Tomorrow's Shining Dream

by Naomi Rawlings

  Ellie Owens was pregnant.

  That didn’t mean she’d end up like Abigail, though. Women gave birth every day, and most not only survived the birthing, but went on to live long, healthy lives.

  But on the day of Abigail’s funeral, he’d promised himself he’d never put another woman through what Abigail had endured. That was a promise he could keep, because he had full control over it. But Sam and Ellie?

  He squeezed his eyes shut. Part of him knew he had no business warning them not to have children. Sam had wanted blood kin for as long as he could remember. And the truth was, even if Sam hadn’t grown up as an orphan, most young couples wanted little ones underfoot.

  Wes leaned against the side of the window, letting the wind toy with the stray ends of his hair. Instead of being upset Sam and Ellie were expecting their first child, he should probably be grateful he only had one friend in that situation. It was a near miracle Daniel hadn’t married yet.

  Then there was Charlotte. If she wed Andrew Mortimer, she might find herself with child in a few more months.

  He gripped the smooth, adobe wall at the edge of the window. In some ways, Charlie was like a sister to him, and in other ways she was like a daughter. He’d been twelve when Ma and Perseus died, but she’d only been four. Pa had been too buried in grief to remember he had a young daughter who needed him. Their middle sister, Mariah, had never been the motherly sort, so he and Consuela had been the ones to raise Charlie. She’d come to his room every night for almost a year straight and climbed into bed with him, saying she was too scared to sleep on her own. He’d not had the heart to send her away.

  Was it wrong of him to want to keep her on the A Bar W, where she was both happy and healthy? Where he could protect her?

  Trouble was, Charlie wasn’t a frightened four-year-old any longer, Sam wasn’t a bitter orphan boy, and Daniel wasn’t simply his childhood fishing buddy. All three of them wanted a marriage like the one he’d shared with Abigail.

  But none of them understood the pain that kind of love could bring into their lives.

  If only he could protect them, shield them, prevent anything bad from ever happening to them. But he could dictate their choices no more than he could dictate the direction and strength of the wind.

  “Dear God,” he whispered, “protect them all.”

  But what if God didn’t protect them?

  Just like God hadn’t protected Abigail.

  8

  Daniel stared out the window that faced the courthouse across the street. Morning sunlight slanted over the building, creating a long shadow on the road where Rutherford’s brown stallion still stood tethered to the hitching post. The white mare that belonged to his lawyer, Mr. Adams, was still there as well.

  True to his word, Daniel had kept Rutherford in jail overnight. But the bail hearing had finished a half hour ago, which meant both Rutherford and his lawyer should be well on their way back to Fort Ashton.

  The door to his office burst open.

  “Is it true Rutherford only paid twenty dollars to get out on bail?” Clayton Soames stormed straight to Daniel’s desk, the blacksmith’s eyes burning as hot as his forge.

  Daniel pushed himself off the wall. “The traveling judge went with the usual amount he charges for bail.”

  “Yes, but twenty dollars? Judge Grenville charged five hundred last time Rutherford got himself into trouble.” The large blacksmith, who sat on the county’s Court of Commissioners, stalked in front of the desk then pivoted and paced back across the office. His arms were corded with muscles from decades spent pounding iron. “If Rutherford is going to break the law, then he needs to pay a fine that reflects the seriousness of his charges.”

  If only Soames thought that payment should equal some sort of justice. But the man probably meant he wanted to pump money into the county’s coffers to help pay for the water reservoir they were trying to build.

  “What do you intend to do about court, Sheriff?”

  Daniel rubbed the side of his head. “I’ll be well prepared when we go back before the judge in two weeks.” Daniel nudged the stack of papers sitting on his desk. “I’ve got enough evidence against Rutherford that—”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about.” Soames waved a hand as though thirty pages worth of reports and documented evidence was about as significant as a fly landing atop the stack of papers.

  “If you’re talking about Mattherson and the cattle he lost last week, I’ve been out every day searching for them. Believe it or not, I found a strange trail that starts—”

  Thwack!

  The sound of Soames’s beefy hand slamming onto the desk echoed through the room. “I’m not talking about Mattherson or the charges against Rutherford. I’m talking about the lawsuit Rutherford and his lawyer are at the courthouse filing against you.”

  “The lawsuit…” The warmth drained from his face. He glanced back out the window. Now he understood why Rutherford and Adams hadn’t left the courthouse yet.

  He should have taken Rutherford’s threat more seriously. But even if he had, what could he have done differently? Not brought criminal charges against the wealthy trader? Let him out of jail last night before he’d even had a bail hearing? “Bartholomew Rutherford kidnapped a man against whom I don’t have enough evidence to charge with a crime, and then denied the man water, which could well have led to his death. No matter how much trouble Rutherford causes, these charges needed to be filed.”

  “But the man didn’t die, and now Rutherford has filed a lawsuit against your office claiming you illegally searched his property. I want this matter gone, and the other commissioners will, too.”

  Daniel clamped his jaw shut. He wasn’t going to ignore how Rutherford had treated Estrada.

  “I need to get back to the shop.” Soames stalked to the door, then turned back. “Any word on when the rangers are due in town to help catch the rustlers?”

  Daniel spread his hands. “Nothing.”

  Soames yanked the door open. Charlotte stood directly on the other side, one arm poised as if ready to knock, and her other arm holding a basket.

  “Miss Westin.” Soames tipped his hat to her but kept a firm set to his jaw.

  “Mr. Soames.” She glanced between the two of them. “Am I interrupting something?”

  “No, no. I was just leaving.” Soames settled his hat on his head, then looked over his shoulder at Daniel. “Make sure you see to the problem we talked about.” Soames walked out the door and shut it behind him.

  Charlotte made her way to his desk, both hands around the basket handle. “So, um… are you all right?”

  “Fine.”

  “Are you sure? Mr. Soames didn’t seem… very happy.”

  Daniel shook his head. “He’s not, but there’s nothing either of us can do about it.” At least not if he wanted to be able to sleep at night. “You’re wearing a skirt again. Dare I assume you rode here sidesaddle?”

  Her dark blue riding habit looked simple enough, like something Ma or Anna Mae would wear, but a close inspection would probably reveal the garments had been sewn from expensive fabric and that the metallic buttons trailing down the front of her tightly-fitted jacket were gold.

  “I even dismounted without help, thank you.” She lifted the basket on her arm. “I brought some of Consuela’s lemon cake so we can practice eating.”

  “Eating?”

  “So I don’t spill anything on Andrew again.”

  “Right.” He glanced at the table by the back door. “Lemon cake and coffee it is. Anna Mae hasn’t brought over any sticky buns or muffins yet.” Which was a bit unusual. His sister normally delivered some type of baked good before he’d even finished breakfast.

  “Stay behind your desk and let me pour. It will be good practice for serving tea.”

  He didn’t need to be told to sit twice, and watching Charlotte walk across his office in her smart outfit wasn’t a hardship either.

  She set the lemon cake on the table bes
ide the coffee pot and concentrated like the cake was the only thing in the entire world deserving of her attention. She placed slices on two of the small plates stacked on the table, then brought the plates and two forks to the desk, all without saying a word.

  She wasn’t usually this quiet. Was something wrong?

  She returned to the table and picked up both the kettle and a mug for herself before carrying the items over. “Cream or sugar?”

  He raised a brow at her. What kind of man put cream, sugar, or both in his coffee? “I take it black, which you already know.”

  She bit the side of her lip. “But I don’t know how Andrew takes his coffee.”

  “He takes his black, too.” At least he did if he was a man.

  “It’s still proper for me to ask people how they want their coffee if I serve, isn’t it?” Charlotte sunk her teeth into the side of her lip again.

  “Probably. Are you going to pour the coffee or just talk about it?”

  She came around his side of the desk. Her hand trembled, but she still managed to pour a stream of liquid into his cup without spilling.

  She carried the kettle back to her side of the desk, where her hand shook again as she poured a cup of coffee for herself before returning it to the table. Then she walked back to the desk and sat, more silence filling the office.

  Daniel shifted awkwardly in his chair. “Is something bothering—”

  “Oh, see? This is what I mean.” Charlotte reached for her coffee cup. “I’m so bad at this.”

  He blinked. “Bad at what?”

  She threw up her hands. “I haven’t the first clue what we should talk about while we drink our coffee.”

  The silence certainly had a weighty feel to it. “How was your day yesterday?”

  Her brow knit together again, and something he couldn’t quite discern flashed in her eyes. “Pa says I need to send a reply to Andrew today, and I still don’t know what to write him.”

  “How about the truth?”

  She winced. “I tried that, it turned out rather poorly. Trust me, no good will come of sending Andrew a letter reminding him of all the ways I messed up at…”

  Her elbow bumped into her coffee cup, and the entire mug toppled, spilling across his desk.

  Daniel jumped up, gathering his stack of evidence against Rutherford before any of the papers got ruined.

  “I’m so sorry.” She bolted from her chair and raced to the table where Anna Mae kept a stack of cloth napkins, then sopped the dark liquid up. “Did anything get ruined?”

  “Just a report Abe filled out.” He picked up the single sheet of paper that had gotten drenched with coffee. It dripped onto the desk before tearing in the middle. Half of it plopped right back onto the wood in a sodden heap.

  “You see why I need to practice this type of thing.” She wiped the rag over the desk with frantic movements. “I’m just so clumsy when I get nervous or upset.”

  “Accidents happen. No need to get worked up. Abe won’t mind filling out another report.”

  “But don’t you see? Accidents aren’t supposed to happen to women like me, especially not as often as they do.” She twisted the sopping rag in her hand, which only caused coffee to drip out onto the floor. She looked down at the new mess, her face turning pale. “Oh, dear.”

  “Charlotte.”

  She didn’t look at him, just stared at the small puddle of coffee.

  He set his papers back on the clean desk, then walked to her.

  Her jaw quivered.

  “Hey.” He reached for her chin, tilting it up.

  Mistake. The air stilled around them, and her eyes held him there, wide and luminous and full of so many emotions his heart tightened inside his chest. The fresh scent of citrus twined around him, and he lowered his head just a bit, then drew in another breath of her. This close, he could hear the gentle inhale and exhale of her breath, see the slight movements in her throat as she swallowed.

  “Daniel?” Her tongue came out to wet her lips.

  “Huh?” He dropped his gaze to her mouth, to the glaze of moisture that now rested on her lips. He only needed to lean forward another inch or two and their mouths would meet.

  “Do you want something?”

  A kiss.

  He drew in a breath. What was he doing standing so close to Charlotte? How long had he been staring at her mouth? Did she know what he’d been thinking?

  Probably not considering her forehead was drawn into a muddle of confused lines.

  “I… uh, you’re being too hard on yourself.” That’s what he’d meant to say all along. “The mess is cleaned up now and all is forgiven.”

  He gestured to his desk, then reached down and pulled the wad of coffee-soaked napkins from her hand. “I’ll take these back to my house later.”

  He bent to swipe up the little puddle she’d made when she’d squeezed the cloths, then carried the sopping bundle to the back door, where he placed it on the trio of steps outside. Charlotte still stood in the center of the room, her back straight. She was biting her lip again, too.

  He sighed. She was right. As much as he’d tried to tell her otherwise, she was horribly awkward in his company.

  Was that why she’d never taken more of an interest in him? Now that he thought of it, she only ever acted comfortable with two men, Wes and Sam. One was her brother, and the other had lived on the A Bar W for long enough he may as well be her brother.

  She acted comfortable around ranch hands, too, but she didn’t have to worry about being prim and proper and impressing anyone while working with horses or cattle.

  “Sit back down.” Daniel walked around the desk, grabbed his chair, and dragged it next to Charlotte’s before plopping down beside her.

  He reached for her hand. Another mistake. It felt warm in his palm and it fit perfectly.

  “What are you doing?” She tried to tug her hand away.

  He only tightened his grip. “Trying to get you to relax.”

  “It isn’t working.”

  Nope, sure wasn’t. She sat stiff as a board in her chair, her hand hard and unyielding in his. He ran a thumb over her knuckles, then leaned in closer and used his other hand to swipe a strand of hair from her face and tuck it behind her ear. “You’re beautiful, Charlotte.”

  She jerked her hand away from his. “I am not.”

  “I like how tall you are, too. How I can look you in the eye without having to get a crick in my neck.”

  Her mouth fell open just the slightest bit, forming a perfect oval with her pretty pink lips. “You do?”

  “I do.” He flashed her a grin. “Now it’s your turn. Try complimenting me. Maybe I look handsome today.”

  She studied him for a moment, her eyes running over his face then down the rest of him.

  A bead of sweat trickled between his shoulder blades. Would she say he looked nice, or maybe that she liked the color of his eyes? Maybe she’d say—

  “Oh, this is poppycock! You look like you always do, and so do I. There’s nothing special about either of our appearances today.”

  Not what he’d been hoping to hear. Not even close. He closed his eyes and drew in a breath, then let it out, long and slow, and opened his eyes. “It’s not poppycock. Has it occurred to you that maybe I think you look nice every day, even in your split skirt and dusty shirt? Maybe I like how you don’t spend hours gussying yourself up every morning, and I like the way your hair looks when you run Athena into town too fast and stray bits fall by your cheek.” He reached out to move one of those loose tendrils aside.

  “You do?”

  He’d said too much. He needed to stop flirting before he gave his true feelings away. Yet somewhere in his little speech, Charlotte had lost the stiffness in her spine and hard set to her jaw. She’d also stopped clenching her hands in her lap so tightly her knuckles turned white. “Now try again, say something that’s both nice and true about me.”

  She pursed her lips and glanced at him sidelong. “You’re big.”
>
  “Ah…” He scratched behind his ear. “That didn’t sound like much of a compliment.”

  A little V formed between her eyebrows. “I’m not sure that it is. You’re big enough to be scary, especially when your eyes get all focused and your jaw gets hard and you start asking a bunch of questions. I suppose in the end that’s a good thing, considering you’re a lawman who needs to haul rowdy men out of a saloon and drag them to jail, but sometimes it’s a little frightening.”

  Had she just said he frightened her? He sat back in his chair.

  “You watch people so intently I swear you can tell what thoughts are running through their minds and whether they’re about to commit a crime. But you never bother to tell anyone what you’re thinking, so a person might lie awake all night wondering and still have no clue come morning.”

  “Um…” What was he supposed to say to that?

  And just how often did Charlotte lay awake all night wondering what he was thinking?

  She twisted her hands in her lap. “Oh, I’m messing this up, aren’t I?”

  Maybe a little. Did she truly think he watched her because he suspected she might be ready to do something illegal? Didn’t she realize he studied her for far different reasons?

  Either way, he needed to approach this whole flirting business differently. “Let’s try something else. Close your eyes and picture Andrew Mortimer in your head.”

  “All right.” Her eyelids fluttered shut.

  “What do you see that you like? What sticks out to you about him?”

  “Um… he’s handsome, in that polished city sort of way. He always wears nice clothes, and he somehow manages to keep the dust off them.” Her eyes flew open. “Do you think he’ll despise that about me? That I always get my clothes dusty?”

  “I think any man with two eyes in his head and a brain behind them should realize you’re a gem.”

  Her throat worked, then she dropped her head to stare down at her lap. “No one thinks that about me, or I would have been married by now.”