by Kathy Shaw
“Sullivan?” Rachel whispered, pulling him from his erotic thoughts. “Are you all right?”
Donovan nodded. “Sometimes I forget how beautiful you are. Then I see you again and I’m poleaxed.”
For half a heartbeat, Rachel cocked her head to one side like she might call hogwash on his compliment. Then smiled. “Thank you.”
Donovan groaned inwardly. Did he slather his flattery on a little too thick? How much sweet talk did a man say to his fiancée?
“Do you want to come in?”
“No, thank you. I’m sorry I’m late getting back to town. If you’re ready, we should probably get going.”
Rachel nodded as she retrieved her shawl from the coat rack beside the door and stepped onto the front porch. “I’m ready.”
Yeah, but was he?
An hour later, Rachel caught her breath as the last strands of a waltz faded away.
Sullivan tucked her arm through his as they walked off the makeshift dance floor. “I’m parched. How about some punch?”
“That sounds wonderful.”
Sullivan seated her on a hay bale close to one of several fires that had been built to ward off the night chill. The small meadow beside the schoolhouse had been turned into a festive scene of colored lanterns, bandstand, and an overflowing refreshment table. “Sullivan?”
“Yes?”
“This time, please remember I prefer the ladies’ punch instead of the more…um…robust gentlemen’s recipe.”
Sullivan winked at her before he turned and walked toward the refreshment table.
Rachel’s breath caught in her throat. Sullivan had never winked at her before. But then again, he’d never given her a single rose before either.
She touched the rose he’d threaded through her hair when she was unwilling to lay it down earlier. Tiny flecks of anxiety flittered across her mind.
Something felt off.
In the past, Sullivan had been showier with his courtesies. Of course, she’d expected flowers tonight, a big bouquet tied with long streaming ribbons. She anticipated him giving them to her in the middle of the dance floor with all eyes on them.
The last thing she envisioned was the intimate gifting of a single rose, the thorns removed so she wouldn’t prick her fingers, given to her in the privacy of her front porch. Just the two of them under a starry sky.
The gesture had turned her into melted butter. She felt all warm and gooey inside.
Since their arrival at the party, she noticed other deviations in Sullivan’s behavior that bordered on odd rather than endearing. Warm and gooey turned to dubious and watchful.
On the three occasions they’d crossed paths with her father, Sullivan had addressed him as Sheriff not Ethan. From the beginning of their courtship, Sullivan had used her father’s given name. So why had he suddenly switched to the more formal title?
Had the run-in with the Pinkerton man this afternoon unnerved Sullivan that much? Or was this his way of reminding her father of his duty to protect the citizens of New Dawn Springs?
Also, Sullivan had been fifteen minutes early tonight. He was never early for anything—especially spending time with her. But he had been tonight. Only he’d thought he was late. And had apologized for it.
That was when she started noticing his occasional odd behavior.
Sullivan Langley never—ever—apologized to anyone for anything. It was just the way he was.
Maybe he was trying to do better.
Rachel flinched when Sullivan sat beside her on the hay bale. She must have been deep into her thoughts not to notice his return.
“I’m sorry,” he said as he handed her a cup of punch. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Two apologies in one hour? What was the world coming to?
Rachel smiled as she leaned away from him and then gave him a playful evil eye. “Who are you? And what have you done with my Sullivan?”
Donovan choked on his punch. What the Hell!?
“Are you all right?” Rachel asked as she pounded on his back.
Hell no, he wasn’t all right. Somehow, he’d been found out—and by the sheriff’s daughter, no less.
He was in too deep. If he, Donovan, just up and disappeared and Sullivan didn’t ever return to the Legacy, suspicion would run rampant. And if Sullivan’s body was found, even his own mother wouldn’t believe he didn’t kill his brother.
No, he had to stay put. Had to try to fake his way out of this mess.
Running was his very, very, last option.
Coughing one last time for effect, Donovan grumbled, “This is what I get for drinking the ladies’ punch.”
“Really? The ladies’?” Rachel leaned over his cup and inhaled. Smiling, she asked, “Why? You always drink—”
“I thought—” Donovan interrupted, not wanting her to dwell on his latest mistake. Evidently, Sullivan enjoyed his liquor on a regular basis. “—it would show solidarity.”
“Solidarity? Against who?”
Faking it just might work, Donovan thought. At least she was listening to him and not waving her father over to take him to the pokey.
“We’re about to be married. A union of two—me and you against the world.” Donovan shrugged one shoulder. “I had no idea my gesture of support would be damned near fatal.”
Rachel chuckled. “That explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“The tiny changes in your behavior.”
“Such as?” Donovan prompted. If he was veering off Sullivan’s normal course of actions, he needed to know the difference.
“You haven’t left my side, with the exception of getting us drinks, since we arrived.”
“So?”
“In the past, we would dance once, maybe twice, and then you’d deposit me in a knot of women and you’d go mingle amongst the men.”
“You make me sound coldhearted,” Donovan replied, letting righteous indignation leach into his tone. Not that he really felt offended. Maybe Sullivan didn’t treat her as well as he should.
“No, of course not. Once you explained, I understood.” Rachel laid her hand on his forearm. “I still do. Business is done when the opportunity presents itself even if it’s in the middle of a party.”
Good Lord, was she that gullible? Was she so in love that Sullivan could get away with such thinly veiled lies?
At least, her blind acceptance of his every word as truth would work in his favor.
Donovan nodded. “Good, I didn’t want to have that discussion again.”
Rachel blushed. “Me, either.”
The sudden pinkening of her cheeks hinted “discussion” might not have correctly described that particular conversation. Now, he really didn’t want to go farther down that path.
After an awkward silence, Donovan prompted, “You mentioned an explanation.”
He sure as Hell hoped she’d come up with something. He was drawing a blank.
Rachel patted his forearm. “It took you a while, and to be honest, I was beginning to think it wasn’t going to happen, but you’re finally thinking of us as soon-to-be husband and wife. A team to face the future together.”
Okay, now he felt like a heel. Until now, he’d thought of her as an albatross around his neck, a means to convince the world—and more importantly, Carter—that he was Sullivan.
Sweet mother Mary, he was an asshole.
Hours later, Donovan stepped off the Hale’s front porch and froze. Someone was watching him, lying in wait.
He’d learned long ago not to ignore the tingling of the hairs on the back of his neck. Oh yeah, someone had him in their sights.
“Langley!” a menacing voice boomed through the night air.
Donovan spun around, not bothering to reach for his gun he knew wasn’t there. But if he got half a chance, he’d pull the smaller caliber pistol he’d hidden in his boot. Keeping his tone even, he spoke into the darkness, “What do you want?”
A medium built man stepped out of the shadows—sure enough
—holding a Colt 44 aimed at Donovan’s chest.
He didn’t recognize the man, which meant the bastard was Sullivan’s enemy not his. How in the Hell was he supposed to scramble out of this?
Maybe he could lead the conversation in circles until the smaller man told him what brought on an ambush on the sheriff’s front lawn. “Put the gun down and we’ll talk about this like gentlemen.”
“Not so brave when you’re the one facing the business end of a pistol, are you?” The man stepped closer, but not close enough to grab him or his gun. “How does it feel to know your life is about to end?”
Donovan noticed the stranger’s eyes were glassy, his cheeks flushed, and his gun hand wavered slightly. The asshole was drunk!
Donovan moved a half-step closer. “Been dipping into the liquid courage, I see.”
“I’ve got all the courage I need, but yeah, I spent some time at the saloon while I waited for you to take Miss Hale home. No need to involve her.”
“I appreciate that, Mr. Jackson,” the sheriff said from behind the other man.
Jackson spun around to face the sheriff. Donovan moved a little closer.
Hale made a show of pulling back the side of his jacket and tucking it behind his holster, then resting his hand over the butt of his pistol. “As I said a couple days ago, I doubt Sullivan purposely sold you soured feed. Now put your gun away.”
“That feed killed my prized studhorse.” Jackson turned back to Donovan. “He did it on purpose. That stud’s bloodline would have buyers from across the country coming to me—not the Legacy—for their stock.”
Bad feed? His life had been threatened over a sack of soured oats? Donovan laughed.
Jackson squinted his eyes and gripped his gun a tick tighter.
Donovan sobered.
“You think it’s funny? I sank every penny I had into buying that stud. Now I have nothing.”
“You have your land,” Hale added, obviously trying to divert Jackson’s attention away from his target.
“And no money to work it,” Jackson countered, still focused on Donovan.
“Talk to the bank,” Sheriff Hale encouraged. “Roker’s a good man. Surely, he’d help you out.”
“I did. Roker said the bank wouldn’t loan money to someone who is an enemy of the Legacy.” Jackson turned to face Hale. “Although, he did admit he wished someone would take Sullivan Langley down a notch or two. It just couldn’t be him.”
That didn’t sound like a friendly banker, Donovan thought. At least, not where Sullivan was concerned.
Jackson swayed on his feet, raising his gun hand to his face to rub his chin. “Come to think on it, Tom Duffy, the barkeep down at the Watering Hole, said almost the same thing.”
Taking advantage of Jackson’s blunder, Donovan tackled him, holding the drunk’s weapon above his head. The tussle was over almost before it started.
“I’ll take him to the jail and let him sleep it off,” Hale said as he lifted Jackson to his feet. “You’re not going to press charges, are you?”
“Nah.” Donovan retrieved his hat from the ground. No way was he going to be the cause of another man spending time behind bars. “But I’m going to look into his claims. If I’m to blame, even unintendedly, I’ll make restitution.”
Sheriff Hale nodded. “He’s harmless. Just a good man who’s hit a rough spot.”
Hale and Jackson turned to walk away when Donovan heard Jackson say, “Why are letting that snake in the grass in the same room with your daughter, much less marry the bastard?”
“I have my reasons,” Hale answered. “Now, get moving. I’d like to find my bed before the sun comes up tomorrow.”
Chapter 5
Two days later, Donovan tugged at the string tie Nessa had so painstakingly knotted around his neck. It felt more like a noose. Or was it the fact he was heading into town to get married? Both could choke the life out of a man if not done right.
“Damn it,” he muttered as he flicked the reins across the back of the buggy’s horse. “Let’s get this over with.”
The buggy sped up.
No way could he not show up for the wedding. Carter had stayed true to his word. Every time Donovan had looked up, Carter was blatantly watching.
The midmorning sun beat down. Oregon days had been unseasonably warmer this spring, but the nights were still cold. It would be nice to have a woman warming his bed. He smiled. Yep, even the blackest clouds have silver linings.
Not bothering to slow the horse, he wrangled out of his freshly ironed jacket.
Suddenly, the buggy shook. A second after that, the right wheel wobbled then fell off. The buggy lurched to the side, giving Donovan a bird’s eye view of the wheel-less axle gouging a gash into the hard-packed dirt road.
The horse reared and screamed as the bit cut into the tender flesh of her mouth. Panic laced with pain hurled her into an all-out gallop.
Donovan snatched the reins he’d laid across his knee while wrestling with his jacket. With both boots on the front broad for leverage, he yanked on the leads with all his might. “Whoa! Whoa!”
Finally, the buggy stopped.
Donovan sat motionless, still clutching the reins, his heart racing. How the Hell…
After the horse had calmed, he climbed out of the buggy to inspect the damage. The axle, splintered and cracked, pierced the road where the buggy had stopped. He spotted the wheel in a grove of trees not more than fifty feet down the road. Not that it would do him any good. The axle was too damaged to try to remount the wheel.
Donovan turned and eased his way to the horse, all the while speaking in a soft, comforting tone. “You okay, girl?”
He waited until the horse could see him before touching her head. “That was one wild ride, huh?”
Running his palm against her quivering neck, he continued to console. “Scared the beejeebers out of me too.”
Noticing blood running from the horse’s mouth, he gently held the halter as he examined the injury. Thankfully, it wasn’t too bad.
He glanced up the road as he unharnessed the horse from the buggy. Oh yeah, it could’ve been a lot worse, as in fatally worse.
Not a quarter of a mile ahead lay Reaper’s Ravine. A hundred-foot sheer drop on one side and an unyielding, almost straight up mountainside on the other.
If he was a superstitious man, he could look at the accident two ways: either fate was telling him not to show for his wedding or fate had saved him from Reaper’s Ravine so he could bind himself to a stranger.
Lucky for him, he wasn’t a superstitious man.
Donovan chuckled as he swung his leg over the back of the injured horse and headed to town. He’d have to take it slow and easy or he might worsen the horse’s injuries.
He might or might not be late. And his appearance might be less than pristine. But he was getting married today.
Chained to a beautiful woman for the rest of his life or chained to a cot in an eight-by-eight cell for fifteen to twenty years? Easy choice.
Fate be damned.
Donovan had one more chore to complete to hopefully convince the persistent Pinkerton man to leave town, for good.
Rachel paced in her bedroom, her wedding dress rustling with every step. She glanced at the mantel clock—again. Twelve fifty-four.
“Sullivan is late,” Becky declared from across the room.
Rachel stopped her pacing. “It would seem so.”
Only Becky could sound both pleased and angry at the same time. But then, Rachel, herself, had been grappling with those same emotions for the last thirty minutes. One moment, she wanted to stomp his face into the ground with her new kit slippers, and the next, she wanted to dance through a sunflower field, singing “Hallelujah!”
“He was supposed to be here by twelve thirty,” Becky continued.
“Correct.”
“The wedding starts at one o’clock.”
Rachel’s temper churned to near boiling. Looked like anger won out. “I’m aware.”
/> “In my opinion, a groom being late to his wedding is the highest form of disrespect to his bride.” Obviously, Becky wasn’t paying attention, or she’d seen the signs of Rachel’s looming foul temper.
“I know your opinion of Sullivan and our impending marriage,” Rachel snapped. “You never let an opportunity go by that you don’t express your loathing of Sullivan. Or point out the colossal mistake I’m making by marrying the man.”
Becky planted her fists on her hips. “And yet, I’m here.”
Rachel stepped back, shocked. Becky rarely lost her temper—especially not with her. She, on the other hand, had a much shorter fuse on her irritability. But in this instance, Becky seemed angrier than even her, the bride being stood up at her wedding.
She wasn’t angry with Becky. Her friend was just the nearest substitute for the real target of her rage.
Before Rachel could apologize, her father knocked on the bedroom door. He entered without waiting for permission. “Sullivan is here. He’s a little disheveled, said he’d explain later. He needs a few minutes to get presentable if you don’t mind waiting.”
Rachel’s temper flared to life again, liking to kerosene being tossed on a fire. But she bit back her acidic retort. She wouldn’t make the same mistake with her father as she had with Becky. “Tell him he has five minutes. If he is one second late, I’m leaving out the back door and he can make the explanations to our guests.”
She had a few choice words for Mr. Sullivan Langley, but they could wait until a more private time. Like their wedding night.
Disrespect didn’t have to be a public flogging to be poignant.
Donovan watched as Rachel stepped off the last tread of the Hale’s staircase. Her wedding dress was simple, yet elegant. The bodice, just low enough to showcase her soft, plush breasts without being objectionable to the sensibilities of their guests or the impending ceremony. Small satin bows pinned her hair away from her face, letting her luxurious locks tumble down her back. The white lace veil framing her face accented her delicate features.
