Gregory, Jill

by Warm Stranger Cold Night

She turned back to the stove and busied herself beating a fork into the eggs, refusing to show him how truly happy she was that he was back. "Where have you been? I've been waiting breakfast," she said casually.

  "Paid a visit to the neighbors."

  "Neighbors? We have neighbors?"

  "Downright neighborly ones," he drawled. "And they were more than happy to do a little business."

  "What sort of business?"

  "I bought us—you—some cattle. Two-hundred-fifty head. And I've hired a foreman to help me get things rolling."

  "My goodness, you don't waste any time, do you?"

  "I told you I wouldn't."

  She felt his gaze on her as she poured the eggs into the sizzling fry pan, and did a little sizzling of her own. He'd been talking cattle, but his expression was warm, lingering. She couldn't help but remember how closely he'd held her last night. Self-conscious, she brushed a stray wisp of hair behind her ears, and then pushed the can of peaches toward him.

  "Would you mind opening this can and emptying the peaches into a bowl?" Maura asked, feeling herself blush beneath the intentness of his gaze. She wondered if he was remembering too.

  The heat pulsed through her cheeks and she was glad when she saw he was no longer watching her. He had taken out his knife and was digging into the lid of the can.

  "Tell me something about our neighbors," she said to fill the silence between them.

  "You met the Tylers yesterday in town. Their Crooked T runs about twenty miles north of the creek."

  Maura nodded, pleased, remembering the tall man, the small, sunbonneted woman with the quiet smile and dark curls.

  "When I first came to check out the property a few years back," Quinn continued, "I made it my business to find out just how much land there was and who had adjoining property, if anyone. The Tylers' spread runs pretty evenly alongside the north end of ours, and there's also the Westman place—just over ten miles to the east, near White Canyon."

  "You remember all this from over two years ago? So you recognized the Tyler name when we met them yesterday?"

  "I never met them before, but yeah, I recognized the name. I make it my business to remember people."

  "Except me," Maura said without thinking. Then she gave a gasp. It had just slipped out.

  She glanced at Quinn. His gray eyes pierced her. Quickly she turned, scooped the eggs from the fry pan, and split them between two plates.

  "I remember you now, Maura," he said evenly. "It was only at first—"

  "It doesn't matter."

  "I think you're lying."

  "What?" Maura set the plates on the table with a crack and faced him, her hands on her hips. "I don't lie."

  Her voice quavered a little. She was remembering how he had accused her of lying when she'd come to him in the Jezebel Saloon in Whisper Valley. When she'd told him about the baby. The memory of it still hurt.

  He seemed to guess at her thoughts.

  "I don't mean lying, exactly. I mean, you're not admitting—even to yourself—that it does matter to you. It matters to you that at first I didn't recall what happened that night or even that I'd ever met you."

  He was right. It did matter. It made her feel so insignificant. A night that had held such importance for her had been only a vague memory for him, something easily forgotten.

  "It's not important now."

  "If it hurt you, then it damn well is important." Quinn frowned, and the next thing she knew he was leading her to a chair.

  "Sit down. And listen up."

  She stared up at him, surprised by how seriously he was taking this. "I'm listening."

  "I don't know much about women."

  Remembering all the ways he had teased and tormented—and pleasured—her that night, her brows rose, and he had the grace to grin. "Well, I know some things," he admitted, and there was a hint of amusement in his eyes.

  "I noticed," Maura said, again without thinking, and this time her face flushed a vivid pink. He reached out and stroked a finger down one cheek, then let his hand drop, as if mentally recalling himself to the business at hand.

  "I meant that I don't know much about courting or wooing—how to talk to a woman, say the right things, smooth her feelings. I've never stuck around with anyone long enough to give things like that much thought. Unless you count Serena."

  Serena. She waited, watching his face, glad he couldn't know that her heart had twisted inside her chest.

  "Oh?" she prodded.

  But instead of explaining, he merely gave another shrug and raked a hand through his hair. "Serena doesn't matter."

  She wondered if that was really true. Had they been lovers? Or just friends? She couldn't forget the expression on the blond woman's face when he'd introduced her as his wife.

  "The point is," Quinn continued, "not only don't I know much about the fancy ways of wooing a woman, I know even less about marriage. Even a marriage like this one. But—"

  Quinn abruptly walked to the counter and carried the bowl of peaches to the table, then sat down in the chair opposite hers. In the silence that followed, all they heard was the meadowlark singing outside the window.

  "Someday I'll tell you a story," he said, "about a man who didn't know how to treat his wife. Who beat her, neglected her, eventually got her killed."

  "Who was he?" Maura asked softly. His face had turned ashen as he spoke the words, and she could see the painful memories searing him.

  "My father."

  Maura couldn't think what to say. There were a dozen questions she wanted to ask, but the haunted expression had returned to Quinn's eyes—the same expression she'd seen that night in the Duncan Hotel, and all she could think about was easing his pain, soothing that strange, terrible loneliness that lurked beneath the surface of this hardened man.

  "I'm sorry." She reached across the table, touched his hand.

  He started, looked into her face a moment, and then pulled his hand away as if she'd burned it.

  "It was a long time ago," he said coolly, and the spell was broken. He stood up and brought the coffeepot to the table, and poured them each a cup. The meadowlark must have fled, for there was now only a deep and lonesome silence.

  "My point is, I never wanted to turn out like him. I've no use for bullies, or for men who don't take care of their families, especially their women. So, like I told you in Whisper Valley, I'm going to take care of you. You and the baby both. But don't expect...more."

  By more, he meant love. Permanence. Staying with her and sharing a life. Her heart wrenched. She wasn't sure why. She didn't love him. She barely knew him.

  "I understand," she replied, and swallowed a forkful of the eggs, tasting nothing.

  "Do you?" His voice roughened. "Because if you want something from me that I can't give you, Maura, you'll only be hurt."

  "Don't worry," she said quickly. "I want the same thing you do. A good home for our baby. That's it. And...independence. My own independence. Believe me, after years of living with Judd and Homer, the last thing I want is any man interfering in my daily life, telling me what to do."

  She met his gaze, her chin lifting. "Perhaps we could just be...partners."

  "Partners?"

  "As part of our business arrangement." She leaned forward. "Partners in building the ranch—and partners in raising our child. Do you think you could manage that, Quinn?"

  "I've never been partners with a woman before."

  "Well, if it's any comfort to you, I've never been partners—or even friends—with anyone before. My adoptive brothers wouldn't permit it."

  "I'd like to meet these brothers someday," he said in a low tone, and Maura quickly shook her head.

  "No, you wouldn't," she said fervently. "Besides, they don't matter either."

  He couldn't argue with that. He nodded at her. "Partners, then. But this partner comes and goes as he pleases—no questions asked. Just like we agreed."

  "Of course. I wouldn't want it any other way."

  She saw
his shoulders relax. He took a long drink of coffee.

  Maura carried her plate to the sink.

  Once upon a time she had dreamed of finding love, love that would fill her heart and last forever. But that had been foolish and unrealistic, she told herself. She had to face that now. She was going to have a child, and she had no choice but to put aside the silly romantic daydreams of her girlhood.

  The sound of horses' hooves broke into her thoughts and had Quinn out of his chair in one swift motion. Maura followed him to the door. A buggy was approaching. Edna Weaver waved to them, the feathers on her gray hat blowing in the breeze. Seated beside her, holding the reins of a handsome white team, was a portly, gray-mustached man in a dark suit and bowler.

  The banker.

  Beside Quinn, Maura wiped her hands on her apron.

  "It's a bit early for company, but how nice that they've come to call."

  "Let's see what they want, Maura, before we decide if it's nice."

  Throwing him a bemused look, Maura brushed past him, and waved in greeting as the buggy pulled up amidst the weeds and scrub brush surrounding the cabin.

  Chapter 17

  "Good morning, Mrs. Lassiter! And Mr. Lassiter!" Edna's booming voice sent a squirrel racing from the brush toward the creek.

  Maura answered warmly. "It's Maura and Quinn, please."

  The woman beamed. "Then call me Edna, honey. Everyone does."

  As the portly man clambered out of the buggy and came around to help her alight, she said, "This is my husband, Seth. We're sorry to intrude when you're just getting settled in and all, but we have something important to discuss and it can't wait."

  Maura had no idea what this could be, but pleasure raced through her. Humble as the cabin might be, it was still home, and far better than the Duncan Hotel, where only three small bedrooms upstairs had been allotted for the family, and no place except the hotel dining room to entertain—not that Ma Duncan had ever found herself in a position to do that.

  But now Maura's very first guests (if she didn't count

  Lucky) had arrived, and she smiled at them as they made their way across the weed-strewn clearing.

  "You're more than welcome," she said. "It's nice to see friendly faces. Please, won't you come in?"

  To Maura's relief, Edna Weaver, once again holding a basket over one arm, breezed into the cabin giving only a cursory glance at the spare furnishings and puncheon floor. Quinn shook Seth Weaver's pudgy hand, but said nothing, though he did bring a kitchen chair into the parlor so that everyone could sit down. He stood, tall and silent by the mantel as the Weavers seated themselves on the horsehair sofa and Maura slipped into a chair.

  "First, a little welcome gift, dear." Edna held out the basket. "Our way of apologizing for that little misunderstanding yesterday."

  To Maura's delight, when she lifted the embroidered white napkin, she saw that the basket contained a loaf of sourdough, two thick wedges of cheese, and a jar of blueberry preserves—nestled beside a dozen oatmeal cookies.

  "Mrs. Weaver—Edna—how generous of you." True pleasure sparkled across her face. She'd so rarely received any kind of gift, and this woman whom she scarcely knew was bestowing such a thoughtful one upon her. Upon them.

  "Thank you so much. Quinn, isn't this lovely?"

  "Lovely," he echoed dryly. Maura tried to gloss over his lack of enthusiasm and the cynical gleam in his eyes as he glanced first at Mrs. Weaver and then at her ruddy-skinned husband.

  "May I get you some coffee?" she asked quickly.

  "No, thank you, but I think we'd best get down to business and then let you folks get on with settling in,"

  Seth Weaver replied. His voice was as thin as his hairline. He was a neat, almost dapper man in his immaculately pressed pinstriped suit. His nut-brown eyes were close-set and shrewder than his wife's, but his face was kindly. He had a soft mouth that smiled easily, and his ears stuck out a bit on his gray head.

  "Go on." Quinn watched the banker from the mantel, his own face unreadable.

  But Maura knew he didn't trust these people. She remembered him telling her that he didn't trust anyone.

  What kind of life had he led, she wondered, to be so wary of everyone, so cold and distant?

  She shivered, then concentrated on what the banker had to say.

  "As you heard yesterday in town, the Campbell gang has been causing considerable trouble in Hope." He cleared his throat. "The plain truth is, folks are scared. My bank has been robbed twice. We lost over a thousand dollars. If it happens again, I might have to close our doors." He sighed. "And if folks are too afraid to settle in Hope and stay here, the town will die."

  His face tightened. He looked at Quinn. "The missus and I have lived in these parts for more than thirty years. Since we were newlyweds, not so different from you two. We met here, married here, raised our family here."

  "What does this have to do with us, Weaver?" Quinn broke in.

  Edna pursed her lips, but Seth Weaver went on calmly, meeting the gunfighter's direct gray gaze with solemn patience.

  "Sheriff Owen was a good man, Mr. Lassiter, but he was no match for those Campbells. And now we hear their cousin Luke, the real ringleader, is joining up with them. Well, we need someone who can stand up to them, all of them, Luke included."

  Maura had a sinking feeling where this was headed. One glance at Quinn's coldly set face told her he knew too. Edna's large, knobby hands were folded in her lap, but she was studying Quinn intently. His expression gave nothing away.

  Fear clutched at Maura. The last thing she wanted was for Quinn, the father of her child, to go up against a dangerous gang of outlaws.

  Yet he'd earned his living for a long time doing just such dangerous work. This would be exactly the sort of challenge that would appeal to him. But—the danger. If something happened to him...

  Knots twisted in her stomach. She couldn't begin to guess what he would say when the inevitable question came.

  "Last night in town, some of us had a little meeting. We care about our town, Mr. Lassiter. We're not willing to stand by and let it be overrun by outlaws."

  "Tell him what we decided, Seth," Edna urged, touching her husband's arm.

  Seth Weaver patted her hand, then turned his attention back to the man who waited silently by the mantel. Maura detected a hopeful gleam in his eyes as he studied the gunfighter. "It was agreed unanimously that I should offer you the position of sheriff. We can't afford much, but—"

  "No thanks. Not interested."

  Maura was startled by the steely coldness of Quinn's voice.

  "But Mr. Lassiter"—the banker held up a hand— "You haven't heard what we have to offer. Please consider—you're the only one who can—"

  "Sorry you wasted your time."

  Quinn swung away from the mantel and came to stand beside the old horsehair sofa where the Weavers sat side by side. He loomed over Seth Weaver, his features hard as stone. His anger was palpable in the air, and equally apparent was the rigid control he was exercising over it.

  "I'll see you out," he said coolly.

  Edna's mouth worked, but no words emerged. Her husband swallowed hard, confusion and disappointment flickering across his ruddy face.

  "If you'll only hear me out," he began desperately.

  "I've heard all I need to hear. Now I've got work to do. This meeting is over."

  Maura jumped up and began speaking in a rush. "My husband is planning to start a ranch, you see. And to build us a home. We're going to be enlarging the cabin and adding corrals and such and...and starting a family and I don't think he really would have the time—"

  "I can speak for myself." Quinn stalked to the door, opened it, and said, "What you don't understand, Mr. Weaver, is that the day I put on a lawman's badge is the day I'd just as soon put a bullet in my own head. So there's nothing left to talk about."

  "Please, Mr. Lassiter." Edna stood up and threw him a quick, earnest glance as she moved toward him. "Hope needs you!" she declare
d. "We need someone of your skill and courage and—"

  "Your husband said what he came to say, and I gave him my answer, ma'am." His eyes were splinters of ice. "I'm no lawman, Mrs. Weaver. I never will be."

  "But—"

  "Edna, that's enough." Her husband struggled up wearily from the sofa and with heavy steps crossed the floor. He took her arm. "The man's given us his answer. We'd best be going."

  Edna Weaver sucked in her breath, but ventured nothing more. She threw a quick glance at her husband, whose eyes had lost their hopeful gleam. He led her out into the sun.

  "I'm sorry." Maura followed them through the door, the wind whipping her calico skirt around her.

  "We understand, Mrs. Lassiter." The banker gave her a bleak, watery smile.

  "No need to explain." But Edna's tone was stiff with disappointment.

  Maura fought down the urge to invite them to come back again when she had the place fixed up. After this, she couldn't blame them if they never wanted to set foot near Sage Creek again. And once they told everyone else in town...

  As she watched the buggy drive off, all her dreams of belonging, of having friends and neighbors who visited and gossiped and supported one another, wisped into the blue Wyoming sky, disappearing like smoke.

  The buggy was just clearing the rise when Quinn strode outside and walked right past her toward the shed and the horses.

  She followed him, trying to keep up with his long strides.

  "Quinn. Please wait a moment. I don't understand."

  He spoke without looking back. "You don't have to."

  "I want to."

  "Go back inside, Maura. I've got work to—"

  "I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what the hell is going on!"

  At this, he stopped dead, then spun around to face her. That redhead's temper again, he thought grimly. Her eyes were flashing in the golden glare of the sun, her hands plopped on her hips as she strode toward him, that glorious hair flying about her. She was magnificent, but he was far from being in a mood to explain himself.

  Eyes narrowed, he waited until she caught up to him and then spoke as evenly as he could. "It's cold out here, Maura. You should have your shawl."

  "I don't care a fig about my shawl. I want to understand."