Surrendered (Intrique Under Western Skies Book 2)

by Elaine Manders

  Amazing how some people could appear sane on the outside when they were totally irrational.

  The man who’d bought the place paid in full, and Rhyan wished him well. The farm was so run-down, the poor fellow would probably be borrowing from the bank before the year was out.

  His gut clenched at the thought. For all he knew, he might have to mortgage his own ranch. Grandpa would be turning in his grave. If there was one thing Oliver Cason didn’t do, it was borrow money.

  Jake, one of the ranch hands, drove a wagon up beside him, Rhyan’s favorite stallion tied behind. “Thought you might want Rusty,” Jake said without preamble or greeting.

  “You’re right. Get my luggage. I’ll be stopping by the bank and post office.”

  “Everything turn out all right?” Jake untied the roan and handed Rhyan the reins.

  He understood the question. Jake wanted to know if he’d signed the government contract. The outcome affected everyone at Sollano. “I’m not getting a contract, but we’ll start sending what we can to market next week.”

  “Shore nuff? Carlos won’t like that. He thinks we should hold tight.” Jake tossed a bag onto the conveyance. “Carlos is hopping mad anyway. You know they let those cowpokes who brought in the sick steers outta jail. Not enough evidence.”

  “Let them go? They ought to have charged them with murder.”

  “Marshal Vaughn said the same thing, and he’s still investigating. He’s been waiting to talk to you, I hear.”

  “Then he’ll have to wait a little longer.” Rhyan swung into the saddle and stretched. It felt good to sit a horse after being cooped up on a hard train seat for days.

  After stopping at the bank to check his accounts, he headed for the post office.

  Everything wasn’t okay. A feeling of desolation hung over the town. His gaze swept the streets, wondering, hoping to catch sight of Carianne. Her stricken eyes still haunted him. The pain he’d seen in them—pain he’d caused.

  He’d always had a conscience but had, until now, been able to assuage it in one way or the other. This new torment wasn’t familiar—a drum that beat in the back of his brain, demanding that something be done, yet he didn’t know what to do.

  Awareness settled in, reminding him a greater power demanded accountability. God? He couldn’t shake it off. He could no longer ignore the possibility God followed him, a thought placing him in a precarious position. He teetered on a high wire like the circus performer he’d once seen in Chicago.

  He was pretty sure God didn’t appreciate being rejected any more than Carianne did.

  After tying his horse to the hitching rail at the post office, he squared his shoulders, hating the prospect of going in. Dorcas Wagner, the postmistress, always had some jab to throw his way. She was a woman who defined busybody perfectly, always on the lookout for what other people did and ready to give her advice, whether asked for or not.

  Dorcas held a grudge ever since she’d had the insane notion that he held romantic feelings for her daughter, and somehow had wronged the girl.

  The woman jumped up from behind the counter as the door thudded behind him. “Mr. Cason, here to pick up your mail?”

  Why else? He certainly hadn’t come in to pass the time of day with her. “I have, thought I’d save my courier the trip.”

  “You have a lot,” she said, accusingly. “You might want to go through it before you sign for it.” She dropped the heavy Sollano satchel on the counter separating them.

  He sifted through the correspondence, and Dorcas returned to her stool with a newspaper in hand. “Glad to see you back from your trip safe and sound. A newspaperman from Chicago said you left with Mrs. Sinclair, the congressman’s wife. We were all afraid something bad might have happened.”

  When he didn’t satisfy her prodding, she went on, “There’s some bad things happening all over. It just ain’t safe.”

  “Any reason why I wouldn’t be safe?”

  “Well, like I say, the world’s a dangerous place. Sometimes it hits close to home.” She shook the newspaper. “Here’s an account of a man shooting his wife and her lover. Found them in the haymow. Killed ‘em both. Some immigrant family from the high country.”

  “That is close to home.” If you called four hundred miles close.

  “The man got five years in the penitentiary at Lincoln, but there’s some folks trying to get him out since they think he only did what he had to.”

  “Probably good Christian people.” He picked up the pen lying on the counter. “Everything’s here.” He signed the receipt.

  “Town folks worry about you, Mr. Cason. We read those awful things they sometimes write about you in the papers. ‘Course I don’t give it any credibility. Still, I think about that poor young man in this story.” She glanced down at the paper and shook her head. “About your age, I think. Had his whole life before him. Such a shame.”

  “I appreciate your concern.” He began stuffing the correspondence back in the leather satchel. “And you’re right not to give any credibility to those stories.” He turned to leave, glad to be rid of her babble.

  He wasn’t fast enough. “We do have some good news, though. Carianne Barlow and Colt Holliman are keeping company. I expect we’ll have a wedding before summer’s out.”

  Her words stopped him at the door. So she hadn’t left town.

  Carianne hadn’t wasted much time. Not that he expected her to become a nun. But Colt? “Is that right? Well, I’m fond of them both. I…I wish them well. Good-day, Mrs. Wagner.”

  Despite the sunlight striking him in the face, the world grew dark. No one but an idiot would pay attention to Dorcas Wagner’s ramblings, still he couldn’t shake it. He’d thought—was sure—Carianne loved him enough that she wouldn’t turn to another man. So soon.

  It baffled him, but Carianne and Colt had always been friendly. Of course they’d speak to each other. Likely that’s all it was. As usual, Dorcas would blow up an innocent meeting into a courtship.

  For some reason he’d imagined her pining away, grieving for a lost love, and here she was— What?

  Maybe not pining so much.

  He couldn’t blame Carianne for turning her attention to another man. Hadn’t he done the same? Not Abby. No, she wanted more than he was willing to give. But during his layover in Chicago, he’d run across Junie Carstairs and let her persuade him into taking her to the circus.

  He’d thought that a good idea. Junie was a glamorous redhead who didn’t allow her morals to get in the way of a good time. Unlike Abby, she didn’t have any past holds on him. Besides, he’d wanted to know if another woman could turn his attention from Carianne.

  Junie had a good time, but he found her boring and vulgar. That presence hounding his conscience questioned him. Was Junie what he wanted from a woman? A kiss that tasted of whiskey, a high pitched giggle. Fawning, suffocating demeanor. He was frankly embarrassed by her and couldn’t wait to rid himself of her.

  Neither Junie Carstairs, nor any other woman of his acquaintance, would ever compare to Carianne. On the other hand, how did he compare to Colt?

  He and Colt had never been in competition before, but Rhyan had to admit he could have. Colt was tall, handsome, strong, and had that insufferable chivalry that would make women swoon if they got close to him. Carianne might want to get close. What would stop her?

  As he approached the bridge, he slowed Rusty to barely a canter. A familiar melodious laugh floated on the sultry air, making him jerk on the reins. Carianne’s laughter. It was distinctive, and he’d heard it hundreds of times. Listened for it. Teased and cajoled her into that laugh.

  Dismounting, he scanned the area to get his bearings, then moved in the direction of her laughter—underneath the bridge. He could see her through a gap in the planks of the bridge. She was directly below him, sitting on one of the large rocks that shored up the bridge’s pilings. Clasping one of her knees with both hands, she hung one naked foot in the water as her wet skirt clung to shapely legs. H
er hair fell wet about her shoulders, glinting with white sand.

  She looked like a water nymph. From the beach.

  He’d intended to take her there, but so much was going on, there hadn’t been time.

  Her gaze was fixed on the shore. He stepped back to see what had her laughing.

  Colt sat on the bank, looking like a Greek god with sunlight glinting off his gold-streaked hair. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, showing his muscles. Muscles he’d earned honestly working on his ranch. Rhyan could hear his voice, though he couldn’t make out what he was saying.

  Enough of Colt.

  Rhyan redirected his gaze to Carianne, who splashed out water with her foot and laughed again. One thing was certain. She wasn’t pining. Apparently, she and Colt had finally found each other.

  The rumble of wagon wheels sounded from behind, forcing Rhyan to return to his horse. He didn’t want to call attention to himself standing there—spying on a lovers’ tryst under the river bridge. Turning Rusty toward home, he couldn’t help but feel some sympathy for that immigrant husband who’d killed his wife and her lover.

  For the first time he could remember, he rode onto his property with dread and emptiness. And betrayal.

  She didn’t betray you. You told her to leave.

  Why did he keep thinking of that pesky detail?

  It was clear to him she hadn’t been hurt at all. Here she and Colt were…indecently attired. No, maybe their attire wasn’t exactly indecent, but the next thing to it. He could picture them down at the beach, in the water, locked into a fervent embrace, their wet bodies molded to each other, kissing deeply.

  He had to get that image out of his mind. It was the kind of thing that could drive a man crazy. Of course, the argument could be made he was already crazy for sending her away.

  Chapter 9

  Through sheer force of will, Carianne fought to find some normalcy the following week. Regain her joy, as Colt put it. Her paltry efforts weren’t working so well—a conclusion that had her praying as she lugged her laundry to the clothesline.

  Possibilities and arguments whipped through her brain like the wash she tried to get on the line. Thunderheads boiling in the west sent gusts that slapped the wet clothing in her face. Who cared if the rain came in before her garments dried? Another rinse wouldn’t hurt.

  Colt’s advice rang in her ears. Or was it the Spirit’s gentle chastisement? Whatever, she knew she’d allowed her joy to be snuffed out, and she had to do something about it. Refocus.

  Delight in the Lord, and He will give you the desire of your heart.

  How hard it was to delight in anything when dealing with grief. But time would eventually eat away at grief—even heartbreak. When she’d awaken today, Rhyan wasn’t the first thing that sprang to mind. She took that as progress.

  She’d resolved last night to hasten that progress by using her God-given talents. Her foremost calling had always been that of a helper, and that couldn’t be ignored, regardless of what disappointments came her way. She had the ability to recognize those who needed help—even Rhyan. Not as a wife, though. God might have another man for her. But even if He did, He’d expect her to continue loving Rhyan—just in a different way.

  A new inspiration hit her, and she stood amazed. The answer to prayer could come at the oddest moments.

  She’d almost forgotten the mission that drove her west, the one Grandmama wrote about just before she died—to open a center of culture for people to enjoy all that was noble and just, pure and lovely.

  Everyone kept telling her this little town couldn’t support such an endeavor, but Colt said something down under the bridge the other day that set her thinking.

  Molly was selling the saloon.

  The way she had it figured, the perfect site for a culture center must be in town. Close to the depot so people could come in to attend the venues she planned. The saloon was smack dab in the middle of town.

  “I brought your cat back, Carianne.” Martha’s voice snapped her to attention. “He spent the night with us.” She held her work-worn hand to shield warm brown eyes. “You think it’s going to rain?”

  The yellow tabby rubbed against Carianne’s skirt. “I don’t think so. Looks like it’s moving south. Not that the farmers couldn’t use a little rain with crops being in full growth.” Carianne swooped the cat into her arms and scratched his head. “Henry’s confused. I neglected him, along with a lot of other things.” She felt the cat’s rumbling purr as she rubbed his soft fur. “He got used to relying on you while I was away.”

  “I assure you he was no trouble at all.” Martha chuckled softly. “By the by, dear, Colt is going to be helping Tom at the livery tomorrow afternoon. He’s going to stay for supper. I wondered if you could join us.”

  “Isn’t three days this week enough of my company?” Carianne grinned. Since she’d promised Colt to get out more, she’d become a fixture in the Amersons’ dining room. “I will if you and Tom have dinner with me tonight.”

  “We’d be pleased to, and I can bring—”

  Carianne’s palm shot out. “You won’t bring anything. I can’t cook as well as you, but you won’t go away hungry.”

  Martha’s smile crinkled her eyes. She touched Carianne’s raised forearm. “No fear of that.”

  Carianne dropped the cat to the ground and took hold of the wicker laundry basket. She pulled it up by the handles. “Let’s go in.”

  She let Martha lead the way, then stepped in front to open the door for her. “Colt was actually the inspiration for an idea that just came to me. Let me get you a cup of coffee, fresh brewed.”

  Martha sat at the little table covered with blue checkered oilcloth as Carianne handed her a steaming mug. She set her own cup on the other side as coffee aroma filled the kitchen. She could make a decent cup of coffee, if little else.

  She took a sip before speaking. “Colt reminded me I was turning away from my mission to build a town library. But I just realized the library is only a means for me to carry out my real mission. It’s the reason I came out here in the first place, but then I got engrossed with Sollano’s problems and forgot.”

  Martha held her coffee cup in the nest of her hands. “What is your mission, dear? I thought it was building the ladies library.”

  “No, that’s just a start, a means to an end. My talent—maybe my only real talent—is my ability to see a person’s needs. To listen. Find a solution. In other words, be a helper. I think God sent me the desire to build this library, and all the rest that may come, because it’ll be an opportunity to meet a lot of people with needs greater than the books they seek.”

  She set her cup down and ran a finger around the rim. “I don’t know how to explain it, but I feel like that’s my real mission. The library, the theater, the lecture hall are all just meeting places where I’ll make contact with people I can help.”

  Martha tapped the table with her finger. “Tom and I were talking just the other night about how much you’ve helped us.”

  “You and Tom have helped me a lot more.” She folded her arms on the table and leaned in. “But an opportunity has arisen where I’ll be able to do more than establish a public library. You know prohibition is coming to Nebraska in July.” Excitement put a lithe to her words. “I’m going to buy Molly’s Pace.”

  Martha almost dropped her cup. “You’re what?”

  The reaction she’d expected. Carianne laughed. “I’ve been thinking of a place for a public library, but the town has no land to build one.” She shrugged as if a saloon was the most logical choice for a library. “Eventually, I’ll turn it into a business enterprise that will support itself. The saloon is big enough for me to expand into the cultural center I’d envisioned.” Saying the words somehow made it seem more real.

  “A saloon?” Worry lines showed in Martha’s face.

  “Don’t think of it as a saloon. It’ll be transformed. The library will be in the large area. The bar will be partitioned off and set up as a buffet. I
think Westerfield can stand another eatery. The private game room and pool room will be joined into a lounge where people can meet to hear famous authors and speakers and discuss important issues.”

  “My dear, how do you know what the inside of that saloon is like?”

  She looked at her friend in confusion. “Colt told me about it.”

  “Oh, I see.” Martha relaxed, though her voice was guarded. “It does sound grand. So you’ve discussed this with Colt?”

  “No, I just thought of it, but I have to move fast, or Molly will sell to someone else. Oh, and I want to offer her girls a job as cooks or servers. If they don’t have decent work, they’ll have to leave town and…well…remain what they are.”

  “Molly’s girls?” Martha’s tone remained skeptical. “I don’t know what folks will think about that.”

  “There’s enough good Christian people in this town. They’ll want to see those girls saved, I know it.”

  Martha’s features softened as she ducked her head. “Well, dear, if anyone can do it, you can.” She snagged a newspaper tucked into the waistband of her skirt and laid it on the table. “Tom brought in a new paper today, and don’t worry, there’s nothing in there about you or Rhyan.”

  Carianne glanced at the paper. How nice to be able to read the news without fear of seeing innuendo blaring from the pages. Those big city reporters had gone home when Rhyan left town. She hugged that one mercy to her.

  “Thank you for the paper. I love to read a little before bed.” She tapped the table with her fingertips. “Now back to my plans. I know it won’t happen quickly, but I think this will grow into something good for the town. We’ll serve tea and coffee at the lectures and meetings that’ll be open to both men and women. It’s time men found out women can have interests other than recipes and hat styles. Just think, it could turn into the greatest cultural center in the whole country.”

  Propping her elbows on the table, she rested her chin on her folded hands and looked past Martha. “We’ll hold events that’ll bring people from all over. Or maybe not, but I’m going to give it a try.”