She let out a shaky sigh and tried to give him a shaky smile. “You like her very much, don’t you?”
The abrupt change in subject surprised him, to put it mildly. “What?”
“Phoebe. You like her. I can tell.”
“I don’t hate her.”
“I don’t mean that. You know what I mean, Rance Connelly. You’re still a man, no matter how you try to pretend like this sort of thing is beyond you. You’re still a man.”
“Where is this coming from?”
Her mouth screwed up in a guilty sort of pout. “I might have been looking out the window when you came home. I heard you two talking out there, and it made me angry. I was going to open the door and rail at you both, but then… I saw you put an arm around her and pull her toward you. And I saw the look on your face. And I admit, it angered me even more because I knew you would be on her side.”
He sneered at this. “What look was that?”
“You looked… like you cared for her. You didn’t just feel sorry for her. You wanted to comfort her.”
“I’m the sheriff. That’s—”
“Not your job,” she said with a knowing smile. “Don’t try to use that line on me, because it doesn’t work. Comforting a crying young woman is not your job. And you can comfort someone without putting your arm around them.”
“Enough of this. I might have known this would turn around on me somehow. Why do I bother trying to help? Why, when this is all I get for it?”
“Smooth your ruffled feathers,” she said, pushing him toward the door. “Go up and tell her I want to speak with her, that everything’s fine. I need to apologize.”
“Why can’t you go?” he asked as she shoved him unceremoniously out of the room.
“I have work to do down here.” One final shove, and she left him on his own. Why did the notion of going up to her room leave him quaking inside?
Was Martha right?
Damn her for planting the idea in his head. He didn’t care for the girl. That was just the notion of a silly, romantic woman. Nothing more.
Though Martha was usually far too realistic to be considered a romantic. Something must have changed, then. There had to be some reason why she’d say such an outlandish thing.
He climbed the stairs with great resolve, telling himself he would only inform Phoebe that Martha wished to see her, that he’d smoothed things over. Nothing more. Just delivering a message. He would then wash up and maybe drink half a bottle of whiskey because he deserved it after the happenings of the last few days.
He rapped on the door with his knuckles. “Phoebe?” For one brief, heart-rending moment, he imagined her having climbed out the window again. “Phoebe, are you in there?”
She opened the door. “Where else would I be?”
He let out a shaky laugh. “Do I need to remind you?”
Her sheepish smile tugged at his heart. “What happened? I only heard a minimum of shouting.”
“Because we worked things out, and Martha wishes to see you now.”
Her face it up, and again he felt a pulling in his chest. “She does? Is she still angry?”
“I don’t think so.”
When she threw her arms around his neck, he was more than taken by surprise. Surprise would’ve meant rocking back on his heels, chuckling, maybe letting out a grunt of surprise at the sudden embrace. Surprise would’ve meant taking her by the shoulders and easing her back, writing it off as the relief of knowing a friendship had not been destroyed that afternoon.
His reaction was more than that of a surprised man.
A surprised man wouldn’t have returned her embrace.
A surprised man wouldn’t have looked deep into her eyes when she pulled back to look at him. Those wide, clear, honest eyes. They always showed everything she thought and felt. Everything going through her head could be read in those eyes.
Just then, he saw… anticipation. As if she held her breath, waiting to see what he’d do next.
What he did next was run one hand up her back until he was holding the back of her head, tilting it, so she was at the proper angle for his mouth to fit over hers.
God, how long had it been since he’d kissed a woman? Too long. The thrill of her soft-yet-firm lips yielding under his, the way her body molded to him as her hold around his neck tightened. The racing of her heart against his own, the breathless thrill of it all.
He didn’t know he was going to do it before he did. Now? Now he wouldn’t have let go if the Lord himself commanded it so. Now that he had her in his arms, now that he tasted her sweetness and heard her even sweeter sighs—sighed for him—there would be no giving her up.
She was the one to end it, her breathless little laugh going straight to his heart. How had it happened? He could’ve sworn he loathed the woman, that he had no interest in any of her kind. Women were a foreign country into which he had no time or inclination to wander.
“Sheriff,” she whispered, eyes now half-lidded and searching his. “You’ve quite taken my breath away.”
“I hope you won’t hold it against me.”
“Not at all. In fact, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like you to take it away again—but first, I have to speak with Martha. She’ll be waiting.”
He stroked her hair, her cheek, cupped her chin in one hand. It seemed so silly, such a waste of time, to ever have denied what she’d already come to mean. She’d opened his heart when she told of protecting the girl from the saloon, then had wedged herself firmly in place when he found her comforting Jesse.
“You ought to go, then,” he murmured, kissing the tip of her upturned nose. “She doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
22
It was like floating in a dream. A soft, warm, delightful dream which she prayed would never end.
How did it happen? So many years of waiting to fall in love, of dreaming about love. Opening her heart to so many, men who she sometimes never spoke to or if she did never said more than a few words to in passing. She would dream about them, create an entire future for them in her dreams. Only ever in her dreams.
Reality was not quite as romantic as those girlish dreams, the sort she had gleaned from books which her mama would not have approved her reading.
She wished she had never seen those books or even knew they existed, for they had misguided her terribly. She’d spent her life waiting and wishing and yearning for something that didn’t exist.
What did exist, as it turned out, was much better than anything she’d ever dreamed.
Knowing he was there, in the house, while she readied herself for bed.
Knowing she would see him in the morning.
And in the morning, opening her eyes with a smile and a light, joyful heart before jumping out of bed. She couldn’t wait to see him. Perhaps they could share a quiet moment before he left for the day. Just the possibility set her heart to racing.
As did the memory of his kiss. Of the thrill of being in his arms. The very masculine scent of him, leather and shaving soap and something she couldn’t put her finger on but was willing to spend time exploring. His whiskers brushing against her cheek, his arms around her, holding her close.
His lips…
A shiver ran up her spine, and she hurried faster than ever to get ready, torn between speed and wanting to look nice for him. But not too nice, or else Martha would sense there was something going on. And she had only just gotten back on Martha’s good side. She sensed there was still a bit of undiscussed unhappiness which she hoped would pass.
If she knew of the kiss, she might think Phoebe was only struggling to maintain her place in the house. That she was taking advantage of a good man. Nothing could be further from the truth—in fact, until that final moment when she’d embraced him, she hadn’t understood the attachment which had grown in her heart.
She was just finishing pinning up her hair when there was a knock at the door. Her heart fluttered, her stomach tied itself in knots. “Yes?” she answered, fighting to keep
from running to fling the door open. It wouldn’t look right for her to be too forward.
“I was hoping to wish you a good morning before I head out.”
That was enough to get her to fling the door open, and there he was.
So handsome, his eyes warm and bright and dancing as he looked down at her. “You look like the first day of spring,” he murmured with a shy smile.
It was hardly the flowery sort of language she’d read in books, but it was far more beautiful coming from him.
“Thank you,” she whispered, blushing. “Aren’t you having breakfast?”
“Already did. It seems I have a ride ahead of me. Out to the Foster farm.”
This dampened her spirits. “Oh. Don’t be too hard on her, please.”
“I’ll do my level best. This I can promise.”
“Perhaps… perhaps I should go with you. Do you think Martha could spare me?”
A frown touched his rather tender expression. “Do you believe that to be a wise idea?”
“I might be able to get her to speak to me. You’re the sheriff, she’ll know you right off. She’ll be less likely to trust you. Not that I intend any offense.”
He chuckled, opening his arms to her and pulling her close when she went to him willingly. “Why should you stop trying to offend me? That’s when I like you best, come to think of it. I wish I hadn’t just admitted that.”
She pressed her lips to his shoulder to stifle her laughter and took another deep breath, filling her lungs with him. “That might have been a mistake.”
He bent his head, catching the corner of her mouth, and she turned her face toward his that he might kiss her properly. He was very good at it—granted, this was her only experience with being kissed except for once or twice, but she knew instinctively that he was good at it. That she didn’t ever want to be kissed by anybody but him, ever again.
A frightening thought, though the fear had a bit of a thrill to it. She supposed this was what falling in love with a man was truly like. Wondering if she was falling too hard, too fast, if he had any intention of being her man and hers alone. If this was anything more than a mere dalliance.
It didn’t feel like one when he looked at her as he did when their kiss ended. When he held her in his arms longer than he needed to. His heart was beating just as hard as hers.
“I suppose you could come along,” he reasoned, though he still looked unconvinced of this being the best plan of action. “You might loosen her up a bit.”
“I’ll do my best.”
He pulled away, turning toward the stairs, then took her by the waist and pulled her to him again. “I can’t help myself,” he grinned before kissing her again. She hoped he would never be able to help himself, if that was the case.
“We’d better… get downstairs…” she whispered between swift, sweet kisses. “She’ll wonder…”
He groaned softly before planting one more kiss on her upturned mouth. “So be it. We’ll have to return to this at some other time. Maybe while we’re in a more appropriate place.”
She managed to maintain her composure through breakfast, when Rance explained her idea for visiting the farm. “I believe that’s very wise,” Martha agreed with a sage nod. “The girl will feel more comfortable with someone she feels she can trust.”
“She won’t trust me once we reach the farm,” Phoebe fretted. “She’ll know I told.”
“There had to come a time when you would tell the truth,” Martha reminded her, patting her hand. “None of this is your fault. And when she finds out she isn’t in any trouble…”
Rance winced when she said it, shifting in his seat. This drew the attention of both women. “Do you mean to tell me you intend to arrest the girl? After all this time?” Phoebe whispered.
“I don’t quite know what the best course of action would be, and that’s a fact.” He looked from one of them to the other, then shrugged. “What do you want me to do about it? I’m not going to lie and tell you she’ll get off free and easy. I truly don’t know what I ought to do with this.”
Phoebe’s nose wrinkled—a nose he had just kissed, and this memory did not fail to rise to the surface at a most inopportune moment. “She didn’t do anything wrong.”
“She stole a man’s wallet. That’s still a crime.”
“She needed the money for her father!” Martha protested.
“We don’t know that yet, do we? I put that together on my own, but none of us will know if she’s even a member of that particular family. I shouldn’t have said a word about it.”
“It’s too late for that now.” Phoebe finished her biscuit and swallowed back the last of her coffee. “I’m ready to go. Are you?”
“It would appear I have little choice,” he grimaced.
She brushed past him on the way out to the buggy. Her buggy. She bit her tongue to refrain from pointing this out.
Hadn’t they just been kissing and whispering minutes ago? Now she wanted to give him an earful.
“You’re angry,” he announced as he climbed in beside her.
She was careful to draw her skirts around her, keeping her legs far from his. Even casual contact was too much at the moment. She didn’t want to look at him, much less brush against his trousers.
“What gave you that idea?” She folded her arms and looked pointedly away from him.
“Is this how it’s going to be? We disagree about something, and you freeze me like this? I won’t have it. I’m not a child, and neither are you—though you like to behave like one sometimes.”
“I thought you liked it when I told you how terrible I think you are,” she snapped.
“Not like this I don’t.”
“I suppose it isn’t up to you when I think you’re being terrible.”
“You understand nothing about this.”
“I understand a bully’s pride was injured, and now that he made a big stink about it to the whole town, he wants justice. That’s what I understand. And because you’re afraid of him—”
His jaw muscles worked. “You think I’m afraid of him.” It wasn’t a question, and the coldness of his voice sent a pang of dread to her heart. She had gone too far.
“I meant—”
“I know what you meant,” he growled.
“You don’t. You’re afraid of what he’s going to do to you.”
“That isn’t what you said.”
“You didn’t give me the chance to finish!”
It was only when a pair of women walking across from the buggy turned to look their way that she realized she was shouting. Rance gave no indication of noticing anything. He stared straight ahead, driving the buggy.
How had things gone so badly so quickly?
She hardly cared anymore that they were riding up to the farmhouse, a pretty little place with red shutters which stood out smartly against the white painted walls. The windows shone clear and clean, revealing lace curtains inside. There was a pair of rocking chairs on the porch.
“This hardly looks like it’s been in disrepair,” she murmured, more to herself than for his sake.
“They could be using the money she’s made to hire help,” he replied, barely getting the words out through clenched teeth.
She’d noticed how he tended to grind them together when he was especially angry or feeling overwhelmed.
The fact that she was the reason for this overwhelm tore at her. “Rance, I’m sorry—”
The front door swung open with a bang, revealing an old man with a shotgun raised to his shoulder.
“Just what do you think you’re doing on my property?” he demanded, leveling the gun at them.
23
Phoebe stiffened beside him, a tiny gasp coming from her tight throat.
“Stay still,” he whispered out of the side of his mouth before raising his voice. “That you, Dennis? What are you doing with that gun when I only came to pay a friendly call?”
The old man blinked hard, leaning in a little as if it would he
lp him see them. “Who is that?”
Phoebe didn’t have reason to worry. The man was blind as anything and would have better luck hitting the side of a barn than he would a slim young women sitting half-concealed by him in a buggy. “It’s Rance Connelly, you fool. Who’d you think it was?”
“Oh, Sheriff! I didn’t know you were plannin’ on comin’ to see me.” The gun was forgotten, left leaning against the wall beside the door. Dennis shuffled down the steps and cast an apologetic smile Phoebe’s way. “Forgive me, ma’am. I couldn’t see so well from way up there on the porch.”
Rance took note of his shuffling gait. “How’s that leg of yours? Healing up any?”
“Eh, Doc thinks I should stay off it more than I do, but what’s he know? I’m a farmer, I have a farm to oversee. I can’t lie around in bed all the doggone day—pardon the expression,” he was quick to add.
“Do you have any help around here?” Phoebe asked. “Surely someone can take some of the burden off your shoulders. If you don’t rest, you’ll never heal completely.”
“Where’d you find this one?” The old man laughed as though this was the funniest joke he’d ever heard.
“She makes a good point, you know. You need to follow doctor’s orders if you’ll ever be able to make it around the way you used to.”
Fact was, the man should’ve sold the farm or passed it down to someone younger who might run it in his stead. He’d settled down at a rather old age, not marrying or having children until he was nearly fifty. Now, over seventy years of age, he didn’t need the strain. He could hardly even see from a distance.
He waved this off. “What brings you here today, Rance?”
“Well, now that you mention it, I was wondering if your daughter Sally was at home.” He’d asked around a bit the day before, seeing if either of his deputies knew the name of the youngest Foster girl. She would be around the correct age, if memory served.
He frowned. “Sally? What would you want with her?”
A Sheriff's Fugitive Bride Page 14