“For me?”
David chuckled. “Some candy money. Just don’t spend it all today. If you get a bellyache, your mama may snatch me bald headed.”
Daphne fisted her fingers around the money. “I can spend it another time, Papa. Can I show you where Mama works? She’ll be so excited to see you.”
I’ll just bet, David thought. He glanced along the street, then met the child’s gaze. “It’s not that big a town, pumpkin. I can find the shop fine without your help. Run along. It’s not every day your papa comes to visit and gives you candy money.”
Daphne looked undecided. Her blue gaze clung to his. “What if you’re gone when I get back?”
“I won’t be gone.” David ached to tell the child that he would never leave her now that he’d found her, but until he discussed this mess with her mother, he couldn’t make far-flung promises. “You’ll see me again, darlin’. You’ve got my word on it.”
Visibly reluctant to leave him, Daphne seemed to have put down taproots. Her bottom lip started to tremble. Looking down at her, David thought, Oh, to hell with it, and swept her up into his arms. Like a little organ monkey he’d once seen in San Francisco, she wrapped her thin legs around his waist and clung desperately to his neck. David pressed a kiss to her temple, nearly losing his hat in the process.
“You’re right,” he whispered. “The candy can wait.”
“I love you, Papa,” she whispered back, her shoulders jerking with a sob. “I’m so glad you got my letters and finally came to see me.”
Her clinging arms, her smothered words, and the way she trembled against him almost took David to his knees. She’d waited so long for him to come, and the entire while, he hadn’t even realized she existed. Tears slipped from his tightly closed eyes, trickling down his cheeks and turning cold from the breeze. He felt moisture on his neck as well and knew Daphne was crying with him. She felt so right in his arms. The weight of her was a burden he’d never missed, but now he felt as if he might die if he turned loose of her. He lost track of time as he stood there, embracing his child—a beautiful little girl he’d never known he had.
So this was how it felt to be a father. David had watched both Ace and Joseph act like blithering idiots the first time they held their babies in their arms. Now he finally understood. This child was a part of him, flesh of his flesh and blood of his blood. The love was instantaneous and ran so deep it was almost frightening. David loved his family, he truly did, but this feeling was different. On the way here, he’d hoped countless times that he would learn Daphne wasn’t his—that he’d be free to head home in the morning and resume his nice little life with no kid or unwanted wife to mess up his plans. Now he couldn’t imagine leaving Daphne behind in this shabby town. No way. From this moment forward, it was his job to protect her—with his very life, if it came down to it—and he couldn’t do that if they were separated again.
A wagon turned onto Main, jerking David back to awareness. Loath to release his hold on Daphne, he stepped back on the boardwalk.
“Don’t leave me! Not ever again, Papa. Please? I’m a good girl. Truly I am.”
“I won’t, sweetheart.” The moment David said the words, he knew it was a promise he’d needed to make, and damn it to hell, it was also a promise he would keep. This was his child. She would never wear undersize dresses again or shoes that pinched her toes. And, God as his witness, she’d never consume another scrap of food from a trash barrel, either. Her mother would either accept that, or David would wage war in court for custody. “No more letters,” he said, his voice gone thick. “No more wishing and waiting. From now on, I’m going to be stuck to you like a tick to a hound’s neck.”
She lifted her tearstained face from his shoulder. Her wet lashes formed dark spikes, framing the intense blue of her eyes. “Does that mean stuck really tight?”
David laughed through his tears. He realized his whole body was shaking. His baby girl, dear God, his baby girl. He’d never burped her or changed her diapers. He’d never walked the floor with her when she had colic. He’d probably missed fevers, chicken pox, and heaven only knew what else. Well, he’d be damned if he missed anything more. From now on, when she was sick, he’d be there. When she was afraid, he’d be there. When she needed anything, he’d by God be there.
“Daphne, you ever seen a hound’s neck?”
Her brow wrinkled in thought. He’d seen his ma look that way when she was trying to decide what herbs to use to cure an illness. “Most folks here have sheepdogs.”
“Well, the skin on a hound’s neck hangs in folds, kind of like ruffled curtains. When a tick takes up residence on a hound’s neck, the only way to make it turn loose is to set fire to its arse with a lighted lucifer. That’s stuck pretty tight.”
Daphne burst forth with a wet, tremulous laugh. “Stay away from lighted lucifers, Papa. If you leave me again, it’ll fair break my heart.”
David grinned and gave her a jostle. “Sweetheart, Lucifer himself could set fire to my arse right now, and all I’d do is dance circles around you. I’m not leaving you, no matter what.”
Chapter Three
B
rianna heard a rattling sound and glanced warily at the closed door that led to her employer’s living quarters. Abigail liked to burst in without warning, hoping to catch Brianna “loafing.” The sudden appearances startled Brianna when she was deep in concentration, and she hated the feeling of her heart catching in her chest. Today she particularly dreaded having the old witch sneak up on her because she was groggy from lack of sleep. She didn’t need Abigail hovering to pick apart everything she did.
Brianna flexed her aching shoulders. She hadn’t finished at the restaurant until two in the morning, washing stack after stack of dishes and then tidying up the dining area for the breakfast trade. Five thirty had come early, and she would have given almost anything to sleep in. As it was, she’d barely had time to walk to Mrs. Dawson’s, get the woman’s ironing done, and return to the boardinghouse by seven to wake Daphne for school. After the little girl left, carrying bread and cheese in a knapsack for lunch, Brianna had scurried the length of Glory Ridge to spend the morning ironing at the Wilson place. Their seven children, six of them boys, regularly produced a mountain of laundry, and the mother, Charlotte, still ailing after the birth of her daughter, could no longer keep up with all the work, a boon for Brianna, but a terrible hardship for Mac Wilson, who could ill afford to pay for household help.
Brianna had hoped to snatch a couple of hours’ sleep before starting her shift at the dress shop, but there had been no time. School had adjourned shortly after lunch because it was May Day and there was to be a recital at the church tonight. Daphne had been chosen, along with one other girl, to do a solo recitation. Abigail had denied Brianna permission to take time off from work in order to attend, so Daphne had insisted on doing an attic-room performance this afternoon for her mama. She’d looked so adorable, standing on her washstand stool, all decked out in her new dress and fancy patent leather shoes. As desperate as Brianna had been for a nap, she hadn’t had the heart to disappoint her daughter by saying so. Then, to make matters worse, Daphne bungled her lines, so a practice session had ensued, the child strung taut with last-minute nervousness, Brianna struggling to keep her eyes from drifting closed.
Blinking to clear the film of exhaustion from her gaze, Brianna resumed pumping the foot pedal of the sewing machine, wondering how one could toil as much as she did and still fail to make ends meet. The rent was due on Monday morning. The attic room ran three dollars a week, and she had only two, a fourth of which she’d found on the restaurant floor on Wednesday night while sweeping the dining room.
Mrs. Brighton collected the rent bright and early, and she expected to be paid in full. Brianna felt the rate for a closet-size room was astronomical, but the silver-haired widow refused to budge on the amount. So far, Brianna had always managed to come up with the money because those who didn’t were immediately evicted. No period of grace w
as offered. Without ceremony or apology, any tenants in arrears were given a half hour to collect their belongings and get out. Brianna had seen it occur, and so had a very frightened Daphne. Brianna had promised the child that it would never happen to them. Brave words, indeed, and now she might live to regret them.
There is Daphne’s dress money, she thought blearily. But, oh, how Brianna detested the thought of dipping into the funds David Paxton had sent her daughter. Nearly half of his generous gift remained unspent. Brianna kept it tucked safely away in a deep pocket of her skirt, but it wouldn’t remain there for long if she borrowed from it.
She needed to think about next winter, when business at the dress shop would slow down again. Brianna had started working for Abigail three months ago, in early February, when customers had been so few that she’d been needed for only a short while each day. Now, with spring on its way, women were ordering new summer gowns or having old dresses made over, which gave Brianna more hours. But spring would soon slip into summer, summer into fall, and then winter would come again to tighten everyone’s purse strings. If her money ran out in the middle of January, she and Daphne would be out on the street in subzero blizzard conditions. The thought made her frantic.
Daphne’s money had to be saved for truly dire situations—
to pay the rent during the slow months, to take the child to the doctor if she got sick, and to buy her food when the coffers ran empty. Please, God, help me. I’m not asking for a huge miracle, only a tiny one. I’ll be ever so thankful. I’ll never entertain another evil thought, not even about Abigail. Just, please, hear my prayer and send me an itty-bitty miracle.
Tears threatened. Brianna blinked them away, angry with herself for giving way to weakness. Tears never solved anything. She’d learned that long ago as she wept over her twin sister’s lifeless body.
The wonderful smell of hot vegetable soup drifted from Abigail’s apartment. Brianna’s stomach churned. Oh, how she yearned for a taste. She’d been going without meals as much as she could to trim expenses. No breakfast, followed by a hunk of bread and a cup of lukewarm tea for lunch. Ah, well, she’d sneak some cheese when she cleaned the restaurant kitchen tonight. That would sustain her. Losing more weight posed no great concern. Her gowns, fashioned for her by the nuns when she was eighteen and now out of style even in this isolated community, had grown too snug. Maybe, by eating less, she would grow thin enough to take a deep breath without splitting her underarm seams.
Today Brianna was altering a dress for Mrs. Pauder, a sheep rancher’s wife who’d gained weight over the winter and couldn’t afford a new wardrobe. Normally Brianna detested doing alterations, which in this case involved ripping out stitches and reconstructing the garment to utilize the inseams. The unexposed cloth didn’t fade as quickly as that on the outside, which gave the refashioned gown a striped look. It was tedious work, requiring no imagination, but for once she was grateful. She was too exhausted to take on a truly creative project.
From behind her curtained cubicle, Brianna heard the bell jingle as someone entered the shop. Her ever-thrifty employer had assigned Brianna the duty of dealing with customers to eliminate the cost of hiring a clerk. Sighing, she stopped peddling, pushed Mrs. Pauder’s dress onto the machine’s work surface so it wouldn’t slip to the floor, and rose from her chair. When she heard the thud of a man’s boots on the plank flooring, she grimaced. Occasionally a gentleman stopped in to buy his wife a bonnet, trinket, or length of ribbon. Males invariably took twice as long to decide as most women did. Brianna’s eyebrows arched when she heard the chink of spurs. The farmers and ranchers around Glory Ridge didn’t normally wear them.
She tried to tidy her hair and then swatted at the wrinkles in her skirt. Why she bothered, she had no idea. The sound of a man’s footsteps inside the shop would bring Abigail running, and then Brianna’s presence would be unnecessary. Whether the poor fellow was married or not, her employer would bat her scanty lashes, chatter inanely, and titter like a schoolgirl. If ever a woman had hungered for masculine attention, it was Abigail Martin. Hmph. If Brianna lived out the rest of her days without ever again drawing a man’s interest, she’d be inexpressibly grateful. She had enough trouble avoiding the groping hands of Adam Parks, the restaurateur.
As Brianna swept aside the curtain to greet the customer, she froze in motion. The fellow who stood at the center of the display area held Daphne in his arms. What was a stranger doing with her child? At a glance, Brianna knew he wasn’t a local. She’d lived in or near Glory Ridge for years and recognized practically everyone. Her first thought was that her little girl had met with an accident. Daphne loved horses and sometimes ran out into the street when ranchers rode into town. Once, she had been knocked down. Brianna held out her arms for the child, but before she could utter a word, she noticed the way Daphne clung to the man’s neck. The glow of happiness on the little girl’s face spoke volumes.
Oh, dear God. The front panels of the man’s oily leather duster were tucked behind the butts of his six-shooters, and a flash of silver jerked Brianna’s gaze to the left breast pocket of his blue shirt. A badge. The floor felt as if it turned to water beneath her feet, and she caught hold of the counter to steady herself. An icy chill crawled up her spine. Her heart squeezed and missed a beat. David Paxton. As surely as she lived and breathed, she knew it was he. Questions bounced inside her mind. Why had he come? What did he want? How dare he show up here after she’d told him in her last note that he wasn’t Daphne’s father?
Though lean and not overly tall, he projected a “big man” aura, his stance not precisely threatening but signaling that he had lived with danger as an almost constant companion and was always on guard. His gold hair, visible beneath the brim of his tan leather hat and only a few shades darker than Daphne’s, hung as straight as a ruler to his broad shoulders. He wore his two-gun belt low on his hips in the manner of a fast draw. Except for the badge, his overall appearance was more suited to her idea of a desperado than a lawman. Tawny trousers, scuffed riding boots, and tarnished spurs completed his outfit. The faint scent of bay rum and the silken gleam of his lower jaw indicated that he’d recently shaved, and his clothing looked clean enough, but he was one of those men who would project a slightly disreputable air even in a fancy suit.
When he loosened one arm from around Daphne to remove his hat, Brianna got a clear look at his sharp blue eyes, which seemed to miss nothing. They were underscored by chiseled features, a square jaw, and a full mouth that might have softened the hard angles of his face if not for its grim set.
Keeping one thin arm locked around his neck, Daphne twisted on his hip to flash Brianna a jubilant smile. “Look, Mama! Papa has finally come to see us!”
The room seemed to tilt. Little black spots danced before Brianna’s eyes. Her limbs remained frozen, and her mouth felt as dry as sunbaked rawhide. She was imagining things. She had to be. Stuff this horrible didn’t happen, not even to her. She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again. He was still there. For the life of her, she couldn’t think what to do.
“Hello, Brianna,” he said, his deep voice pitched low. “It’s good to see you again.”
Again? She’d never clapped eyes on this man in her life.
“Isn’t it wonderful, Mama?” Daphne chortled with unbridled delight. “Aren’t you excited? Why don’t you say something?”
Brianna didn’t know what to say, and excitement was way down the list of her emotions, well behind horrified, appalled, and stunned. She felt like a defenseless rabbit caught out in the open by a long-toothed predator, and all she wanted was to bolt for the nearest hidey-hole. Only two things forestalled her: the presence of her child and the forbidding glint in David Paxton’s eyes. It took every shred of self-control she possessed to collect her wits.
Don’t panic, she cautioned herself. Calm down. Because of her letters to a man of the same name in Denver, this fellow was somehow under the impression that Daphne might be his. Just how he thought he’d ma
naged to sire a child with a woman he’d never met could be worked out at another time. Right now, she had to get Daphne out of earshot, and fast, so she could make it clear to this David Paxton that he was the wrong man.
Brianna Paxton wasn’t what David had expected. Braced to recognize her, even if only vaguely, he realized that nothing about the woman seemed remotely familiar. As best he could see in this poor light, she had a memorable head of hair, a striking color somewhere between dark brown and fiery red, large, shamrock green eyes, flawless ivory skin, and delicate features. Altogether not a package he’d be likely to forget under normal circumstances. Problem was, he had a hunch the circumstances surrounding their meeting had been a long way from normal.
He’d been taught better manners than to take stock of a woman’s figure unless he did it on the sly, but in this situation, he found himself staring at her generous breasts, the indentation of her slender waist, and the swell of her hips, hoping against hope that something about her might jar his memory. Had he actually gotten so drunk that he’d had intercourse with this woman and could recall nothing about her? Stupid question. He held the proof of his indiscretion in his arms, a beautiful little girl who was undeniably a Paxton. Whether he remembered it or not, he had trifled with this lady.
And she hadn’t missed his less-than-subtle appraisal. The lift of her chin and the light of battle in her eyes told him that. It was a look of insulted dignity, calculated to reduce the victim to shreds. He’d seen his ma do the same.
That mental comparison was another thing about Brianna that bothered David. Looks could be deceiving; as a marshal, he knew that better than most folks. But unless this gal had experienced a come-to-Jesus moment and completely transformed herself from the skin out, she’d never been a sporting woman in Denver or anyplace else. If the collar of her gray dress had reached any higher, it would have covered her chin. She wore her gorgeous, glossy hair done up in a severe chignon. Curls had escaped to frame her face and lie upon her nape, but he had a feeling she would quickly dispense with them if she saw herself in a mirror. She was comely, exceedingly so, the kind of woman who could make her fortune by plying that most ancient of female trades in a rowdy saloon or bawdy house. But there was a haughty stiffness in her posture that told him she’d never lower herself to cavort with foulmouthed, uncouth men, no matter how much money lined their pockets. She had that indefinable quality his ma called breeding.
Lucky Penny Page 7