by Karen Kirst
“Then what?” He took a half-step closer. “You can talk to me, Constance.”
Her head snapped up, anger leaping to life. “Can I? Truly? Because I’ve tried to talk to you about that conversation I overheard and you refuse to open up. Why should I speak freely with you when you won’t return the favor?”
“My past crimes have no bearing on what’s happening tonight.”
“If what you did is a crime, then you should be in jail. Half the nation should be in jail.”
His upper lip curled. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Hugging herself, she presented him with her back. “I’m exhausted. I’d like to retire now.”
Noah spun and stalked out, signaling for Wolf to follow and refraining from slamming the door behind him. He got little sleep that night. Rising just after dawn, he milked the cow, watered and fed the horses and, saddling Samson, rode straight for Lyle’s ranch. The man answered his pounding summons half-dressed and one hundred percent confused by the visit.
“Sheriff.” He blinked the sleep from his eyes, peering past Noah’s shoulder at the empty yard. “Is there an emergency in town? Did the Murdoch brothers strike again?”
“What did you do to Constance?” he growled.
Pete’s head reared back. “Nothing. I did nothing to her, I promise. Why? Did she accuse me of something?”
“She said you were a gentleman.”
“That’s the truth.”
“Then why was she fit to be tied last night? I’ve never seen her like that.”
“I don’t know. I took her to the opera house, we ate and took in the show. Then I brought her straight home.”
Noah twisted and looked at the horizon without really seeing it, gently probing the ridged flesh on his neck, which had gone taut and painful. Turning back, he caught Pete’s quizzical expression. “Can you think of anything that might’ve upset her?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary occurred. I’ve only just met her, but she struck me as subdued. A bit uptight.”
“Could be she was nervous,” he snapped.
He looked sheepish. “Other than myself, she only spoke to Will Canfield’s wife, Miss Neely and Gideon Kendricks.”
Noah considered that information for about a minute before deciding to have a word with the train rep. “Thanks for the information.”
He was hurrying for his horse when Pete called after him. “Sure you don’t want her for yourself, Sheriff?”
Shooting him a quelling glare, Noah hauled himself onto Samson’s back and pointed him toward town. He counted himself fortunate twenty minutes later when he spotted Gideon lounging against the livery’s side exterior, his focus on the activity outside the opera house. He guided his mount alongside, blocking the man’s line of sight.
Gideon thumbed his bowler hat off his forehead. “Sheriff Burgess, good morning. What can I do for you?”
“You can start by telling me what you did to upset Constance.”
“Constance?” His momentary look of confusion cleared. “Oh, the widow? Mrs. Miller? I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re speaking of.” Pushing off the wall, he came closer, gray eyes serious. “Has something happened?”
“Pete Lyle told me you and she had a conversation.”
“We did.” His chin at a stubborn angle, he folded his arms over his chest. “Tell me, Sheriff, what exactly are you accusing me of?”
Somewhere in his mind, Noah acknowledged he was being unreasonable. He was overreacting. Behaving like a jealous suitor.
Beneath him, Samson shifted his weight as a wagon rolled past, stirring up clouds of dust.
“I apologize. I shouldn’t have presumed you were responsible.” Taking off his Stetson, he threaded his fingers through his damp locks. “Constance was clearly overwrought about something. Can you think of anything she said that might indicate what was bothering her?”
He stroked his goatee. “Not really. We didn’t speak for very long. Turns out we both have family in the same neighborhood in Chicago. I didn’t recognize her name, which is odd. We were interrupted midway through, so I don’t know if she’s acquainted with my aunt and uncle.”
“Hmm.” Nothing dramatic about that. “Her late husband’s name was Ambrose.”
“Ambrose Miller. I don’t know anyone by that name.” He thought a moment. “My uncle introduced me once to an Ambrose Longstreet. Now, there was a cold fish if ever I’ve met one.”
Longstreet sounded familiar, but he couldn’t pinpoint where he’d seen or heard it.
The knots of tension in his upper back started to loosen. Perhaps Constance’s odd mood could be attributed to her need to choose a husband. No doubt she’d felt on display last night, out with Pete for the first time with scores of curious onlookers.
“Chicago’s a big place,” Noah said. “And you’re not there on a full-time basis.”
His brow knitted. “Still, I have a good memory for names and faces.”
Raucous laughter filtered across the street. Drifting to stand at Samson’s head, Gideon stared at the workers removing the makeshift tables and cleaning up leftover trash. A trio of bulky men trudged toward the rear of the building, bringing the lively redheaded actress into view.
Gideon’s interest became clear for the first time. Noah recalled seeing them dance around each other at various town functions, trading witty banter but never really talking.
“Pippa’s one of the original mail-order brides, you know,” Noah said. “Had a busy social calendar but hasn’t settled on anyone yet. I wonder what she’s looking for.”
“Not me.”
His resigned tone took Noah by surprise. Gideon had a secure, lucrative career. He struck him as respectful and honorable. A man who revered God’s Word and lived by a strict moral code.
“Why’s that?”
“She’s looking to make Cowboy Creek her permanent home. I travel for my job. I like seeing new places. Meeting interesting people.”
“You ever consider asking her to go with you?”
He tilted his head to indicate the opera house. “Pippa’s entire existence is tied up in that building right there. I’d like nothing more than to forget the childish game we’ve been playing and pursue her in earnest, but we’re too different. She’s optimistic. Full of the kind of hope our nation needs in order to rebuild. I’m more realistic. Cynical, even.”
Noah thought about Constance. Their variances in outlook and personality weren’t the issue. The gulf between them had nothing to do with her—she was good, kind and nurturing—and everything to do with him. He was the bad apple. He was the defective merchandise.
Gideon didn’t have that problem.
“Seems to me the obstacles you’ve outlined could be overcome. But you’ll need to put forth a little effort, risk your pride, to find out. Ask yourself this—if you leave Cowboy Creek without exploring whatever it is between you, will you regret it for the rest of your life?”
It was as if clouds passed over the younger man’s face as he continued to watch Pippa interact with the workers.
The sound of rapidly approaching riders caught their attention.
“Sheriff, come quick!” the one in the lead yelled. “A brawl broke out among the new group of cowboys that arrived last week. One’s already been knifed in the gut.”
“Did you send someone after Doc Fletcher?”
“Sure did.”
“Need my help?” Gideon asked.
“Could use you to keep the crowd subdued.”
Jogging for his horse, he called, “Right behind you!”
Noah dug his heels into Samson’s flank, bits of dirt flying as the other men wheeled around to lead him to the fight.
* * *
Grace stepped back to survey her work. “What
do you think, girls?”
They dutifully inspected the curtains she’d hung at the windows. The yellow added a cheery warmth to the cabin’s central space. If she were staying, she’d discuss ordering a sofa with Noah. She’d purchase a patterned rug for the hearth and a few landscapes for the shaved-log walls.
“It’s pretty.” Jane smiled. “I think Mr. Noah will like it, too.”
Abigail touched the fabric, brown eyes bright with hope. “Will you teach me to sew, Momma?”
“When we get settled in our new home, I will teach you both.” In Chicago’s upper levels of society, such a skill was viewed as a hobby. On the prairie, with no paid staff to tend to chores, it was vital for the family’s well-being. Stroking Abigail’s chin, she said, “How does that sound?”
Their response wasn’t exactly eager. Jane got a disgruntled look, and sadness settled across Abigail’s dainty features.
“We don’t want to leave.”
“We want to stay here.” Abigail jabbed a tiny finger in the direction of the floor. “With Mr. Noah.”
Lord, please give me the right words. I’m responsible for bringing them here. I built up the idea of living on this ranch, and now I have to help them deal with dashed hopes.
Since waking that morning, the twins had talked incessantly about their time with the sheriff. The drawings he’d helped them complete were stacked in the middle of the kitchen table, along with the picture books he’d read. Apparently, the highlight of their evening had been when Noah had shown them the chicken coop, bringing out the hens one at a time and allowing them to name them. Not a wise move on his part, considering they would soon be moving. Of course, he didn’t have children. He couldn’t know how easily they got attached.
The image of him holding a sleeping Abigail in his arms wasn’t one she would soon forget. He looked natural, at ease and very much like a protective, caring father. He’d been kind to her daughters. Patient with them. And she was repaying him by lying about her identity and the reasons she was here in Kansas.
He would hate her if he ever found out.
A commotion outside sent alarm through her veins. Pushing the newly hung curtain aside, she relaxed when she recognized Noah’s horse. But why was he here before lunchtime?
She went out on the porch. “Noah, I...”
He rounded the animal, and Grace’s knees went weak. Blood was everywhere. His once-pristine shirt—the dove-gray one that deepened the hue of his eyes—was ruined. Streaked with crimson. Ripped at the shoulder seam.
“What happened?” Rushing to meet him, she seized his hand, her gaze seeking out the source of his injuries.
“I’m fine.” He gave her fingers a gentle squeeze then, grimacing slightly, disengaged to tug on the fabric of his shirt. “This blood’s not mine. There was a brawl at the stockyards. One cowboy’s near death. Daniel and I carried him to Doc’s.” His eyes softened. “I hope Daniel’s able to change before Leah sees him and jumps to the same conclusion as you. You look close to swooning.”
“You’d swoon, too, if you saw yourself in the mirror.” Picking up her skirts, she said, “Stay here.”
Hustling to fetch the girls, she ushered them outside and around the side of the cabin, not giving them a chance to get a good look at Noah. She told them to entertain themselves in the yard and not to go past the stream. By the time she returned, Noah had gone inside and removed his shirt, wadding it into a ball and chucking it in the discard bucket. Turning at her soft footfall, his steady regard was inscrutable. His red undershirt of soft cotton molded to his wide, defined chest, muscular arms and flat stomach. Awareness shimmered between them, and Grace felt a soul-deep longing to be sheltered in his strong embrace.
Her gaze lifted to Noah’s mouth, belatedly noticing his lower lip was bruised and busted. The skin around his right eye was turning an angry purple.
“Have a seat.” Her voice came out scratchy. “I’ll get your face cleaned up.”
His movements unsure, stiff, he set his dusty hat on one of the chairs. “You don’t have to do that.”
Ignoring his protest, she poured water in a bowl and gathered a dish towel, soap cake and antiseptic paste. She arranged the items on the table and boldly placed her palm against his chest, applying pressure until he relented and sank into the chair. “Let someone take care of you for once.”
One pale eyebrow arched, but he said nothing as she brushed his hair aside with unsteady fingers. As expected, his light blond hair was soft and silky. She swallowed hard, longing once again suffusing her, longing for this man alone.
Was it a trick of her senses, or did his breath catch in his chest?
Taking care not to inflict pain, she washed away the dirt and dust from his face and the bits of dried blood from his mouth and a thin cut on his cheekbone. He kept his eyes closed, allowing her the freedom to appreciate his features unhindered. His hands were balled on his thighs. Close enough to gently encircle her waist, if he wanted.
Noah Burgess doesn’t want you, remember?
How would he react if she were to rest her hands on his shoulders and lean down to brush her lips against his?
He’d toss you aside and bolt, that’s how.
“Are you finished?” His deep voice startled her, as did the brilliant blue of his eyes now focused on her.
She cleared her throat and hastily snatched the antiseptic cream. “Not quite.”
He continued to watch her as she worked, making her antsy and self-conscious. Mere inches separated them. There was nowhere to hide. Could he guess her thoughts?
Chapter Fourteen
Noah craved what he couldn’t have. How natural it would be to set his hands on her waist and tug her close, to cup her nape, draw her face down to his and kiss her like he’d daydreamed about on more than one occasion. He was human. Weak. Starved for affection. Constance was here, cooking his meals and cleaning his home, behaving as a wife would. Except she wasn’t to be his wife, and that was his fault.
My choice, he corrected, frantically trying to keep his self-control in check, a task made nearly impossible due to her nearness, her vanilla scent, her tender ministrations and the concern turning her eyes a beautiful amber gold.
Her thick waves had been left loose, yet another set of sparkly pins tucked into the mass at each temple. Each time she bent to address his wounds, another shiny lock slipped free of the rest and dangled close to his chest.
Father God, help me to think straight. Help me remember what’s best for her.
The cream she used was cool against his bruised cheekbone. “I’m sorry I was short with you last night...and before...about what happened at Daniel’s. I wish you hadn’t overheard that.”
Twisting the lid on the jar closed, she returned it to the table and wiped her hands with a clean cloth. “I wish you wouldn’t be so hard on yourself.” Interlocking her fingers, she remained where she was, her black skirts brushing his knees. She wore an earnest expression. “War demands a high price. You were presented with a terrible choice no one should have to make.”
The familiar guilt rampaged through him. “I could’ve let him go.”
How many nights afterward had he lain in that miserable, dirty, sweltering tent with his fellow soldiers and relived the same moments, over and over again, testing different scenarios. He’d relived the good times with his friend and shed tears in the dark over the loss.
“His name was Theo Lambert,” he rasped. “We called him Teddy, for short. Our parents were friends, so we’d get together for outings at the river. Teddy had a way with a fishing pole. Not sure what it was about him, but he drew fish to his line like moths to a flame.” He stopped, unable to continue, wondering if Teddy had married before joining the Confederate army. He could have a widow out there. Children without a father.
“Oh, Noah,” she breathed, her han
ds falling to her sides. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine how much you’ve hurt over this.”
“I don’t deserve your compassion.”
“Have you ever asked yourself what might’ve happened if you’d let him go?”
He shot her an impatient look. “Of course.”
“And have you considered how you’d feel if he’d killed one of your friends? What if he’d killed Will or Daniel? Leah wouldn’t have a loving husband, would she? A father for her baby. Tomasina wouldn’t have found love with Will. In fact, this entire town probably wouldn’t exist.”
Noah stared at her, the truth of her statement sinking in. “You and the girls wouldn’t be here.”
A jumble of emotions swirled in her eyes. “No. We’d be in some other boomtown, without the benefit of people determined to watch out for us.”
Nodding, he lowered his gaze to his lap, the burden of Teddy’s death an ounce lighter. He uttered a silent prayer, asking for God’s help in putting the past behind him. He’d already asked forgiveness for all he’d been forced to do during his stint in the war and according to God’s holy promises, his sins had been washed away by Christ Jesus’s work on the cross.
Noah didn’t realize he was massaging the scarred flesh on his neck until Constance gently curved her fingers over his. He froze, drowning in her gaze.
“You do this a lot,” she whispered. Her hand slipped from his and, light as a butterfly’s wing, she touched the ridged flesh on his jaw. “Does it pain you?”
His throat felt full of pine needles. “At times.”
Uncertain, Noah let his hand drop to his lap. She openly studied his war souvenir, her fingertips trailing beneath his ear and along his neck. No one had ever dared to do what she was doing. He felt both repulsed and elated. Mostly elated. Why was he allowing this?
“Can you feel that?” Her thick sweep of lashes blinked slowly.
“Yes. It’s different, though. Not as sensitive.”
“Like I’m touching you through fabric?”