David almost rolled his eyes. She had her story down pat; he’d give her that. It was like listening to a kid’s recitation of the Gettysburg Address, a fine bit of memory work, but delivered too perfectly and without a hitch of emotion.
“Why, after you realized you had a bun in your oven, didn’t you stay in Denver until you were able to locate me?” he shot back.
“Locate you? Did you hear nothing I just said?”
“I heard you, but I have to go with the evidence of my own eyes. That little girl is a Paxton.”
“She is not a Paxton!” she flung at him. “I mean, she is—but she’s not yours! Look at me,” she cried. “Really, really look at me. Have you any recollection of ever having met me before?”
David had already considered how insulted she might be if he confessed the truth, so he decided to say something flattering rather than answer her question. “How could any man with blood in his veins forget a beautiful woman like you?”
She gaped at him. He felt like a cockroach that had just appeared on her supper plate. “You, sir, are completely out of your mind. We’ve never met. You are not my child’s father. Perhaps, in your countless conquests, you have lost the ability to remember each and every woman with whom you’ve consorted, but I have perfect recall of the one man I’ve been with, Daphne’s father. I’ll add that it is patently obvious, at least to me, that I would never keep company with a man of your stratum.”
His stratum? David’s folks had it in them to spew some fancy words, but he’d never heard that one. All the same, he knew an insult when he heard one. Okay, this was going to get ugly whether he wanted it to or not. He hauled in a bracing breath and searched his memory for any highfalutin words he knew. His brain went as blank as a freshly scrubbed chalkboard. “What the hell’s wrong with my stratum?” As he asked, David wished he knew the exact meaning of the word because he’d shove it right back down her throat. “I come from good people, upstanding people, damn it. And you obviously don’t know who you’re dealing with. You will not keep me away from my daughter or deprive me of my right to fulfill my obligations to her. Are we clear on that? My offer still stands to take care of both of you, but you’d best recognize, here and now, that you’re not dealing with some pampered Boston dandy who runs at the first sign of trouble. I’m going to be there for my little girl, and nobody will stop me. If you think different, come with an army to back you up, and while you’re at it, tell the bastards to pack a lunch.”
“This is, without question, the most ludicrous exchange I’ve ever had the misfortune to participate in. She is not your child! What possible reason would I have to lie to you about it?”
“I don’t know,” David admitted. “But you’ve sure got a reason. And yeah, I may be ludicrous, but you’re fixin’ to discover the cut of my cloth, lady. I’ve decided this disagreement isn’t going to be settled in any damned alley. We need to take the issue before someone of authority.” David had to bite down hard on his back teeth to keep from following that with a string of curses to turn the air blue. She was fast becoming one of the most infuriating women he’d ever met. That snooty Eastern accent of hers could get under his skin quicker than an Oklahoma chigger. “So far as I can see, talking any further is pointless.”
She visibly groped for calm and relaxed her shoulders. “Perhaps we should both take a step back, Mr. Paxton. We are both adults, correct? Surely we can discuss this matter and reach a conclusion satisfactory to both of us without involving anyone else.”
David sure as hell considered himself to be an adult, but at the moment his stratum seemed to be something of a problem. Nevertheless, he forced himself to shove away the anger—and, okay, his offended feelings. She clearly didn’t feel comfortable about a hearing before the authorities, and if the two of them could settle this without anyone else making the calls, he was all for it.
“Okay,” he agreed. “Start discussing.”
She turned up her palms in a gesture of helpless bewilderment. “I defer to you, sir. Discuss away.”
“All right, I’ll start with how I think it happened.”
“How you think what happened?”
“What happened between us, in what I guess you’d call the biblical sense.”
Two bright spots of color appeared on her cheeks. “We have never been together in any sense, Mr. Paxton, biblical or otherwise.”
“There you go again, not letting me talk. Maybe my first instinct was right, and we need some referees.”
“Arbitrators, you mean.”
David clenched his teeth. She apparently noticed because she flapped her wrist, muttered something under her breath, and said, “I’m sorry. Please, do continue.”
“Thank you.” He laced that with an edge of sarcasm. “Here’s how I think it came about.” David jerked off his hat, raked his fingers through his hair, and slapped the damned thing back on his head. “I think you and me met—”
“I,” she interrupted. “That is the proper form of the first-person pronoun in that sentence.”
David arched an eyebrow. She had more brass than a rich man’s door knocker. “Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry.” She flapped her hand again. He’d never seen anyone so loose at the wrist, making him wonder if she had gelatin for bones. “Your improper use of pronouns isn’t really important. It’s just that ‘me’ is only used as an object in a sentence. For instance, you’d never say, ‘Tell I what you mean by that.’ It makes no sense at all.”
“I think I made perfect sense the way I said it. If you want a mediator, fine, but if not, please refrain from finding fault with my goddamned English.” David silently congratulated himself on coming up with a big word of his own. Mediator. Not bad for a man with a questionable stratum.
“I beg your pardon,” she said. “Truly, I do. Not another correction, I swear. I’m just very upset right now. Things simply pop out.”
Like telling him her husband’s ranch was near Taffeta Falls, maybe? David jerked on the front panels of his duster, flexed his shoulders, and tried to remember what the hell he’d been about to say. Oh, yeah. His stratum might be lacking, but his memory was good—except when it came to a roll in the hay with this woman.
“I think you and I ran into each other in Denver a few years ago, a one-night—” David broke off because every description that sprang to his mind was too coarse to say to a lady. “A one-night romance, I guess you could call it. I think we met, were having fun, and, oh, well, never mind. Back then, I drank pretty heavy when I went to Denver, not only at saloons, but even at cattlemen’s meetings and potlucks, which is likely where I met you.”
“We never met anywhere, let alone at a cattlemen’s potluck.”
David held up a hand for silence. “Let me say my piece. I think we met that way—or in a situation close to it. You don’t have the look of a sporting woman.”
She jerked up her chin. “Thank you for that much, at least.”
David nodded. “That accent definitely pegs you as a lady from back East. I’m not saying you went looking for trouble, or that I did. But, hello, honey, shit happens.” Glimpsing her appalled expression, he wished he could call back those words. “Bad things happen. Things we never plan to happen. If you lost your parents at a young age, maybe you came out West to live with relatives who didn’t look after you properly at social functions. I’ve always had an eye for fetching females. I probably approached you and struck up a conversation, and while we talked, we drank too much spiked punch.
“When we were both well into our cups, maybe we went for a walk in the moonlight, and the situation got out of hand. Knowing me, I was probably pie-eyed and not thinking straight before I even got to the function. Back in those days I tended to follow my nose straight into trouble, and I obviously found it that night. After I left the potluck, I undoubtedly went to a saloon and got even drunker to finish off the evening. It wasn’t uncommon back then for me to wake up of a morning with no recollection of what went on the night before, so
I would have had no memory of my encounter with you. So I took off for my ranch outside of No Name. A few months later, you realized I’d left my calling card, and you didn’t know how to find me. You ended up in desperate straits, borrowed my name, possibly the only thing you could clearly remember about me except that you thought I lived in Denver, and set out to raise a child born out of wedlock with some semblance of respectability.”
He broke off and swallowed to steady his voice. “No proper young lady should be placed in that position. If we drank spiked punch, it was my responsibility to look after you, not take advantage of you. All the hard times and misfortunes that have befallen you since are entirely my fault. The situation you and my daughter are in right now is my fault. Why can’t you understand that I can’t walk away from that or that I didn’t come here to cause you grief? And, damn it to hell, why do you refuse to admit what’s as obvious to me as the nose on my face, that Daphne is my daughter?”
“Because she isn’t!”
David could scarcely credit her response. He’d given her every out, accepting the blame for everything, and she still wouldn’t acknowledge the corn. “I am here to right a wrong. You can’t stand there and tell me you don’t need help. It’s obvious that you do, and I’m offering it. If you choose not to marry me, fine. But at least let me get you and my child out of this hellhole, set you up in a decent home, cover your living costs, and allow me to be a part of my daughter’s life.”
“Never. I can’t accept help of that magnitude from a complete stranger. You’re not her father. Your story is plausible, I suppose, but it is nothing but that, a story you made up. It has no relation to the actual truth. There’s no earthly reason why I should even allow you to see Daphne again.”
David had done his best to remove the fuse from this keg of dynamite. Now she was waving a lighted match again. He hadn’t set out to ride roughshod over this lady, but he’d be damned if she would deprive him of the right to be a proper father to his child. “Don’t bite off more than you can chew,” he said softly. “I will see my daughter again—trust me on that—and you’ll play hell trying to stop me.”
She pushed away from the building and took a step toward him. The Irish temper David had suspected might lurk beneath her proper, ladylike exterior finally revealed itself. She spat words at him like they were bullets, and the expression in her eyes told him plainly enough that she wished they were. “After listening to this piece of fiction, Mr. Paxton, I’ve come to agree with you. This is clearly a matter to be taken before the town marshal. You, sir, are a lunatic of the first order. I would not consort with a man of your caliber even if I were inebriated. We never met at a Denver potluck. We never sipped spiked punch together. We never created a child together. In point of fact, we have never even met.”
David wasn’t intimidated by her flare of anger. Even with some meat on her bones, she’d still be a woman of diminutive stature. Then, to his utter amazement, she dared to poke him in the chest with her finger—sharp little thumps that might have unbalanced him if he’d been standing on uneven ground. Grown men who were fast with guns avoided confrontations with him, but this pint-size female thought she could stand toe to toe with him? He almost laughed. Luckily for her, he’d been raised to respect the opposite sex and would never lift his hand to a woman, no matter what she did to provoke him.
That didn’t mean he had to stand there and let her thump him. He caught her wrist. The network of bones that pressed against his fingers felt as fragile as a bird’s. “You’ll get no argument from me. This is definitely a matter to be taken before the authorities, but I’ll not be satisfied with pleading my case to only a marshal. Is there a bona fide judge in this poor excuse for a town?”
She jerked free of his grasp. “There most certainly is! So make free. You’ve no proof whatsoever that Daphne is your child. You can’t just waltz into our lives and claim paternity, based on the flimsy fact that we bear the same last name. You’ll leave with my daughter over my dead body!”
“We’ll see about that. I’ll be off to arrange a hearing with both the judge and the marshal.”
She tried to push past him to gain the street. David was so angry that he braced a shoulder against her and set her back a step. She staggered, caught her balance, and treated him to a glare that made his face burn. What he’d just done was unpardonable, and he knew he should apologize, but when he tried to push out the words, he almost choked on them.
“I’ve lived in this town for six years,” she told him. “Daphne was only an infant when I arrived. The judge knows me. The marshal does as well. Do you really think either of them will take the word of a stranger over mine?” She jerked her head up to make a regal exit as she swept around him, skirts held high. “Poppycock! You may be wearing a badge, but you could have gotten it anywhere. You look more like a roughrider than a lawman. They will laugh and send you packing.”
David couldn’t help but admire her pluck. He leaned a shoulder against the corner of the building and called after her. “Mrs. Paxton?”
At his form of address, she stopped like she’d run into a wall and turned to face him.
David had a lot of practice with showdowns, and in that moment, he knew he had her outclassed nine ways to hell. It didn’t take fancy talk and a highfalutin accent to get his point across. “We’ve got a performance at the schoolhouse to attend tonight. I think Daphne deserves to have both her mother and father there. I’ll come back with you and tell that simpering old maid that you’re coming with me. And I’ll arrange a meeting with the judge for tonight, if possible. I’ve got a job and a ranch to tend to back home, so the quicker this is settled, the better.”
She glared at him, her cheeks flagged with crimson. “I have a position of employment, sir. I’ve already taken one leave of absence today, and I can’t afford to take another. I can’t possibly attend the schoolhouse entertainment tonight—or a meeting. Make arrangements for tomorrow.”
“From now on, I’ll be assuming responsibility for the support of our child. That being the case, you can afford to miss a little more work. You’ll be leaving soon, anyhow.”
For a moment, David half expected her to launch a physical attack on him. Instead, she drew herself up to her full height, which wasn’t all that impressive, and turned her back on him. As infuriated as he was, he couldn’t suppress a smile. She was one hell of a lady. He had to give her that. And even in a temper, she was, hands down, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
Chapter Four
S
omehow, Brianna stumbled back to the shop, groped for the door handle, and nearly fell inside. Her hands were trembling with such violence that her shawl slipped from her shoulders to form a black pool on the floor. She sank numbly onto her sewing chair, too rattled to care whether Abigail had heard her return and marked the time. Right now, getting paid for the hours she worked was the least of Brianna’s worries.
Oh, God, oh, God. David Paxton was dangerous. Out in the alley, she’d bungled the exchange, trying to stick to her original story even after he started rebutting her claims. Over the last six years, no one else had picked apart her tale, let alone asked where her nonexistent husband’s fictitious ranch had been located. What earthly difference did it make? To a normal person, it was a small detail and of no great importance, but for reasons beyond her, David Paxton seemed bent on discrediting everything she said. Was he daft? How else could he possibly believe that he had fathered a child with a woman he’d never met?
In truth, Brianna had never been intimate with anyone. Sweet Mother Mary. What if that came out—that she wasn’t Daphne’s real mother, but only her aunt? She might have no legal claim to the little girl at all then.
Her stomach rolled, and she swallowed down the salty taste
of nausea. Paxton had even gone so far as to say he wouldn’t leave Glory Ridge without Daphne. Was she overreacting to perceive that as a threat? He couldn’t take Daphne! She was the child’s mother in every way except biolo
gically, and the only people who knew the truth were clear back in Boson. There were laws. He was a stranger who’d shown up out of the blue. Surely neither the marshal nor the judge would credit his outrageous claims of paternity. That stupid birthmark story, for instance. That splotch on Daphne’s neck had indeed been there since birth, but it wasn’t dark enough to be an actual birthmark. It was only a strawberry patch. Lots of people were born with one, and over time it faded away.
Brianna pressed her shaking fingers against her eyes with such force that she saw spots. After several deep breaths, her heartbeat slowed, and she felt the sweat born of panic dry on her skin. She had to keep calm if she planned to find a way out of this mess.
She rose to drape her shawl over the trunk where she kept Daphne’s blankets, yardage scraps, and sewing notions. Her hands, still cold from being outdoors, felt numb. She began to pace the small cubicle, chafing her arms with brisk passes of her palms over the puffed sleeves of her shirtwaist. The smell of hot bacon grease and sautéing onions drifted from Abigail’s quarters. The odor turned Brianna’s stomach. How did that disagreeable woman manage to remain pencil thin when she ate so often? The question no sooner entered Brianna’s mind than she tossed it out. She needed to concentrate on far more important matters. If Paxton arranged a meeting with the judge and marshal, she would have to be rock solid with her story, not allowing his questions or allegations to unnerve her. To all intents and purposes, she was Daphne’s mama. No one could disprove that. Could they?
An alarming thought occurred to her. Paxton didn’t look like any lawman she’d ever seen, but he did wear a badge. What if he actually was a marshal? Might he not have the resources to check out her story? She never should have told him she’d been abandoned as an infant. There weren’t that many orphanages in Boston. If he started digging and had the necessary funds to hire investigators back East, he would eventually contact the correct institution, and the truth about Daphne’s mother would come out. Such a discovery would nullify Paxton’s claim that he was the child’s father, but it might also invalidate Brianna’s entitlements. Would a court grant Brianna the right to raise her niece when she was all but penniless? And, oh, God, if the authorities took Daphne, what would happen to her? So far as Brianna knew, there were no decent orphanages closer than the one in Denver, and she could not attest to its quality.
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