She stopped on the front steps of the Prentice as the idea hit her with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Teague’s story needed to be told, and not just in an interview for the newspaper, but in a book. Not one of those lurid dime novels that were so popular, either, but a true-life account of a hero. If she asked him, explained what she now wanted to do without being bold and demanding as she’d been before, would he concede and finally tell her everything? Not only about the gunfight from his point of view, but what happened to Kieran, Mary, and Matthew. Would his brothers be willing to talk with her as well?
She took a deep breath, excitement racing through her, mingling with doubt and fear as well, over such an undertaking. Could she do it? She’d never written anything longer than a short story. Could she take everything she’d heard and felt and saw and start writing without crying over every word? Did she have the heart?
She wouldn’t know unless she tried. She had her inheritance and some investments left to her by Grandpa George. She could stay right here in Paradise Falls and write his book. So everyone would know what she knew―Teague MacDermott was no ordinary man.
With her new decision made, she rushed up the stairs to her room, moved her typewriter to the table on the second floor balcony, rolled a fresh sheet of paper around the paten, and began typing.
• • •
“You got a telegram,” Roy drawled as Teague let himself into the sheriff’s office and closed the door behind him.
He hung up his hat, then unbuckled his gun belt, thought better of it, and buckled it up again.
“Sheffield’s kid delivered it about an hour ago. I put it on your desk.”
A telegram? He hadn’t gotten a telegram . . . well, in a long time. His stomach clenched, and his muscles stiffened as he automatically assumed bad news.
Except telegrams weren’t always bad. Brock had sent them frequently, from every town he stayed in for more than a day while he searched for Zeb Logan, the outlaw who shot him and left him for dead. And then they’d stopped. Just stopped. He thought he’d lost another brother, imagined him gunned down by the man he pursued, until Brock and his wife, Stevie Rae, walked right into this very office to tell him in person Zeb Logan was dead.
Brock had promised to write―and not just telegrams―as they were leaving for Boston where Stevie Rae was to finish her studies to become a doctor. He’d been true to his word, and his letters arrived regularly.
Brock MacDermott wasn’t much of a talker, but surprisingly, he wrote a witty, chatty, and lengthy letter.
Teague shook himself from his memories and stared at the envelope on his desk. “Who’s it from?”
“Ain’t addressed to me, so I didn’t read it.” Roy shrugged and put his feet up on his desk, his nose still in the newspaper.
With trepidation, Teague reached for the missive. As he did so, he glimpsed the calendar. Seventeen days before Logan was expected to leave prison. Was this telegram from the warden up in Canon City, telling him Logan was released early? He shuddered with the thought, then took a deep breath and ripped the envelope. “Teague, We’d love to have Desi Lyn and Mrs. Calvin at Morning Mist Farms for however long they need to stay. Theo.”
He hadn’t expected an answer to the letter he’d sent so quickly—certainly not by telegram—but he should have. From the moment he met Theo, Eamon’s wife, she’d been warm and welcoming and kind to everyone and everything. He couldn’t help but be charmed by her. She’d probably sent the telegram the same day they’d received his letter.
Relief rushed through him so quickly, he had a moment or two where his lungs froze before he could begin breathing again. Desi Lyn would be safe at Morning Mist Farms. Hell, Desi Lyn―and Mrs. Calvin―would thrive with Theo and her extended family, just as Eamon had.
Best of all, no one would know, especially Jefferson Logan. Now all he had to do was ask Mrs. Calvin. He was certain the woman would be agreeable. She loved his niece like she loved her own children and grandchildren. The hard part would be telling Desi Lyn.
He sucked in his breath as pain struck him in the heart with the thought. He hadn’t been apart from the girl for more than a few hours . . . a day at the most when she spent the night with friends, but that was different. He could see her. Hug her. Make her giggle. And as unusual as it may sound, fix her hair. He’d become quite handy with brush, comb, and ribbons through sheer necessity.
“I need to go out for a little while.” He folded the telegram and stuffed it into his pocket. “You okay here?”
Roy peered at him over the edge of the newspaper, curiosity shining from his hazel eyes. “Sure. Anything I can do to help?”
Teague shook his head, grabbed his hat, and headed out the door. He strode across the street with purpose, his legs eating up the distance to Judd Hanlon’s home next door to his own. He stepped onto the porch then strode around to the side of the house where Judd had built a small office. He knocked on the door below a sign reading Judd Hanlon, Esquire and took a deep breath.
He should have done this long ago, when Desi Lyn had first come into his care, but he hadn’t wanted to think about it.
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other while he waited for a response. A moment later, he heard Judd bid him enter. He let himself in to find the lawyer behind his desk, legal documents spread out on every available space, his glasses on top of his head instead of on his nose, cigar extending from his mouth.
Judd glanced up from the paper in his hand and smiled through the smoke circling around him. “Teague! What a pleasant surprise!” When Teague did not return the greeting, the man’s eyes squinted, and his smile faded. “Or maybe it’s not so pleasant, judging by the look on your face. You all right?”
Teague eased himself into a chair, feeling much, much older than his thirty-five years. “I’d like to make out my Last Will and Testament.”
The lawyer nodded slowly. “Of course. Let me just grab a fresh pad of paper, and we can begin.” He rummaged among the documents on his desk and located a clean writing tablet, then glanced up and studied him as he grabbed a pen from the inkwell. Teague saw the question in his eyes but chose to ignore it.
Hours later, his Last Will and Testament tucked safely in his desk drawer, Teague entered the kitchen after dinner, poured himself another cup of coffee, and sat at the kitchen table. Desi Lyn was upstairs, getting ready for bed and waiting for him to read to her. He watched Mrs. Calvin at the sink, her hands immersed in hot, soapy water, her movements economical and precise. He took a deep breath and asked, “Mrs. Calvin, may I have a word with you?”
Mrs. Calvin glanced over her shoulder at him, then stopped washing the dishes, pulled the dish towel from over her shoulder, and dried her hands. She grabbed a cup, one she’d just washed, and poured coffee into it before taking the seat across from him. She said nothing, but her dark green eyes roamed his face. The expression of sympathy he saw within their depths was nearly his undoing.
He swallowed hard and opened his mouth, but no words would come. He swallowed again and took a deep breath, his eyes darting to the icebox, the porcelain sink, and the lacy curtains above it then finally to her. “This is harder than I thought.”
Mrs. Calvin tilted her head to the side then spoke. “I’ve known you long enough to know when you have something on your mind, Teague. Just spit it out, whatever it is. If you’re firing me, I’d rather you do it quickly.”
“Fire you? Why on earth would I fire you?”
She shrugged. “You have that look on your face like you have bad news. I figure getting fired is pretty bad.” And then she smiled. In that instant, she reminded him of his mam. Oh, not in looks, but definitely in her plain-spoken ways and warm heart.
He returned her smile and let out his breath. “I’m not firing you, Mrs. Cal―Ada. I wouldn’t do that to any of us. Desi Lyn loves you . . . ” He paused and studied the pattern on the coffee cup before lifting his gaze to hers. “And so do I. I don’t know what we would have done without you,
so no, you’re stuck with us.” He took a sip of coffee, marveling at how bitter it seemed to be, so different than the excellent brew she usually made. Then again, maybe it wasn’t the coffee. Maybe it was the thought of Desi Lyn leaving that left such an acrid taste in his mouth. “I . . . You know that Jeff Logan will be getting out of prison soon. You know what he promised.”
She nodded. “I do. I also know you’ve been counting off the days until his release.” She rested her hand atop his. “And I know how troubled you are. My James used to have the same look when he was worried. What can I do to help?”
“I think it would be safer for Desi Lyn if she wasn’t here when Logan comes.”
“I agree. She shouldn’t be here.” She took her hand from his, picked up her spoon, and added sugar to her coffee. “A man like Logan could use her against you. Make it so you can’t think clearly.”
He stiffened in surprise. He should have realized she would know exactly what he was thinking.
“I wrote to Eamon. He and Theo have invited both of you to Morning Mist Farms until . . . well, until it’s safe for you to come home. I just wanted to make sure you were willing to go with her.”
“Of course, I’m willing, Teague. I wouldn’t have it any other way. You know I’d do anything for that sweet little girl. For you as well.” Her smile widened. “It’ll be good to see Eamon and Theo again. She’s such a lovely woman.” She continued to stir her coffee, although the sugar had long dissolved. She chuckled. “And it’ll give me a chance to win my money back from Granny, too. That old woman is a master at pinochle.” The humor in her voice died, and her tone became serious. “When do we leave?”
“Four days. Lucky will be taking the stage with you as far as the farm.”
“We’ll be ready.” She picked up her cup and started to rise.
He stopped her with a hand to her wrist. “There’s more.”
She sat back down and gave him her full attention. He glanced at the window and the curtains fluttering in the breeze. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and lightning flashed across the sky. The light patter of raindrops hit the roof of the back porch. “I’ve also consulted with Judd Hanlon and made out my will. I’ve left instructions for Desi Lyn’s future and yours, too, if the worst should happen.”
She said nothing to that, though it was clear she understood exactly what he meant. An expression came over her face he’d seen before, though rarely. Ada Calvin was normally slow to anger, but not this time. Red spots appeared on her cheeks in an instant. Her mouth pursed, and her eyes narrowed and glittered with her ire. “Teague MacDermott, don’t you dare say such a thing.” She stood quickly, her breathing harsh. Unshed tears made her eyes shiny. “Don’t even think it!” She threw the dish towel on the table and headed outside to the back porch, leaving her cup on the table.
“Thank you, Ada,” he whispered to the closed door. He hadn’t meant to upset her, though her reaction warmed his heart. For all her bluster, she was clearly as fond of him as he was of her. He rose to his feet, picked up her coffee cup as well as his own, and brought them both to the sink. He thought he would feel a lot better after their discussion, knowing that in four days they would be on their way to a safe haven, but it had the opposite effect. Now, he needed to tell Desi Lyn.
He took a deep breath, glanced out the window over the sink, and saw Mrs. Calvin pacing in front of the garden, oblivious to the rain coming down. Given her quick pace, she was still upset with him for acknowledging that he may not survive an encounter with Jeff Logan. He wouldn’t interrupt. She needed a moment to work out her anger and come to the same conclusion he had.
With effort, he forced a smile to his lips and headed upstairs.
He walked down the hallway and stopped in the doorway to Desi Lyn’s room. She was, indeed, waiting for him, the book they’d been reading open on her lap. She moved her finger along the words as she read them out loud to Shotgun, who sprawled on the end of the bed, his muzzle resting over her ankles, his ears twitching at the sound of her voice. His tail thumped as Teague entered the room, but he didn’t move otherwise.
Desi Lyn grinned at him, and his heart melted as he seated himself in the chair beside her bed. “You started without me.”
Her grin widened, the MacDermott gray eyes glowing as she handed him the book. “I couldn’t wait. You were taking so long!”
“I’m sorry. I had some things to discuss with Mrs. Calvin.” He closed the novel but kept his finger in between the pages to keep his spot, then drew in his breath. “Before we start, I have something I wanted to talk to you about, too.”
“Okay, Uncle T.”
He grinned. He couldn’t help it. She was so sweet sitting against her pillows in one of her gaily embroidered short nightgowns and pantalets, her hair a wild mass framing her face because she hadn’t braided it after she’d combed it.
How could he bear to send her away?
How could he not?
He could deal with the loneliness, face whatever he had to face, as long as he knew she was safe. She’d already been through more than any little girl should.
“How would you like to visit Uncle Eamon and Aunt Theo on their farm?”
“Will you come with me?”
He shook his head. “Not this time, honey. I need to stay here and work.”
She seemed to take this in, her brow furrowed. “Will Mrs. Calvin go?”
“Yes, she will. And you’ll have fun on the farm with Thomas, Charlotte, and Gabby. And even little EJ. You remember them, don’t you?”
She nodded with enthusiasm, though the last time they’d visited Morning Mist was a year ago. Three hundred and sixty-five days was a long time for a six-year-old. “I remember Granny, too! And Marianne and Quincy.” She quickly grew serious as she grabbed her doll and brought her close. “Can I bring Emily? And my books?”
“Of course, you can. I’m sure Aunt Theo has plenty of books, too.”
She studied him, her eyes full of curiosity. “Will Uncle Eamon read to me?”
“He will if you ask him.”
“What about school? Miss Trahern is teaching us how to add numbers.”
Teague took a breath and shook his head. She was smarter than he and his brothers had been at her age. A lot smarter. “I’m sure Aunt Theo can make arrangements, and you can attend school with Gabby and the rest of the kids, if you want.”
“Okay,” she said, then seemed to think about it for a moment. “If Mrs. Calvin goes to Uncle Eamon’s farm with me, who will take care of you?”
He chuckled. She really was the sweetest child, and if the truth were told, the light of his life. Though the circumstances of how she came to be with him were devastating, he wouldn’t trade raising her for all the money in the world. “Don’t worry about me, honey. I’ll be fine. I will miss you, though.”
“Me, too, Uncle T.”
He swallowed the lump in his throat, forcing himself not to think about her being away from him. “All right, snuggle down.”
She scooted down on the bed, disturbing Shotgun, who whined and shifted positions until his muzzle rested on her ankles again. “Do you want the blanket?” She shook her head and got comfortable as he opened the book to where they’d left off.
Twenty minutes later, she was asleep, her breathing even, her thick lashes fluttering on her cheeks. Teague put the bookmark in the book and placed it on the bedside table. He rose to his feet, then leaned over and kissed her on the forehead.
Now all he needed to do was talk to Ryleigh and tell her she had to leave Paradise Falls, too.
He sighed as he descended the stairs, his mind in turmoil, his heart already aching.
He should never have touched her. Certainly never made love to her, but he hadn’t been able to help himself. He’d wanted her . . . since long before their interrupted tryst at the river. She was everything good and right in the world, and when he finally sank into her warm, giving body, he felt more than the sun shining on him, filling him with light, pushing th
e darkness away. He’d also tasted a sip of freedom from the guilt he’d been harboring for four long years.
He sighed again as he grabbed his hat from the hook in the hallway and plopped it on his head. He didn’t relish the conversation to come, and his stomach tightened when he imagined the expression on her face when he told her she had to leave. She’d be hurt. Upset. She might even cry, and God knows, that would cause him pain as well. She’d fight him, too. He had no uncertainty about that, but in the end, she’d go . . . even if he had to tie her up and put her in the stagecoach himself.
To keep her safe.
Even though it would hurt him to do so.
Because he loved her.
And for that reason alone, he’d make certain she left.
Chapter Thirteen
Ryleigh sat at the vanity and pulled the pins from her hair, letting the curling mass fall down her back. She scratched at her scalp, digging her fingers into her skin and sighed, then picked up her brush and drew it through the long, thick tresses.
Rain pattered on the roof of the porch outside, and the French doors were open to catch the breeze. Thunder rumbled in the near distance, and lightning sizzled across the sky. Finished with her hair, she stood and stretched, her long silky nightgown rippling against her skin sensuously. Long hours at her typewriter had left her stiff and sore, but she was satisfied. Well, as satisfied as she could be with what she’d written so far.
She paced toward the bed and pulled down the colorful quilt then plumped the pillows.
Lightning streaked the sky, brightening the room more than the lamps, followed by a crack of thunder so loud, she jumped. She whirled around toward the open French doors, her heart in her throat as another bolt of lightning flashed, illuminating the man standing in the doorway, hat in hand.
A Kiss in the Sunlight Page 21
