Deborah Camp (26 page)

He looked at her, eyes sharpening. “What do you mean?”

She realized he was taking what she’d said all wrong. “I don’t mean for you to clear out.” She leaned toward him a little and lowered her voice to a whisper. “You surely don’t think I’d be asking that of you after last night!” Sitting back, she let a smile pass between them before she continued. “I’m just saying, if this house is full of bad memories, maybe you should build yourself another one someday. One all your own with no ghosts hanging onto it.”

He arched a brow in consideration, then grinned. “Maybe I should. Maybe I
will
. Someday.”

She exchanged another smile with him, enjoying the glow of their new togetherness and the sharing of their ideas and dreams. Finally she cleared her throat and fastened her thoughts on more mundane items, like running the ranch. “You might ask T-Bone to fix that wagon axle while you and Gabe look for strays.”

“The chuck wagon?”

She nodded. “We busted the axle last spring, and T-Bone keeps putting off the repairs.”

“I’ll send him out with Gabe while I fix the wagon. I’m good at things like that.”

Cassie stared at him, a little surprised. He’d never shown an interest in such work before. He glanced at her and shrugged.

“I served some time in the blacksmith shop while I was in prison. The man there taught me a few things about ironwork besides horseshoes.”

Again she was surprised, since his time in prison was another thing he rarely brought up. “So you worked at things in prison?”

“Yeah. We rotated, working in the blacksmith’s, the laundry, out in the fields.”

“They let you work in the fields?”

“Yep, in leg irons and with guards all around us on horseback. I liked working with the blacksmith best. He was a nice fella and a craftsman. What he could do with a lump of pig iron was pure magic.” He ate in silence for a few minutes before picking up the conversation again. “He was what they call a trustee, a prisoner who has earned some freedom. He wasn’t chained and was able to move around pretty much as he pleased. They locked him up at night, like they did everyone else, but Schotzie—that was his name—was able to move around freely during the day.”

“He became your friend?” Oleta asked.

“No, I didn’t make friends there. I was too full of anger and bitterness to be worth anything as a friend.”

“Did A.J. ever write to you while you were in prison?” Cassie asked. “I only ask because it’s odd that he never even mentioned your name to me.”

“No, he didn’t write. And it’s not so odd that he didn’t talk about me. I was dead to him.”

“Just like that?”

He swallowed the last bite of flapjack with difficulty and pushed back from the table. “Just like that. He never loved me. We weren’t like a normal father and son. We were competitors, him trying to keep his foot on my neck and me trying just once to grind his face in the dirt.”

“Did he love your mother?”

“No.” He stood up, pulled his napkin off his chest, and dropped it beside his plate. “I should get to work.” He started to move to the door, checked himself, and
stopped to lean down and give Cassie a light, lingering kiss on the lips. “I expect you to pine away for me today, boss lady.”

She smiled into his eyes. “I expect your head is swelling so big your hat won’t fit.”

He chuckled and straightened from her. Again he started for the door but made a detour to sweep Andy up into his arms and give him a tickle. The baby laughed and squirmed in Drew’s big hands. Watching them, Cassie swallowed back tears of joy and told herself not to wish for too much or she’d for sure ruin the little bit of happiness she’d found.

Later that day Cassie stood back from the front windows to admire the new curtains she’d just hung—blue and white gingham with wide lace ruffles. They’d been given to her as a going-away gift by her friends back in Whistle Stop. She set a vase of freshly picked marigolds, bluebonnets, and white mums on the low sofa table, shiny with beeswax and elbow grease.

She had shown the curtains to A.J., but he’d threatened to throw them down the well if she put them up.

“I won’t have them lacy rags on my winders,” he’d warned her. “The ones we got is fine, and you shore don’t need to be puttin’ on any airs.”

But A.J. was long gone, and she could do as she pleased. Since his death she had worried more about the ranching chores than in fixing up the house, but today her mind buzzed with plans for painting the outside bright white and repairing the shutters and painting them green or red. Something cheerful, she thought. Something that gladdened the heart.

Oleta came inside, the front of her dress wet and her
arms gleaming with sweat and water drops. “I finished the wash. I’ll hang it out in a minute.”

“Sit down and rest. I’ll do that.” Cassie motioned to the windows. “What do you think? They’re pretty, huh?”

“Oo!” Oleta touched a lacy border. “Where’d you get them?”

“I brought them with me from Whistle Stop. My friends bought the fabric and sewed them up for me.”

“They make the room sparkle!” Oleta whirled in a circle, noting the other changes. “This looks like it’s the home of a happy woman.”

“That it is,” Cassie assured her, resting her hands on the girl’s shoulders and pressing her down into the nearest chair. “You sit for a spell. I’ll hang out the wash.”

“Where’s Andy?”

“Having his nap, but he should be awake soon.” Cassie put on a wide-brimmed hat and tucked her gloves in the waistband of her skirt. She went outside and eyed the two big wicker baskets full of wet clothes. She hoisted one and struggled to carry it to the four lines stretched from pole to pole.

The day was sunny and the clothes would dry quickly. She lifted one of Drew’s shirts from the soggy pile, spreading it from shoulder to shoulder and imagining him filling it. That was one of the first things she noticed about him, she recalled, the breadth of him, the strength of his build.

But his strength was tempered by tenderness. She knew that personally now, although she had sensed it back then, too. Even when she’d argued with him, tried to order him off her land, she had never truly feared
him. Something about him told her he would never raise a hand to her.

He’d begun being her protector within those first minutes, running off the two scalawags who had drifted onto her land again, looking for trouble. Wonder what had become of them? Were they still skulking around these parts?

After shaking out the shirt, she hung it on the line. On a whimsy, she selected one of her own blouses and pinned it beside Drew’s shirt. Quite a contrast! His garment was twice or more the size of hers. She continued to inspect the clothes, mindful that she was trying not to think of how last night had or had not changed things.

In the hours before dawn, when she had lain awake in his arms, she had acknowledged the deeply rooted fear quivering within her, a fear that the heaven she had found would soon be stolen from her. She wished she could talk to someone, wished she had a mother to confide in and seek advice from, but there was no one. She shared much with Oleta, but she didn’t feel close enough to the girl to bare her heart and expose her secrets.

When she had left Whistle Stop behind, she had sworn to herself that she would tell no one of her former life, not even her husband. Once she’d met A.J., she definitely knew better than to tell him she used to be a saloon girl. He would have treated her even worse if he’d known of her past.

Her decision to leave her old life far behind and never mention it to anyone had served her well. She was respected in the community of ranchers and treated like a lady in town. No, she wouldn’t even confide in Oleta, although she didn’t think the girl would ever tell anyone. It was better to keep the past in the past. She didn’t want
to take any chances, especially now that she and Drew had become lovers.

Lovers. Is that what they were?

She smiled. Only time would tell if last night would be repeated, but she felt confident he would seek her out tonight and the night after. He was hers for a while, and for that she was thankful. She’d ask for no more, but if he offered… would she take more?

Pinning the last pair of long johns to the line, she bent to pick up the laundry basket and spotted two riders approaching the main gate. She straightened, recognizing Monroe Hendrix as one of them. Drew emerged from the barn and greeted the visitors. The two men dismounted and shook Drew’s hand. Cassie picked up the empty basket and set it on the porch. Drew was walking the men to the house, so she sat in one of the rockers and waited. She still didn’t recognize the other person. Must be a new ranch hand. She hoped it wasn’t a lawman bringing more trouble to her and Drew.

Monroe grinned and came up onto the porch to kiss her cheek. “Hello, there. You sure are looking pretty today.”

“Thank you.” Her gaze skittered to Drew, and her heart gave a little kick when she saw his dark scowl. “I’m feeling especially good today,” she confessed, turning Drew’s scowl into a smile meant just for her.

“I’m glad to hear it. Have you had any more trouble out here?”

“Not lately.” She angled a look at him from beneath her hat brim. “How about you? I heard you lost a few head to sickness. Nothing contagious, I hope.”

“No, no.” Monroe hooked his thumbs under his belt. “They ate some bad feed or drank bad water.”

“You’ve had trouble with that before.” She didn’t add that she thought he should learn from his mistakes. One of the things that perplexed her about Monroe was his inability to keep a sharp eye on his business. He left too much to his ranch hands, none of whom was especially loyal or reliable.

“These things happen.” He shrugged. “But I’m not taking any chances from here on in. I don’t like this rustling business going on right under our noses, so I’ve taken steps to catch the men responsible.”

“Oh? How are you going to do that?” Cassie asked.

Monroe nodded to the other man. “Hired me a sharpshooter to guard my land. He’s one of the best Regulators in the country. Comes highly recommended.” Monroe motioned him forward. “Let me introduce you to this pretty lady.”

The man placed a boot on the first porch step and leaned in, giving Cassie her first unobstructed view of his face. Her blood turned to ice in her veins.

“Buck Wilhite, this is Cassie Dalton, my neighbor and friend,” Monroe said, but Cassie could barely hear him above the roar in her ears.

Buck Wilhite!
He reached out for her hand.

“My pleasure,” he said, his familiar voice sending chills skittering across her skin as ugly memories from Whistle Stop crowded into her mind. He had been there. He had been a part of the horror, and he knew! He knew she had been a saloon whore.

Even as she extended her hand, she ducked her head, throwing her face into shadow under the hat brim. Her gaze jerked away from his face, which hadn’t changed much during the years. The ominous black eyepatch, oily smile, ever-present scent of cologne wafting off his
skin—all the same, all making her want to scream and run. He was her nightmare, the black shadow of her past seeking her out, blocking out her sunny future. From inside the house she heard Andy’s cranky cry. She shook herself free of the icy grip of yesterday.

“That’s my baby,” she said, rising and moving quickly to the door. “I gotta go.”
Gotta run. Gotta move
.

She darted inside. Her heart lodged in her throat, pounding furiously. Her knees shook so badly that she had to hold onto the furniture as she made her way into Oleta’s room.

The girl was lifting Andy from his crib. She turned toward Cassie and gasped.

“What is wrong?” Oleta asked.

“I’m all right.” Cassie sat on Oleta’s bed. “I… I heard Andy.”

“Shh, little man,” Oleta said. “I will change your wet pants. I think he had a bad dream.”

“Me, too,” Cassie murmured, standing and moving like a sleepwalker to her own bedroom.

She sat at the dressing table and stared blindly into the mirror. All she could see in front of her was Buck Wilhite. What was she to do? Had he recognized her? He hadn’t changed, but she had. Hadn’t she? Inside she had, but what about outside?

Still staring in the mirror, she focused her eyes on her own image and saw what Oleta had seen—a white-faced woman with eyes so large they looked unnatural. Her mouth and chin trembled. She took off her hat and set it on the dresser. Shorter hairs curled at her temples and on her forehead. She was perspiring, although she felt cold, cold to the bone.

Lifting a hand to her ashen cheek, she noted its slight tremor. How could she have protected herself from this? She couldn’t have, of course. She had had no inkling that Buck Wilhite would end up here in the same place.

“Is this my punishment?” she whispered, looking up, up through the ceiling to the firmament. “Because I did those bad things back then”—she swallowed a sob and forced herself to say the words she usually avoided at all costs—“sold myself. Is that why You’ve sent this mean man to tell everyone that he knew me when, that he could have had me if he’d offered enough money?”

When Andy was born, she’d been afraid that he would die for her sins or that his father would take him and make her leave. The possibilities had left her sleepless many nights. She had watched over Andy night after night, terrified that each breath would be his last, certain that this sweet joy would not last, would be taken from her because of what she’d done, what she’d been.

Then she’d worried that A.J. would discover her past and that he’d call her an unfit mother and make her leave without her son. She had envisioned scene after scene and imagined how she would keep her son, how she would kill A.J. if she had to, but she would not leave Andy behind.

None of that had happened, and she’d relaxed a little bit, until Drew Dalton had ridden into her life, throwing it into stark uncertainty again.

Now this. She’d gained Drew’s trust, his respect, his loyalty, only for Buck Wilhite to appear like a specter, hovering over her newfound happiness, deathly sword in hand, ready to rip her world to shreds.

She stopped, suddenly realizing that she had risen from the dresser bench and was pacing furiously like a
caged animal. She sat on the bed, her hands fluttering nervously, her stomach tying itself into knots.