"And where will you be going?"
"Don't you worry about me," she said and Patience smiled despite the niggling doubts inside her. She fought for courage. Fought for the strength to walk away from the only man she'd ever loved.
"Patience," he said tightly, "you don't have any place to go."
"Nonsense."
"You don't have any money."
"Piffle."
"You don't have a job."
"Unnecessary."
He reached up, tore his hat off and threw it to the ground. It bounced once, was picked up by a sharp blast of wind, and danced off out of sight. Shoving both hands through his hair, he stared at her as though she'd grown another head in the last moment or two.
"Damn it, you can't just walk out like this and not know where you're going!"
Lightning took a step toward him, curled back his upper lip and growled.
Instantly, she stiffened as a flash of memory darted across the surface of her brain and disappeared again into the mists. "I've told you before, Brady Shaw. Don't shout at me. And cursing is not acceptable."
"Acceptable?" He laughed, but there was no humor in it. Shaking his head, he shot a glance heavenward before meeting her gaze again. "Lady, around you a man has to cuss. It's the only way to stay sane. But you know what? You were right before. It's none of my business where you go."
"Well, you needn't be so nasty about it."
“This ain't nasty," he assured her. "But if you want to see nasty…”
The hound growled again and Brady looked at it. "Go ahead, dog. Bite me. That'd make the day perfect."
One of her eyebrows lifted and Patience laid a hand on Lightning's neck, calming him. "Apparently, you're in no mood for a rational conversation."
"And haven't been since you hit town."
She sniffed. Oh yes, a short separation was just what they needed. He'd see. He'd find that life without Patience Goodfellow was simply not worth living. One day soon, he'd come after her, begging her to return and marry him. She smiled at the notion. And maybe, she thought, with a long, last look into those lake-blue eyes of his, if he was very lucky, she'd accept his next proposal as readily as she had the first one.
"Goodbye, Brady," she said and, keeping one hand on Lightning, walked away, leaving him standing in the cold wind alone.
Just as he wanted to be.
#
That night, Brady lay in his bed and listened to the silence. He'd closed the saloon early, something he'd never done once in the two years he'd been in Fortune.
But tonight was special. Tonight was the first night he'd had to enjoy his reclaimed life.
Moonlight shimmered through the crack in the curtains hanging across the only window in his room and lit up the darkness with a silvery glow. Tucking one hand behind his head, he stared up at the beams overhead and told himself he was a lucky man.
Patience was gone. With the help of her newfound friends, she'd packed up everything and moved out of the room beside his that afternoon. Everything was as it should be, he told himself, smiling into the shadows.
But even as he thought it, his smile faded. "So," he mused aloud, just to hear the sound of his own voice in the quiet. "If everything's so great, why aren't you asleep?"
Disgusted suddenly, he pushed himself up and swung his legs off the bed. Buck naked, he stood up and walked across the bare wooden floor to the fireplace. There, he crouched, laid another log onto the fire, and stood up again to watch the flames devour the wood.
Fire-thrown shadows danced and jumped about the room like demons let loose of hell. Well, that was the kind of company he deserved, he supposed. He'd practically forced a crazy woman out into the street.
Slapping one hand down onto the narrow mantel, Brady scowled into the fire and told himself this was ridiculous. She wasn't his responsibility. She wasn't his problem.
But instead of making him feel better, all that thoughts of Patience did was to bring her image to the forefront of his mind again. Those eyes of hers. That smile. The warmth in her touch and the sound of her laugh. She was so clear in his mind, it was almost as if she were there. In the room with him. He could almost smell her.
A ripple of desire coursed through him and his body tightened in raw hunger. Need pulsed in his veins and he nearly shook with the strength of it.
"Damn, Brady," he muttered thickly, "there are other women in the world. Prettier women. Saner women."
Too bad it was the crazy one he wanted.
Whirling around, he snatched up the blanket off the end of his bed, threw it around him against the cold in the hall, and walked to the door. Flinging it open, he took three steps, stopped outside Patience's now empty room and hesitated just a moment before opening that door, too, and stepping inside.
Emptiness rushed at him. The room still smelled of her, and somehow that made the abandoned room seem even more vacant.
Gritting his teeth, he told himself it was the cold that had him breathing hard as he walked toward the bed. But he knew a lie when he heard it, even if he was the one telling it.
Moonlight filled the room, defining every empty inch of the place. The bed had been neatly made, as if awaiting her return, and in the center of the mattress lay a long piece of ribbon, apparently overlooked by Patience and forgotten in her haste to leave.
He reached for it, and as his fingers curled around the silky scrap, he recognized it as coming from that silly yellow hat she'd worn the day they went to Santa Fe. Brady's thumb traced over the fabric lightly as he tried to shut his mind to the memories of her.
But they came anyway, one after the other, Patience laughing, Patience with temper in her eyes, Patience warm and liquid from his kiss — and he figured he'd just have to get used to them. And as his fist clutched the ribbon tightly, he walked to the window overlooking Main Street. He stared blindly into the darkness and tried to sort through the racing thoughts in his mind.
Only a few minutes ago, he'd been congratulating himself on just how lucky he was. He scowled to himself as his fingers stroked the cool strip of silk. For years, he'd counted on luck to see him through. For most of his life, he'd thought himself blessed with the luck of a survivor. A man who could get through anything as long as Lady Luck didn't desert him.
A cold wind rattled the window glass and crept beneath the edge of the sash, sighing around the empty room like a heartsick lover.
Still holding on to that bit of ribbon, Brady muttered, "Yeah. You're a real lucky man."
CHAPTER TWELVE
The wind howled and hammered at the door of the little cabin, sounding like a damned soul futilely pounding on the gates of heaven. Rain spattered the windowpanes fitfully and hissed as it jumped down the chimney to land on the fire in the hearth.
Patience huddled on the narrow bed, drawing the quilt up close under her chin. She looked around the inside of the long-deserted cabin and wondered what it had looked like when Treasure had come here as a young bride. Naturally, she assumed the walls had been well chinked against the wind that now slipped between the time-warped logs. And she guessed the chimney hadn't been missing a mantel and several bricks and there'd probably been a few more pieces of furniture than this one narrow bed, a tiny table, and the one chair drawn up beside it.
"But maybe not," she mused and gratefully listened to the sound of her own voice. “They had each other so maybe what was in the cabin hadn’t really mattered to them."
She knew very well that if Brady were here, she wouldn't mind the howling wind or the narrow bed or the empty room. Or the darkness crouched just outside.
Windowpanes rattled and the door shook on its hinges as another blast of wind slammed into the old cabin, and Patience shivered. Leaving town had seemed like such a good idea a few hours ago. Yet now, a hollow feeling settled in the pit of her stomach and Patience dearly wished she was safe in her room over the saloon. With Brady in the room beside her.
A rising tide of self-pity rose up inside her, and as she recognized it f
or exactly what it was, Patience scowled into the firelit shadows. She should be ashamed, she thought. Lying here feeling sorry for herself.
Slowly, she straightened out on the bed, unwinding her body from the curled-up, hopeless position she'd been in for too long already. She was a strong, sensible woman. Whimpering and whining was not the way to win the heart of a man like Brady.
"And if it were," she whispered firmly, "I wouldn't want him."
No. She knew him well. Knew what he wanted and needed. And knew that her strength was exactly the right match for him. All she had to do was make him see it. Believe it.
And she would, she told herself, closing her eyes and giving in to the languor stealing over her. His image instantly appeared in her mind and she wondered if he was already missing her. If he was thinking of her. Regretting letting her go. She smiled as she comforted herself with the hope that he was miserable without her, and with that smile still on her face, Patience drifted into sleep.
The dream came without warning and she moaned softly. Faces, blurred and indistinct, rose and fell in front of her. Murmurings drifted past her and she strained, trying to hear, trying to see, until finally one face became clear.
Fury contorted the man's features and his voice lashed like a whip as he shouted, "You're my daughter and you'll do as I say!" He wore a long black coat, knee britches, and black shoes with pewter buckles. Nothing shiny. Nothing fancy. Nothing pretty.
And his expression hardened as he stared at her. Patience saw herself, shoulders straight, spine rigid, as she faced him down, refusing to cower one more time from her father's rage. Her simple gray dress was dirty, as though she'd been knocked to the ground earlier.
She felt his anger. Felt her own pride and stubbornness — and fear. He lifted his right hand and slapped her face hard enough to draw tears from her eyes, but still she wouldn't bend.
"I won't marry that horrid old man you've promised me to," she shouted back at him. "I'd rather die."
Her father's familiar face went a deep purple shade and she thought his heart might burst in his chest. "You're a plain woman, Patience. You've had no other offers. I'll not support you, and Jacob Pennyworth is willing to have you."
"Willing?" she countered, feeling a strange sense of pride for having finally found the courage to stand up for herself against her father's bullying. "Of course he's willing. No one else will have him."
"Enough!" he shouted again, looming over her until Patience took a step back instinctively. He raised his fist and…
She woke up. Jolted from sleep, she sat straight up on the tiny bed. Her heart pounded fearfully in her chest. Her breath came short and fast. Sweat beaded her upper lip and her mouth was dry and bitter with the taste of fear.
Dragging breath after breath into heaving lungs, she told herself it was only a dream. Consoled herself with the fact that nightmares couldn't hurt her. But the images were so clear. The voices more of memory than dream. The fear so overpowering she nearly choked on it.
And staring into the darkness, she wondered if maybe Brady wasn't right after all. What if, she thought, as a chill tingled along her spine, what if she really was crazy?
#
A baby screamed and its harried father jiggled it unsuccessfully.
Another man, just as bewildered, offered advice. "Try giving him a bottle."
"He already ate everything."
"Then maybe you should change his um… you know."
"No, sir." The father shook his head emphatically. "I ain't doing that again. It's disgustin'."
Brady sighed and looked away from what had become a familiar sight in the saloon. Men were suddenly in charge of the children. They were straggling in here at all hours, looking for companionship and help. But there was just no help to be had.
"The whole world's gone crazy," he muttered.
"It's war, that's what it is," Sam complained and slammed his closed fist down onto the bar and gave the other man a glare he usually reserved for the men he locked up. Brady just stared at him, amazed as he interpreted that look. "And this is my fault?"
"You're damn right it is," the sheriff said. He paused just long enough to pick up his beer, take a long swallow, and slap it back down again. "This all started 'cause you shot your damn mouth off about Patience."
A knifepoint of regret, topped off with a little guilt, stabbed him in the guts.
Jesus. Three days since he'd spouted off in the bar — three days since Patience had up and left — and the ache the mere mention of her brought was still fresh as a daisy. He muttered a curse and told himself, as he had for the last three days, that this was just temporary. Soon enough, Patience Goodfellow would be nothing more than a bad memory and his life would be just the way it used to be.
Simple.
Uncomplicated.
Lonely.
Shit.
Brady reached behind the bar for a bottle of good brandy he kept there for special occasions. Like when he wanted to drink and not poison himself with the rotgut that passed for whiskey around here. Pouring himself a healthy dose, he brought the glass to his lips and drank it down like bad-tasting medicine.
Fire roared through his insides and it was the first time in three days he hadn't felt cold.
"Sheriff's got a point, boss," Joe piped up. "Ever since you and Patience had that go-round, the females in town have been on the warpath."
"And it's getting worse," Sam told him, gesturing with his drink until the beer inside the glass sloshed over the edge and splashed onto the bar.
Joe wiped it up without a word.
"You're not blaming this on me," Brady argued. "Just because the men in this town can't get along with their wives —“
"Oh, it ain't just the wives, boss," Joe said before Sam could. "It's every blessed female alive, from the Widow Thornton right down to Sallye Beth Hartsfield and she's just four or thereabouts."
"He's right," Sam said, giving the bartender a look that said this was his story, and he'd tell it. "This is a war just like what the preacher was talking about in his sermon last Sunday."
Well, that explained nothing, Brady thought and poured another drink.
"He don't go to church," a man called out from the room behind them.
Brady lifted his drink in a mock salute toward Hiram Vines, then turned back to Sam. "What did the preacher say?"
“He was talking about a story one of those Greek fellas wrote a long time back." Sam started and furrowed his brow briefly. "Don't remember the man's name exactly, but that's not important anyhow. This story he wrote —“
"Lasissy something —“ Joe threw in.
"Yeah," Sam agreed, nodding. "It was about how the women in this town of Athens, they got mad at their menfolk and figured a way to get even."
"Yeah…” Brady still didn't understand what this had to do with him. But he was beginning to understand why his saloon had all the earmarks of a nursery.
Joe leaned one forearm on the bar and ducked his head to whisper, "Seems them Athens women started holding back 'favors' from their men, so's they'd stop going to war at the drop of a hat."
Sam huffed out a breath. "Don't you have a beer to pour somewhere?” Then he waited for Joe to move off before saying, "Like he said, the women stopped kissing their men, stopped sleeping with 'em, hell. Stopped doing anything for 'em. No clothes washing. No caring for the children. No cooking. Nothing. And it nearly tore that ol' city apart."
Brady knew the story of Lysistrata. A man alone tends to read a lot. The women of Athens had punished their men in the only way they could. By drawing back and pretty much leaving them to fend for themselves. As he recalled, it had caused all manner of problems.
But if the women of Fortune were turning this town into another Athens by holding out on their men, he wasn't going to take the blame for it.
"And what do you expect me to do about it?"
"Apologize to Patience. Bring her back here. Marry her."
Brady choked on a sip of brandy.
"You want me to marry her so the folks in town will stop fighting?"
"Hell, yes," Sam said.
"Hell, no," Brady told him.
"Well, why the devil not?" Sam argued, then lowered his voice. "You know as well as I do that you miss her."
That cut deep. All right, he thought, maybe he did miss her. But it was the kind of missing you did when a toothache finally stopped hurting, he told himself. You knew the pain was gone, but you weren't exactly longing to have it back.
He lowered his gaze to the bartop and trailed his fingertips along the path of the wood grain. All right, he acknowledged silently that maybe he missed her more than that. Maybe he missed hearing her laughter first thing in the morning. Maybe he missed feeling the warmth of her hand on his arm. Hell, until she'd come to town, he hadn't realized just how little "touching" there'd been in his life. Patience had always seemed to be taking his hand or laying her own hand on his forearm. And damned if he didn't miss those small displays of affection.
Admitting that, though, only served to point out that he'd done the right thing. There was no room in his life for a woman like Patience. It was better this way, he told himself. Even if she wasn't clearly crazy, she was a good woman. Too good for the likes of him. And he had no business even thinking different.
A wharf rat had no place with a lady.
Why didn't she see that?
“Things are gonna start getting ugly around here soon," Sam warned him.
Brady frowned and shook his head. "Not my problem, Sam. You're the sheriff. You take care of it."
"You're the only one who can fix it," Sam said.
"Why's that?"
“’Cause you're the damn fool that started it!"
A spurt of anger shot through him. "Patience started it," he reminded his friend. “The day she showed up." And then, he added silently, she'd made it worse by leaving him.
And apparently, she was doing much better without him than he was without her. After all, she hadn't been back in town, looking for him. She hadn't come around asking for his help. Yet every day he wondered where she was. If she was all right. Every day, he listened for the sound of her voice. Waited to hear the rapid click of her heels against the floor.
When the Halo Falls, a heavenly romance Page 13
