A Bride at Last (13 page)

“Are you settled?”

A blush swept up behind her ears, and she quickly let go of the hand she’d held on to for too long. “Yes.” She was settled on the seat, but her insides were a complete jumble.

He crossed to his side of the wagon, and she tried to imagine him staying in Breton and picking her up from school every day.

Of course, once he realized searching for Anthony was as futile as Richard did, he’d not stay around for her. What man ignored his livelihood for a sassy, independent spinster when he’d been away from home for two weeks already?

He could find a woman past marriageable age in Kansas to court just as well as he could in Missouri. He didn’t need to get to know her any better.

“Here.” He handed her a lap blanket after climbing onto his seat. “There’s a chill in the wind, gets worse with the speed of a horse.”

“Thank you.” When had she ever had such solicitous attention
from a man before? Certainly not from her two betrotheds, and this man wasn’t even courting her.

On the ride across town, Silas seemed transfixed by the clouds sitting heavy and low above the ramble of businesses and houses crowding the downtown streets.

Were they both staying silent to keep from voicing the same question?

How would they know when to give up?

Luckily, she never had to give up. She could search Breton in her free time for as long as she had a glimmer of hope. But unless Silas gave up his farm, he’d have to return home, leaving her behind to do the searching without him.

She needed to make sure her heart understood that before it got stuck on him more than it already was.

Chapter 9

Silas knocked on the Logans’ door. The pale morning light wasn’t yet bright enough to warm the autumn air.

After a week of searching with no results, the sheriff being of absolutely no help yesterday, and knowing that if he found Anthony, Richard would be taking him home . . . when would his thinning pocketbook override his heart?

Random strangers in Breton had about the same odds of locating the boy as he did, and they could turn him over to Richard with less heartache.

Last night, he’d imagined talking to his best friend, Will Stanton, trying to explain why he was still scouring the same square footage. There weren’t words sane enough to explain why he felt so compelled to find a boy that wasn’t his.

Mr. Logan opened the door and narrowed his eyes. “You here for Miss Dawson again?”

“Yes.” Why was Mr. Logan looking at him like that? He’d cooperated with them when they’d searched the property last week hoping Anthony had left Kate a note or was hiding nearby.

“She’s not here.”

Silas scratched his head. It couldn’t be much past seven. Being Saturday, he’d figured they’d search town for a few hours before getting on the train to Burrow. “Where has she gone?”

Had Kate figured out somewhere to look and couldn’t wait? He’d visited every decent hiding place around town more than once. Knocked on every door he passed. Asked anyone who’d talk if they’d seen anything that might lead to Anthony.

Mrs. Logan poked her head around her husband’s shoulder where she stood behind him in the doorway. “I believe Miss Dawson is painting.”

Painting? The sheriff’s hopeless outlook yesterday had surely deflated her, but she couldn’t have given up entirely. “I’m sorry. Did you say Miss Dawson was painting?” Why did it rankle that she’d not discussed her change of plans with him?

“I believe she usually paints at Plum’s Rock on Saturday mornings. Do you know where that is?”

“On Dry Creek behind the flour mill.” Silas had gathered that information from a random man who’d grown up in Breton when he’d asked him about places boys might hide.

“Are you intending to go after her?” Mrs. Logan stepped around her husband. “We’ve been concerned about her wandering around with you lately. I mean, I know the boy is missing, but he’s not even yours, and we think she’s . . . Well, not that we aren’t worried about Anthony too, but the unseemliness of things—”

“Nothing against you, Mr. Jonesey.” Mr. Logan held out his hand, sending his wife a silencing look. “We only want to be assured her reputation and morals remain impeccable, since she’s under our roof and teaches our girls.”

“We’ve been nothing but upright. We’ve . . .” He glanced at the children behind their mother’s skirts. Were the Logans truly accusing him of impropriety in front of their daughters? “I don’t see how a teacher searching for a runaway student dur
ing her free time is something to frown upon.” Though he was finding it hard not to frown himself. Why did manners matter when a boy might be huddled in a ditch somewhere trying to stay warm at night . . . or worse.

“Oh, not that, but . . .” Mrs. Logan tucked a white-blond strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, some might think the amount of time she’s without a chaperone, or with you without a chaperone . . . perhaps it’s not wise for you to search along
with
Miss Dawson.”

They‘d rather she wander about alone?
Silas pressed his lips together to keep from saying something unkind.

Mr. Logan held his gaze as if expecting a response.

“If you’re concerned about Kate’s reputation, why don’t you and your wife search with us?” He glanced at Mrs. Logan, whose eyes held a condemning glint. She’d be one mean chaperone.

“We’ve got our own children to attend to.”

Silas swallowed, then glanced at the children. He’d have to watch his tongue. “Well then, be assured the amount of time she’s spending with me will soon come to an end. Either we’ll find Anthony or . . .” Or they wouldn’t.

How long until the logical part of him demanded he return to Kansas and care for his property instead of searching for a boy who may never be found?

Silas tipped his hat. Nothing good would come from saying anything more. “Good day, Mr. and Mrs. Logan.”

Heading east, Silas kept the high cylindrical towers of the mill in view as he wove through alleyways. Behind the mill, he crossed over to the ditch containing the meandering creek and slid down through the prairie grasses onto the wide bank below.

A little past the bridge outside of town, he scanned the thick tree growth hiding the little rivulet of water that was Dry Creek.
The big stone jutting from the dirt bank wasn’t too much farther, but he was more concerned about catching a glimpse of a woman’s form than the exact location of a rock.

About fifty yards behind a tree hanging low over the water, a brown flurry caught his eye. Not an uncommon movement with the trees losing leaves, but something . . . yes, a sideways motion and a glimpse of auburn hair.

On the pebbly bank, Kate stood beside a blank canvas propped up against two large rocks. She held a thin paintbrush flat against her lips as she stared out across the creek to where the trees’ leafy castoffs raced atop the cascading water.

A beautiful picture—the water, the sunlight, and Kate. Her hair was sort of on top of her head, but the tendrils framing her face danced in the breeze. Her lips, pursed against the paintbrush handle, looked fuller than usual. He couldn’t see her freckles, but he could imagine them disappearing under the lovely blush that often tinted her cheeks without much provocation. All she needed was a fashionable gown and she’d catch any man’s eye.

Why was she still single? She’d given him the impression she taught to support herself, not because of a high calling or insatiable desire.

She startled and turned in his direction, shoulders stiffened and head cocked.

Hmm.
What noise had he made? He’d quit walking for some reason. “Hello, Miss Dawson!”

She waved her hands in front of her as if attempting to get him to go back.

He stopped. “I didn’t expect—”

“You shouldn’t have come!” Those plump lips had compressed into a tight, thin line. She glanced behind herself.

“Why?” What was she looking for?

She stomped her foot, but then her shoulders went slack,
and she let out a perturbed exhale. “Doesn’t matter now, if he was here, he would’ve already seen you.”

Did she still hope Anthony was waiting to catch her alone? He sighed. Seemed he wasn’t the only one too fixated on finding the boy to realize the likelihood of it happening had expired days ago.

Her shoulders rolled forward in a slump. “I figured he might come to our spot if I separated from you.”

He looked upstream. Nothing out of the ordinary lay along either bank. No flicker of color in the brush.

“What are you thinking?” she asked, lifting her eyes to look at him.

What good was it to deny it anymore? He turned his gaze up to the clouds so he didn’t have to look at her when he spoke. “That my staying is as hopeless as the sheriff said it was.”

Kate walked across the crackly leaves and clasped Silas’s tense arm. She almost let go when she realized how muscular he was, but she couldn’t tear her hand away. He needed comfort, did he not? “Don’t say hopeless. We can’t give up.”

What would be left of her heart if they did?

Silas’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he looked down at her.

She dropped his arm and her gaze, not realizing she’d been staring up at him with . . . with some kind of hope.

Hope that he could do something to make Anthony return?

Hope he’d stay for her?

Why was she even thinking about a man when Anthony’s life was likely in danger?

And even if Silas stayed for a few more weeks, she wouldn’t quit her job for him. She’d not engage herself to anyone again after so short a time—just like he’d not give up his farm for a woman he’d just met.

A passing infatuation wasn’t going to turn her into a fool.

Silas glanced at her empty canvas. “Did you just get here?”

She’d brought everything she needed to paint but hadn’t been able to start. The bright yellow sunbeams dancing across the water’s rapids should have inspired her, but all she’d done was scrutinize every tiny movement in the brush hoping to catch a glimpse of a hiding boy.

“No.” Something downstream flickered. Nothing but a robin. “I was hoping Anthony would show up, since we often came here on Saturday mornings.”

But now that Silas had arrived, should she stay any longer, considering the lecture Mrs. Logan gave her this morning? How could the woman chastise her for searching for the son of her heart even if she couldn’t keep him? Mrs. Logan wouldn’t be complaining if it were her daughters missing. “I might as well pack up. The Logans wouldn’t find you being here alone with me fitting. They’re concerned—”

“About themselves, I know.” He scanned their surroundings. “Surely the Logans wouldn’t chastise you for being out in the open?”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” It wouldn’t hurt Silas’s reputation if people believed them attached, just hers.

He glanced away from her toward the empty canvas. “Do you have any finished paintings you could show me?”

She’d rather have the whole town talk ill of her than show him her sorry attempts at landscapes. “I don’t let anyone see my work.” And none could, since she threw them in the trash bin as soon as she finished.

“Now it makes sense.” He gestured toward her blank canvas. “Invisible paint.”

She chuffed.

“You know, you’re rather pretty when you smile.”

She frowned, and her arms prickled with gooseflesh.

“Oh, well now, a scowl is definitely the more pleasing option.”

She held her breath and tried to get her face to settle somewhere between a smile and a frown. Though why was she shying away from letting him think her pretty? Did he really believe she was, or was he just teasing?

She didn’t want to know the answer.

She was being ridiculous, expecting a man with a home a state away to stay and twiddle his thumbs hoping to find a boy who was likely never returning so he’d realize she’d be interested in his suit. Was this what people meant by being smitten?

“You’re not at all like Lucy.”

“What?” She sucked her lips in. Would he compare her looks to Lucinda’s? His late wife had been far more attractive than she. Or would he tell her he found her more agreeable?

Why did her heart flutter so badly waiting to hear his thoughts?

But instead of saying more, he stooped to pick up a flat rock. He threw the stone across the water. It skipped once, then hit the rocks in the middle of the rapids. “After we go to Burrow, do you have other places you want to look for Anthony?”

Was she fooling herself—and him—holding on to hope? “After what the sheriff said yesterday, I wonder if going anywhere is worth our time, but I can’t bear to stop looking yet.”

He swallowed hard and stared out over the water. “I’ve paid Mrs. Grindall for next week, but I don’t think I’ll pay for another after that. I need to head back to Salt Flatts, to my homestead.” His voice hitched. “You’ll write me if he turns up? Tell me he’s safe?”

Were they truly at the end of a fruitless search?

“I promise, Silas.” She walked over to her painting stuff and
packed her brushes, trying not to let the ache inside keep her from her task.

He took the box she’d snapped shut and turned to walk back the way he came.

“Why don’t we go this way?” She pointed to several stones lodged into the steep bank walls.