Love Inspired Historical June 2014 Bundle: Lone Star Heiress\The Lawman's Oklahoma Sweetheart\The Gentleman's Bride Search\Family on the Range (32 page)

* * *

The firelight's long shadows gave Samuel McGraw an even more sinister appearance. In Brave Rock, his uniform, finely trimmed mustache and regal bearing made it easy to think him a gentleman. Out here, snickering with a flask in his hand, Clint found it easy to picture the man doing what Lars claimed he had done. The assessment he'd given Katrine had been dead-on: this was a man who would squash anything in his way without a drop of remorse for the consequences. After yesterday's warm and bright afternoon with Katrine, this evening's meeting with the cavalrymen felt doubly cold and dark. A chill dashed down Clint's spine despite it being the middle of summer.

“Evenin', McGraw.” The swing down from Clint's saddle felt like a descent into a den of thieves.

“And here's our man with the badge. Sheriff Thornton, so glad you could make it.” Convivial as his tone was, Clint had the clear impression a man declining an invitation from McGraw lived to regret the decision—if he lived at all. “Jesse here tells me you're ready to prove your worth.”

Clint had made a point of finding Jesse Wellington in the week since the fire, dropping hints and snippets of friendly conversation about his “eagerness” to get in on the private's good fortune. He'd evidently left enough of an impression for Wellington to pass Clint's interest along. That was good—the more people who believed Clint was ready to fall in with this crowd, the more information he could gather. “I am.”

McGraw motioned to the bench seat next to him around the crackling fire. He offered his flask, but Clint declined. He'd jailed enough drunks and seen enough men destroyed by liquor that he'd never wanted anything to do with the stuff. “Seems your timing is right on the money, Thornton. We're hatching a plan I think you'll be especially pleased with, given your name.”

“My name?”

“Bein' a Thornton, I figure it can't miff you too much to help us take down the Chaucers. The bad blood between you and them been running a long time, ain't it?”

Clint settled himself on the bench. “Things are far from cozy between us, that's true.”

“Is it still true? Even with that Evelyn gal hookin' up with your brother?”

Clint gave a disgruntled shrug. “We're learning to live with it. Our beef's with the brothers, anyhow.”

Bryson Reeves took a long swig from his own flask, wiping his lip with a shirtsleeve. “It's them we mean. Got some of the finest farmland in the territories, those three do. Don't seem right to have all that good soil locked up by one family.”

The Chaucer claims? Were these four really thinking of going after so big a target? “You'd need a whole train car full of money to lure those claims away from those men.”

“Now, Thornton,” McGraw cut in, “you of all people should know some things don't get accomplished with ordinary transactions. This here is a matter of the proper incentives. And critical timing.”

Clint did not like the sound of that one bit. “I take it you have a plan for those ‘proper incentives'?”

“Indeed I do. Livestock does tend to wander off in these parts, especially when fences fail. It's such a crucial time for young crops to take, too. A farmer could be wiped out if things didn't go his way, especially if his seed stores disappeared so he couldn't replant. Winter comes quick, and sometimes a man needs to pull up stakes and start over if he's no chance of bein' ready.”

Did McGraw realize how he'd overestimated himself? Had his hunger for power blinded him that much? “They'll band together, those Chaucers. You'd be in for a fight, if they gave in at all.”

“The art of war, Sheriff, is to find your enemy's weak spot.”

Clint stared at the private, wondering exactly what he was threatening. “You mean where to put the bullet?”

“Now, now, I dearly hope it does not come to that. Sometimes, however, tragedies cannot be avoided.”

“I'm not killing for you, McGraw.”

“No one is askin' you to. We're merely counting on you to look the other way should the unfortunate come to pass. Our aim is to entice them to sell cheap and move elsewhere. They can keep their lives.”

He said it as though it were an act of mercy. And here Clint thought his disgust for these men could rise no higher. “Provided they clear out of town.”

“You're a Thornton,” Ryder Strafford piped up for the first time since Clint arrived. “I'd have thought you'd be glad to watch those Chaucers go.”

“I'm not saying I ain't,” Clint offered, just because he knew it was what McGraw wanted to hear. “But I want no part of the killing.” That was the truth. Life was hard fought for in this part of the world. The casual way in which McGraw considered taking lives to suit his purpose was downright despicable.

“No stomach for bloodshed?” Jesse Wellington teased.

“It's not exactly the kind of thing folks look for in a sheriff. I'll be of no use to you if folks run me out of town right behind the Chaucers' exit. You need me, and you need me seen as trustworthy. That means no blood on my hands.” Clint picked up a stick and poked at the fire, applying a casual air to his words. “Just what and when is whatever it is I'm not supposed to see?”

McGraw scanned the sky to the west. “We need a few more days for folks to let their guard down, so I'm thinking Monday night. Unlessen it rains over the weekend. Don't want tracks in fresh mud telling no tales.”

Six days. Could Lars and Katrine hold out that long? “True. Are you going to do more than make off with their livestock? Fires, maybe?”

McGraw's gaze snapped back to Clint. “Why do you need to know?”

“There's friends and neighbors who might be near those lands. Say what you want, but I'd prefer to have some plan to keep them safe if you're planning another fire. Besides, if it's prime land you want, innocent deaths are bad for business. Spooking them off their land is one thing, but driving folks away from Brave Rock is another.”

“Don't you be gettin' too curious, Sheriff.” McGraw sat back, his eyes narrowing. “We can do this with or without you. And as you said, you've seen how kind we are to our enemies. You got some fine land there yourself, come to think of it.”

Clint knew he'd pressed as far as he could for now. Treading the razor's edge between keeping close and raising suspicion was a dangerous game. He stood up to take his leave. “So I'm just to make sure my eyes are looking elsewhere than the Chaucer settlements Monday night. Have I got it?”

McGraw nodded. “No, you'll be riding with us Monday night.”

Clint hadn't counted on that. “With you?”

“I like to keep my associates close. If you're in, you're all in. We'll all be masked, and we'll give you a fresh horse so as no one recognizes you.”

How could he keep the Chaucers safe if he was riding with McGraw's men? “But—”

“Don't worry, son, we won't make you shoot nobody.” McGraw's condescending tone brought a wave of snickers from his men.

Then again, what better way to gather evidence against the men than to be with them as they committed the crime? He was already far deeper into this than he'd ever intended. He might as well play it out to the full conclusion.

He must have hesitated too long, for McGraw stood up to meet him eye to eye. “So are you in or not?” The fact that the private's hand was on his pistol did not escape Clint's notice. Sheriff or not, it was easy to believe that the wrong answer might very well get him killed and thrown into the river within the hour.

“I'm in.” Just for effect he added, “But I expect to be paid well. If I'm riding with your men, I'm collecting like one of them.”

McGraw sat back down, enjoying another healthy swig from his flask. “I do like your backbone, Thornton. You'll do fine.”

Clint settled his hat farther down on his head, glad to be on his way away from these men. The sooner he could rid Brave Rock of their kind, the better. Only now he had an even bigger challenge: gaining the cooperation of the Chaucer brothers. These days, that felt about as likely as the sun coming up at midnight.

If only he could tell Lije to start praying.

Chapter Nine

A
s they walked down the main street that had become Brave Rock's “downtown,” toward the smithy's to pick up the rest of the nails, Katrine stared at her arm. Frowning, she tried not to be annoyed by the long gap between the end of her sleeve and her wrist. Tall as she was, most of the borrowed clothes she wore lately fit poorly despite good-intentioned alterations. She knew folks were kind to offer the clothes, but the “make do” tailoring served as a constant reminder that her own wardrobe lay in ashes outside of town.

“Still hurts?” Katrine looked up to find Clint's brown eyes following her gaze. His jaw hardened, and she knew memories of that night tightened his chest in the same way it cinched hers. He clearly thought she was staring at her hands where all the scrapes and scratches had been.

“No.” His genuine concern made her complaints feel vain and petty. “It does not hurt. And I should be grateful it does not. Even my feet no longer hurt.” She gave a sigh that belied her frustration with her own heart and behavior. “I have much to thank God for.”

Before she could think better of it, Katrine looked up at Clint when she said the last sentence. Sure enough, something flashed behind his eyes. She knew it would, even before the words left her mouth. He diverted his eyes for a moment, but then his gaze returned to her. They were walking down a street full of busy townspeople, but were uniquely alone. That night had connected them. No matter how they tried to ignore it, the truth of it kept surfacing at surprising, confusing moments.

It hung in the air now, unspoken, suspended between them. Of all the things for which she should offer thanks, Clint's hands that had pulled her to safety topped the list. Lately, the man himself—his protection, his encouragement, his very presence—topped her list. Feeling the moment too keenly, Katrine squared her shoulders and applied a pleasant, everyday smile to her face.

He could not be fooled. Catching her eyes with a sideways glance that gave her permission to be neither pleasant nor everyday, he simply cued, “But...”

The fact that he could now read her so well felt both comforting and invasive. She knew he would see right through any efforts to say the proper thing. His eyes held only a companionable recognition, not any judgment or advice. Rather than try to hide her silly ingratitude, she simply offered a sad smile and held her arms out straight. The cuffs of her practical white shirtwaist barely came past her elbows. “Everything is too short. Everything.” Even her petticoat and skirt fell more to a length suitable for a schoolgirl than a woman of twenty-one years, and she'd let down the hem as far as possible. Wincing, she recognized that the whine in her voice did indeed make her sound like a schoolgirl.

Clint smiled. Not an amused smile, but a softer one that spoke of understanding. Knowing what she knew of his harsh judgments where the law was concerned, his response surprised her. And then again, it didn't—she'd somehow known he would understand. How could this man's actions feel so out of character and yet familiar at the same time? Clint understood her feelings. As they had moments before, his eyes said,
It's all right
even before he spoke.

“I'm the youngest of three brothers,” he began, adjusting his hat. “I've spent years grousing about having to make do with someone else's castoffs. Some days it's hard to be grateful.”

“You are the youngest. I had not thought about that.” The image of Clint as a young boy, shirt cuffs rolled up to fit and pants cinched small enough with a belt, poked its way into her imagination. Its contrast to the man ever in control and now walking down the street beside her brought a smile to her lips. “You are the most serious of your brothers, aren't you?”

He chuckled. “Oh, I don't know about that. Lije has a powerful purpose in life, and Gideon seems to prefer his own company to any of us—before Evelyn, that was—but I don't know that either of them would rank me as the most serious. I was a mite dour as a child, though. Always grousing about how things weren't as they should be.” He paused for a telling moment before adding, “Lots of things weren't as they should be growing up.”

Goodness, but she knew how that felt. “The world should feel perfect and wonderful when you are young. But it does not always come to us that way, does it?”

“No.” Clint's voice sounded as if he was far away in some memory. “Not for me.”

She wanted to ask, but knew this was neither the time nor the place to explore whatever sad stories made up his past. She'd heard bits and pieces from Lars or the other Thornton brothers: a father lost to the war, hard times after the plantation was lost, and nearly everyone in town knew something terrible had driven the wedge between his family and the Chaucers. No, Clint Thornton's childhood memories were neither perfect nor wonderful. “Times were hard?” It seemed a weak question, but she could not come up with another.

“Sorrowful hard.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Matter of fact, I'm not sure I'd be lying if I told you I didn't own a new shirt or shoes until I was twelve.” Then, as if to push all of those memories safely behind him, he raised one eyebrow and teased, “Twenty, maybe.”

“Twenty?” She laughed openly, feeling the bitterness unwind from around her heart. “Surely it could not have been as bad as all that.”

“Maybe not quite that bad.” His mischievous look faded, leaving a dark streak across his eyes. The sheriff had shadows in his past, too.

“At least all my brothers are my size.” She could hear him dismiss the unpleasant memories as if he'd wiped them off a slate board. “You can't say the same about those who've lent you clothes. Near as I can figure, you've got half a foot on most of the ladies in Brave Rock.”

While she hadn't given the issue much thought in years, she did seem to feel her height every day since the fire. Pulling on too-short clothes every morning made forgetting it impossible. Suddenly she was eleven again, feeling awkward and gangly.

“All of us Thorntons were short until we shot up like weeds near our tenth birthdays. Were you and Lars always tall?”

Lars. It felt so good to be able to talk about him. Most people in Brave Rock talked carefully around the subject of her “late” brother. They were trying to be kind, to spare her from crying and such, but it only made her want to shake folks and shout that he still lived and would come home soon. “Yes, Lars especially. I cannot remember ever feeling short. Such names I was called when I was younger! ‘Beanstalk.' ‘Tree.' All in Danish of course, but none the kinder for it.”

“Young'uns can be cruel. They never count how that kind of thing sticks to you.” He spoke from experience—that much was clear—but didn't elaborate.

“I hated being so tall growing up. Even if we had enough money—which we never did—I have had to make my own clothes as long as I can remember. Or add trims to ones I could buy.”

“You shouldn't take your height amiss,” Clint said, narrowing one eye. “It suits you. You're graceful.” Then, as if he hadn't intended to say something like that, he cleared his throat and stuffed his hands in his vest pockets. “Besides, you'd look odd next to Lars if you were all tiny and dark.”

His attempt to cover up the flattery failed. He'd called her graceful. He thought of her as such. The genuine compliment—for she knew he wasn't a man of false praise—settled warm and soft under her ribs. Why was he always surprising her with such gestures? “Well, you would look just as odd next to your brothers if you had corn hair.”

He burst into laughter at the reference, and she joined him. The world had felt heavy on her shoulders for so long that such frivolity soothed like cool water on a dusty afternoon. How she longed for the days when the hardest thing she faced was how to coax her roses to bloom in Oklahoma soil.

“That I would.” Clint suddenly turned completely around, looking back in the direction they had come. Katrine stopped, wondering what had caught the sheriff's eye, but only found him staring down the ordinary-looking street, scratching his chin in thought. “You know,” he said after a pause, “Gideon told me Evelyn just got one of those fancy pedal sewing machines.”

Katrine shrugged, stumped by such an odd comment from a bachelor. “Did she?”

“She's got one of those contraptions, I'm sure of it.” Without another word, he started walking toward Fairhaven's Mercantile. “Come on.”

Even with her long legs, Katrine found herself almost running to keep up with him. “Why?”

Clint simply walked into the store and went straight up to Polly Fairhaven. “Mrs. Fairhaven, Pastor Thornton sent me here to fetch Miss Brinkerhoff some fabric. On the church's tab. She's a need to make herself some new clothes on account of the fire.”

“On
my
account,” Katrine corrected, not willing to be Brave Rock Church's first charity case.

“On the
church's
tab for now,” Clint reiterated with a look so commanding Mrs. Fairhaven nearly gulped. Katrine was afraid he'd gesture toward the star on his vest as if the law required the purchase. “We'll settle up later if need be. Enough for two skirts and maybe a blouse or two of some kind.” He flapped his hand between Katrine and the shopkeeper as if declaring a partnership. “Seems to me you ladies ought to know what all that means.” Then he looked at Katrine. “I'm off to pick up the rest of the nails and I'll be back in a few minutes.”

Katrine planted her hands on her hips. “But—”

“Mrs. Fairhaven, don't you let her leave until she's satisfied with her purchases and don't you let her put them on her account. I've strict orders from the reverend.”

“You've no such—” Katrine started to protest, but the door had already shut behind Clint. She was sure she heard his chuckle echo down the street.

She turned back from the door, only to find Polly Fairhaven eagerly hoisting two bolts of good broadcloth. “I've some lovely buttercream for a blouse, and what about gray or navy for the skirts? No sense keeping to mourning blacks all the way out here.”

If only she could tell Polly there was no sense in keeping to mourning blacks
at all
. In time, that would come—she had to hold on to the truth of that. Right now, the prospect of new and finely fitting clothes called to her like the sweetest of confections. Katrine shrugged and offered a smile. “You heard the sheriff. All of it.”

* * *

“Shall we say grace?”

Alice extended her hand to Clint, as joining hands for dinner grace had always been the Thornton tradition. It wasn't so hard to take at Sunday afternoon suppers with lots of guests around and a groaning tableful of food.

Tonight's smaller foursome for a midweek supper meant Clint had to take Katrine's hand during grace. He tried not to make a fuss about it, but a cannon went off in his chest when Katrine placed her hand in his. He felt the smoothness of her skin alongside the roughness of the bandage that still covered the deepest of his gashes. Even as he tried to hold her hand as lightly as possible, his mind shot back to the night of the fire. He was grateful prayer required him to bow his head, as looking Katrine in the eyes would prove too much at the moment.

“Bless this food to our bodies, keep us grateful for Your provision and Your gift of salvation. In Jesus' name, Amen.” Even Elijah's short grace was far too long to be touching Katrine's tiny hand. It twitched a bit in his grasp, and he knew the moment was as awkward for her as it was for him. It had become torture and bliss to be around her lately, like one of her beloved roses—too appealing not to risk the angry thorns.

“Gideon couldn't come tonight?” Clint asked, wishing there were more folks around the table than just the four of them.

“Too busy with his horses,” Alice replied. “You know how he is with those animals. Plus, I think his side is bothering him again. That accident with the horse was weeks ago, but I told him he should still take it easy.”

“Never did do what he was told,” Lije teased, patting his wife's hand. “Don't take it personal.”

“He's been paying us no mind his whole life,” Clint offered. “'Specially when it comes to animals.”

“And Walt,” Katrine added. “He is wonderful to Evelyn's boy. They make a fine family.” Her voice held true admiration.

Alice handed a basket of bread to Clint. “Katrine made her potato bread, Clint. Lije said it's a favorite of yours.” Clint didn't care for the look in her eyes, as if she were making matches where she had no business doing so.

“I did say it was tasty.” He gave Alice his darkest
nothing more than that
look as he took a slice and handed back the basket.

“I like it, too,” offered Lije, ever the peacekeeper. He took the basket from Alice's hands and gave himself two slices. “Lars must eat—must
have eaten
well.” He tried to correct himself before the comment, but there was no way to take it back. “I'm sorry, Miss Katrine, that was thoughtless. I miss him and still can't quite believe he is gone.”

“It is how I feel, too,” Katrine said. Clint had to admire her careful choice of words. She was smart enough to push a change in subject. “How is the Nelson baby, Alice? She was so tiny. I have prayed for her every day this week.” Clint noticed she had barely eaten any food on her plate, and she hadn't touched much of the picnic lunch they had the other day, either. Even though he imagined it was normal for folks in grief to lose their appetites, he wondered if Alice or Lije had noticed how much thinner she looked.

“Oh,” said Alice, beaming, “Daisy is just fine. She may be small, but she's got lots of fight in her. I expect she'll hold her own against all those brothers.”

“Five brothers,” Clint said, catching Lije's eye across the table. “Can you imagine the fights? There were only three of us and we tore each other to pieces twelve times over.”