B000XUBEHA EBOK

by Osborne, Maggie

  This was what she had hungered for, the sharing of those small details that made up a life. Without fully realizing it, she’d longed to look into another person, even if she couldn’t see far, and she’d wanted someone to look into her, even if there wasn’t much to see.

  But there was one thing; not a secret but something she didn’t want to talk about, either. Pressing her lips together, she gazed into the mirror and lowered her hair brush.

  Cameron had surprised her last night. His first question wasn’t what she had dreaded it would be. But as surely as she was standing here in her second-best dress, that question would come.

  “You look fine this morning,” he said when he came inside for breakfast.

  He wasn’t a man accustomed to giving compliments, and she wasn’t a woman accustomed to receiving them. Della blushed violently and splattered bacon grease on the floor. Cameron cleared his throat and took a sudden interest in the items hanging on the clothes pegs.

  “The reason I’m not wearing a work dress . . . I thought I mentioned this last night . . . I’m going into town today to replenish staples.” Irritated, she told herself he’d only made a polite comment, for heaven’s sake. Once upon a time she’d received compliments as a matter of course, it was nothing to get flustered about. “The bank receives my money at the middle of the month, so that’s when I go to town,” she added, babbling and definitely flustered. “I remember you said something about unfinished business . . . would you like to accompany me?”

  She preferred to believe that his primary purpose in coming to Two Creeks had been to see her. That irritated her, too. She had no claim on this man, and no interest in him beyond the fact that he’d been Clarence’s friend and had been with Clarence when he died.

  “If you don’t mind some company,” he said, pulling out his chair and sitting, “I believe I will.”

  “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the work you’ve done around here, it’s a nice tribute to Clarence, but I’d say you deserve a day off.” She noticed him looking at her with a quizzical expression. “I guess you’re wondering about the money.”

  “I don’t want to pry into your affairs.”

  “Unlike someone else we know,” she said, almost smiling. If she let a silence develop, she knew she’d think about him saying she looked fine, so she kept talking. “I have a monthly income. It isn’t much, but I couldn’t manage without it.”

  “I’m glad you have it then.”

  Apparently he wasn’t comfortable talking financial matters with a woman, because he didn’t look up from his plate.

  “Clarence’s father sends me the money.”

  Now he did look up. “Mr. Ward?”

  “Mr. Ward transferred most of his fortune to Europe at the start of the war. He didn’t lose everything like so many people did.” She reached for the salt. “Actually, Mr. Speers—that’s my banker—won’t reveal who sends the money, but who else could it be? I figure Mrs. Ward would object, so Mr. Ward sends the money anonymously, and without her knowing.”

  Cameron finished his breakfast before he spoke again. “I didn’t think of this before, but Ward ought to send you an income. He owes you.” Anger chilled his eyes. “If I understand your letter to Clarence, you were responsible for keeping Mr. Ward alive during a serious illness. Plus, you’re his son’s widow.”

  “Those are the reasons I think he sends the money.” She didn’t understand his apparent anger. “If it wasn’t for Mr. Ward, I’d still be working at the Silver Garter.” The thought made her skin crawl.

  “Instead of living in luxury.” He sent a pointed glance around her one-room kitchen, parlor, living room.

  “I’m grateful to have anything at all,” she said stiffly, regretting that she’d mentioned finances.

  “I’ll hitch up the buckboard.”

  After he left for the barn, she stood beside the table, holding their plates and looking around her small house, seeing it through his eyes.

  She couldn’t invite Cameron to sit inside in the evenings because she owned only one parlor chair. She’d positioned the chair near the bookcase and a side table, with a colorful braid rug to keep the winter chill off her feet. Right now none of her sparse furnishings seemed as cozy or comforting as she usually told herself they were. The room just looked cramped and shabby.

  The plates she held were old and chipped. She didn’t have three glasses that matched. Her curtains were sun-bleached, the pattern faded almost to white.

  Heat flared in her cheeks. Whirling, she strode to the sink and slammed the plates into the dishpan. She didn’t care what he thought of her house. It suited her needs, and that’s all that mattered. And what right did he have to turn up his nose anyway? From the sound of it he didn’t own property, he drifted from place to place, sleeping on the ground or in a hotel or a boarding house, or in someone’s barn. If what she had to offer wasn’t good enough for him, then he could just . . .

  What was she thinking?

  Cameron had done nothing but display a flash of anger that her financial situation kept her at poverty level. Very likely it shocked him to see his friend’s widow living in such reduced circumstances. Certainly he could see how far she’d fallen from her previous life. All he had intended was to make the point that Mr. Ward should be helping her financially, and should be helping to a larger extent.

  Raising a hand to her forehead, Della chastised herself for behaving so erratically. First she veered this way, then that. She didn’t have to look far to guess the reason. She wasn’t accustomed to having a man around the place, and James Cameron wasn’t just any man. He was virile and handsome, silent and strong, and he was a living link to a past that hadn’t felt this immediate in years. Sooner or later, he would ask the question she didn’t want to answer, but today he’d paid her a compliment. Everything considered, it was no wonder she was swinging on an emotional pendulum.

  By the time she’d donned her bonnet and composed her list of provisions, Cameron had brought the buckboard to the front of the house and was waiting to assist her up to the seat. After a brief hesitation, she placed her gloved hand in his and felt his palm against the center of her waist. It had been a long time since she’d experienced a man’s touch, and she responded with an embarrassing rush of heat to her cheeks.

  “Thank you.” Actually, she’d missed the small niceties of polite company. And it was a pleasure not to hitch up the buckboard herself or stain her gloves with the reins.

  But it was disconcerting to see her skirt partially draped over his knee, and to feel his solid presence so close that her shoulder bumped his along the uneven road to town.

  “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask.”

  Della turned her head toward the prairie. Because of the rains, there were more wildflowers this year, splashes of color against pale green grass. Surely this wasn’t the moment to ask the question she dreaded. Don’t let it come now.

  “Ask whatever you like,” she said, not meaning it.

  “Is my staying at your place causing you a difficulty?”

  A breath of relief dropped her shoulders. “I’ve lived like a saint for eight years, Mr. Cameron, but it hasn’t reinstated my reputation. The folks in Two Creeks have long memories, and they see me as a saloon girl.” She shrugged. “Having a man at my place isn’t going to blacken my name any more than it is already.”

  “Is that why you never remarried?” He glanced at her and raised an eyebrow. “I apologize for making a personal inquiry, but you did give your permission the other night.”

  “I don’t object to the nature of your questions.” The opposite was true. It was wildly flattering that someone was interested enough to be curious about her. “You were Clarence’s friend, and that makes you my friend, too. Sometimes it feels as if I’ve known you for years.” Other times he was a fascinating enigma. A man who didn’t talk about himself, but who seemed to want to know everything about her.

  “About five years ago, there was a man
came calling,” she said, looking down at her gloves and feeling her cheeks go hot again. “He said he was lonely and he figured I was lonely, too. Said he could see I needed a man around the place, and he needed a woman. He said he didn’t care what people whispered about me, didn’t care that I was sharp tongued, he wouldn’t mind marrying me anyway.”

  Cameron kept his gaze on the approaching town and didn’t comment.

  “I decided I didn’t want to double the laundry and cooking to accommodate an irritating man who thought he was doing me a favor. I’ve learned to enjoy my independence, Mr. Cameron, such as it is. And most of the time, the loneliness is tolerable. I have no desire or any intention to marry again.” She decided turnabout was fair play. “Have you ever been tempted to marry?”

  “Me?” He made a snorting sound and smiled. “Hell, no.”

  “You’re not interested in having a family?”

  His smile vanished and suddenly Della sensed that his loneliness cut as deep as her own.

  “I don’t stay in one place long enough to think about settling down.”

  She knew he could have added that he didn’t expect to survive his reputation. A family and a short life didn’t mesh for a man who took his responsibilities seriously.

  “It’s not much of a town, is it?” Della said as they turned onto Main Street.

  Two Creeks, Texas, had begun as a trading post situated at the confluence of two year-round creeks. A town had grown around the post, and now Two Creeks survived as a stopover point midway between Fort Worth and Santa Fe. Two hotels, three saloons, and a hodgepodge of businesses fronted Main Street’s dusty road. Saturday nights could be lively, when the ranch hands came into town, but on a weekday morning, there weren’t more than forty or fifty people along the entire length of the boardwalks.

  “One thing in its favor,” Della said, alighting after Cameron set the brake on the wagon, “the trees along the creeks make a pretty background.” Cameron offered his arm, and she suppressed a sigh of pleasure mixed with reluctance, then took it. “The bank’s on the corner, then I’ll come back to Mr. Yarrow’s to stock up my pantry. I suppose you have business.”

  “My business isn’t in town.”

  It frustrated her that his answers went to the point without embellishment. When he asked a question, she gave him the full whys and wherefores. She wished he’d do the same.

  “If your business isn’t in town,” she said testily, “then where . . .”

  Joe Hasker rose from a bench in front of the barber-and-bath shop and stepped directly in front of Della. In the last year, Joe had shot up four inches. He was tall, gangly, turning mean, and wore an expression that said he was looking for trouble.

  Della pressed Cameron’s arm, signaling they should walk around Hasker’s rude display.

  Cameron halted. “Step aside for the lady.”

  “I don’t move for no bar girl.” Joe’s eyes narrowed above a crooked smile, but Della understood this wasn’t about her. Joe was pressing a confrontation that addressed legends and guns and history.

  She had time to form that thought before she was aware of being pushed to one side and everything became a blur. An eye blink later Joe Hasker was lying on his back in the street, disarmed, and Cameron was standing over him, his pistol aimed down at Hasker’s wide eyes. It had happened so fast, Della wasn’t sure if she’d even seen it.

  “I imagine you want to get up and apologize to the lady,” Cameron said in a tone as icy as his gaze.

  Hasker rolled his eyes back, trying to see who all was watching.

  Cameron drew back the hammer. “You have two seconds to think it over.”

  Della stared. Cameron’s stony face did not betray any hint that he might scruple to pull the trigger or that he would regret killing Joe Hasker.

  Hasker jumped to his feet, his eyes wild, his face as red as a cherry. “I’m sorry, ma’am. My mistake.” He slid a glance toward Cameron. “Can I have my gun back, Mr. Cameron?”

  “You can pick it up at the sheriff’s office.” Cameron stuck Hasker’s gun into the waist of his trousers, then offered his arm to Della.

  Trembling, she drew a breath and gripped his sleeve. When her heart stopped pounding and she could speak, she said, “That boy wanted an excuse to kill you.”

  “Turns out he was disappointed.”

  “And you would have killed him.” Her heart was still thumping and her mouth was dry. She had almost witnessed a killing. “You know, don’t you, that he’ll go somewhere and sulk for a few days, then he’ll come after you.”

  Cameron looked down at her and shrugged. “Or maybe the sheriff will convince him to stay out of my way and stay alive.”

  Silently they entered the bank and Della conducted her business. When they emerged, she was aware there appeared to be more people on the street, and it seemed they all took an interest in her and James Cameron.

  Now she understood why he dismissed the idea of a wife so easily. What woman could accept that her husband was a target for every outlaw and hothead in the West?

  But then, what wife could accept that her husband was a target for every Yankee soldier in the Union army? A shudder passed along her spine. Never again did she want to live with the fear that every time she saw a man she loved, it might be the last.

  She told herself to remember this revelation and keep it before her to balance knowing how much she would miss Cameron when he rode away. And she would. Having him with her this week had been the best thing to happen in years. But this was a man with no long-term future, a man she wouldn’t want to become entangled with. She couldn’t go through it again, worrying every minute that someone would kill the man she loved. She could not do that to herself.

  Well damn all if she wasn’t doing it again, letting her imagination take a kernel of a thought and grow it into something fantastical.

  Standing in the back aisle of Mr. Yarrow’s General Store, she looked down at the potato in her hand and laughed out loud. She had just decided not to marry a man who hadn’t a thought of romance in his hard head. To James Cameron, she was simply a loose end, the widow of a man he’d known long ago. If he could read her mind, he would be shocked and mortified, and he’d hightail it out of Texas this afternoon.

  “Was that you laughing back here all by yourself?”

  “It was,” she said, smiling up at him. Lord, he was a handsome specimen. The only man to stir something inside her since Clarence. What a pity they were so ill suited. When he raised a quizzical eyebrow, she shook her head. “It’s nothing. I was just laughing at what a foolish woman I am. Give me an imaginary thread, and I’ll spin a carpet.”

  He took her shopping net and filled it with the potatoes she handed him. “My sister had an imagination.”

  “Well, my heavens.” She slapped a hand on her bosom and staggered backward a step. “James Cameron volunteered a smidgeon of personal information. I think I’m going to faint.”

  A lopsided smile tugged his mouth and his eyes. “By God, you’re right. I apologize and I’ll try not to do it again.”

  They both laughed, and Della told herself to remember this moment, standing in the back aisle surrounded by the good scents of pickle brine, earthy potatoes, and strings of onions. Long after he was gone, she would hold this memory to the light and enjoy it anew.

  If only . . . but no, she wouldn’t let her thoughts wander down that path.

  “That was about the best meal I’ve ever eaten,” Cameron said, meaning it. She’d fried him a steak the size of a plate, and garnished it with potato salad and fresh corn on the cob, followed by peach cobbler and coffee.

  “It wasn’t anything fancy,” she said, but her cheeks warmed with pleasure.

  The trip to town had pushed back the chores, and consequently they’d eaten later than usual. It was dark now and cooler on the porch than it had been last night.

  “Tell me about Clarence,” he said, watching the play of candlelight on her face. Now that he no longer had her photograph,
he would have to remember the arch of her brows and the shape of her mouth.

  “You were his friend, you knew him,” she said with a puzzled expression.

  “Imagine that I didn’t. Tell me about Clarence from your perspective.”

  “Well,” she tasted her coffee, then added more sugar. “He was a devoted son and loyal to his friends, but you already know that.” She thought a minute. “He played the piano. He liked to hunt.” A teasing smile curved her lips. “Clarence was a talker. Lord how that man could talk. If you asked him the time, he’d be telling you the history of timepieces twenty minutes later.”

  “What would Clarence have done if he’d survived the war?” It was a question he’d asked himself again and again. What would Clarence Ward have done with his life if he’d had the chance?

  “If the South had won, Clarence had plans to buy more acreage and experiment with different crops.” She tilted her head to one side, and her gaze looked into the past. “He stopped talking about the future when it became apparent the South would lose. To be honest, I’m not sure what he would have done. As I mentioned, Mr. Ward protected a large portion of his wealth . . . maybe Clarence would have entered business. Or maybe not. He always said he didn’t have much of a head for figures.”

  “Was he a spiritual man?”

  “The Wards had a pew at the Old Standard Church, and when Clarence was home he accompanied the family to services.” She paused. “How odd. I don’t really know if he attended services to please his mother or to please himself.”

  “Would it be too personal to ask why you married Clarence instead of another suitor?” He didn’t doubt that she’d had many beaus.