Lucky Penny

by Catherine Anderson

  When Brianna returned with her skirt filled, Paxton left his fire to saunter toward her with that well-oiled, lazy shift of his hips and long legs that she found so unsettling. Didn’t he ever get saddle sore? Everything about him struck her as being supremely masculine.

  “Hold up,” he said. “No point in building a fire only to have it blow out again.”

  She noticed that he held a short spade. Dropping to one knee, he treated her to a display of rippling muscle across his shoulders and back as he began digging a pit. He was built like a log-splitting wedge, wide across the chest and narrow at the waist.

  “In this country, where there’s no windbreak,” he explained, “you protect your fire with a lip of earth. As long as you insist on cooking your own food, I’ll dig you a spot.”

  Job completed, he sat back on one bootheel, nudged up the brim of his hat, and gifted her with a smile similar to the one he’d used on Abigail to rob her of her wits.

  “I’m hoping you’ll come around soon, though, and eat my fare. If ever a female needed fattening up, it’s you. If a hard wind came along, it’d blow you away.”

  Brianna had often thought the same thing about Abigail, and for an uncomfortable moment, she wondered if Paxton thought she looked like a broom. Then she reminded herself that she didn’t care what he thought. He might be on the fiddle, a seafarer’s term for men who stole extra rations that Brianna had learned as a child growing up near the Boston harbor. On ships, supper plates had a raised edge called a fiddle, which helped to prevent spillage on stormy seas, and those who took more food than was their share had servings that rode that edge. Over time, “on the fiddle” had become a term to describe crooks who stole or committed other reprehensible deeds, and she’d be foolish to forget David Paxton might be of that ilk until he proved otherwise.

  She would not be lured in by those melting blue eyes or that crooked grin that always creased his left cheek, making her wonder if he’d once had a dimple there similar to Daphne’s that had deepened and become elongated by exposure to the sun.

  “I brought food aplenty. I’ll not have my daughter consuming dangerous plants.”

  He shook his head and pushed to his feet. His greater height reminded Brianna once again that he had the physical advantage. Whatever would she do if he decided to exercise his conjugal rights? The marriage last night hadn’t been legal, Brianna felt certain of that, but he still carried the stamped document in one of his bags, which officially made him her husband whether she wanted him to be or not. She was fairly certain he wouldn’t try anything with Daphne sleeping beside her, but what would happen if he caught her alone? Common sense forced her to recognize that she was far too small to fight him off.

  “I’d never offer my child anything poisonous to eat,” he assured her. “And the same goes for you. I know what I’m doing.”

  “So you say.”

  “If I didn’t know what I was doing, I’d have been dead long ago.”

  Brianna didn’t answer that, but the sardonic twist of his mouth told her that he knew precisely what she was thinking—that his sudden demise wasn’t a completely unwelcome possibility.

  Brianna attempted to walk normally as she went to retrieve her bag of food from the mule packs. Crouching to sort through the contents brought tears to her eyes. Clearly, her body wasn’t fashioned for horseback riding.

  “The liniment is in there somewhere, a dark brown bottle wrapped in a white towel. Anytime you’d like to use it, feel free.”

  Brianna had rejected the offer earlier, but now she was so miserable that using his potion sounded like a fine idea. Perhaps she could take the bottle to bed with her tonight and apply it to her sore parts under the cover of blankets.

  Paxton served the remainder of the breakfast rabbit for lunch, along with a green salad and some sort of cooked tubular. Brianna made Daphne sit with her at the other fire, where they dined on charred ham, cheese, and bread, again sharing a borrowed tin cup filled with water so they might sip as they ate.

  “The food we found isn’t making him sick, Mama. Can’t I please have tiny tastes?”

  Brianna’s mouth was watering for some of that salad. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten fresh vegetables. Last summer, she guessed, when she’d harvested them from Ricker’s kitchen garden. In the off season, the only green food on their plates had been snap beans, which Brianna had preserved each autumn. Paxton had even brought a few lemons in his packs, the juice of which he squeezed over the mixture of leaves and blossoms. Every time he forked some into his mouth, he closed his eyes as he chewed, his expression conveying that the taste was sublime.

  “Please, Mama?” Daphne pestered.

  Though Paxton seemed to be suffering no ill effects, Brianna was still reluctant to allow her daughter to eat any of that stuff. Just one poisonous plant in the mix could make the child deathly ill. “Just finish your dinner, Daphne. You’ve got ham. That’s a lovely treat.”

  “But we found small-flower alyssum, and wild onions, and asparagus, and begonia, and field bindweed! Papa watches to be sure I pick the right things. Sweet alyssum is bad for us, but the other kind isn’t. Did you know we found bitter rubberweed? Papa says it’s poisonous to livestock, so he won’t let our horses or Lucy anywhere near it. That’s how come he hobbled them last night where it was safe for them to graze.”

  Brianna always hated having to tell Daphne no, but in this case, she felt it was in the child’s best interest. Drat the man for making the little girl yearn for foods she shouldn’t have. Daphne had been perfectly happy with bread and cheese up until last night, and now she was turning up her nose at ham.

  “When you’ve finished eating, I want you to change into your play frock and sturdier shoes. I’ll help you dig them out.”

  Daphne took a bite of ham and chewed as if she had a mouthful of leather. Even Brianna had to admit that the meat was scorched and dry. The smell of Paxton’s freshly boiled coffee drifted to her on the breeze. Coffee was yet another item that she’d forgotten, and she yearned to ask him for a cup. Her pride prevented her from doing so. She and Daphne would get along just fine with the rations she had on hand.

  For the remainder of the meal, Brianna pondered the gravity of the situation. So far, Paxton had tried nothing underhanded. He’d been pleasant all morning, and he’d been unfailingly wonderful with Daphne. But she was a long way from being convinced that he had nothing nefarious in mind.

  She rubbed her forehead. He seemed so sure Daphne was his. She kept remembering that absurd audience with the judge last night when Paxton had displayed that photograph of a female he claimed was his mother.

  In Brianna’s mind the question was: Could he be believed? The woman might be his mother, but he could have stolen the picture. Only, if the latter were true, how had he managed to come by an image that so closely resembled Daphne when he’d never even clapped eyes on the child?

  Trying to sort her way through this maze was giving Brianna a headache. Each time she reached a conclusion, another thought made her oscillate. Was Paxton precisely what he presented himself to be—an honest man who truly believed Daphne was his child? Or was he a no-account, incredibly clever scoundrel? Brianna was coming around to giving the man the benefit of the doubt. His obvious affection for Daphne didn’t mesh with his taking her across the border.

  And if Brianna took that leap of faith, accepting that Paxton was for real, she had to somehow disabuse him of the notion that Daphne was his. The little girl was falling wildly in love with him, and the longer Brianna let this situation continue, the worse it would be for the child when he finally learned the truth.

  Brianna shifted, seeking a more comfortable position. No matter which way she sat, either her muscles howled in protest or something raw rubbed against the hard ground. She stifled a sigh. He hadn’t believed the web of lies she’d told him yesterday, but she couldn’t really blame him. She was a hopeless liar, and she knew it.

  If she told him the real story of
Daphne’s birth, what were the risks to her and the child? Glory Ridge was far behind them now. There might still be a chance that the authorities would take Daphne away from her because she wasn’t the biological mother, but it loomed far less likely now than it would have last night. If she came clean with Paxton, he would have nothing to gain by exposing her. Instead, he’d probably just wash his hands of her and Daphne, dumping them off in the nearest town to fend for themselves. That would suit Brianna fine. She’d managed before, and no prospective employers could be as bad as Ricker or Abigail.

  She watched Paxton with nervous, uncertain regard. If he was up to no good, then nothing she said would have any bearing on the situation. He’d simply carry through with his original plan. But if he was actually David Paxton, marshal of No Name, the truth might convince him to end this insanity now. So far as Brianna could see, she had nothing to lose by talking to him. Perhaps he would recognize sincerity when he saw it.

  When the dinner dishes had been rinsed and put away, Paxton dug in the packs and tossed Brianna a couple of blankets. “I always like to take a nap after my midday meal,” he said. “Call me a pansy ass if you like, but I need a break from the saddle.”

  Clutching the blankets to her chest, Brianna watched him saunter away. Did he do something special to rope his body with all that muscle? She’d never seen a man so strong, yet limber. He didn’t look tired. In fact, she would be willing to bet he could ride all day and well into the night with no ill effect. Her throat went tight. Was he calling for a rest period on her behalf? She guessed maybe so, which was completely contrary to the caliber of character that she’d assigned to him. He stretched out on the bare ground, using his saddle for a pillow and his hat to shade his eyes. Brianna stood gaping at him for a moment. Then she turned to make a napping pallet.

  Brianna snuggled her daughter close. Daphne thrust her hand into the pocket of her skirt and withdrew the coin that Paxton had convinced her was miraculous. The child held it up to the sunlight, twisting it this way and that.

  “See it winking at me, Mama? It truly is magic. Last night, it helped me remember all my recitation.”

  Brianna wished that Paxton hadn’t filled the child’s head with such nonsense. It was just an ordinary penny. If Daphne continued thinking the coin had magical properties, she was bound to be disillusioned.

  “You should put all your hope in God, dear heart, not in worthless objects.”

  “It isn’t worthless,” Daphne said fiercely. “You don’t understand.”

  Brianna decided to let the subject drop. “Put it back in your pocket, then, so you don’t lose it while you’re napping.”

  Daphne gave the penny another turn and did as she was told. Within minutes, her breathing changed, and Brianna felt certain she was asleep. A pansy ass? Just when she thought Paxton could say nothing more to shock her, he plucked another crass expression out of his hat. Under her breath, she muttered, “He may be a good man, but he has the filthiest mouth I’ve ever seen.”

  It had been a hard day for Brianna, and she yearned to follow the child into slumber. Instead she kept her eyes wide open, waited a few more minutes, and then carefully slipped from the bed. If she meant to tell Paxton the real truth about Daphne’s parentage, she needed to do it while the little girl slept. In time, when Daphne grew old enough to understand what had happened without thinking Moira had been in any way to blame, Brianna would tell her the story, but for now she felt it was best kept a secret.

  Arms crossed over his well-padded chest and booted feet hooked at the ankles, Paxton appeared to be sleeping when Brianna reached him. “Mr. Paxton?” she said softly, so as not to awaken Daphne.

  He didn’t jerk with a start, which told her he either had nerves of steel or he’d heard her approach. Nudging up his hat, he fixed her with a penetrating gaze and said, just as softly, “The name’s David. Don’t you think our daughter is going to find it a bit odd if you don’t use it?”

  “That’s just the problem. Don’t you see? Daphne truly isn’t your daughter.” Seeing him tense, Brianna threw up a hand. “Please don’t lose your temper. I know you warned me not to say that again.” She was so nervous, she caught herself wringing her hands. “I—um—need to talk to you, Mr. Paxton. Everything I told you yesterday”—Brianna glanced over her shoulder to be sure Daphne hadn’t stirred—“was mostly lies, you see. You guessed right about that. Now, rather than let this situation continue, I feel compelled to tell you the actual truth, a story I’ve never told another living soul.”

  Well, now, this sounded interesting. David sat up and righted his hat. He’d seen some nervous women in his time, but Brianna looked ready to shake apart at the seams. His jacket, which swallowed her, quivered around her thighs. She kept interlacing her fingers, digging in hard with her nails, and then giving her wrists a twist to pop her fragile knuckles. His made a loud sound when he did that. Her tiny bones made dainty little clicks.

  “Not here,” she implored as she sent a glance over her shoulder. “I can’t risk Daphne overhearing. Would you stroll down the stream a ways with me?”

  David pushed to his feet and stabbed his fingers under his belt to tuck in his shirttails. If she meant to tell him the absolute truth, why was she so all-fired het up about it? His first thought was that she’d dreamed up another tall tale, hoping he’d believe her this time. Not a chance. He could see a lie coming from a mile off.

  Even so, he agreed to walk downstream with her. With every step she grew more fidgety. He wasn’t sure if it came from being alone with him, out of Daphne’s earshot if she screamed, or if she dreaded having to launch into her story.

  She stopped at a bend in the waterway where the grassy banks closed in on a spread of pebbles to create a musical trickle. To their right, a large rock jutted up from the earth, its top as smooth and round as a cornmeal muffin. Folding his arms, David waited for her to start talking. She stared into the frothy brook, both hands flattened against her waist, her throat working as she struggled to push out the words.

  “Well, Shamrock, are you going to say something or chew on it until tomorrow?”

  She glanced up, and David saw with a clench of his guts that her green eyes swam with tears. Her mouth, which had tempted him from the start, quivered and drew down at one corner. If this was an act, she should have pursued a stage career.

  “When I was born, I had an identical twin,” she finally blurted.

  Okay, David could buy that. He hadn’t met many twins, but he knew they existed.

  “Our parents left us on an orphanage doorstep when we were infants.” She closed her eyes, sending a silvery trickle down each pale cheek. “They left only a note to tell the nuns our names, Brianna and Moira O’Keefe.” She pushed at her hair, which had long since escaped the prudish chignon. Her fingers shook. “Most of the nuns were Irish, and they knew our given names and surname were of Irish origin. Moira—” She broke off, as if speaking of her sister pained her. “Moira and I truly were identical physically. Even the nuns had trouble telling us apart. We made a game of it, Moira and I.” She gazed across the prairie, her face twisting even as she smiled wistfully. “It was great fun when we were little, tricking the good sisters. But they always found us out because although we looked exactly alike, Moira and I had different personalities. She was”—she gestured helplessly with a limp hand—“sweet and ever so dear, a lady through and through, even as a small child. I don’t believe I ever saw her get angry or sass the sisters. She always did as she was told, and she did it cheerfully. She was the closest thing to an angel on earth that ever walked. But I”—she gulped to steady her voice— “I was just the opposite, always in trouble, always rebelling, always craving attention the nuns had no time to give me. In short, I was difficult.”

  David could definitely believe that. She was still difficult. The most infuriating female he’d ever dealt with, anyway. And he’d been right about her being Irish.

  “It was a cloistered order.” David had been schooled
by nuns in San Francisco, so he understood what that meant. “The sisters never left the convent grounds, and only two nuns, Mother Superior and an assigned underling, dealt with tradesmen and other outsiders. We children rarely went beyond the orphanage walls. I was thirsty for knowledge of the world outside, while Moira was content to be isolated from it.”

  Okay, it sounded credible so far. But only so far. His experience with this female had been the kind that would make him doubt her word if she told him Christmas fell on December twenty-fifth. And she was awfully tense for someone who was telling the truth. He expected the tale to turn into a whopper at any moment.

  He steeled himself against her tears and tremors. He’d seen women who could open the floodgates on a whim and be very convincing. So far, he felt positive this particular female had done nothing but lie to him. He had no reason to take her at face value now.

  “And?”

  “When we turned eighteen, we were supposed to leave the orphanage. The nuns had tried to prepare us for the outside. They did their best, really they did, but Moira and I were more suited to remain in the cloister, too innocent of worldly ways to survive on the streets. The nuns gave us the duty of doing business with tradesmen and other outsiders in Mother Superior’s stead, unless it involved the induction of a child, in which case she took over. We did routine things like accepting, checking, and paying for deliveries. It allowed us to learn to deal with outsiders, plus we were required to work in the kitchen, helping with food preparation. The nuns did the actual cooking, and afterward we cleaned up. It gave us a way to support ourselves while remaining in the safe confines of the orphanage. Mother Superior hoped that our exposure to tradesmen and delivery people would gradually prepare us for the real world.”

  David was growing impatient.

  “Anyway, the kitchen produce and some of our meat was delivered fresh, every other day, by a local farm on the outskirts of Boston. The—the deliveryman was the farmer’s son, a young man named Stanley with blond hair and blue eyes. He came often, bringing huge boxes of vegetables and meat. Being the recalcitrant one who yearned for the real world, I found him fascinating. One afternoon we were going over a bill when he took my hand and asked me to meet him in the gardens after he left the kitchen.”