Stevie Rae adjusted the collar of her coat and brought the dirty bandanna around her neck up to cover her mouth as a bitterly frigid wind swept down from the mountain and swirled between the buildings lining Little River’s main street, whipping the grains of sand into stinging pellets that needled the face and hands and anything that wasn’t covered. Shadows deepened as the sun disappeared behind quickly moving black clouds and the smell of rain hung heavy. She glanced toward the east and Hagan’s Saloon. MacDermott was in there, having another drink, probably getting warm and cozy with Rosie or one of Pepper’s other girls while she stood out here in the freezing wind.
It wasn’t in her nature to give up, but she could fall back and regroup, at least until morning. She doubted MacDermott would be leaving Little River before the sun rose. If he followed his pattern from other visits, he’d be here two or three days.
Stevie Rae headed south, but not to the little cabin on the mountainside that had been her home for the past two years. Instead, she turned the corner at the barbershop and continued until Martha Prichard’s rooming house came into view. Right before Martha’s house was the one she’d grown up in. Someone else lived in it now, loved in it. She blinked back the sting of tears and forced herself to look straight ahead.
Lights glowed in Martha’s windows, a welcome sight to someone who had been sleeping on the ground and eating jerky for weeks. Stevie Rae trudged toward that golden glow—her haven since Mr. Rendell at the bank had hung his eviction notice on the door to her father’s cabin two months ago—knowing Martha would have a hot meal, a warm bed, and a loving embrace for her. Martha had been trying to take care of her since her mother passed on twelve years ago, honoring the dying wish of a dear friend. Stevie Rae hadn’t made it easy.
She climbed the stairs to the front door, weary and heartsore, and reached for the bellpull. Before her hand could twist the knob, she turned to scan her surroundings, a habit she’d picked up recently, and noticed the clumps of dirt left on the wooden planks by her boots. As tired as she was, she wouldn’t drag dirt into Martha’s clean house and across the beautiful rugs that had come from as far away as New York. She hopped down to the street just as the promised rain came down, not in a gentle mist, but in a deluge as if the clouds above simply split apart. The street around her darkened as if night had fallen though it was still late afternoon. Now, not only was she cold, dirty, and tired, she was wet, too.
She cast her gaze heavenward as she headed toward the kitchen at the back of the house and sighed. “Let me guess. You don’t like what I’m doing, either, do you?”
Removing her wet, muddy boots, she placed them side by side beneath the chair on the back porch then knocked, remembering to remove her hat before the kitchen door flung open. Martha stood on the threshold, drying her hands on a dish towel, and peered into the darkness the sudden rain had brought.
“Stevie Rae?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Land sakes, child! Why didn’t you come to the front door?” Martha pulled her inside.
“Come in before you catch your death,” she said, then mumbled something about common sense and turnips, but Stevie Rae didn’t quite catch it.
She stilled the sudden twitching at the corners of her mouth and remained where she was, unwilling to move any farther into the kitchen, although the heat from the oven felt wonderful as it started to steal the chill from her bones. “I didn’t want to be draggin’ mud into your house and gettin’ everything wet.”
An eyebrow rose over one of the woman’s warm brown eyes and her hands rested on her ample hips. Color highlighted her cheeks. “Your language is atrocious, young lady, as is your attire. And just look at that rats’ nest you call hair.” Martha tsked several times while she shook her head, then, despite Stevie Rae’s current wet, filthy state, pulled her into the warm embrace she’d been craving since she rode into town this morning. “Just because you’ve decided to hunt for a madman doesn’t mean you can’t be a lady like your mother taught you.”
The absurdity of the statement struck Stevie Rae but she resisted the urge to laugh. Dressed for ease of riding in men’s clothing that hadn’t seen the benefit of soap and water in weeks, her hair knotted and gnarled after being tucked up beneath her hat for days on end, she hardly looked like the lady her mother had so wanted her to be. She could try once more to let Martha know she was only doing this until Zeb Logan died for his crimes, but the statement would be ignored, as it had been before. Instead, she murmured, “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry.”
“That’s better. I bet you’re hungry.”
“Yes, ma’am. Starved.”
“Before you eat, though, I think a nice hot bath is just what the doctor ordered. Come along.” She grabbed Stevie Rae’s hand and pulled her through the kitchen then down a long hallway toward the bathroom.
Stevie Rae had no choice but to follow. And truthfully, she didn’t mind. Having deprived herself of such a luxury for a while, she would adore a long soak in steaming hot water, the smell of honeysuckle soap heavy in the vapor. Washing up in the various cold-water creeks each morning had had to suffice for far too long.
More than an hour later, after she bathed, dragged a comb through her mass of tangled blond hair, donned clean clothes she’d rummaged from her saddlebag, and eaten her fill of Martha’s Yankee pot roast, Stevie Rae leaned back in her seat as Martha poured her another cup of coffee and slid into the seat across from her. “Dan stopped by while you were soaking away weeks of dirt,” she said, the affection she held for the sheriff clear in the tone of her voice. “He told me Brock MacDermott came into town today. You still planning on asking to go with him when he rides out again?”
“Yes, ma’am.” She didn’t mention she’d already spoken to the man and he denied her request. It didn’t matter. As frightening as it was, she’d continue to ride out alone, although that just seemed to be like asking for trouble, especially since she couldn’t hit anything she aimed at with her father’s Colt. Thankfully, she had the shotgun. Even if she didn’t hit her mark, the buckshot could do quite a bit of damage.
Martha sighed and her forehead wrinkled with worry. “I so wish you weren’t bent on this course, Stevie Rae. I promised your sainted mother I’d keep you safe.”
Stevie Rae said nothing. She took a sip of coffee and studied the woman who had been more of a mother to her than her own had been. Raelene Buchanan had been sickly for as long as she could remember and Martha—dear, sweet Martha—had done the best she could to take care of Stevie Rae when Raelene couldn’t. Even when her father, Steven, had given up his medical practice, sold the little house in town, and mortgaged everything to buy Poor Man’s Dream, the gold mine that never produced, Martha had tried to keep Stevie Rae close. And she’d succeeded.
“I thought we agreed not to talk about this. You know—”
“Yes, I know. If it’s the last thing you do, you’re going to see Zeb Logan die for what he did,” Martha said, repeating the phrase as well as the promise she knew by heart. “I just…there has to be a better way.” She reached out and grabbed Stevie Rae’s hand. “Let the law do it, honey. Men like Dan and Brock MacDermott. They’re used to dealing with vicious men. You’re not. This isn’t a job for you.”
Stevie Rae snatched her hand away and shot up from her seat. She glared at the woman, tears of frustration welling in her eyes. There were words building in her chest, words she so wanted to say, and yet not one could squeeze past the lump in her throat.
“Now, don’t get in a lather and go running off like you always do. You know I’m right.” The older woman heaved a sigh, one of disappointment and heartache. “If your mother…”
Finally, she found her voice. “It’s not fair bringing Mama into this argument. She would do the same as me.”
“Would she?” Martha shook her head. “I don’t think so. Not the Raelene Buchanan I knew. You know I loved her like a sister, but your mother would never do what you’re doing. She placed great importance on being a
lady, no matter what the circumstances.”
“Being a lady does not mean being helpless.”
Martha continued as if she hadn’t been interrupted. “No, it does not, but she wasn’t as strong as you, Stevie Rae, didn’t have your stubbornness. She liked being pampered and coddled. Indulged. And your father—”
Stevie Rae swiped at the tears in her eyes with the heels of her hands and swallowed the words in her throat as well as the lump. She took a deep breath and gazed at the woman who always offered comfort when she needed it most…except now. “I love you, Martha, but I can’t let you say anything more about Mama and Daddy. I can’t listen to it. I’m going to bed. I’ll be gone in the morning.”
The woman gave a regal nod of her head and drew in her breath, letting it leave her in a sigh. She folded her hands on the tabletop as a frown settled on her face. The warmth glowing in her light brown eyes never dulled though.
“Good night, Martha. And thank you.”
“For what?”
“Everything, but mostly for loving me.” Despite her heartache, she leaned over and gave Martha a kiss on the cheek before heading up to the attic and the small, comfortable space she’d created for herself beneath the eaves. The mattress on the floor as well as the cocoon of thick blankets beckoned. Exhausted, weary down to her bones, Stevie Rae didn’t change out of the clean clothes she’d donned after her bath. She just crawled beneath the covers, drawing the heavy blankets up to her chin. The wind howled just outside the building and rain pounded on the roof. The sounds acted like a lullaby and sang her to sleep.
• • •
Dan Hardy tucked the report into a folder and shoved it in the drawer of his desk. From another drawer he pulled out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses, then grinned at Brock. “Now that that’s done, you up for a game of chess? I haven’t touched the board since your last visit.” He gestured to the small table in the corner, the chess pieces, carved from ivory, glowing dully in the lamplight. “As I recall, I had your queen on the run.”
“Sure.” Brock rose from his seat beside the desk and ambled over to the chessboard. He wasn’t in the mood for a game of chess—his mind was on other things—but he settled in the chair anyway. Dan was a good man and a good sheriff. A warm friendship had developed between them, and truthfully, a game of chess, especially at this hour of the night, might be exactly what he needed. The sheriff joined him at the table, poured whiskey into both glasses, and handed him one. “To your health,” he said as he raised his glass high and took a drink, finishing the two fingers of finely distilled liquor in one swallow. Brock did the same, the whiskey burning its way to settle in a warm pool in his stomach.
While Dan studied the chessboard laid out before him, Brock’s gaze swept over the Wanted posters tacked to the wall. One was missing from the last time he was here. Hank “The Gun” Simms, the man he’d brought in earlier today. Wanted for cattle rustling, the outlaw was now safely locked behind the steel bars in Dan’s jail, lying on his bunk. His gaze slid to the other posters then stopped. Zeb Logan’s ugly mug and black eyes stared back at him. Instantly, the hair on his arms rose as a cold chill skittered up his back.
Hatred, pure and simple, simmered in his gut as he continued to stare, willing the ink on the paper to give up the depicted one’s secrets even though he knew that would never happen. “A couple of months ago, someone told me Logan had a hideout in the Sangre de Cristos.” He gestured toward the outlaw’s ugly face. “Any truth to that?”
Dan followed his line of sight then shrugged. “If there’s a hideout, I’ve never found it, but then, I’ve never looked for it, either. I’ve never, not once, laid my eyes on the man, Brock. Couldn’t tell you if that picture is accurate or if Logan has horns coming out the sides of his head.” His gaze swung back to Brock then the chessboard. His fingers settled on his knight, and he started to move it forward then changed his mind. A long sigh escaped him as he studied the board then moved that same knight again. “You might want to talk to Stevie Rae Buchanan though.”
“Stevie Rae?”
The sheriff nodded, poured them both another drink, then fished half a cigar from his shirt pocket. “You should go up to Poor Man’s Dream and take a look around,” he said as he lit the cigar and waved away the blue-gray smoke in front of his face.
“Poor Man’s Dream?”
“Gold mine. Steven Buchanan’s gold mine.” Hardy raised his glass, saluted Brock, then swallowed the fiery brew in one gulp. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Or was. Doc Buchanan’s dead. After he dug the bullets out of Logan’s leg and shoulder, Logan killed him.”
Brock stiffened, every muscle in his body taut and thrumming, and he almost shot out of his chair. “Logan was here? When?”
Dan shook his head and scrubbed his hand over his face, his gaze focused on the black and white squares of the chessboard and the pieces still available for play. “Couple of months ago.”
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me when I first rode into town?”
The man shrugged. “Thought you knew.”
Anger surged through him. A couple of months ago. Hell. If he had known…
He forced himself to take a deep breath then another, tamping down the inclination to throttle the man in front of him and race up to Poor Man’s Dream right now. But what would he see in the dark with the rain coming down as if the sky were pissing after a night of drinking? He glanced at the clock on the wall ticking away the minutes. Morning was just a few hours away. He could wait. In the meantime, he’d find out what he could from Hardy. “How do you know all this?”
“Buchanan’s daughter, Stevie Rae.” Dan leaned back in his chair. The expression on his face revealed nothing, but intelligence and knowledge gleamed from his dark brown eyes. “She saw the whole thing. Rode with me when I took out a posse after she reported her father’s death, but we never found Logan. She’s been looking ever since. Against my wishes, I might add.”
Was Stevie Rae the woman who had approached him in the street, asking if she could ride with him? She must have been—the deep blue of her eyes had flashed with the sadness and anger of one who knew the pain of losing someone to violence. He felt a twinge of contrition for his rudeness, but he meant what he said. He rode alone. Still, he should make certain.
He shook his head to clear it. “You believe her?”
“Of course. I have no reason not to. I’ve known that girl all her life. She’s many things, but a liar isn’t one of them.”
“Tell me everything.”
Sheriff Hardy stretched out his long legs and crossed his ankles, the pieces on the chessboard forgotten for the moment. Smoke rose to the ceiling as he stuck the cigar’s wet end between his lips. He inhaled then exhaled quickly, taking his time, squinting his eyes as he studied the curling wisps of vapor in front of his face.
The slowness, the deliberate bid for time, stretched Brock’s patience to its limit. After a moment or two, when he could no longer tolerate the growing silence, Brock opened his mouth, but never had the opportunity to say a word.
“Talk to Stevie Rae.” Dan didn’t remove the cigar from between his lips when he finally started talking. He simply spoke around it. “But in the meantime, I’ll tell you what I know.”
Chapter 2
As Brock traveled the road leading out of town, he drew in a deep breath, trying to relieve some of his tension, but it didn’t help. Tired didn’t begin to describe the weariness, the sadness, that lived deep within his bones. One thing and one thing only kept him in the saddle and on the trail of Zeb Logan. Revenge. Simple. Sweet. All-consuming. And if he could bring in other lawbreakers while he was searching, all the better.
But his heart ached…constantly.
Too much sorrow.
Too much death, by Logan’s hand as well as his own.
His thoughts flew to Kieran, as they did so often.
The oldest of the MacDermott boys, the most peace-loving of the bunch, Kieran had been an excellent ma
rksman, with both pistols and long-range rifles. He could shoot the ace out of the middle of a playing card with deadly accuracy, and he won medals every year at the county fair from the time he was ten years old.
His years of practice hadn’t helped him when Logan came at him with guns blazing—surprise on his side as he burst through the door of Whispering Pines—and shot Kieran dead-center in the heart. Brock hadn’t had time to even react as Logan turned, the bore of the revolver still smoking, and shot Mary and Matthew, both in the head, the echo of the blasts deafening in the front parlor of the ranch house. Then he trained his weapon on Desi Lyn, Kieran’s two-year-old daughter. Without a thought, Brock had thrown himself over his niece just as Logan pulled the trigger three more times in quick succession. The bullets found their mark—two in his back and one in his shoulder—and Brock’s world had gone dark while Desi Lyn screamed beneath his sheltering body.
He remembered opening his eyes and seeing the colors of a gaily embroidered pillowcase on the bed where he lay on his stomach. Pain had held him captive, but he had forced himself to turn his head. His brother Teague sat beside him in a rocking chair, keeping vigil, one arm in a sling, the other holding Desi Lyn, her pretty little face blotched with red spots from the tears she had cried. Brock had cried his own tears when Teague told him about his brother Eamon, who lay in the next room, recovering from his own wounds—Tell Logan, Zeb’s brother, had nearly killed him.
It had taken a long time to heal. Months before he felt like himself, and the only thing that helped him was the promise he’d made to himself, his brothers, and his niece. He would find Zeb Logan, no matter how long it took or what the pursuit did to him.
And the chase did affect him. He’d become bitter. And solitary. Whiskey did nothing to diminish the pain of losing Kieran, except leave him with a sour stomach and a pounding head. Nor had time dulled the loss of his brother’s wife, Mary, or their son, Matthew. Their sweet faces haunted him when he closed his eyes. Hell, even with his eyes wide open, he could see them. Eighteen months after their passing, guilt for his part in their deaths continued to eat at him, day by day.
A Kiss in the Shadows Page 2