And yet now she longed for the peace she used to have. She longed to trust that someone cared even more for her than she cared for herself. However, her life had proven that simply wasn’t true. Where had God been in the years when she’d needed Him most? When she’d prayed for relief from the torment, not only for herself, but also for her mother-in-law? If only He had heard her cries, perhaps things would be different now.
Dragging in a fortifying breath, she pushed away from the shelf and reached for the sack of potatoes. Last week Flynn had bagged a deer that he’d shared with everyone in town. The last of the meat would make a nice roast for tonight’s diners. She gathered a jar of carrots, another smaller one of dried onions, and a clove of garlic.
As she made her way back into the kitchen, she rolled her neck in an attempt to release tension, and mentally ticked through a list of what else she needed to accomplish. With a little sigh, she set to scrubbing the potatoes.
A good portion of the day still remained, and there were certainly plenty of tasks to complete. It would be best if she quit lingering in longings and returned herself to the concrete tasks at hand.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Jacinda was bent over the dress pattern on her dining table, several pins clamped between her lips, when the knock came at her front door. She frowned. Was Mrs. King here early for her dress? Jacinda still had to get the last section of the hem finalized.
Her mind was still trying to decide the best lay of the material for this particular pattern when she opened her door.
The marshal stood on her porch, Stetson in hand, his long dark locks wafting in the chill December breeze.
Jacinda’s eyes widened, and she quickly set to snatching the pins from between her lips. She miscalculated and one stuck fast into the tip of her first finger. She gasped, but quickly withdrew it and pressed her thumb over the area that was sure to bleed. “Marshal. What can I do for you?” Her pain made the words emerge with more harshness than she intended.
The man’s eyes dipped to her fingers and filled with a touch of mirth that heightened her irritation. “Heard you were the barber in these parts and I wondered if I might trouble you for a haircut and a shave? But I’ll hope you are handier with scissors and a razor than you appear to be with pins.” He winked.
And for some reason, though she knew he was simply attempting to ease her tension with a little levity, the teasing only riled her more. But she wouldn’t let him see that. “I’m in the middle of something right now, but if you give me half an hour you can return and I’ll be prepared for you. The cost is two bits.”
He dipped a small bow, hat pressed to his chest. “I’ll be back then. And much obliged.”
She felt only a little guilty as she watched him stride back into the icy snow that had started to fall a bit ago. Any other citizen of Wyldhaven, she likely would have invited in and offered coffee and small talk while she’d finished pinning her pattern, but this man set her on edge for some reason she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Well, no. She could put her finger on at least one part of it. Her eyes narrowed as she remembered the conversation she’d overheard. She hadn’t meant to linger so long by the door. But when she’d heard the Pottingers mentioned, she’d wanted to know what the marshal had to do with them. Guilt over her eavesdropping weighed heavy as she closed the door against the wind.
Belle appeared from where she’d been organizing the back room. “I’m finished in there. What else do you need me to do?”
Jacinda’s worry pinched. She really ought to let the girl get home to help her own ma fix dinner. Yet propriety dictated that Belle needed to stay until after she’d cut the marshal’s hair. It wouldn’t be proper for him to be in her home alone with her.
She glanced around, wondering what else she could have Belle do. Her gaze landed on Mrs. King’s unfinished hem. She’d planned to finish it herself this evening and save the expense of hiring it done, but now she had no choice. “If you don’t mind, could you work on the hem for Mrs. King’s dress? The marshal who’s in town will be stopping by for a haircut and then you can leave as soon as he’s gone.”
Belle’s eyes sparkled. “I heard he’s fearsome handsome!”
“I don’t suppose I noticed.” Jacinda whirled and pretended to focus on the dress she was cutting out before the heat in her face gave away the lie.
Belle lifted Mrs. King’s gray wool and sank into the sewing chair in the corner of the room. “Will you introduce me when he arrives?”
Jacinda suppressed a smirk. She might have known that Belle’s interest in the man would come ’round to more than curiosity. “Yes, I can introduce you. But I wouldn’t set my cap for the man, were I you. He’s twice your age, and not likely to remain in these parts long. Besides that, he’s a lawman.”
“What’s the problem with him being a lawman?” Curiosity underscored Belle’s question.
“You would be wise to marry a man with a safe profession so you don’t lose him before his time.”
Belle seemed to think on that for a bit. “I suppose anyone could go before their time. Just look at my pa. I mean, we are thankful that he seems to be doing a little better now, but it was touch and go there with him for a while. And I suppose farming is about as safe a job as one could have in this modern day and age.”
Jacinda sighed. “Yes. I suppose you are right.” She didn’t really want to carry this conversation further. She’d done her part to warn Belle away from both the man and his profession. What the girl did with that information was up to her.
For all the work Jacinda got done in the next thirty minutes, she may as well have invited the marshal to stay and simply cut his hair immediately. In the time he was gone she should have been able to pin the pattern and get it all cut out. However, she couldn’t seem to focus on the task at hand, and realized twice that she’d laid the pattern on the wrong slant of the bias. So she was just pinning the last piece of the pattern into place when she heard his knock on the front door once more.
She quickly folded the pattern and material onto the side table in the dining room, dragged a chair into the kitchen, and set the kettle over the hottest part of the stove, then hustled to answer the front door.
She hadn’t quite realized how large the man was until the moment he stepped past her in the entryway. He towered over her by a good ten inches and his shoulders were twice again as broad as hers. He paused just past the entry and glanced back at her, obviously waiting for instructions on where to proceed.
Jacinda quickly stepped to his side and motioned him past the table and through to the kitchen. On the way, she paused by Belle in the corner of the dining room. “Marshal Holloway, may I present Miss Belle Kastain. Miss Kastain, Marshal Holloway.”
The marshal pressed his hat to his chest and gave a courtly bow accompanied by his charming smile. “Miss Kastain, it’s a pleasure.”
Belle’s cheeks turned a pretty pink as she demurred, “A pleasure indeed, Marshal.”
Jacinda resisted a smirk. Perhaps Reagan would finally be free from the girl’s cloying attentions. She led the rest of the way into the kitchen. No sound of footsteps followed her. Had Belle’s flirting captured his attention? She turned to see what was keeping him, only to discover that he was directly behind her. She squeaked in surprise, and he nearly bowled her over.
Lightning quick, he captured her elbows and held her steady so she wouldn’t tumble backward.
The blue of his eyes was even more captivating from this close proximity. They were actually more of a gray, shot through with silver shards that splayed out from the black center. Steel-dust blue encircled the edges, adding a hint of hardness. She didn’t envy any outlaw who might cross this man’s path.
One of his brows quirked upward, and his upper lip slanted into a sardonic smirk. His focus slipped leisurely over her features.
Her hands were still pressed to his chest. The man was lean and hard, seemingly chiseled from stone, despite the fact that most men his age carried at least a
small paunch of extra weight with them. How long had they been frozen like this? Would he think she had thrown herself into his arms? The only thing still keeping her upright was his grip.
Jacinda felt heat sear her cheeks, and she scrambled for balance. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you. I thought you might have—I might have…left you behind.”
He gripped her arms until she was stable, then released her and retrieved his hat from where it had fallen to the floor. “I apologize. I’ve had to learn to be light on my feet over the years. Just sort of comes natural now.”
Jacinda smoothed her hands over her waist and searched for the composure she so rarely lost. She spun in a full circle before she remembered she needed him to sit in the chair. Her hands trembled when she scooted it farther into the center of the room. “Just sit here, if you would. Your hat and coat can go on the peg there by the back door.” She strode toward the stove.
She heard the soft swish as he hung his duster and Stetson and then the groan of the chair when he settled his weight onto it.
Pouring the warm water from the kettle into a bowl, Jacinda took a breath. This was just a haircut like any other haircut. There was no need for the butterflies that seemed to have taken flight in her stomach. She lifted the comb and scissors from the drawer where she kept them and faced the man, forcing a smile. “Tell me how you would like your cut, Marshal Holloway.”
He blinked at her. “Don’t rightly know as I’ve ever been asked that before. Short will do. Never know when I’ll get to see a barber again.”
Proof right there that the man wasn’t planning to stick around for long.
“Very well.” She said the words, but inside she cringed. The man’s curls were pretty enough to grace the shoulders of a baroness. It was a shame he wanted them all cut off. She set the bowl of water on the table next to his right shoulder and the scissors and comb next to that. Then she draped her largest towel around the man’s broad shoulders and took a slow breath. She’d always averred that for a proper cut, hair should be wet, but the thought of running her hands through his curls, especially after the tension-fraught scrutiny they’d just exchanged, had her quaking inside.
She rolled her eyes at herself. She was acting worse than Belle over her latest crush. Thrusting her hands into the water, she commenced dampening his hair with enough force that he glanced back at her over his shoulder. The impact of those gray-blue eyes did nothing to calm her. She curled her palms around both sides of his head and turned him to face forward once more. “Keep looking that way, please.” Perhaps if she could get him talking that would distract her. “So, tell me how long you’ve been a marshal?” She lifted the comb and set to parting his hair into manageable sections.
“My father was a marshal. I never wanted to be anything else. He started having me travel with him when I was fifteen. I’ve been working the law ever since.”
As he talked, Jacinda pulled in a breath and made the first cut. A long lock of curls drifted to the ground. The marshal didn’t miss a beat as he continued to tell her about one of the first cases he’d worked with his father.
Jacinda kept her scissors snipping, chastising herself for lamenting so much over a few locks of hair.
The more he talked, the more she realized that once he took on a mission to capture a criminal, he didn’t give up.
Her thoughts flitted to Dixie and Rose. The man was in for a surprise this time, because there was not even a possibility that those women were criminals. She worked her way from his right to his left and then paused before him to finish up the front. His story about an outlaw who had escaped and then been recaptured trailed to an end, and his studious gaze settled on her face. She found his scrutiny unsettling, so she voiced her question. “Seems like you are a man who doesn’t give up until you catch your man, Mr. Holloway. But what happens if you are wrong? What will you do when you find that Dixie and Rose Pottinger aren’t the criminals you suspect them to be? For I know you will find them innocent!”
He quirked a brow.
Jacinda winced. She hadn’t meant to mention that.
“Your son told you why I’m here, did he?”
Her face blazed proof of her indiscretion. And no matter that she would rather not admit her eavesdropping, she wouldn’t have this man think that Reagan had talked out of turn. “I overheard your conversation the other night.”
He chuckled at that, but politely let the matter drop. “First, I never go into an investigation with a preconceived notion about my quarry. I always try to keep an open mind. Our system, after all, is based on ‘innocent until proven guilty.’ However, considering the fervency of your defense of your friends, Mrs. Callahan, perhaps we should wait to discuss this till you no longer have scissors in hand.”
Refusing the smile his teasing tried to coax from her, she made the last few snips and then set the scissors down with a clunk, giving him a look. “Very well, the scissors are down, Marshal. You may proceed.”
He scooped his hands back over the trim cut and shifted a bit on the chair.
Losing the length of his locks had certainly not harmed the man’s good looks, though she would admit to leaving it a bit longer on top than she did with most men.
Jacinda swallowed and turned her focus to working up the lather for his shave. First she shaved a few small curls of soap into the bowl. Then added just a splash of warm water. The lathering brush made a soft swishing sound as she beat it. She returned her focus to the marshal, who still hadn’t answered her question, and lifted her brow to let him know she awaited an answer.
He only grinned at her. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t reply just yet, Mrs. Callahan, since only momentarily you’re going to have a straight razor to my throat.”
She sighed and plunked the bowl of lather onto the table next to him. She tugged a fresh towel from the drawer. “Chin up, if you please.” When he complied, she draped the towel below his neck. The lathering brush made soft scratching noises as it passed over the thick stubble lining his angular jaw, and Jacinda tried not to take notice of the way her legs brushed against his when she got too close. Most men closed their eyes while she shaved them, but not this man. His eyes remained open, and he watched her every move as though at the ready to defend himself should she decide to cut his throat.
On her last nerve, she snatched a breath, stepped back, and plunked her hands onto her hips. “You needn’t keep watching me like I’m one of your criminals, Marshal. I assure you that I don’t normally linger outside doors to eavesdrop. Nor have I ever slit anyone’s throat, and I don’t intend to start now—no matter how irritating a man might be.”
Humor crinkled the corners of his eyes. “I assure you, ma’am, I’m not watching you because I’m afraid of my throat being slit.”
He didn’t elaborate, but the connotation he gave to the words, and the way those gray-blue eyes drifted slowly down the length of her and back up again, had fire licking at her cheeks. She went back to work, but her hand was trembling so that she feared she might nick him. Thankfully, he must have taken pity on her, for he closed his eyes and she managed to finish without such an embarrassment. She stepped back. “Done. There’s a mirror there by the back door. Take a look and tell me if you want anything changed.” She strode to the sink and set to rinsing the lather and the brush.
He returned to her side after only a moment, hat in hand. “I assure you Mrs. Callahan that I’m not here to simply catch any criminal. I want the criminal. And if that’s not either of the Pottingers, who everyone in this town seems to love so much, then it’s not. But if it is one—or both—of them, then I won’t hesitate to do my job.” He set a quarter on the sideboard next to her, pushed his hat back onto his head, and tugged the brim in her direction. “Obliged, and good day.”
With that, he swaggered from the room, leaving her staring for the longest time at the place where he’d left her sight. She prayed for Dixie and Rose’s sakes that neither had been the one to shoot the missing man.
Steve
n Pottinger stepped from the train onto the Cle Elum platform. Despite the bitter cold that created billowing clouds of each breath, he was ever so thankful to be able to stretch his leg. Using his fist, he pressed hard on the knot of muscles that always seemed to form when he sat for too long. The platform beneath his boots was slick with thick sparkling frost. He’d have to watch his step and use his cane judiciously.
The conductor stopped next to him with a concerned expression. “Is there anything I can do for you, sir?” The conductor smiled as though he understood what Steven was going through, which only made Steven’s anger simmer closer to the surface.
Yet he was this close.
She had mailed a letter from this town.
He needed information and he wasn’t likely to get it if he started making enemies first thing.
Steven put on his best smile. “You can point me to the nearest watering hole.” He could surely use a drink about now, both to relax and to warm him.
The man pointed down the street. “Harding’s Saloon is just around the corner on Elm.”
“Obliged.” Steven tipped his hat and limped away before his pain made him do something he might regret.
Everything in this town seemed gray, from the frozen dirt streets to the weathered frosty cedar-shingle roofs. Even the windows of each building he passed were coated with the intricate lacy gray patterns of winter’s hoar.
Thankfully, the walk from the train to the saloon loosened up his cramp a mite, and by the time he pushed through the batwing doors he was feeling almost human again. That didn’t stop him from ordering two fingers of scotch.
The bartender just looked at him. “Whiskey? Or beer?”
Steven huffed. Of course they wouldn’t have a gentleman’s drink in these parts. “Whiskey,” he grunted.
He downed half the potent brew as soon as it was placed in front of him, then waited for it to abate the pain. After several calming breaths he glanced around. How to go about finding them… That was the question.
On Eagles' Wings (Wyldhaven Book 2) Page 6
