called from the desk. “We was just talking about you.”
Sam drew back, his narrowed gaze skimming over her. “You’ll be at dinner?”
For once in her life, Lucy couldn’t find her voice. She bobbed her head.
He nodded back, parted his lips as if to say more, then spun on his heel and strode across the dusty street.
“Is Sam Brazos going sweet on you?” Mrs. Thorp’s wide face dimpled as she reached Lucy’s side. “Inviting you to sit with him at dinner? Ain’t that precious.”
Lucy opened her mouth to protest, but Widow Aurilla piped up first.
“Them weren’t Cupid’s arrows shooting from his eyes, Hester.”
“Well, I shore felt some heat.” Mrs. Thorp fanned broad hands in front of her face as Widow Aurilla rolled her eyes.
“You be careful, Lucy girl. Mark my words, that boy needs watched.”
Mrs. Thorp guffawed. “Oh, he’s being watched, ain’t he, love?”
“Hester!”
A smirk stole over Lucy’s face even as Mrs. Thorp’s surprisingly sharp elbow nudged her ribs, because Sam Brazos was indeed impossible to miss. Even now he drew her eye like words on a page as his confident stride ate up the distance between him and his destination, other pedestrians making way for him. Sam Brazos was a force to be reckoned with.
And she’d drawn his ire.
“Have a care, Lucy,” the widow cautioned. “There’s trouble a-brewing, and it blew in around the time of his arrival.”
Lucy dragged her gaze from the tall cowboy. “What kind of trouble?”
“Oh, I’ve heard rumblings. A bit of this and a touch of that. But mark my words…whatever’s going on, that dark-haired stranger is in the thick of it.”
“I think he’s a Pinkerton agent.” Mrs. Thorp wiggled her eyebrows.
“I think he’s a rustler.” Widow Aurilla drew herself up and placed a firm hand on her friend’s not-so-firm arm. “But enough gossip. Just be cautious, dear. If any shenanigans occur, we need you and yer purty handwriting to let the world know what happened here.”
Lucy blinked, and Mrs. Thorp snorted. “Don’t listen to her, Lucy. If I were you—shucks, if I were me without my mister, I’d be using that purty handwriting on fancy love letters to the boy.”
With that, they paraded down the boardwalk, with Mrs. Thorp’s boisterous laughter floating behind them.
A smile teased Lucy’s lips as she stared at the saloon doors Sam had pushed through. A rustler? A Pinkerton agent? She doubted both tales, but behind every bit of gossip, there was usually a kernel of truth. Whether or not the two older ladies were on the right track suspecting the handsome newcomer, Lucy held hope that trouble was on the way.
Trouble meant a story. A real one. One of these days she’d prove her father wrong. She could find a good lead, and she could do it justice.
She only needed the chance to try.
The saloon doors sprang back open, and Sam stomped out, his frustration visible from where Lucy’s feet had anchored themselves to the boardwalk.
Maybe today would be that day.
Chapter Two
Sam studied the street before him and caught a glimpse of Lucy Frederick standing near the mercantile. No one got under Sam’s skin quite like the redheaded writer. Most days he wanted to strangle the woman, with her wide, inquisitive eyes, endless questions, and overall nosiness.
He beat the dust out of his hat, watching careful-like as Lucy moseyed along, all grace and fire wrapped in the latest fashion.
He wouldn’t strangle her, of course. That was a mite harsh. Gagging her, on the other hand, with the occasional hog-tying session to keep her cute turned-up nose out of trouble—that he’d strongly consider. These were dangerous parts. He’d be doing it for her own good. If she’d trailed him out to Rockin’ R Ranch, he doubted she’d had the good sense to take anyone with her.
Maybe he should teach her to shoot. A reluctant smile twisted his lips as he made his way toward the livery stable. As if that fancy pen she always carried around wasn’t dangerous enough.
Checking on Stinkeye was a good excuse to question the stable boy. The blacksmith’s son was usually a fount of information, which Sam needed after the saloon keeper had shut down his latest lead to clear his name. But Sam wasn’t going to question the boy about the contents of saddlebags or a certain choice snack or suspicious money. No, he had something else in mind.
“Miss Lucy ain’t been on a horse since last Friday,” Dusty answered as he bit into the piece of licorice Sam offered. “She fancies takin’ Dellarosa on jaunts here and yonder, but since the boardinghouse has a few extra guests now, she’s been helping there.”
Sam remembered seeing her elbow-deep in flour, pounding the life out of her aunt’s bread dough. The image of her freckled cheeks adorned with a dusting of white would carry him through the tough chewing to come later.
“You’re absolutely sure?”
“Been here all day, mister.” Dusty’s wide mouth opened in a full-blown grin, displaying his crooked teeth and a hint of the black candy Sam knew to be his favorite. “A boy don’t rightly forget Miss Lucy.”
He had a point. But if she hadn’t followed him, how did she know about Rockin’ R? Sam glanced down, saw the mud splatters. Had she seen his boots and guessed he’d crossed the river to head to the ranch? Was it as simple as that? As simple as knowing about the postmaster’s lunchtime habits?
“She saved my mouser the other day, you know.”
Sam looked up from his absentminded inspection of Stinkeye’s hooves. “I didn’t.”
“Yessiree, I told her Checkers went missin’, and next thing I know, she tells me where to find his new hiding place. All because she saw a dead mouse and a few pieces of yarn.”
It truly was the mud, then. Sam shook his head in amazement. The lady drove him crazy, but she could be exactly what he needed to clear his name. That is, if she’d give him a chance.
On the other hand, she could turn around and use him to make her name. Was that a risk he was willing to take?
He had dinner tonight to figure that out.
That evening, six sweaty gents gathered around the plank table in the boardinghouse dining room. Casting furtive glances in Sam’s direction, Lucy passed a basket of sliced bread while her aunt ladled stew. The meat looked like rabbit, but with the feud between Margret and the sheriff’s coon dog, Sam couldn’t be sure.
The seat beside him remained empty. Come to think of it, half the town had started avoiding him the past two days, going so far as to duck around corners when they saw him passing their way. The saloon keeper had clammed up something fierce—claiming he was no rat, and that’s all he’d say to the likes of Sam.
Why? Because the man was guilty? Or because he’d learned Sam’s secret?
If Sam didn’t know better, he might come to the conclusion that all of Ripple, Texas, was in on some sinister scheme.
But then there was the other half of town …
Lucy slid onto the bench beside him, managing the bustle of her dress like the lady she was, all while interrupting Sam’s train of thought and her aunt’s long-winded blessing. When the prayer ended, Lucy took a dainty bite a
nd cast him a sidelong look, no doubt determining which of her endless questions to ask first.
Tonight he had some of his own.
“I was told some interesting things about you today, Mr. Brazos,” Lucy said before he could start.
“Really?” A muscle jumped in his jaw. “I was about to say the same.”
Her eyes widened. “I’m an open book.”
“Are you?” He’d seen how she hid her mail from him.
“Mostly.” Her cheeks turned a becoming shade of pink. “Everyone has secrets.”
“That’s the truth.” Her secrets might not be as damaging as his, but she had them nonetheless. “As a journalist, how do you feel about exposing and exploiting those secrets?”
This time all color fled from her face, accentuating her delicate freckles.
“Well, I never, Mr. Brazos,” Margret scolded. “Is that any way to talk to a lady?”
“She’s right, Sam, my boy.” Jasper Groth pointed a fork at him. “If you’re going to win a fine young lady like Miss Lucy, you need to handle her with care. Flattery, poetry, trinkets—that’s the ticket. None of these taxing questions.”
Sam smothered a laugh behind his hand as Lucy’s cheeks flushed once again, her eyes narrowing into slits as the arrogant former actor offered sample compliments for Sam to use at his discretion.
Lucy’s nostrils flared, and she took in a fortifying breath to set Jasper to rights, no doubt. Which would probably end in Jasper’s confusion and Lucy storming off to her room before Sam could ask for her assistance.
“Jerusha’s fine, by the way,” Sam blurted, surprising even himself.
Lucy focused back on him. “Truly? I was afraid to hope.”
“The snake must not have been poisonous.” Sam smiled at a memory of the six-year-old, curly-haired blond tucking a purple flower—one she’d stolen from a mason jar on her mother’s table—into his leather hatband.
A flower that probably remained there for Lucy to see at the mercantile. One that he could still smell now, come to think of it. Of course. Between the laurel, the mud, and Lucy’s ever-observant eye, his earlier destination had been obvious.
Yet he’d snapped at her.
“It seems I owe you an apology.” Sam’s delivery was stiff, but it seemed to be enough.
Lucy’s face softened, making her a mite prettier, if that could be believed. “You’re forgiven…in exchange for an interview.”
His spine stiffened. “For what purpose?”
She shrugged. “I’m a journalist, and you’re an interesting subject.”
He couldn’t help hoping a small part of her meant that personal-like. As he considered, Sam shoveled into his lukewarm stew, pushing away the image of the coon dog. He’d intended to tell Lucy his story anyway, but not for print. He needed use of her other skills—her observations, the information she was able to gather through conversations unavailable to him. But why should she agree when she would gain nothing in return?
There had to be some solution. He needed her.
Wrestling with his bread, he tore off a small piece to spare his teeth.
And they all needed her out of Margret’s kitchen.
After the kitchen had been put back to rights—with the help of a certain gentlemanly cowboy hauling in water and dirty dishes—Lucy closed the door to her room and immediately crossed to the window.
Sam had spoken to her. Not much, but more than his usual monosyllable answers. His voice had rumbled through her, gruff yet gentle, with an accent she couldn’t completely place, but his words articulate all the same.
She’d intended to learn more about him, yet he’d refused her interview request, and the words he did speak only added to the mystery that surrounded him as surely as the night did now.
Lucy leaned closer to the glass for a better view of Sam crossing the street. He paused on the boardwalk as if to listen. When he faded into the shadows, Lucy swept up a wrap and flew barefoot down the stairs and into the night.
As she tracked Sam’s progress across the town, she couldn’t help noticing that so many more stars graced the sky. She could almost learn to like it in Ripple, if only life wasn’t so predictable. Following Sam was a good way to fall in love fast. With Texas, of course. Not the cowboy. She hardly knew him.
But, if she had anything to say about it, that was about to change.
Moving as silently as her skirts permitted, Lucy tiptoed into the livery and past Admiral’s stall, on to Dellarosa’s. The sweet mare nickered at the sight of Lucy, who reached out to stroke the horse’s muzzle.
Before she could see if Sam Brazos’s mustang was still present, a strong hand gripped her arm. Lucy whirled with a gasp. Sam released her, but her skin still burned hot as he folded his arms across his broad chest. His sharp-eyed appraisal missed nothing of her hurried attire.
“Do you often rendezvous with boardinghouse men after dark?”
“How dare you! I never—”
“Truly?” He wore a smirk as he stepped into the circle of lantern light. “Then what are you doing?”
Lucy bit her lip against the impulse to defend herself. He knew she wasn’t that kind of woman. “I lost something,” she finally answered. Her Boston home. Her hope of a future in the newspaper business, or of ever making her father proud. Her head whenever she was around Sam.
Those eyes, though. As stormy and ever-changing as the ocean back home, deep-set in his handsome face, hooded by the barn’s thick shadows. His confident stance and muscular frame convinced her he could handle the world. Protect her, if she ever needed protecting. Which she didn’t.
Except maybe from ruffians like him. Because, after all, those eyes …
“How about you let me assist you?”
The mock concern in his voice brought Lucy crashing back to the present. “Better yet, why not allow me to interview you?”
“Here? I don’t figure it’s proper. If you promise to return to the boardinghouse real prompt-like, I reckon I’ll answer one question.” He turned his turbulent gaze to the street, giving her more opportunity to study him.
Something that was quickly becoming a favorite pastime, all in the name of research, of course.
With only one question, Lucy blurted out the thing foremost on her mind. “Why are you here?” He had no family in the area. No job that she knew of. This town had nothing special to recommend it.
Sam met her searching look, his eyes glinting in the dim light. His answer came then. Low, accompanied by an ironic smile. “I lost something.”
If she had her reticule, she’d hit him with it. “That’s no answer.”
“No?” He shifted, his gaze falling to her lips. His voice softened. “It’s late. Go home, Miss Frederick.”
“You have no idea how much I wish I could.”
Yet, at that moment, staring at Sam’s far-too-attractive mouth as he stared at hers, Lucy wasn’t sure there was anywhere else she’d rather be.
Chapter Three
If it had been anyone else on his trail, Sam would’ve left them trussed up and sleeping with Stinkeye. But the lantern light flickering over Lucy’s delicate features made Sam forget she was only out for a story and didn’t care who she had to hang to get it.
Why did she have to be so blamed pretty?
He was perilously close to kissing her, but then the Texas Rangers wouldn’t be the only ones after his hide, and frankly, Margret and the rest of the Fredericks might be the deadlier of the two forces.
It wasn’t until Lucy’s lemonade-scented breath fanned his face that Sam realized he had indeed leaned close, his body proceeding while his brain took a detour.
He jerked upright and motioned toward the door. “Allow me to see you safely back.”
With a huff, she clasped the shawl tightly and said, “Have it your way.”
Sam surely imagined her haughty words were breathier than normal, but he followed her with wobbly knees just the same. She walked briskly, her skirts swishing in the quiet of the even
ing. They shouldn’t be seen together—she had her reputation to think of. But he couldn’t allow her to risk the walk alone. Especially when he caught the briefest glimpse of bare feet as she moved forward.
Shaking his head in consternation, Sam kept his distance with a wary eye on the empty boardwalks. They were almost in the clear when the saloon doors swung open a few paces away. Lunging, Sam caught Lucy’s arm. He hauled her to the side of the building, out of sight as upbeat piano music spilled into the stillness.
“What—”
Sam clamped a hand over her mouth, noticing the softness of her lips seconds before the sharpness of her white teeth. “Did you really—”
“I did.” She shook free. “Now hush.” Turning, she craned her ear toward the sound of voices.
Sam couldn’t decide whether to swear or leave her to her own devices, but he swallowed both instincts, rubbed his damp hand against his chest, and leaned with her to listen to the half-drunk whispers.
“Jasper bought hisself a shovel today.”
Sam recognized the voice but couldn’t place it.
“You dragged me out here to tell me that?”
A thump and an annoyed “Ow.”
“Wait. You said Jasper? Lazy, gad-about Jasper?”
Sam inched closer, his shoulder brushing Lucy’s. She didn’t appear to notice. He couldn’t say the same.
“The very one.”
“Whyever for?”
The blacksmith. That’s who the second man was. Sam nodded in satisfaction. Someone he’d marked off the list, but the first voice …
“Gold,” that voice said. “He’s looking for gold.”
Sam flinched. Lucy barely spared him a glance as she moved closer, her nose grazing the edge of their cover.
“Yessir. Hidden treasure, I tell ya.”
“What the henhouse Hatty does Jasper know about treasure?”
“He ain’t told me how he come to find out. But I ’spect he has a map.”
The Courageous Brides Collection Page 47
