by Pam Crooks
George fell into step with him. “The post office. Been expecting to hear from Paris. Want to walk with me?”
“For a spell. I’m on my way back to Lindell’s.”
“To see Miss Reilly.” Half amused, the police chief tossed him a knowing glance.
A couple of blocks down, the boardinghouse made a wintry sight with its roof almost covered in snow. Seeing it brought on a peculiar warming inside Jack, a reaction he could only attribute to Grace waiting for his return.
“She bears watching, that’s all,” he said.
“She does.” George grew serious. “I’m in full agreement on that. Keep a close eye on her until we can figure out what happened to that stolen money.”
He didn’t have to tell Jack twice. A buckboard clattered over the rough road in front of them, throwing back slush. Once it was past, they dodged mud and clods of broken dirt to get to the next block. George halted in front of the only post office in Great Falls.
“Come in with me, won’t you?” George’s firm tone sounded more like a command than a request. “Won’t take long. If there’s something in there from Paris, I want you to know about it.”
Jack soaked in the lawman’s trust like salve on an aching wound. It felt good to be involved in an investigation again. Damned good. Justice was always sweeter when he had a hand in winning it.
Not that he wanted Grace left alone any longer than necessary. His mother was with her, and maybe another boarder or two. Jack could spare a few more minutes.
“All right,” he said.
Just as George was about to open the door, it flew open. A Jesuit priest bolted onto the boardwalk, his black robes swishing around his ankles. Jack knew him as being fairly new in town, having arrived to head up the new Catholic Church, St. Ann’s, being built a couple blocks north. The priest shot a glance along the street. Up one side, down the other.
Jack frowned. “Everything okay, Father?”
“I’m looking for someone. A man wearing a fringed jacket and flat-brimmed hat. Black hair down to here.” He indicated his shoulder. “He just left, moments ago. Did you see him?”
Jack’s interest sharpened. He shot a glance down both sides of the street, too, right along with George. But saw no one of that description.
Boone’s description.
“No. I didn’t,” Jack growled, swallowing a curse.
“Was there a problem with him?” the police chief demanded.
“Not at all.” The Jesuit sighed, then turned to head back inside. “He could have been someone I once knew. Well, it’s a shame I missed him.”
Jack exchanged a glance with the lawman, and they both followed the priest inside.
“‘Could have been’?” Jack asked.
“Yes.” The Jesuit’s gaze darted between them, but if he was curious about their interest, he didn’t question it. “He was leaving just as I came in. In quite a hurry, I might add. He never even looked at me.”
“What makes you think you knew him then?” the lawman asked.
“After I posted my letters, I happened to notice several bundles on the counter. I recognized the name on them as someone who once worked for me.”
“Who?” Jack and George demanded in unison.
“Alexandre Thibault.”
The expression on the police chief’s face mirrored Jack’s confusion. The name wasn’t in Boone’s investigation file. In fact, they had no information whatsoever on his family or where he’d come from. He’d always been…just Boone.
“Come. I’ll show you.” The Jesuit headed toward a young postal clerk, busily sorting pieces of mail and inserting them into their appropriate boxes, lined in rows on the wall. “Might we have a look at that bundle of letters that was sitting here when I came in?” As if to jog the clerk’s memory, he tapped the counter with his knuckle in indication of where the bundle had sat.
The clerk appeared wary. “What for?”
“It concerns a robbery case we’re working on,” George said in an authoritative voice.
“Robbery!” the Jesuit exclaimed.
Jack nodded. “Of the St. Paul, Minneapolis & Manitoba Railway train a couple of weeks ago.”
And a whole lot more besides.
“Guess it won’t hurt then.” The clerk delved into a canvas bag and retrieved several small stacks of envelopes. “Second time he’s come in, bringing mail just like this. All of it headed to Canada. Other than that, I don’t know anything about him. He’s not a friendly sort.”
Jack noted how the precise penmanship matched that of the note Grace received from Boone. If he was in fact Alexandre Thibault, then Boone would be French, like his name…
And like the voice in the darkness Jack had never forgotten. The voice that had betrayed his father and the rest of the Ketchum gang.
George pulled out a pad of paper and jotted notes. He leveled the Jesuit with an intent gaze. “This man you thought you saw—you say he used to work for you?”
“Yes, in Dakota Territory, near the Canadian border. I used to run the school at St. Joseph’s Mission, and Alexandre was one of my teachers. An intelligent man, as I recall. Very passionate in his beliefs. Rumor at the time claimed he’d come to the mission for political haven.”
“That so?”
“Yes. Then he moved somewhere east. Minneapolis, I believe, to join a friend there.” He frowned at the post office door, as if in his mind’s eye he saw the stranger in the fringed coat all over again. “Perhaps I’ve been mistaken about him. The Alexandre Thibault I knew looked very different.”
“Folks change,” George said simply. “Sometimes they don’t have a choice.”
“Especially if they’re on the wrong side of the law,” Jack added roughly.
And Boone, they knew, was.
The priest grimaced his agreement. “How unfortunate. Well, I hope I’ve been a help in your investigation, at least. If you’ll excuse me, I must be on my way.”
After the Jesuit departed, George checked to see if Paris had sent correspondence and was disappointed to learn he hadn’t. Outside the post office, George stuffed his notepad back into his pocket.
“Interesting news the good priest gave us, wasn’t it? I’ll send out a few wires. See what I can find out on this Thibault,” he said.
“Keep me informed.”
“I will.” Touching a finger to his hat, he hurried off in the direction of the police station.
Leaving Jack behind, gripped with frustration that finding answers was taking too long and grim certainty that Boone was too close.
Dangerously close.
Unmindful of snow-slick boardwalks, Jack broke into a sudden sprint toward Lindell’s.
Of all the things that Grace’s grandmother had taught her—and there were legions—making Nut Cake was one of Grace’s favorites.
She prided herself on knowing the recipe from memory. It had been her grandmother’s specialty, requested by all her friends for their parties and picnics and potlucks. Though Grandmother was always happy to oblige, not once had she shared the list of ingredients or her secrets to its success.
Except with Grace.
In one of her vain idiosyncrasies—making Nut Cake better than anyone else she knew—Grandmother had destroyed the recipe shortly before she died. She solicited a solemn promise from Grace that she never share their secret until she had a daughter of her own, thereby protecting the legacy of the Nut Cake for her own flesh and blood.
Bess Reilly excluded, of course, who never cared one whit about baking a cake or anything else.
Grace had made the vow in equal solemnity. Someday, she would labor over putting the words down on paper for posterity’s sake, but for now, she had no need to read them for herself or anyone else. The prized recipe was safely tucked away in her memory.
Grace opened the oven door, waved away the heat and pulled out the pan with a towel to protect her hands. The deep golden color assured her of another success. A careful poke with a clean broom corn confirmed it w
as baked to perfection.
Making the treat had given Grace something to do while she waited for Jack to return from his errands. Camille had left for a short time, too, to deliver a couple of her fruit pies to Margaret’s Eatery. The Nut Cake was one of Allethaire’s favorite treats. She’d appreciate Grace’s efforts in making it for her.
Grace shut the oven door and set the pan on the table to cool. She inhaled the cake’s warm deliciousness and smiled her satisfaction.
Yet an unexpected feeling of loss swept over her. The unsettling absence of her mother in her life.
Bess Reilly would never know how to make a cake as fine as this one. She’d never follow Grandmother’s secret admonitions—to use white sugar instead of brown. To use cold eggs so they would beat better. To line the pan with buttered paper and to know that hickory nuts were far tastier than walnuts, any day.
Never. Thanks to Jack.
It didn’t matter that her mother hadn’t possessed a single bit of inclination for domesticity. Spending time in a warm kitchen baking cakes and memorizing recipes was beyond her interests and abilities.
It only mattered that she was gone. And Grace would forever be denied the pleasure of being with her, inside a kitchen or out.
Her mood turned sad. She tried not to think of the mistakes her mother had made. Her lawless ways, her promiscuity with men, her failures as a parent. Bess Reilly had neither the time nor the desire to raise Grace as her only daughter. But, oh, it hurt to think of how she’d kept Carl, who’d been born as wild as the wind.
Through the years, Grace consoled herself knowing Bess’s decisions were out of Grace’s control. She couldn’t turn back time to make Bess a better mother. She couldn’t mold her into a respectable, law-abiding woman.
But mostly, she couldn’t make her mother love her.
A blurred shape passed by the front room window and distracted her melancholy. Footsteps clomped on the porch, and the door swung open.
Jack strode inside the house. Even with the distance separating them, he loomed tall and strong. His coat added bulk to his shoulders, making him appear even bigger, more commanding.
Merciful saints, the man had presence.
He had ability, too, and why couldn’t Carl see that in him? A dangerous kind of power that elevated him to a level that most men would never achieve.
Abruptly she turned away, snatched a cloth from the pan of soapy water in the sink and busied herself scrubbing the top of the table, which was already clean from when she’d scrubbed it ten minutes ago, while the cake was baking. Carl was a fool to think he could outwit Jack Hollister. The man lived for justice and instilled a terrible certainty within Grace that her half brother would only suffer from it in the end.
“Grace,” Jack said.
The low timbre of his voice slid along her skin and through her blood. She supposed she would always remember that about him when their time came to an end. His voice. Masculine, rich, and…unavoidably pleasing.
A throaty sound any woman would long to hear in the dark, Grace admitted with great reluctance. Against her ear. Very close to her ear, during the most intimate of nights.
Grace swung back toward him and schooled her features to keep from revealing how he affected her. She didn’t want to like anything about the man who would very likely destroy the only family she had left.
“You’re back, I see,” she said stiffly.
He’d taken off his coat and Stetson, but left his gun belt strapped to his hips. He stood in the doorway dividing the kitchen from the dining room. Grace could smell the cold on him.
He swept a quick glance around her. “Guess everything was all right while I was gone.”
For the first time, she noticed the faint heaving of his chest. Had he been worried? Had he rushed back to Lindell’s on her account?
That he might have done both rattled the resentment in her heart. There’d been no reason…
“Yes,” she said. “I’ve made a cake for us to take out to the ranch. For Allethaire.”
His glance touched on the pan. “So that’s what I smelled.” A corner of his mouth lifted, showing his appreciation. “She’ll like that.” His smile ended. “Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Where’s my mother?”
“At the restaurant. She should be back anytime.”
He nodded, and she could feel him relax. Odd that she could sense that about him. He hadn’t moved.
Grace regarded him. “Did you get everything done you wanted to do?”
“I did. And then some.”
“Good.” She untied the apron she’d borrowed from Camille and draped it over the back of a chair. Anticipation for the trip out to the Wells Cattle Company stirred in her veins. She couldn’t wait to see Allethaire again. “Will you be ready to leave soon?”
“After I warm up a spell.” He watched her. “Do you mind?”
She hadn’t considered how cold he’d become from being outside a good portion of the morning. He probably thought her quite selfish, she realized on an unexpected wave of regret.
“Of course I don’t mind,” she said quickly.
She strode toward the stove and tilted the door open. Heat swirled into the air. “Stand over here, and you’ll be warm in no time. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Bread and jelly? It’s all fresh.”
A few lazy strides took him closer to the opened oven. And to her. “No, but thanks.”
She reached for a clean cup anyway and told herself she had to stay in his good graces. What good would it do to alienate him when she needed to save Carl?
“I’m going to give you some coffee, and you’ll drink every drop,” she said. “You must be chilled to the bone.”
Grace had no sooner curled her fingers around the coffeepot handle when Jack curled one long arm around her waist. And pulled her against him.
“I’m not chilled at all,” he murmured. “Not anymore, at least.”
That voice of his again. Husky. Decidedly seductive. And so low, if they weren’t alone, no one would be able to hear what he said but her.
His words weren’t lost on her. Or their implication. The oven’s heat had already soaked into his Levi’s, his cotton shirt, and down to his hard thigh pressed into hers.
Grace released her hold on the coffeepot. She allowed him to turn her more fully against him, and before she knew it, he pulled the china cup from her damp, unresisting fingers and set it safely aside.
The cup she’d forgotten she held.
Mere inches separated their bodies, and yet it was all Grace could do to keep from stepping even closer. She blamed it on the heat. That primal need to share heat.
He warmed her, all right. Clear to her toes and back up again. Grace had never been a shy mouse when it came to men, but the feel of his arm against the small of her back marched every nerve in her body into startling awareness.
She tilted her head back and met his bold gaze. Jack Hollister wasn’t going to reduce her to the ranks of a blushing schoolgirl. Did he think he could? Was that his intent, weakening her secret resolve to defy him for Carl’s sake, brazenly holding her against him like this?
She wasn’t going to let him weaken her. She already knew he was a powerful man. Ruthless and rugged. A killer, but only in the name of the law that meant so much to him.
It was as if she’d always known those things about him. She just had to resist his seduction, that’s all.
The intriguing gray-green hues in his eyes darkened, and she knew his thoughts centered over her, too. Curiosity surfaced about what he might be thinking. Or liking. Which only inspired a certain headiness that he might find her…attractive and desirable.
But Grace didn’t want to dwell on why it would matter what Jack thought of her. In the end, it wouldn’t matter, and even if it did, she was much too aware of him, this man she should hate for her mother’s death.
He’d shaved this morning. She could see the faint beard he’d left behind, slightly darker than the buckskin
color of his hair. Strong cheekbones, lean cheeks, the straight lines of his nose—each pressed themselves into her memory and helped form the distinctive and very male features she could never forget.
Yet it was the scar on the side of his face that compelled her gaze to linger. A narrow slash stretching from his cheek and angling sharply over his cheekbone. Pale, devoid of bristle, ominous. And forever a reminder of how he’d once faced danger head-on.
“Go on, Grace,” he growled. “Stare all you want. Get it out of your system.”
Her gaze shot up to his. Instantly remorseful, she drew back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“Why be sorry?” A muscle moved in his jaw. “Everyone else stares. No reason why you shouldn’t, too.”
His expression had turned hard, his voice guttural, and for the first time, Grace began to sense what that scar had cost him. And what it had left behind. A deep-seated pain that went far beyond the physical.
She understood pain, too, and compassion urged her to reach up and touch him. To show she wasn’t repulsed. That she’d seen things far more disturbing. Gently she traced the ugly line from one end to the other with the pad of her fingertip and imagined the violence that had put it there.
He didn’t move beneath her touch. He hardly seemed to breathe. Had anyone dared to touch him like this before?
“How did it happen?” she asked softly.
His strong fingers circled her wrist and slowly pulled her hand downward. Pleasantly warm from the oven’s heat, his hand held hers against his chest.
“My father tried to kill me,” he said.
The words rolled through her. Was that why he’d killed Sam Ketchum? In self-defense?
Grace should’ve been shocked. Horrified beyond words. But it hadn’t been so long ago that she was a little girl, living with her mother. Grace hadn’t forgotten the kind of men Bess Reilly associated with. Their cold-blooded mentality and harsh code of ethics.
The kind of man Sam Ketchum was. So cold-blooded he’d kill his own son.
“I’m sorry, Jack.” She swallowed against a surge of sadness. “Truly, I am.”
At some point, her other hand had joined the first; both rested against the supple cotton of his shirt. Beneath her palm, his heart beat an angry rhythm.