The Midwife's Secret (2 page)

“Do you have a deed?”

“Of course I do.”

“Let me see it.”

She fumbled in her purse. “It’s right here.” It was right here, but she was darn well keeping it to herself. There was a problem here. A
big
problem.

Out of the corner of her eye, she pretended to reach into her bag, but she judged the distance to the door. Three feet. What would he do if she refused? He wouldn’t try anything physical in front of witnesses. And if he did, she’d kick him as hard as she could. Her heart drummed. She dug her heels into the floor and met his eyes without flinching. “On second thought, I think I’d better wait for Mr. Finnigan. I’d rather deal with him.”

In a flutter of arms and legs, she sprang to the door for freedom. Neighborly or not, she didn’t like Tom Murdock.

“Get off me, Wolf,” Tom shouted.

Wolf clamped his teeth on the edge of the note, trying to pull it out of Tom’s pocket, but Tom grabbed it back. He stepped around the playful dog and tore after Amanda Ryan. He couldn’t let her escape without seeing the deed. Where’d she go?

He glanced down the street past a horse and buggy, past the tinsmith’s, the apothecary’s, the boot-maker’s and finally past his brother’s office with the freshly painted sign: Dr. Quaid Murdock. Tom wheeled around to scour the other side of town. Soaring through the pine trees of the Rocky Mountains like a massive fairy-tale castle, the new Banff Springs Hotel glistened in the spreading sunlight. The largest and most expensive hotel in the world was a month away from opening. No sign of—

What was that? Around the corner, the edge of a petticoat and hem. He raced toward it, turning into the lumberyard.

The rush of waterfalls over the man-made dam echoed
in the sunny air. The park teemed with wild animals. A dozen bighorn sheep grazed the slopes, and red squirrels raced down the aspens. He glimpsed her near the back of the building, sliding onto her bicycle. She’d left it leaning underneath the side door canopy, which had protected it from the light rain.

He stomped toward her in the mud. A stack of quarter-sawn lumber loomed at his shoulders. In drier conditions, they wouldn’t be alone. A dozen of his men would be splitting logs and unloading wagons.

“Stop right there.” His voice thundered across the fifty feet separating them.

Her eyes blazed into his as she worked harder to speed up, trying to tie her bonnet while grabbing the handles at the same time.

“Leave me alone,” she shouted, leaning into the wind. “Or, I’ll…I’ll call the Mounties.”

He swore under his breath. The Mounties, federal agents appointed to keep law and order in the West. He planned on seeing them himself. Hell, he’d already set up an appointment with his Mountie friend, and she was making him late.

Was she working with Finnigan? Did the two of them plan to build a log cabin on the property together, maybe sell it for a larger sum? Or was Finnigan working alone, and an even bigger bastard than Tom had first imagined?

Things had been going pretty well up until nine o’clock this morning.

Then at the bank, when the bank’s president, Mr. Thimbleton, swore up and down that there was no more money in the sawmill account, Tom had seen firsthand what Finnigan had done. Cleared it out. The whole fourteen thousand, seven hundred and thirty-three dollars. An all-time high due to final payment they’d received Friday for con
struction on the Banff Springs Hotel. More money than Tom had ever seen.

Finnigan had planned it well. Hadn’t even bothered to leave Tom the payroll for this coming week. Never mind Tom’s other bills—the sawmill’s mortgage, payment for his youngest brother’s law school tuition, payment on his middle brother’s medical supplies for his new office. Finnigan hadn’t even left enough to cover Tom’s gift to his pa, the new team of horses.

Tom kicked the dirt.
Dammit.

He’d written a bank draft Saturday, but it hadn’t cleared the account before Finnigan had, which meant Tom’d have to give the horses back. Who could rob an old man in Pa’s condition? And Tom had worked for weeks to select those horses, gentle mares that wouldn’t spook Pa, but strong enough to till soil and pull stumps, if that’s what Pa chose to do with them.

Amanda mounted what looked to be a cracked leather seat. She headed toward him, veering to his left. The solid rubber tires dug a good one-and-a-half-inch groove into the soft mud. It’d be easier to ride on the pebbly street, or the side of the road where new grass was growing. But first, she’d damn well had to pass by him, and he wouldn’t let her get away before she talked.

“You’re going to ride that thing in the rain?”

“It’s no longer raining.”

He pulled in a deep breath of cool mountain air and blocked her path. As he moved, the note in his pocket slipped out, but he shoved it back in. He braced his hands on either side of his hips to confront her.

Her blue eyes flickered. With a look of defiance, she rose off the seat, her skirt catching in the cracked leather and pedaled faster toward him. “Get out of my way or I’ll run you down!”

When he caught the flash of terror in her eyes, he realized with a thud she was physically afraid of him. Afraid of him? With a shudder of guilt, he stepped out of her path to show her he meant no harm.

“I’d never lay a hand on a woman. You have nothing to fear from me.” He lowered the harsh tone of his voice. “I just need to get the facts straight.” Was it possible she’d bought the land from Finnigan, fair and square? “Don’t you want to get them straightened out, too?”

She gulped and slowed down. He placed a firm hand on her bicycle handles to help balance her stop. The wire basket hooked to the front shifted with a sack of packages.

Dismounting, she planted a firm foot on both sides of her bicycle. Taller than most women, she reached to his jaw. She was thin, with a pale complexion, square cheekbones, wiry black hair and long feet, but something about her…

She dressed in baggy clothing, as if to hide her figure. Under normal circumstances, he found that more alluring in a woman than tight blouses and low-cut necklines. It always made him imagine the curves she might be hiding. But these weren’t normal circumstances.

“Cripes, this is heavy.” He glanced down at the metal frame, the chain-and-sprocket-driving rear wheel, the almost equal-size rubber tires. Was that why she was so thin? Because the bicycle was heavy and hard to ride?

The bars felt cool beneath his heated grip. “How did you get that property?”

“I bought it.”

“From Finnigan?”

“That’s right.”

“When?”

“Last month in Calgary.”

He scowled. When he got his hands around Finnigan’s
throat…
Hell.
Looking into the clear eyes of Amanda Ryan, he vowed he wouldn’t lose his piece of property. That land alone was worth more than his little cabin behind the sawmill.

Her jaw stiffened. “I thought you had an appointment.”

“It can wait.” Her gave her body a gaze from head to toe.

She stepped back, flushing. “What do you want from me?”

“Some answers. Have you ever met Finnigan before?”

“No.”

“Are you living up in the shack now?”

Wisps of black hair framed her creamy skin. “Yes.”

“Yesterday, I spotted you with an older woman. Who’s she?”

“My grandmother.”

The animation of her face held him rooted. “Just the two of you staying up there?”

She spoke with a composed, regal quality, in direct contrast to her words. “And my
shotgun.
”

He laughed at the contradiction. “Pardon me, I wouldn’t want to come between you and your shotgun.” He paused. “How can you afford to live alone?”

If she was offended by the comment, she didn’t show it. “I’m a midwife and make my own way. That’s why I want the log cabin built, to set up a practice.”

A midwife? Well, that seemed like a fairly honorable way to make a living. You couldn’t fake being a midwife. He shoved a large hand into his Levi’s pocket. On the other hand, there’d been a quack or two who’d passed through here before, pretending to be doctors when they weren’t, taking money from people and selling medicinal tonics that were nothing more than pure alcohol.

She folded her arms across her chest. Her slicker bal
looned beneath her. Her throat looked warm and satiny at the opening of her collar, but he
wasn’t
noticing.

“Now,” she said, “let me ask you some questions.”

He pulled back and let go of her bars. “Go ahead.”

“Finnigan sold me this land without your knowledge?”

He clenched his jaw. “Seems so.”

“Was it your land, or the sawmill’s?”

He propped a hand on his hip. She asked good questions. “The sawmill’s,” he said with irritation.

“He’s your partner. Does he have signing privileges?”

Yes.
Goddammit, yes. Tom avoided an answer. “That seems to be the question, doesn’t it?”

Staring into a stranger’s eyes, he couldn’t bear to admit his stupidity in trusting Finnigan. Tom had given away a full partnership two years ago for a huge five-thousand-dollar investment. But the money was used for the sawmill’s expansion, which Tom needed to offset the costs of putting his brothers through medical and law schools.

Her bonnet dipped. “Well, it seems simple enough to solve. I’ve got my receipts from Mr. Finnigan. I paid my money, and as his partner, you got your half. But let’s ask him. You said he’s been out of town for five days. When do you expect him back?”

Tom laughed without humor. “Three days ago.”

Her shoulders sagged. “Oh.”

Shaking his head in disappointment, he deliberately kept his voice low and friendly, hoping she’d abide him. “Please, may I see your deed?”

Her lips tugged. She hesitated for a moment. Sliding one leg over the seat and bars, she carefully extracted the caught fabric of her skirt. The bicycle was well worn, a touch rusty in spots, but recently polished and oiled. As the rest of what she was wearing, it was second or third hand. Was that a split skirt she had on?

He’d never seen one before and couldn’t help but stare at the way the green fabric shifted around her slender-ankled boots, one of which was unlaced. And staring at a woman’s boots and ankles…it was a racy thing for him to do. No, Banff hadn’t seen anyone like her before.

Her mended clothing bespoke of poor times. How could she afford his five acres and the cost of building a log cabin? Had her husband left her that much money? If he had, why hadn’t she bought herself some decent clothing?

Or a horse?

Or was this simply an act? Was she a cohort of Finnigan’s? Pretending to be poor, but secretly accumulating a fortune.

He leaned closer and surprised himself with the next question. “Why don’t you still wear your wedding ring?” It was out before he could stop it. But now that he’d asked, he was glad he had. Maybe her astonishment would cause her to blurt a clue. “I mean, most widows do.”

Her cheeks deepened to a brilliant red, the same hue that adorned maple trees in the autumn. “I sold it. To pay for medical supplies.”

It was his turn to feel embarrassed. He shuffled in his boots. “I’m sorry. That question was uncalled for.”

She merely stared. Her eyes were the most striking thing about her. She had deep black hair, but blue eyes. Not brown as you might expect would go with black hair, but tender blue.

She unfolded a yellowish piece of paper from a similar-colored envelope. “Can I trust you to show you this?”

Could
she
trust
him?
He shook his head in disgust at the question and slipped it and the envelope from her fingers.

Looking it over, he let a long sigh escape. It looked legitimate. Signed and dated in Calgary. The barristers and solicitors seal. Finnigan’s signature. Because they lived in
Canada’s national park, no one in Banff actually owned the land, just the buildings, but they might as well have. The grid sections were leased from the federal government for forty-two years, renewable in perpetuity. According to this deed, she’d bought his building and the rights to his property. But who could really tell?

“Thank you, I’ll return it when I’ve had it verified.”

“What?”
She leaped into the air, trying to swipe it from him.
“Give that back.”

He pulled away and bumped shoulders with her, surprised at the jolt that shot through him. “I will, after I’ve had a chance to show it to someone.”

“I didn’t
give
it to you. I allowed you to look at it.”

“Under the circumstances, I think I have every right to keep it for a couple of days.”

Stepping closer until she was only inches from his face, she tossed back her head and glared at him. “If you tear it up…” Her blue eyes sparked against her fair skin. “Well, it won’t make any difference if you tear it up.”

He stiffened at the challenge. She grabbed for it one more time, somehow lost her balance, went careening over him and the bicycle, and he followed her into the mud.

“Oh, blazes,” she muttered, one knee and one gloved hand sunk three inches deep.

Tom’s rear end felt cold and wet, sitting in the muck, but he grappled to rise and to help her. “Are you all right?”

She got up first, hoisting her sopping skirts, disentangling them from the bicycle chain.

“
Just
fine.” Her boot had slipped off and she held her stockinged foot in the air. He hastily glanced away, aware of the impropriety. When she replaced her boot, she gave him a scowl that sent a shudder through his limbs.

Luckily, the deed was safe between his fingers. How
ever, the note from his denim pocket had dropped into the mud beside her foot, face up, fully displayed for her to read. He leaped for it, but not before she gave it an innocent glance.

Embarrassed that she might read the two sentences, he snatched it from her view. It had nothing to do with Finnigan or the sawmill. It was private business between himself and Clarissa Ashford. One he hadn’t even had a chance to fully digest himself. He groaned.

Amanda glanced from his face to the pocket where he tucked the note. Her cheeks heightened with color. “When you’re done with my deed, you know where to find me.”