“Tell Ryleigh what she wants to know.” He took the cigar from his mouth and tapped the ashes into the dish. “Josiah told you the same thing. And if I’m not mistaken, Elizabeth did as well.” He plopped the cigar back between his lips. He inhaled, drawing the smoke into his mouth then let it out, producing a misty gray cloud that dissipated into the night.
“Oh, I know Elizabeth did,” Celia said as she stepped outside through the screen door and stood between them, grabbing the whiskey bottle on the table and pouring herself a drink, too, before refilling both their glasses. She leaned against the porch railing and took a sip. “She told me so herself.”
Teague said nothing, didn’t acknowledge that not only had Josiah and Elizabeth tried to convince him to reveal everything to that nosy, pushy, utterly adorable reporter, but Krissa and Oscar had, too. So did Shep and Malva. They were all ganging up on him. The only one who hadn’t said anything was Roy, but he had a sinking suspicion that it was only a matter of time.
“We don’t talk about what happened that day because you won’t, and we respect your wishes, but I . . . we . . . think it’s time.” Nate took a deep swallow of his whiskey, finishing the glass in one gulp, then refilled it from the bottle on the tray. “Didn’t you tell me that Brock felt like a stone had been lifted from his heart when he finally told his wife everything? And what about Eamon? He said the same thing.” His gaze pinned Teague to his seat. “You never allowed yourself to grieve.”
“When was there time?” he asked, trying to keep the anger out of his voice.
“That’s my point. There was so much to do then. Brock and Eamon were recuperating. There were funerals to arrange. Desi Lyn to take care of and all those newspaper reporters hounding you day and night. Celia and I understand all that, but Teague, it’s been over four years.” He cocked an eyebrow. “What would your father say? Or my father, for that matter. He may have been an old country doctor like me, but he understood people, and he’d tell you the same thing.” He narrowed his eyes behind another puff of smoke. “Are you waiting for permission? Hell, man, you’ve got it.”
Teague listened to Nate’s advice and tried to be patient. They had his best interests at heart, he knew, but still, every part of him rebelled, fought against their counsel.
Because they were right. And he knew it, finally able to admit it to himself, though the knowledge made his stomach clench.
He’d never grieved. He’d taken all his sorrow and stuffed it deep inside, never to let it see the light of day. He pasted a smile on his face and got on with the business of, well, not living, but at least putting one foot in front of other, doing his job, and taking care of everyone else.
“Talk to Ryleigh.” Celia suggested, her soft, understanding gaze imploring him to take the advice as she moved away from the porch railing and cupped his chin so he had to look directly at her. “She’s a good woman, Teague. Probably the best thing that ever happened to you. It’s obvious to everyone how much happier you’ve been since she came to town. She’s been good for you, a challenge you never expected. I know . . .we know that you love her. How could you not?” She released his chin and moved toward the door. She opened it but didn’t go inside. Instead, her gaze intent on him, she said, “So quit being a stubborn ass and tell her everything.” And with those words, she entered the house, letting the screen door slam behind her.
Startled by her shocking language―Celia never cussed―Teague could only stare, whatever response he’d been prepared to make stuck in his throat. He turned toward Nate, who had the most surprised expression on his face and grinned.
“Guess I got her riled.”
“I guess you did.” Nate shrugged as he crushed the cigar butt into the glass dish. “What is it with us that we’ve chosen to fall in love with willful, outspoken, but incredible women?”
Teague had no answer for that. He simply shook his head, then finished what was left in his glass. The liquor, as well as Celia’s affectionate regard, warmed him down to his toes. Strange, the knot in his stomach unraveled a bit, too.
“Speaking of headstrong women, heard you tried to get Ryleigh to leave Paradise Falls.” Nate chuckled, his eyes dancing with laughter.
Teague stifled a groan. Were there no secrets in this town?
“We all heard how you broke down her door and dumped her into the stagecoach.” He laughed a little harder, slapping the arm of the rocking chair as he did. “Heard Cooter Henry brought her back from Durango, and if I can believe him, she was fit to be tied. Called you every name in the book according to him. I think she might be a bit more stubborn than you.” Still chuckling, Nate rose to his feet, and strolled to the door, holding it open, indicating he should follow. “I hate to tell you this, my friend, but I think you’ve met your match in Ryleigh Steele.”
Chapter Fifteen
The people he loved and trusted most wanted him to tell Ryleigh everything . . . from the moment the Logans rode into town to the instant when he saw the devastation at Whispering Pines. Maybe they were right. And in the retelling, could he finally find the peace that had eluded him thus far and forgive himself for failing to protect his family?
He finished writing the note, inviting Ryleigh to the house later that evening, then folded the paper and stuck it in his pocket. He checked the clock on the wall, then rose from his chair, grabbed his hat from the hook on the wall, and jammed it on his head. He tightened the buckle on his gun belt then pulled one of the revolvers from its holster, made sure it was fully loaded only to repeat the process with the other one. Satisfied, he glanced at Roy, who watched him intently.
He strode to the door, ignoring the concerned expression in Roy’s eyes. “I’m heading over to the Prentice.” He opened the portal, allowing sunlight to shine brightly into the office.
Roy gave him a knowing look but didn’t go through the usual ritual. “Sure, boss.”
“Come on, Shotgun.” The dog scrambled to his feet and raced through the open door. Teague followed, closing it gently behind him and strode down the street, his boot heels heavy on the raised wooden sidewalk. Several people greeted him, but no one stopped him to talk. They knew the stagecoach would be pulling up to the hotel shortly, and the sheriff was always there to greet it.
“Sit. Stay,” Teague ordered as the dog jumped onto the steps of the Prentice. Shotgun sank to his haunches, his tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth. “Good boy.”
He left the dog and entered the hotel. Oscar was at the registration desk. “Afternoon, Teague.”
Teague nodded in return, then leaned against the desk. “You seen Ryleigh?”
The man shook his head, his dark hair falling over his forehead despite the pomade he rubbed into it each day. “Not since lunch time. Not sure where she is.”
“When you see her,” he pulled the note from his pocket and handed it over, “give her this.”
“Sure.” He winked as he took the note and placed it in the box for Room 6. “You’re not going to break my door again, are you?” he asked as he turned around, his smile broad, his eyes dancing with merriment.
Teague ignored the question, though his face warmed beneath the man’s grin. In fact, he said nothing, just simply shook his head and left the lobby. He’d never live that down. Word had spread rather quickly that he’d broken the door to Ryleigh’s room, then declared his love for her in the most public of forums, and the gossips spoke of it quite often, usually with a lot of humor at his expense.
He sighed as he joined Shotgun on the steps, his hands on his hips as he peered down the road. Shotgun whined, then leaned against him, nudging his hand with his wet nose. Without thought, Teague reached down and patted the dog’s head, eliciting a sigh from the hound.
A few moments later, the sound of wheels turning over hard-packed dirt thundered in the air. He stepped into the road as the stagecoach rounded the bend and came to a halt in front of the Prentice.
“Pete. Bill.” He greeted the men who drove for the Double Eagle as a lone
man stepped off the stagecoach. Nattily dressed, perfectly groomed despite however long he’d spent within the confines of the coach, he collected a soft-sided valise that Bill handed down from the top of the stagecoach then tossed a coin in the man’s direction. He turned, his gaze taking in the hotel, his expression full of doubt . . . and something else. Derision, perhaps? As if the man expected a better hotel, a bigger town, more sophistication.
There was something vaguely familiar about him, something Teague couldn’t quite put his finger on as he studied him. And then the man smiled and suddenly, he knew. Not too long ago, someone else with that same brilliant smile had stepped off that stage and changed his life.
“Are you Sheriff MacDermott?” the man asked as he switched his bag from one hand to the other and approached.
“I am. Can I help you?”
That brilliant grin flashed once more. There were similarities beyond the smile. The same way of standing tall, the same facial features, although his were definitely more masculine. Even the same color hair as Ryleigh’s. His eyes were different though. They were light blue, not the pure violet blue she possessed, but still filled with the same determination with just a dash of stubbornness. “I’m looking for—”
“Ryleigh,” Teague supplied and grinned.
“Yes,” he said with a laugh. “How did you know?”
Teague shrugged. “You have the same look about you.”
“Alexander Steele.” He held out his hand. Teague grabbed it and shook. “I’ve come to take her home. Kicking and screaming, if necessary. Father’s orders.”
“Home?” That shocked him, though why it did, he couldn’t explain. Well, yes, he could. He never pictured her leaving Paradise Falls, though he wanted her to leave at one time. That had been different. He’d wanted to keep her safe.
“Yes, home.” He grinned. “That means she’ll likely lose our bet.”
Teague shook his head, not sure he heard correctly. “What bet?”
“That little minx!” Alexander laughed as he started walking toward the hotel, his footsteps slow and measured as if he didn’t want to get his shiny black shoes dusty. “She didn’t tell you!”
“Tell me what?”
“We had a bet, she and I . . . There’s a position coming open on the Tribune. We both want it. We were each to write an article and submit them to Father. Whoever wrote the better article would get the job.” If he hadn’t been holding his valise, Teague would swear Alexander would rub his hands together with glee.
Teague’s muscles tensed with the information. So, the prize was a coveted position on their father’s newspaper, a position, according to Alexander, that Ryleigh wanted.
And she would lose, because no one, including himself, would tell her everything she wanted to know. He hadn’t realized it was so important to her. She’d never told him about the bet or what was at stake. Would it have made a difference if he’d known? Probably not. Though he was willing to tell her everything, he wasn’t willing to give her the interview she wanted, and he’d make that clear to her tonight. Still, would she have enough to write her article anyway? “Is it too late?”
“Too late for what?” The smile faded from Alexander’s face quickly, and he stopped on the step heading up to the porch.
“Her article.”
Alexander shrugged. “Father is furious with her. I would think, given how angry he is, she’s lost all hope of ever having that position or any other on the Tribune. Indeed, she may have lost the job she already has.”
Irritation flared within Teague. Though he wouldn’t give her the interview she wanted, Alexander seemed a bit too happy that Ryleigh would never get the position she desired. As if he’d planned it that way. And perhaps he had. Was it his idea to send her here hoping she would fail?
Teague touched the brim of his hat, anxious to get away from the smug expression on Alexander’s face . . . before he did something he’d regret, like punch the man in the mouth. “If I run into Ryleigh, I’ll let her know you’re here.”
“Thank you, Sheriff. You have yourself a nice day.” Alexander gave him a nod and stepped across the porch to enter the hotel. Teague watched him walk up to the registration desk, his mind in too much turmoil to fully absorb everything Ryleigh’s brother told him except for the glaring statement that he was taking her home, kicking and screaming, if necessary.
He smirked. Alexander Steele must not know his sister very well. If Ryleigh didn’t want to leave Paradise Falls, she wouldn’t. He knew. He’d tried, and she’d come right back, her intention to stay quite clear. But would her intention be the same now? Would she gracefully accept defeat and climb aboard the next stagecoach out of Paradise Falls even though she wouldn’t get the interview or position she wanted? And did he want her to go?
No, he didn’t.
• • •
Teague paced the length of his study and glanced at the clock on the wall. It was seven-twenty. Ryleigh was late. Was she not coming?
Waiting for her to arrive irritated him, like meeting Alexander Steele had done. He wasn’t pleased with the information Ryleigh’s brother had imparted regarding the bet between himself and his sister, nor in the way he’d done so. In fact, he hadn’t liked Alexander at all. He’d been arrogant and so superior, delighted with the fact that Magnus Steele was furious with Ryleigh to the point that she may have lost not only the position she wanted, but the one she already had.
One thing remained clear from the encounter. A rivalry existed between the two, probably decades old, for the affection and respect of their father, something Teague couldn’t understand. Shamus had loved all his boys equally, of that he had no doubt. There was no jealousy between brothers, no competition for affection.
He drew in his breath, pushing his feelings about Alexander from his mind, and took a seat. Drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair, he glanced at the clock again. The minutes ticked by with excruciating slowness.
Now that he’d made his decision to tell her everything, he wanted to get it over with, even though the thought scared the devil out of him. He hadn’t spoken of that day since it happened. Could he? Or would the words remain trapped in his heart like they had been for the past four years?
He stood and poured himself a glass of whiskey, then downed it in one swallow, but the liquor did nothing to calm his nerves. He lit a lamp and turned up the wick, placing it on the desk to chase away the growing darkness in the study, then started pacing, going from one end of the room to the other. Shotgun, curled into a ball beside the fireplace, lifted his head and watched him, his eyebrows waggling.
He heard the kitchen door open and close, then her voice, sultry and sweet. “Teague? I got your note.”
“I’m in the study.” He shuffled to the doorway and looked down the hall. She stood with her hand still on the doorknob, as beautiful as ever in the dress with the amethyst buttons that drove him mad, and his heart skipped a beat as she moved toward him, flashing him that saucy grin he’d fallen in love with. Shotgun chose that moment to rise from his place and wander down the hallway into the kitchen. He pushed his nose at her hand.
“Hello, Shotgun.” She smoothed her fingers over the dog’s head, then turned her attention to him as she strode forward. “Sorry, I’m late. Your note said seven, but I just got it. I was watching the Miller children while Elizabeth went to see Nate. There’s to be another little Miller in about six months’ time.” Happiness radiated from her violet blue eyes but quickly changed to concern as she drew closer to him. Her warm smile never faded though as she stood on her toes to kiss his cheek. “Is everything all right? You don’t look . . . well.”
He nodded, not trusting his voice to speak, then clasped her hand and escorted her into his study, leading her to his favorite chair. Shotgun followed, then sat beside her, his body leaning against the chair, his head resting on the arm so she could pet him.
Teague poured a glass of whiskey and handed it to her, then took the seat beside her. He jumped to his fe
et immediately, unable to sit still, and started pacing again. “This is harder than I thought.”
“What is, Teague?” She turned the glass in her hand but didn’t drink. Her gaze rose to his, her eyes wide and troubled, her voice a little shaky as Shotgun sank to the floor and rested his muzzle on his paws. “You’re making me nervous. Have I done something wrong?”
“No. Yes.”
She chuckled, but the tone was apprehensive, proving her anxiety. “Which is it? Yes or no.”
“Yes. You fell on me.” He laughed quietly, then took a deep breath. “You came into town and turned my world upside down. Made me feel things I never wanted to feel. Most of all, you—” He took a sip of his whiskey, letting the heat of the liquor warm him. “I’ve been told by just about everyone that I need to tell you what happened when the Logans rode into town. I’m willing to do that, but there’s a condition.”
She leaned forward in her chair a little, dread evident in the dark indigo of her eyes and the tremulous smile on her face. “What is that?”
“You can’t put what I’m going to say in the newspaper, your father’s or anyone else’s. Think hard, Ryleigh. The reason you came to Paradise Falls was to get the story, which could have resulted in you getting the position you want on your father’s newspaper. I know about the bet.”
She stiffened and stared at him, her eyes wide, her mouth open, but she didn’t deny his statement. Nor did she confirm it. She didn’t have to. The expression on her face did that for her. “H-h-how did you know?” she stammered.
“I had an interesting conversation with your brother. He checked into the Prentice today.”
If possible, she stiffened even more, and her face became stark white except for the twin spots of redness on her cheeks. “My brother? Xander is here?”
A Kiss in the Sunlight Page 24
