Chapter 21
Exhausted, frustrated, and hurting, Brock rode into Little River much later than he wanted. It was late morning, the sun just reaching its zenith. He had ridden as far as he could the night before, stopping only when he could no longer see in the darkness and the pain, in both his body and his heart, had become more than he could bear.
Tipping back his hat, he wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten anything since finishing off the jerky Cora had packed for him yesterday.
He rode by the sheriff’s office without stopping and continued up Main Street, turning the corner at Nate’s Barbershop. Martha Prichard’s boardinghouse loomed up ahead, the biggest house on the street, and he headed that way. He didn’t know Martha but Stevie Rae had talked about her all the time, and Dan had spoken of her often as well. Both had nothing but good things to say about the woman.
He dismounted and nearly fell to the ground, his leg giving out on him. “Shit!” He grabbed Resolute’s pommel to keep himself steady, then forced his body up the steps, grasping the railing as if it were a lifeline. When he reached the top of the porch stairs, he paused to catch his breath then twisted the bellpull.
The door opened and a woman who reminded him very much of his mother stood in the doorway, dish towel in hand. Flour dusted the apron over her floral print gown and the smell of freshly baked bread wafted through the open portal. Her gaze held that weariness of someone who had seen too much—life hadn’t always been easy—but was still warm and welcoming. She studied him as he studied her, then her eyes opened wide as she drew in her breath.
“Miz Prichard?”
She gave a slight nod.
“We’ve never met. I’m Brock MacDermott.” He swallowed against the dryness in his throat. His tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth.
“I know who you are,” she said, which surprised him though it shouldn’t have. He was certain either Dan or Stevie Rae—or both—had talked about him just as they had talked about her.
“I’m looking for Sheriff Hardy.”
She finished drying her hands, then slung the dish towel over her shoulder. “Dan?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her eyes narrowed, the warmth in them a few moments ago, gone, replaced with what? Suspicion? Annoyance? Anger? He couldn’t quite tell, but he found himself backing up a step just the same.
“Are you sure you’re not looking for Stevie Rae?”
“Yes, ma’am. I mean, no, ma’am.”
“Which is it? Dan or Stevie Rae?”
Flustered and embarrassed, not quite sure what to make of this woman…or her attitude, he said, “Well, both, ma’am.”
“You might as well come in.” The woman heaved a sigh and opened the door a bit wider, allowing him to enter. Brock stepped over the threshold and stood in the foyer, hat in hand, as the door closed behind him and Martha moved down the hallway. “Well, don’t just stand there,” she said over her shoulder.
Brock followed and entered the kitchen just a few steps behind her. His stomach rumbled when he noticed two loaves of bread cooling on a windowsill as well as two bowls, each filled with dough, on the table. Martha poured him a cup of coffee and handed it to him, then washed her hands, pulled a white blob from one of the bowls, and started kneading. Though she gestured to a chair, Brock didn’t sit, afraid he wouldn’t be able to rise again if he did. Instead, he leaned against the door frame, sipped at the fragrant brew, and concentrated on ignoring the constant throb in his thigh.
“Is she here?”
The woman shook her head as she kneaded the dough, punching the mass with surprising strength.
He didn’t have time for this. He needed answers and he needed them now. “Where did she go?” Impatience made his tone sharper than he intended.
He realized his mistake as Martha looked up and rubbed her nose with her forearm. Her eyes narrowed as she looked him up and down, then settled on his face. “Why should I tell you?”
Brock didn’t think twice. The words were out of his mouth before he could draw a breath. “Because I’m in love with her.”
If she was surprised, she hid it well. The only evidence he had that she’d heard him was the raising of one eyebrow as she shaped the dough into a loaf, slipped it into a metal pan, then pushed the pan to the end of the table. Her gaze never left his face, though, and Brock squirmed a bit under the scrutiny, until a slight smile twitched the corners of her mouth. “You’re in love with her,” she repeated, her eyebrow rising a little higher, if that was possible. “Did you ever tell her that?”
His face burning, Brock shook his head. “No, but I should have.” He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, then shifted back quickly. The pain in his leg was nothing compared to the pain in his heart. He needed to be out there, looking for Stevie, not inside Martha’s overly warm kitchen, sipping her excellent coffee. “Where did she go, Miz Prichard?”
“She didn’t tell me—didn’t even say good-bye—but I know her as well as I know myself.” A mixture of pride and fear gleamed from her eyes, which glimmered with tears he suspected she would never shed in his presence. “I’m thinking she went up to the mountains to look for Logan.”
“When did she leave?”
“This morning.” She picked up both pans and slid them into the oven, then cleaned the table of flour and bits of dough. Once finished, she moved to the icebox. “She was already gone when I got up.” She removed several items from the shelves and placed them on the now clean table. “Are you hungry? Can I make you something to eat before you head out again?”
Stevie Rae had left already, probably before dawn, and was well on her way deep into the mountains. How would he ever find her? Urgency to leave now and look for her filled him, shrieked through his mind like a train’s whistle, but he couldn’t deny his hunger. It wouldn’t do well for him to ride off, already hungry and in pain. If he lost consciousness on the trail, who knew how much time he’d lose? His stomach rumbled even louder than before as his gaze went from Martha at the stove to the assortment of foods on the table—cooked ham, some cheese, a bowl of what looked like mashed potatoes, half a cherry pie, the cherries oozing from the crust.
“Won’t take a minute to heat something up for you.” Without waiting for an answer, she pulled a large cast-iron skillet from a cabinet.
“Son, do you know you’re bleeding?” He recognized Dan’s voice, but jumped anyway, startled, even as relief rushed through him. He turned quickly, ready to embrace Dan Hardy, but stopped himself when he saw the bandages visible beneath the light cotton robe the man wore.
“Bleeding?” Martha exclaimed. “You’ve been standing here for the past ten minutes bleeding all over my clean floor!” She threw up her hands in exasperation, the items on the stovetop forgotten, and rushed toward him as she whipped the dish towel from the top of her shoulder, already wadding it up to staunch the flow of blood. “Just as bad as her! Neither one of you has the sense God gave a turnip, but at least she wasn’t bleeding!”
“Martha.” Dan said her name in a calm, even tone, drawing her attention as he grabbed the towel from her hand. “I’ll take care of it. Just keep doing what you’re doing.”
The fight went out of her as quickly as it came, leaving her features a pasty white, and her lips pressed together in a thin line. Her gaze went from him to Dan, then back to him before she gave a quick nod and returned to her skillets.
“Come with me.”
Brock followed as Dan led the way down the hall to a bedroom on the first floor. He opened the door and gestured toward the bed. “Drop your pants and let me take a look.”
“I don’t have time for this. I need—”
“How far do you think you’ll get, bleeding all over the place?” Hands on his hips, the sheriff glared at him. “Besides, if you think I’m going back out to that kitchen and face Martha without fixing you up, you’re mistaken, son. She’ll have both our hides and I kinda like
mine.” Ignoring the bed, Brock grabbed the chair beside it, turned it around, then unbuttoned his trousers and slid them down his legs just far enough so Dan could take a look. He rested one forearm on the chair’s back and held his pants in place with his other hand.
The sheriff made quick work of unwrapping the bandage, but Brock was unprepared for the rush of pain that made him clench his jaw as the man dabbed at the fresh blood with the bandage he’d just removed. “Looks like you ripped a few stitches. I can try to fix it, but Martha is better at it than I am.”
Frustrated with the loss of time, and angry at Stevie Rae for taking off after Logan alone and at Dan and Martha for letting her go and at himself for getting shot in the first place, he growled, “Just do it. I don’t care how it looks.”
“Mighty prickly, ain’t ya?” Dan remarked as he gathered everything he’d need—Martha’s sewing basket as well as clean bandages—and brought them closer to hand.
Brock turned away as the man pulled a wicked-looking needle from the basket and threaded it with thick black thread.
“How’d you get shot anyway?” Brock asked, more so he could take his mind off what the man was doing than anything else, but it didn’t help much and he clenched his jaw at the first stab of the needle. “Was it Logan?”
“It was,” Dan answered and began talking as he worked. By the time he tied the knot of a fresh bandage to protect his handiwork, Brock knew everything. Fear, his constant companion of late, made his belly roil even more than the pain had.
“You’re done. You can pull up your pants now.” Dan wiped his hands, then tossed the bloody bandage into the trash basket in the corner. “What are you going to do now?”
Brock glared at him as if it were the stupidest question ever asked as he pulled his trousers over his hips and worked the buttons. “Find them. What did you think I’d say?”
The sheriff didn’t take offense. In fact, he grinned. “Figured you say that.” He patted Brock on the back and said, “Wish I could go with you, but Martha would…well, let’s not say what Martha would do. She’s after me to retire as it is.” He chuckled. “Won’t marry me until I do.” He opened the door to the bedroom and led the way down the hall to the kitchen.
Martha leaned against the sink, arms folded across her chest, dish towel slung over her shoulder. She didn’t ask about his injury, but her gaze inspected him thoroughly before she pointed at the food on the table and ordered, “Eat.”
Brock recognized the tone. It was the same one his mother had used on all four of her boys. Dutifully, though he didn’t think his stomach could handle it, he grabbed a plate and ate—standing up—while Dan filled him in on what he remembered from the map Stevie Rae had taken. When he was done, his mind filled with information and his stomach no longer empty, he handed Martha the plate. She gave him a tremulous smile, tears glimmering in her eyes. Then, to his surprise, she kissed his cheek and shoved a burlap sack into his hands. “Now you go find my girl and bring her home.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
It was a promise he intended to keep. Brock left the house and stood motionless on the front porch, his hands on his hips. He glanced to the north and the high mountains, then toward the south. Stevie Rae had a good six hours on him.
Which way would she have gone?
Dan opened the door and joined him on the porch. “You ain’t gonna get far on Resolute.” He eyed the horse waiting patiently, his reins looped around a post. “He looks done in. Take Samson. He’s at Wilson’s Livery. Tell Conrad I sent you.”
“Thank you.” He turned and shook the man’s hand, then limped down the porch steps and untied Resolute’s reins. He didn’t mount up. Instead, leading his horse, he headed toward Wilson’s Livery at the end of the street, his mind a whirlwind. If he was to find Stevie Rae, he’d have to figure out where Logan would go.
Where would a man such as he feel safe?
“You kill that outlaw, you hear?” Dan yelled after him.
Brock nodded, letting the man know he’d heard, but didn’t stop his progress. Didn’t even turn around, but something stuck in his brain. A word. One single word that kept repeating in head.
Outlaw.
The word grew louder, until it was the only thing he heard.
Outlaw.
He almost stumbled from the force of it in his mind, and when the word turned into an image, he did stagger.
Of course. Where else would an outlaw lie low but a place filled with other outlaws?
Brock picked up his pace, the extra padding covering his wound making his trouser leg ride up. He tugged on his pants as he entered the livery. The smell of fresh hay and the sound of horses moving about their stalls, chuffing into the air, greeted him. A man sat on a small stool near the back of the building, speaking softly to the horse whose hoof he held in his hand. Brock moved forward. “Excuse me.”
The man looked up.
“Are you Conrad?”
“Yes, sir.” He released the horse’s hoof and rose from the stool. “Can I help you?”
“Dan sent me to get Samson.”
“Of course. How is the sheriff?”
“Healing,” he said as Conrad brought Dan’s big, black mount from one of the stalls. As he did so, Brock led Resolute farther into the big stable. They met in the middle and exchanged reins. “This is Resolute. He needs a good rubdown. And a bucket of oats. He deserves them.” He removed the saddle and placed it on Samson’s back, then tightened the cinches.
“Anything you say.” Conrad walked Resolute to the stall Samson had just vacated.
“Thank you.” Brock knotted the bag of food Martha had given him around the pommel, then climbed into the saddle, gritting his teeth against the pain, and rode out of the livery. He passed Dan, still standing on Martha’s porch. “I’m heading to that outlaw stronghold. You know the one I’m talking about. If Stevie—and Logan—are anywhere, it’s there.”
“I’ll have the posse head up that way. Good luck, son.”
“I don’t need luck. What I need are wings on this horse to get there before Stevie Rae does,” Brock called over his shoulder, then kneed Samson’s sides. The horse responded with a burst of speed, his hooves pounding the dirt beneath him as they left Little River behind.
• • •
Weary and heartsore, her backside numb from sitting in the saddle so long, hunger cramping her belly, Stevie Rae nudged Willow’s sides and urged her down the mountainside as the outlaw stronghold came into view between the trees. It hadn’t taken her long to figure out where Logan would want to go to ground and hide until the posse grew tired of looking for him. He’d hole up in a place where no one cared how many people he’d killed.
A place where his deeds might even be applauded.
A place where she might meet her end.
She took a deep breath, then another and another to clear her mind, to grab hold of the fear shimmering through her and use it to her advantage. She needed her wits about her, needed to stay sharp, not dwell on the possibility she could lose her life today.
She could turn around right now and no one would be the wiser. She couldn’t. Wouldn’t. She’d come too far. Lost too much.
Her father’s face flashed in her mind. A man devoted to healing, he would not condone her desire to see Logan dead, no matter what he’d done. She thought of her mother before she became ill, singing in the kitchen as she cooked while Stevie Rae studied at the kitchen table. Raelene Buchanan would not be happy with the path Stevie Rae had chosen, as Martha had told her so many times before. Martha. Dear, sweet Martha, hiding her gentle heart beneath her no-nonsense, tough-as-nails bluster, showing her love rather than just saying the words.
And Brock.
Her heart ached for him. She missed the way he’d flash that smile at her, the one that sent butterflies whirling in her belly. And she longed for his touch, his hands caressing her skin to make her body come alive, her thoughts reeling in a thousand different directions…if she had a thought at all.
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She should have said good-bye to him, held him in her arms one last time and told him that she loved him…more than she ever thought possible. She wanted to be able to tell Brock that his nightmare—and hers—was over, then make a life with him, if he’d have her…if he loved her as much as she loved him.
No, this has to end now. For him. For us.
Tears smarted her eyes and she blinked quickly to remove the moisture, then shook her head to clear it. She dug deep into her soul to find the determination that had stood her in good stead for so long and firmly pushed all thoughts of Brock and everyone else from her mind.
Her mouth set in a grim line, courage once more racing through her brain side by side with her fear, she kneed Willow’s sides and urged the horse forward at a slow pace until she was almost upon the small collection of buildings. Still hidden within the woods thick with evergreen and aspen trees, her gaze swept the mostly abandoned town. A buckboard rolled to a halt in front of the Silver Spur, loaded down with crates. The driver jumped from his seat and entered the saloon. A moment later, he returned, the bartender with him, and the two of them started to unload the wagon, bringing the crates inside the saloon. Other than those two, the street remained empty. Her eyes darted toward the left, and settled on the corral beside Bill Ransom’s old stagecoach station. Her heart thundered in her chest as she recognized one of the horses in the corral. It belonged to Johnny Rhodes, the man Logan shot in Little River before he shot Dan.
Logan’s here, but where? He could be in any one of these houses, sleeping off a drunk. Or waiting for the posse, his pistols cocked.
Stevie Rae tugged lightly on Willow’s reins, bringing her to a halt, and slipped from the saddle. “This is as far as you go.” She let the horse’s reins dangle on the ground, then scratched Willow between her ears. “If I don’t come back, you find your way home.” The horse chuffed and nuzzled her face, as if she understood.
A Kiss in the Shadows Page 27