The two men shook as Theo continued her introduction. “Eamon, this is Hart Jameson. I’ve known him for as long as I knew Henry. They’ve been friends since they were old enough to walk. Went to school together—”
“Chased the girls together. Got into trouble together.” Hart picked up the threads of her comment as he pulled her in closer for a sideways squeeze. “Our farms shared a common border and our folks were close friends so it was only natural that Henry and I became good friends as well. In fact, we were inseparable . . . until this little minx stole his heart. She stole mine, too.”
Theo saw his eyes flick from her to Eamon, then back to her, and she wondered at the expression on his face—on both their faces. Hart was his usual charming self, but there was an underlying tone in his voice she didn’t quite understand and he didn’t seem to want to let go of her. His hand was either on the small of her back or around her back so he could hold her upper arm and pull her closer. The behavior was a little unusual, even for Hart. Had he guessed that she was wildly attracted to Eamon? Was he letting Eamon know by some unspoken manly code that she was his?
But that was foolish. His proposals were never serious. Furthermore, she didn’t love him . . . at least, not in a passionate way.
Hart moved his hand from her arm to her waist and, once more, pulled her closer so they were side to side as he continued. “You only had eyes for Henry though. Do you remember that summer we met as fondly as I do? The three of us—you, me, and Henry—going on picnics down at the swimming hole . . . ”
He didn’t finish his comment, but Theo blushed anyway.
Why was he telling Eamon all of this? To embarrass her? To make sure Eamon knew of the history she shared with Hart? Of course she remembered. How could she forget sneaking away from her chores to meet them in the little secluded spot where two streams met and deepened, armed with a folded napkin filled with Granny’s stolen poppy seed or lemon cakes? How could she forget swimming in just her chemise and pantalets, unaware of how the cotton clothing had stuck to her skin and became nearly transparent, revealing more than it hid? Nor how upset Granny had been on those occasions, threatening to tan her hide for being so naïve? She wasn’t the only one to be reprimanded though. Granny made sure Henry and Hart received their punishment, too.
Theo mentally shook herself free of the memories and gained her composure. This wasn’t the time to be thinking about that, especially in front of Eamon, who studied her with such intensity, she shivered despite the heat coursing through her. Instead of being smoky gray like usual, his eyes had lightened to an almost silver color, which drew her in. She shook her head, then cleared her throat, forcing her attention away from his eyes. It didn’t help that by doing so, her gaze landed on his utterly kissable mouth. His mustache twitched as his lips spread into one of the most charming grins she’d ever seen him wear.
Startled by his generous smile, his second that day, she blurted, “And this is Gloriana.” She handed him the reins. Their fingers touched. Such a simple thing but combined with the look on his face and the undeniable heat sizzling through her, it was enough to make her giddy. Theo struggled to gain her bearings and her voice. “W-would you mind brushing her down and giving her some oats? She’s had a long journey. I think stall number ten would suit her.”
“Of course.” He tipped his hat and led the mare to the stall she recommended. He turned only once as he opened the gate, and again, the intensity of his stare held her spellbound—until Hart squeezed her arm and led her to the back door of the stable.
“Now that Gloriana is settled, why don’t you show me Phoebe? I’m anxious to see how fast she is.”
“You won’t be disappointed, Hart,” she said even as she turned her head and caught one last look at Eamon before he disappeared from view.
Chapter 11
Old friend, my foot!
Eamon spread fresh straw in each of the stalls in the stable, his agitation growing with every passing moment. Once again, he worked alone, which was fine, except he just couldn’t stop thinking about Hart Jameson or how he behaved with Theo.
He doesn’t act like an old friend. Always touching her. Looking at her like he’s a starving man and she’s his last meal.
He took a deep breath and moved toward the window at the end of the stall, which afforded him the perfect view of the small sitting area Theo had arranged beneath the trees in the middle of the grassy path. Even from this distance, the sappy expression on Hart’s face made Eamon want to punch him.
Hart wasn’t the only one, though. Simon Taylor, Pete Marlowe, and Oren Hallowell, the other three men sitting at the table occasionally watching Pumpkin in the paddock with one of their mares, wore the same silly, stupid look on their faces—like they could die happy men if she would just smile at them. The only one who didn’t grin at Theo and try to win her favor was Sylvia Veith, the lone woman in the group. She had eyes for Mr. Hallowell, and she made no secret of it.
Taylor and Marlowe arrived the day after Hart, bringing with them their horses as well as their hopes that those mares would successfully breed and produce a racing winner. Oren Hallowell and Sylvia Veith had arrived the following day, but only Hallowell stayed at the house and took possession of the last suite on the third floor. Sylvia had relatives in Pearce and stayed with them, but her mare, Delightful Encounter, was here.
Eamon didn’t mind the extra work. His labors made him tired enough to sleep, sometimes dreamlessly. What he did mind was those men looking at Theo. None of them as blatant as Hart though. The man may have been joking when he asked Theo to marry him, and she may have thought he wasn’t serious with his proposal, but Hart really was in love with her. Just like AJ Pearce. It was evident on their faces, at least from what he could see.
He forced himself to move away from the window and took several deep breaths to clear his thoughts, but it was impossible. Theo’s laughter rippled into the stable, carried by the breeze, and drew him to the portal once more . . . just in time to see Hart tuck that errant curl of whiskey-colored hair behind Theo’s ear.
Eamon tightened his grip on the pitchfork’s handle. The urge to punch the man doubled and, with it, the certainty he was jealous.
Yes, that was it. Hart Jameson could take Theo’s hand or caress the soft skin of her cheek with his thumb, touching her with ease when he couldn’t do the same . . . though he wanted to. Every moment of every day.
Not only did jealousy tie him in knots, but fear did, too . . . fear of making himself that vulnerable or that he’d never be worthy of her. She belonged with a man like Hart, one who could give her what she needed.
He sucked air into his lungs and closed his eyes, determined, once more, to ignore Hart’s easy way with Theo, though his grip on the pitchfork didn’t lessen.
“What did that pitchfork ever do to you?”
Startled, Eamon whirled around, dropping the tool in the process.
Quincy stood a few feet from him, a jar of milk in one hand, and a napkin wrapped around what he hoped was a sandwich in the other. “Marianne thought you might be hungry. You didn’t come in for lunch, and I know you didn’t eat with Theo’s guests.”
Eamon picked up the pitchfork and propped it against the wall, then took a seat on a bale of hay. Quincy sat beside him and held out the sandwich. He unwrapped the napkin and sighed. The sight of thin slices of meatloaf from last night’s dinner on Marianne’s freshly made bread made his mouth water. He liked her meatloaf as much as he liked her rosemary chicken, almond kuchen, and strawberry rhubarb pie. Actually, there wasn’t anything she made that he didn’t like.
“You should be out there, Eamon, not hiding in the stable.”
Eamon shook his head as he took a bite of the sandwich, the flavors melting on his tongue as he chewed. He didn’t know what seasonings she put in her meatloaf, but he knew she ground pork in with her beef and mixed them together. He always meant to ask her where she’d learned to cook so well, but never did—he was too busy eating. He swallowe
d and glanced at the farm manager. “I’m not hiding. I’m working.”
Quincy raised an eyebrow. “Working, huh? Looks to me like you were just standing here, staring out the window, trying to strangle the pitchfork. As if I didn’t know why.”
“I thought I heard something.” He took another big bite of the sandwich, the bread soft and chewy, and pretended that the comment didn’t make blood rush to his face.
If possible, Quincy’s brow rose a little higher. A smile hovered around his mouth but he had the good graces not to let it show. “And that’s why you were gripping the handle of the pitchfork like you could break it in half?”
There was no censure in the man’s voice, just humor, and if he wasn’t mistaken, understanding. Eamon couldn’t help himself. Even though his face heated with a blush, he had to chuckle. “You saw that, did you?”
“Yes, sir, I did.” Quincy didn’t chuckle, but he could no longer hide his grin as he pointed toward the window and the pastures beyond. “You should go out there.”
Eamon took a swig of milk, then wiped his mouth with the napkin the sandwich had been wrapped in. “No, I don’t belong out there.”
“Is it Hart?”
Eamon didn’t respond. He didn’t quite know what to say. For a man who prided himself on hiding what he felt, he wasn’t doing such a good job of hiding anything from Quincy.
“Don’t mind Hart. He isn’t serious when he asks her to marry him. Not really. Oh, I know he loves Theo and I know he’d do anything for her, including marrying her, but if you watch them, you’ll see there’s no passion there. At least not from Theo. She loves him like a brother. I don’t think that will ever change.” The man took his pipe from his pocket and held it in his hand. He didn’t fill it with tobacco or even attempt to light it, not here in the stable, but he did gesture with it as he spoke. “You’re a good man, Eamon MacDermott. As good or better than those men sitting out there watching the horses. I know—” Quincy didn’t finish his thought. Instead, he stuck the stem of the pipe in his mouth, clamped it between his teeth, and stared at his feet.
“What were you about to say?”
The man shook his head and spoke around the stem. “Nothing, Eamon. I . . . it’s nothing.”
Eamon shrugged. “I have all day, Quince . . . you have something on your mind, you might as well say it.”
After a moment, he removed the pipe and just cradled it in his hands. When he looked up from his feet and pinned Eamon with his stare, he said, “I know who you are.”
Eamon inhaled and closed his eyes for a brief second, but in that second, his entire life up to this point flashed before him. The sandwich, which had been wonderful, now tasted like sawdust and felt like a boulder in his stomach . . . or perhaps several boulders, all piling one on top of the other. “What did you say?”
“I know who you are, Eamon. Or should I call you ‘Marshal’?”
He studied the expression on Quincy’s face. Again, there was no reproach, just acceptance and perhaps a little pity.
That the man knew was devastating. He never should have stayed here. Hell, he never should have come here to begin with. “How?” He didn’t recognize the low, hoarse voice coming from himself as his own.
Quincy shrugged but never looked away. “Something about your name was familiar, and then it hit me. I remembered reading about you and your brothers.” His voice cracked as he continued, “And what happened in Paradise Falls.” He took a deep breath as if to control his emotions, then wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Remember I told you we lost Henry in a shootout with an outlaw gang?”
Eamon nodded, already dreading what Quincy was going to say next, knowing, somehow, that the Logans were involved in Henry’s death.
“That’s where it happened. In that little town on that God-awful day.”
Worse than he could have anticipated, Quincy’s statement hit him like a mule’s kick to the stomach, pushing all the air from his lungs. He tasted metal in his mouth as his stomach roiled. He felt like he might lose the sandwich he hadn’t even finished.
Theo had lost her beloved husband the same day he’d lost Kieran, Mary, and Matthew, nearly lost Brock and his own miserable life all because Teague had locked up Jeff Logan for horse rustling and his brothers wanted to free him. If he could cry, he would have, but he’d never been able to shed a tear for what had happened nor had he ever read a word written about the incident that changed his life. In the beginning, he’d been too busy trying to recuperate from the bullet that almost killed him. After that, he’d been too busy trying to outrun the memories.
Beside him, Quincy hadn’t moved. He sat tall and straight and held the pipe in his hand, as if it brought him comfort. Or strength. He didn’t turn away either. He kept his gaze steady. “The reporters gave vivid accounts of everything, but I know they sometimes exaggerate to sell newspapers so I’m not sure how much was fact and how much was fiction.” He paused, as if not quite sure how to say what he needed to say. After a moment, he appeared to get his thoughts in order. “They said you were shot out at your brother’s place. You almost died.”
Eamon gave a slight nod. “There are times, Quincy, like right now, when I wish I had.”
“Son, never say that. There is a reason why you survived . . . and Henry didn’t. There is a reason why you ended up here, and I think I know why.” He rose from the bale of hay and crossed the stall to the window. “It’s because of her.”
Eamon didn’t have to ask who her referred to. He swallowed over the lump in his throat. “Does she know?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think she does, Eamon. And I haven’t told a soul, not even Marianne, and I’ve never not told her anything. I won’t, either. At least not yet, but there may come a time when I’ll have to. Theo’s a smart woman. If I can figure it out, so can she, even though she doesn’t read newspapers the way I do.” He looked away then, his gaze on the view outside.
“She doesn’t remember much of the day Henry died, just that he died in her arms. We’ve talked a time or two about it and I know she feels guilty she wasn’t able to save Henry’s life, but in truth, there was nothing she could do. Nothing anyone could do. Took her a long time to accept that. I’m thinking it’s taking you a lot longer to accept what you couldn’t prevent.” When he turned back and faced him, his eyes were shiny. “But I think she deserves to know, don’t you? Especially since you’re in love with her.”
The words, said out loud and so matter-of-factly, were a bit of a shock, and there was nothing Eamon could do except deny them. “I’m not in love with her.”
Quincy tucked his pipe in his pocket and let out a long sigh. “You can lie to yourself for as long as you like, Marshal, but those of us with eyes in our heads can see the truth.”
“I’m not in love with her,” he repeated, as if saying so made it true, and joined Quincy at the window. “But even if I was, there’s nothing I can do about it. Look at her. She’s all kindness and good, and I’m not nearly worthy enough for her.”
Quincy said nothing for the longest time, but his expression had changed and his gaze bored into Eamon with enough intensity to be uncomfortable. The silence dragged on until finally, when he didn’t think he could stand it anymore, Quincy shook his head. “You know, Eamon, sometimes you say the stupidest things.” He moved away from the window, grabbed the empty jar of milk, the napkin, and the half-finished sandwich . . . and left.
The smart thing would be to pack his belongings and move on. Right now. This very minute before she realized he’d left. But he couldn’t do that to her. Or to himself.
Her laughter came in through the window, carried on a breeze, and in that moment, his path was made clear. He would stay and give himself a chance . . . at life. At love. At happiness. And perhaps even forgiveness. And somehow, he’d have to find the strength—and the words—to tell Theo everything.
• • •
Theo stood behind her chair instead of sitting in it. Truthfully, she could
n’t sit—too nervous to relax. She had so much at stake with this breeding season. They were here, some of the finest horse breeders in the country. They could have gone anywhere, but they’d come to Morning Mist Farms. Hart and Oren, old school friends of Henry’s, came out of loyalty, she was certain. Simon and Pete came because they knew personally of Pumpkin’s reputation, having seen him race—and win—before his retirement. And Sylvia came because she was a woman in a man’s world who knew exactly what she wanted, but more importantly, she knew how to get it. She’d taken the small, run-down ranch her late husband left her and turned it into a profitable venture with a reputation for producing winners.
Yesterday evening, after Sylvia arrived, Theo had made a big production of writing down the names of the mares on small squares of paper, folding them up, and tossing them into the crown of the old hat Henry had always worn. She’d recruited Eamon to draw those names, each one of her guests hoping his or her mare would be chosen to be first to share the paddock with Pumpkin. Much to Hart’s disappointment—and everyone else who hoped to be first—Scottish Lass’s name had been drawn. Simon had beamed from ear to ear then. He was still beaming now as out in one of the smaller paddocks, Pumpkin, the pride and joy of Morning Mist Farms, covered Scottish Lass for the second time. Theo would allow one more time today. Then tomorrow, Pumpkin would be paired with Delightful Encounter. Moonglow would have her turn the following day, then Starburst the day after that. Poor Hart. Gloriana’s name had been pulled last.
If all went as she hoped it would, all the mares would be breeding in no time at all. And if she could sell a horse or two in addition to the monies she received for stud fees, she would be in great shape, maybe even able to put some funds away for a university education for the children, including Wynn and Lou, if they wanted it.
Thinking of the children, she held her hand to her forehead, shading her eyes from the midafternoon sun and studied the tree line, expecting to see them coming from the lake where they’d gone fishing. There might be trout for dinner.
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