Daisies In The Wind

by Jill Gregory

  Rebeccah nestled against him. A blissful contentment stole over her, despite the roar of the fire filling the night.

  “You’re right,” Wolf agreed, tilting her chin up so that she looked directly into his steady, loving eyes. “We will start over. We’ll build ourselves a wonderful life, Rebeccah. The three of us. Maybe even more.” His eyes gleamed suggestively down into hers. “By the time we’re finished, we could be a family of four, maybe five. If you want. ...”

  “Yes! I do want. I want six of us. You, me—and two boys, two girls. Oh, yes!”

  A hungry, happy kiss sealed the bargain. As fire claimed the cabin, they started building new dreams—indestructible dreams that they would pursue and fulfill—together.

  EPILOGUE

  One week after the fires destroyed most of Wolf’s and Rebeccah’s homes, the citizens of Powder Creek voted unanimously at a town meeting to build a brand-new house for the soon-to-be-wed sheriff and schoolteacher of their town. Mayor Duke entered the motion into the record, suggesting that the town undertake the community effort as a show of appreciation for the outstanding service of these two fine citizens. Myrtle Lee Anderson seconded. She touted the excellent work of both the sheriff, in keeping the community safe, and the new schoolteacher, in inspiring the youngsters of the community and sharing with them her excellent Boston education.

  Mrs. Anderson reminded the citizens at the packed meeting that she was the one who had suggested to the late Caitlin Bodine that Miss Rawlings, a newcomer to the town, would be an ideal candidate to fill the open position of schoolteacher. “She is a superior young woman in every way,” Mrs. Anderson stated. “I knew that from the first moment I set eyes on her. And it is our duty to help her and our sheriff begin their married life in a comfortable and befitting home.”

  The motion was passed unanimously.

  Ten days later Neely Stoner was hanged by the neck until dead and buried in a shallow snow-covered grave on Boot Hill beside the outlaw gambler Chance Navarro, also known as Earl Larson. Most of the town witnessed the hanging, but only the undertaker and Wolf Bodine attended the burial.

  On Thanksgiving Day Wolf Bodine and Rebeccah Rawlings were married. The whole town attended. The bride wore a flowing silk dress of soft mauve, a mauve lace veil, dainty kid slippers, and around her slender neck, a gold locket whose lustrous surface was etched with the shape of a daisy.

  It was a wedding gift from her husband, and that night in their honeymoon bed she swore to wear it always and keep it close to her heart.

  When they moved at last into the spacious, two-story frame house built for them by the town, a house nestled in a lovely jewel of a valley affording vistas of blue foothills and towering forests of ponderosa pine, situated smack-dab in the center of their previously adjoining properties, Rebeccah and Wolf and Billy celebrated by throwing a grand party for all of their friends and neighbors. During the party they toasted the betrothal of Waylon Pritchard and Coral Mae Taggett, drank huckleberry wine, and danced until their toes throbbed. Rebeccah played the piano, and everybody sang along. Fortunately Culley Pritchard and the neighbors who had rushed to help fight the fire at the Double B had succeeded in putting out the flames before damage was done to Caitlin’s rosewood piano. It was one of the few salvageable furnishings rescued from the house, although Culley had heroically dashed inside in time to also save the Bodine family photographs displayed upon the mantel.

  Nine months after the fire a splendid event took place in the Bodine household. In the full glory of a brilliant Montana summer, with the golden asters, bitterroot, columbines, poppies, and daisies blooming riotously across the land—Rebeccah Bodine gave birth to a shrieking, red-faced baby-girl.

  The ecstatic parents named her Caitlin Daisy Bodine.

  The next day Billy Bodine sneaked his dog, Sam, up to the nursery to meet his new baby sister, and Rebeccah came in just as the overjoyed Sam gave Caitlin’s tiny face a vigorous all-over welcome.

  Rebeccah scooped her precious child from Billy’s arms and out of the dog’s reach and tenderly dried her cheeks. She rolled her eyes at Billy’s impishly laughing apologies and debated giving him a lecture on the importance of carefully handling infants, but when Caitlin actually gurgled forgivingly up at her big brother, Rebeccah could only grin at the pair of them. And Billy chuckled with glee, looking so much like his father that Rebeccah could scarcely contain her own laughter.

  Wolf watched her suckle Caitlin that evening as the stars bloomed in a purple-velvet sky. Rebeccah sat propped up with pillows in their huge four-poster bed, the infant cuddled to her breast. Despite the weariness of recent childbirth, the slight lilac smudges beneath her eyes, Wolf thought she had never looked more lovely. Her skin glowed, and her eyes radiated pure happiness.

  Downstairs, Billy banged on the piano—he was learning “Oh, Susannah.” Sam barked enthusiastically along.

  Wolf and Rebeccah grinned at each other. “Practice makes perfect, Sheriff Bodine,” Rebeccah murmured, stroking Caitlin’s fuzzy head.

  “Well, then, Mrs. Bodine, you and I must have been practicing a lot—because this here little girl is the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen—next to her mother,” Wolf said, and leaned down to touch his lips to hers.

  Rebeccah clung to his lips. “She is perfect,” she agreed dreamily, meeting his gaze with loving eyes. “But that’s no reason we should give up practicing. We now have one handsome boy and one exquisite girl. Plain arithmetic says there are at least two more to go.”

  “Maybe three,” Wolf grinned, sitting down beside her as the baby fell asleep at the nipple and gave a tiny, contented sigh.

  Rebeccah’s violet eyes twinkled back at him.

  “Maybe three.”

  “What are we going to name them all?”

  “Oh”—she gave a graceful little shrug, but her eyes danced at him—“I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

  “We always do, Mrs. Bodine,” Wolf said softly. His cool smile was a caress in the summer night. “We always do.”

  * * * * * * * * *

  For a complete list of my books, visit www.jillgregory.net

  Read on for excerpts from Cherished and When the Heart Beckons.

  CHERISHED

  Aunt Katharine suddenly glanced over at her niece. “Juliana,” she said in a low tone. “I want you to renew your promise.”

  Juliana forced herself to meet the piercing gaze that stabbed at her across the aisle.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Promise me that you won’t attempt to locate those scoundrel brothers of yours while we’re in Denver.”

  Uncle Edward started, and turned his protuberant blue eyes upon her as well. Shorter than Aunt Kate by a good four inches, he was a fat, paunchy man with a face as round as a melon’s and a thatch of wiry graying hair he kept carefully combed back from his brow. He was not a particularly intelligent man, but he was a shrewd one, possessing a keen instinct for business, a fondness for good sherry, and a habit of studying his thumbs. Punishment from him had always been swift and firm when Juliana had misbehaved as a child: hours spent alone in her room without any supper—or a favorite toy or possession taken from her and never returned. But Aunt Kate’s retribution had been worse than anything Uncle Edward had ever done, for Aunt Kate did not forgive. She had a way of staring at you until you felt as big as a pin, and she would do it for weeks and weeks after the slightest infraction, treating you with withering contempt and ice-cold disdain until life in the Tobias house became totally unbearable. Those were the times when Juliana daydreamed about running off with Wade and Tommy, far, far from the great formal house in St. Louis, with its rules and orderliness, its somber-faced servants, its elaborate, silent meals, and most of all its austere mistress’s frosty displeasure.

  “Promise me, Juliana,” Aunt Kate insisted, exactly as if her niece were still a recalcitrant ten-year-old. “We must have your word.”

  “But ...” Juliana began, squirming uncomfortably in her seat.

&n
bsp; “No buts.” Uncle Edward pointed a finger at her. “Give us your word.”

  Outside, the Colorado prairie raced by. Inside the coach, her aunt and uncle both stared at her, Uncle Edward frowning, Aunt Kate glaring with that haughty, expectant look she wore whenever Maura was late bringing in tea.

  Juliana took a deep breath. “I promise.”

  They exchanged satisfied nods. Then they smiled at her.

  “That’s a good girl,” Aunt Kate approved. Uncle Edward went back to his sheaf of papers.

  What they didn’t know was that beneath the folds of her taffeta skirt, two fingers had been crossed when she issued her promise. It didn’t count, she told herself, untying the ribbons of her hat, and smoothing her hair. She was free to do as she pleased. And she would be pleased to make inquiries about the notorious Montgomery gang as soon as she arrived in Denver.

  She didn’t dare think what she would do if no one in Denver had heard of the Montgomery brothers and had no idea where they might be. Someone had to know something, and she would simply continue asking until she found the answers she sought.

  At just past six o’clock that evening the Kansas Pacific chugged into the Denver station and discharged its carloads of weary passengers. Juliana, stepping out into fresh, mountain-cooled air, took a deep breath, reveling in the pungent scent of pine. She hurried across the platform for a better, view of the town. She saw wide, dusty streets lined with wood-fronted and adobe buildings, many of them saloons. Garishly painted signs proclaimed names like the LUCKY DOG, GOLD DUST, and STAR DIAMOND SALOON, the latter boasting of dancing girls and faro. Denver was larger than she’d expected; rougher, too. Not at all like staid, pretty, proper St. Louis. The streets were teeming with wagons, horses, pigs, and people going about their business, and the faint odor of manure in the air mingled strangely with the clear pine scent drifting down from the mountains rising beyond the town. Brown-faced, sunbonneted women in gingham dresses and men wearing guns and Stetsons filled the streets. Tumbleweed blew down the alleys, children skirmished in front of Dade’s General Store. She heard the neigh of horses, the clomp of a hundred pairs of boots on boardwalk, and the blare of tinny piano music and drunken shouts emanating from the Gold Dust Saloon, directly across from the depot.

  “What an ugly, squalid, dreadful place.” Katharine Tobias shuddered. “Edward, I thought you said Denver was a civilized town.”

  “It is, my dear, compared to most on the frontier.” Uncle Edward mopped his brow with a handkerchief, and peered up and down the street. “It seems Breen’s man is late coming to meet us. Well, let’s gather up the baggage and hope he arrives by the time we’ve assembled it all.”

  Juliana held back as her aunt and cousin followed him into the baggage room. It would take some time to sort through the piles of trunks, crates, and boxes being unloaded from the train, and all she needed was a moment or two.

  Quick as a wink, she slipped past a knot of travelers about to descend the platform steps, hurried down to the street, and then dashed toward the Gold Dust Saloon. It was the nearest one and the largest, from what she had seen. Her heart was pounding, for she couldn’t help feeling the very real possibility that she might encounter her brothers within those swinging doors. Of course, that was highly unlikely, but now that she was out West, it could happen.

  She was just about to enter the saloon when suddenly gunshots roared from inside. The sound burst through Juliana’s ears, stunning her. Someone screamed, windowpanes rattled, and on the street all about her, people ducked for cover. Juliana, one hand upon the door, froze with terror.

  For a moment, time seemed to stand still. She was trembling all over, yet she was dimly aware of the rough town behind her. She was aware of the April wind caressing her cheek, aware of the unnatural silence that had followed those first thundering shots. She was torn between an urge to flee, and an almost overwhelming desire to burst inside and see what had happened. But her legs wouldn’t move.

  Then, before she could do anything, the saloon doors swung wide and a man charged out, colliding full force with Juliana. She was knocked sideways into the wall by the most stunningly handsome man she’d ever seen.

  He was young, seemed to be in his late twenties, and very tall. Ink-black hair touched his shirt collar; steel-blue eyes stared out from a rough, sun-bronzed face. He looked as strong as Goliath, Juliana thought in a daze. She caught a fascinating glimpse of curly black chest hair beneath the collar of his shirt and something in the pit of her stomach squeezed tight. The snug black trousers he wore tucked into his boots emphasized rather than disguised a body that was lean and superbly fit, splendid with muscles. His physique bespoke power, but his expression bespoke danger. Dragging her gaze from that dark mat of chest hair to his face, Juliana nearly gasped. She had never seen anyone as handsome, and at the same time deadly-looking, in her life.

  Danger emanated from him like heat from a stove. Beneath the black Stetson he wore the look of a man who had never once been tethered by the softening influence of love. This man had never been tethered by anything, Juliana realized. And those keen, intense blue eyes were like none other she had ever seen.

  He was like none she had ever seen. As she steadied herself against the wall, recovering from being knocked aside, his gaze bored straight into her without a flicker of emotion.

  “Beg your pardon, ma’am.”

  He didn’t sound the least bit sorry.

  His cold glance swept past, scanning either side of the road. He spoke again, his voice soft and even as he appraised the empty street.

  “If I were you, ma’am, I’d step back a pace or this hombre will bleed all over that pretty dress of yours,” the stranger drawled without sparing her a second glance.

  It was then that Juliana had the wit to tear her gaze from that magnetic face. Looking down, she saw with a quiver of horror that he was casually dragging behind him a man’s blue-and-yellow-shirted, blood-spattered body.

  Juliana had never fainted before in her life, but she’d never seen a dead body before either. She took one look at the blood and guts spilling from the dead man and felt a great dry coldness sweep over her. The man was wearing a blue and yellow shirt—oddly familiar. He had golden blond hair, thick and silky, falling over his face.

  The shirt, the hair ... it came to her with a jolt, it looked just like ...

  “Tommy!” she whispered with a breath of horror, and then she pitched forward like a rag doll straight into the stranger’s arms.

  The stranger caught her just before she hit the ground. Cursing, he was forced to release his hold on the dead man’s shirt and to sweep an arm about the swooning girl before she crashed onto the boardwalk. Just what I need, Cole Rawdon thought in disgust. A fool woman to slow me down.

  “Damn it all to hell,” he muttered under his breath as her hat fell off and a tumble of gold curls cascaded down, nearly touching the ground.

  A crowd was gathering. Rawdon hated crowds.

  “What are you staring at?” He glared at the sea of faces, and the onlookers scattered. With a grimace he turned back to the woman, really seeing her for the first time. She was a slip of a thing, no more. And pretty as pie. Pretty? No, Cole decided. Pretty didn’t quite describe her. She was beautiful. For a moment he forgot about the dead man and the crowd, and found himself studying the girl.

  Cole didn’t remember ever seeing skin so creamy and smooth, or hair quite so pure and dazzling a gold. Or features so elegant—as though they’d been cut from fine crystal. Breakable, that’s how she looked. Like she belonged on a china shop shelf, not the streets of Denver. For a moment he just stared at her, mesmerized. Then he came to his senses with a start. Hell, it was damned inconvenient to be stuck holding on to this female in the middle of Denver when he had to get Gus Borden’s corpse to Sugar Creek pronto. A two-hundred-dollar reward was waiting at the end of that four-hour ride—and Cole meant to claim it, and get rid of Gus, before the outlaw’s body started to rot. For a moment longer he let his
eyes slide over the girl’s willowy form, admiring the soft curves beneath her fancy dress, the way her breasts strained against the tight fabric. Damn, she is something. Too bad I’m in a hurry, he thought, his eyes narrowing with regret. If I had more time, I’d wait around to see if she knows how to show a man proper gratitude. He doubted it. Any girl who fainted at the sight of a little blood was sure to be too weak-spined and silly to be any fun at all. Besides, Ina Day was dancing in the Red Feather Saloon in Sugar Creek tonight and she always knew how to show him a good time.

  Cole tore his gaze from the delicate planes of the girl’s face with an effort. A thin man with dark whiskers was watching him warily from ten paces down the boardwalk. “Hey, you, come here,” he ordered. “Grab ahold of this woman and ... do something with her.”

  As the man nervously approached, Cole saw the girl’s eyelashes flutter. About time. Suddenly she opened her eyes and gazed up at him in a dazed fashion. He felt his insides tighten. She had the most exquisite eyes he’d ever seen—huge, expressive, green as a Montana valley, and filled just now with a touching uncertainty that, if he’d been any other man, would have tugged at his heart. But Cole had been delayed long enough, and life’s hard blows had toughened whatever he’d once had of a heart.

  “Been a pleasure getting acquainted with you, ma’am, but I’m afraid I’ve got to be going now,” he drawled, and dumped her without ceremony into the bewhiskered man’s arms. Without another glance at the girl who had interfered with the orderly execution of his business, he seized Gus Borden’s shirt collar and dragged him over to the sorrel horse tethered in front of the saloon. Flinging the body over the saddle and tying it securely in place, Cole forced himself to avoid looking at the little knot of bonneted women, curious children, and silent men who had gathered around the girl. He mounted Arrow and spurred the horse forward, directing the sorrel through the town. Denver, pretty much inured to violence in the streets and saloons, was already getting back to normal.