The Colorado Bride

by Mary Burton

  Mac looked up at Rebecca. She ran her fingers through his soft hair. “It’s okay, you don’t have to look at it if you don’t want to.”

  The child frowned and turned to look at the gun. Cole waited patiently, as if he had all the time in the world. Then the boy released Rebecca’s skirt and ran the distance to Cole.

  Rebecca’s heart sank. Her son trusted so few people, yet he’d gone to Cole easily.

  Mac touched the gun. “Big gun.”

  Cole frowned and pulled the gun out of his reach. “I said don’t touch.”

  “Big gun!” Mac shouted and then without warning grabbed the barrel. “I want the gun!”

  A muscle in Cole’s jaw tensed and he rose, unfolding to his full height. “I said no.”

  Cole’s firm and masculine voice startled Mac. His bottom lip trembled and he bolted back to Rebecca. He clung to her and buried his face in the soft folds of her skin.

  Rebecca picked him up and hugged him. “You frightened him.”

  Cole shrugged. “He’s gotta understand no means no especially around guns.”

  “He’s just a baby.”

  “He’s old enough to mind.”

  Anger warmed Rebecca’s blood. “I hardly think you’re in a position to judge what a two-year-old can or can’t do.”

  “When it comes to guns, I am.”

  He was right, of course. But it rankled her nerves to have him taking charge, ordering her son about.

  “I think it’s time for that walk now,” Bess interjected. She stepped between Cole and Rebecca and took Mac in her arms.

  “Good idea,” Rebecca said, forcing herself to remain calm. It was more important to put distance between Cole and Mac than give rein to her temper.

  Bess paused at the door. “It was good seeing you again, Cole.” She shot Rebecca another look of warning then left with the boy.

  The high-pitched timbre of Mac’s voice blended with Bess’s gruff responses as the duo moved through the kitchen. When the back door banged shut, their voices disappeared completely, leaving only an awkward silence between Cole and Rebecca.

  “Now about that room…” he said a touch of steel in his voice.

  Her head throbbed as she stared at this mountain of a man. How was she going to get rid of him when at each turn he seemed to be digging in deeper?

  Resigned, Rebecca knew she wasn’t going to win this battle. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll get your key.”

  She walked to the library that served as her office. She went to a mahogany secretary equipped with an assortment of cubbies filled with keys. Her fingers shook as she pulled a key out with the number two etched on it.

  She turned and gave a sharp gasp. He was right behind her. As silent as a mountain lion, he’d soundlessly trailed her. Unnerved, she stared up at him. He was so close she could see the silver flecks in his green eyes.

  He cocked an eyebrow. “That my key?”

  His voice broke her trance. “Yes.” She held the key out to him. Warm fingers brushed against her skin, sending a shiver through her limbs. “The room’s at the top of the stairs. First door on your right.”

  “You want your money?”

  “What?”

  “The first night’s in advance, right?”

  She moistened dried lips. “Of course.”

  The lines in his face deepened. He dug three silver dollars out of his vest pocket and laid them on the desk.

  “Thank you,” she murmured.

  He walked out into the hallway, scooped up his hat and headed up the staircase. Determined, steady strides shattered the calm silence. His presence filled the house, dominated it.

  She hurried to the base of the stairs, gripping the rounded newel of the banister. “How long will you be staying?”

  He paused, his foot poised on the top step. “Guess that all depends on you.”

  Chapter Four

  A child’s cry woke Cole at ten minutes to six the next morning. He jerked his gun out from under his pillow, cocked it and bolted up straight.

  His heart thundered in his chest as he struggled to remember where he was. He studied walls papered in delicate roses, sun-kissed lace curtains, and his own pants hanging over a richly carved bedpost. His mind cleared. He’d taken a room at the Shady Grove Inn.

  Rebecca’s home.

  Cole groaned and eased back the hammer of the gun. His mind drifted back to a night long ago when he’d waited for Rebecca outside this house. It had been the site of a town dance, a party thrown by old man Sinclair to celebrate the town’s newfound prosperity. Everyone in town was invited to the dance and Cole had decided to attend.

  Rebecca didn’t know him, but he knew her. A young girl with blond ringlets and laughing eyes, she came to town only on breaks from school. And when she did he’d steal glimpses of her whenever he could. She was about the prettiest little thing he’d ever seen.

  Under the light of a bright moon, Cole had stood on the cold uneven ground as the wind whipped through the trees biting into his coat. Violin music drifted out of the Sinclairs’ house and hundreds of tiny candles lined the gravel driveway, lighting the path that led to Rebecca standing on the porch. She wore a silk pink dress and bows to match. Next to her stood her father who sported a dark, smartly tailored suit. Together they laughed easily and greeted everyone with a hearty welcome.

  Cole tugged his worn vest down over his lean stomach and stepped from the shadows. He’d worked eighteen hours straight in the mine, but he wasn’t tired. He was energized by the promise of a dance with Rebecca.

  But as he’d walked into the light, he caught sight of the black grime embedded under his fingernails. Suddenly, his freshly laundered worn denim pants and homespun shirt seemed crude for such a fancy gathering. Ashamed, he balled his fingers into tight fists and drew back into the darkness, anxious she not see him.

  He wasn’t fit company for her.

  And deep in his heart he sensed he never would be.

  Cole tried to shake off the old memory as he laid his head back against the down pillow covered in a soft cotton case and squeezed his eyes closed.

  The pillow smelled freshly washed and he reckoned was the finest he’d had under his head since he’d splurged on a night in a fancy Saint Louis hotel a few months back.

  What had goaded him into staying yesterday? Whatever the reason he knew now it was a mistake.

  Hell, hadn’t he learned his lesson three years ago?

  Three years ago, he’d come back to White Stone, proud of the man he’d become, not to visit his mother’s grave, but to see Rebecca. That’s when he’d found out she’d eloped with a stranger and was honeymooning in Denver. So, he’d tossed away the dreams of having the woman he’d always wanted but could never have and returned to what he knew: Lily and the army.

  Damn it. He didn’t belong here—in this bed, this house, this town. And the sooner he left White Stone, the better.

  The sound of footsteps padding down the hallway caught his attention. He heard Rebecca’s soft voice, couldn’t make out the words, but knew by the gentle timbre she was speaking to the boy.

  “Mama, Mama.”

  “I’ve breakfast to fix but I suppose I could use the help in the kitchen,” she said as she passed his closed door.

  “Yes. Yes,” the child cried.

  A moment of jealousy stabbed Cole. He’d never hear his son’s voice.

  A ghost of a smile touched his lips as he tried to imagine the little fellow. He’d be about two now, nearing Mac’s size. Likely he would have stood tall, like Cole. He tried to picture the color of his son’s eyes, the texture of his hair and the size of his hands. How long had the boy lived? Where was he buried? Had he cried?

  Cole groaned and rolled on his side and tried to stop torturing himself with questions that likely would never be answered.

  Angry, he tossed back the covers, stood and strode naked over to his trousers dangling on the bedpost. He reached for the pants, then paused when he got a whiff of horse sweat a
nd campfires. No wonder Rebecca had turned her nose up at him.

  Discarding the trousers, he reached in his saddlebag for his spare set of brown britches. They didn’t smell much better, but looked more presentable.

  Cole dressed quickly. He strapped on his gun belt then retrieved Rebecca’s shotgun, now cleaned and oiled, from the top of a wardrobe.

  As he strode down the stairs and hallway, Mac’s high-pitched squeal echoed from the kitchen. He crept down the hallway, close enough to see, but careful not to be seen.

  Rebecca wore a dark-blue dress with a scooped neckline. She’d pulled her hair up into a loose topknot. Blond curls framed her face.

  She had a rag in her hand. Mac sat in his high chair with a mound of mangled hot cakes in front of him. His face was covered with syrup. She leaned forward to wipe the boy’s face, but he tried to squirm away.

  “Now hold still,” she said laughingly. “You look like you’ve been rolling around in flapjacks.”

  The boy made a ruckus but when she pulled away the rag he grinned at her. Rebecca’s eyes were bright, her smile quick.

  The smile transformed her face, erasing the worry lines on her smooth skin as if she didn’t have a care in the world.

  That was the Rebecca Cole remembered—a happy, young girl, on the verge of womanhood, who always had a quick smile.

  He tried to imagine the shape of her legs and the feel of her skin. His body hardened.

  Cole took a step back, suddenly uncomfortable. She was beyond his reach now, and always. And there was no sense pretending otherwise.

  He tightened his grip around the shotgun’s stock, wishing now he’d left town yesterday. He marched into the kitchen.

  At the sound of his footsteps, Rebecca stood and turned. Her smile faded and the worry lines returned.

  Cole held out the gun. “It’s clean. Ready to use now.”

  She nodded stiffly. “Thanks.”

  His grip tightened, angry that she still looked down her nose at him. “You know how to use it?”

  She stepped back. “Sure.”

  “Then show me how to load it,” he challenged.

  “I’ll do it later.”

  He’d be damned if she’d dismiss him. “Get the shells. I’ll show you how.”

  “This isn’t necessary.”

  He wanted Rebecca safe. He didn’t know why, but he did and that was all that mattered. “Get the shells.”

  Rebecca, as if sensing she’d not win this battle of wills, went to a drawer next to the sink, rummaged through the junk stuffed in it, and finally pulled out two shells. She shoved them at him. “Here.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Where’s the rest?”

  “That’s it.”

  He shook his head. “You’re lucky you’ve never needed this gun before.”

  “I’ve done just fine without you or anyone else.”

  “Like I said, lucky.”

  He cracked open the gun to expose the empty twin barrels. “Put the shells in yourself so you can get a feel for it.”

  “Do we have to do this now?”

  A bitter smile touched his lips. “Only if you want to get rid of me.”

  Wordlessly, she stepped up to the gun. Her shoulder touched his as she looked down the twin cylinders. Her lips curved into a delicate frown as she studied the gun. He stared at the creamy white skin of her neck. He savored her closeness, like an opiate. No good would come from his wanting her, but he did just the same.

  She inserted the bullets and stepped back. “Happy now?”

  Not even close.

  He snapped the gun closed. “You know how to pull the trigger?”

  “That I do know. Papa showed me.”

  “Then I’ll put this on the top shelf of your pantry. It’ll be ready and waiting if you need it.”

  He went into the closet, stowed the gun on the highest shelf and returned to the kitchen.

  Rebecca had pulled Mac from his chair and had perched him on her hip. “Would you like some breakfast?”

  He heard the edge to her voice. She wanted him out of her house, but he reckoned years of fancy boarding schools wouldn’t let her forget her manners. “No.”

  “Will you be staying another night?”

  If he were a smart man, he’d summon some common sense, ride out of town now and forget all about Rebecca Sinclair Taylor.

  Instead, he heard himself say, “Yes,” before he turned and left the house.

  The sun hung behind a blanket of clouds trying to peek out over the distant string of mountains. Its bright orange light grayed by clouds cast shadows over the miles and miles of sun-baked grass.

  Cole headed toward town, not quite sure where he was going or what he’d do.

  Farmers bustled about with bushels of produce to sell, blurry-eyed cowhands stumbled out of the Rosebud and women with baskets filled with eggs and jugs of milk gossiped. And they all stopped to stare at him as he passed.

  Cole wasn’t surprised his presence had upset a few applecarts. He’d ruffled his share of feathers in White Stone. If he’d had a father to keep him in line or if his mother had paid more attention, then maybe things would have been different. But they weren’t different, and there was no sense worrying over a past that couldn’t be changed.

  His boots thumped against the boardwalk and as he strode toward the Rosebud, he heard a young voice yell, “I ain’t going back with you!”

  “Yes, you are.”

  Cole stopped and turned to see a burly man grab Dusty by the collar. Fear marred Dusty’s face as he squirmed and tried to bite the man’s hand. The kid didn’t have on shoes and Cole thought his body looked skinnier than it did yesterday.

  Passersby gawked at Dusty and the man, but no one seemed interested in helping the boy. The thought stoked Cole’s anger.

  In five quick strides Cole crossed the street toward the man’s wagon piled high with turnip and potato sacks.

  Cole recognized the farmer as he got closer. Judd Saunders. He lived about ten miles outside of town where he scraped out a living farming a patch of land. He’d always been known for his mean streak and had never been well liked.

  “You bit me, you ungrateful varmint.” Judd drew back his fist ready to land a sound punch to Dusty’s face.

  Cole grabbed Judd’s wrist and twisted it behind his back until he squealed and released Dusty. The boy immediately scrambled out of arm’s reach.

  Judd tried to break free of Cole’s grip, but couldn’t. He smelled of pigs and sweat and likely, he’d not bathed since last spring. “What the hell is wrong with you, mister?”

  “You were about to hit that boy,” Cole growled.

  Judd’s eyes narrowed. “Cole McGuire. Figures you would stick up for a kid like that.”

  “Stay away from the boy.”

  “He’s my son and I’ll hit him if I’ve a mind to.”

  The farmer tried to break free, but Cole jerked his arm a notch tighter making him wince. “All the more reason to treat him right.”

  “He’s lazy and good for nothing and I’m trying to teach him the meaning of hard work.”

  Dusty stepped forward, rubbing his arm. “You worked me in the field twelve hours a day with almost nothing to eat.” The heat in the boy’s eyes verified the truth of his words.

  Cole glared at the farmer. “That true?”

  “Nothing’s free in this world.”

  Rage shot through Cole’s veins. “Know this. Whatever you do to this boy, I will do to you.”

  The man snarled. “I don’t have to take this from the likes of a drifter who won’t be around much longer.” He tried to break free of Cole’s iron grip, but couldn’t.

  Cole shoved Judd away easily and watched him stumble and fall on his hands and knees in the dirt road.

  Judd scooped up handfuls of dirt and rose to his feet. He faced Cole, snorting like a bull ready to charge, and then threw the dust at Cole’s face and lunged.

  Cole easily dodged the clumps of dirt and Judd’s sloppy ad
vance. He stepped to the side, letting the farmer stumble into a horse trough filled with water coated with a green haze.

  Judd reared up his head, murder in his eyes. A semicircle of people had formed around them. Cole noted a few dollars changing hands.

  He hadn’t meant to start this fight, but he was in it until the finish. “I don’t want trouble.”

  The farmer snarled, baring blackened teeth. “Well, you got it.”

  Judd came at Cole again, but this time the sound of gunfire stopped him in his tracks. Both men looked to the middle of the street where the sheriff stood, his feet braced apart, a napkin still tucked in his shirt.

  Sheriff Wade strode toward them, his blue eyes simmering with anger. “Mind telling me what fight is so important that I’d have to get up from a hot breakfast to come break it up?”

  Judd sniffed. “Just having a little fun, Ernie.”

  Cole dusted dirt from his sleeve. “No trouble, Sheriff.”

  Wade stared at the two men, his eyes narrowing. Then he holstered his gun and nodded. “Take your fun outside of town.”

  “Sure,” Judd said, scooping up his straw hat from the ground.

  Sheriff Wade turned on Cole. “Any more trouble out of you and I’ll run you out of town.”

  “Fine.”

  Cole looked for Dusty, but seeing no sign of him, backed away from the crowd, anxious to be rid of all the onlookers. Only when he was well out of striking distance from Judd did he turn around and set his sights on potter’s field. He’d visit Lily and his son’s grave and be done with this godforsaken place for good.

  He’d not taken five steps when he heard the thud of feet behind him. “You didn’t have to help,” Dusty’s familiar voice called out.”

  Cole kept walking. “You’re welcome.”

  Dusty hurried to keep pace with Cole’s long strides. “He’ll just come back, you know.”

  He stopped and glanced down into Dusty’s bruised face. How many times had the boy felt his father’s fists? “You okay, kid?”

  Dark, untrimmed hair hung over Dusty’s blue eyes. A handful of freckles covered the bridge of his nose and his two front teeth looked too big for his mouth.