The man at the livery stables told her where Connor had roomed. Susanna hurried over to the boardinghouse to collect his belongings. This time, she didn’t need to use any money. The young widow who ran the place released his saddlebags without payment. A dreamy look filled the woman’s eyes as she commented how much Connor would be missed, especially when the winter drew in and the nights grew cold.
Susanna gritted her teeth and made no reply.
It appeared she was getting a well used husband.
By the time she got back to the hotel, the driver had arrived with the wagon, a rough buckboard which—judging by the clumps of dirt stuck to the base—was normally used to haul farm produce.
Four other men stood by the wagon, chewing wads or tobacco and spitting on the ground. They looked like vagrants. Dirty clothing. Unkempt hair. Bad teeth. It crossed Susanna’s mind that the undertaker had recruited the cheapest possible labor for the task.
“This way,” she said, and directed the quartet upstairs.
To her surprise, they lifted the coffin with ease and carried it down with a surprising level of agility and coordination. She hurried back into the room and tossed her toiletries and spare clothing into her saddlebags. Then she swept a glance around the room to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything. Satisfied, she clattered down the stairs.
The four vagrants were gone. The coffin sat neatly on the buckboard. The driver was climbing up to the bench. He could only use his right arm, Susanna noticed. His left arm hung limp down his side. Around fifty, he was short and compact, with neatly cut black hair and blunt features with deep lines that spoke of suffering.
He noticed her curious glance. “The War Between the States,” he said gruffly. “I was only twenty. God must have decided I was too young to die and made me live.”
“Did you wear blue or gray?”
“Does it matter?”
“No,” Susanna said in a gentle tone. “Not in the least.”
“The name’s Rawlins.” He gave her a brief nod. “Ready to go?”
Susanna tossed her embossed cowhide saddlebags in the buckboard next to Connor’s scuffed ones. “I’ll just get the horse,” she said. “He’s around at the front of the hotel. I’ll get him and tie him to the buckboard. I’ll sit in the wagon beside the coffin.”
‘Why is there a hole in the lid over his head?” Rawlins asked. “You want to make sure it’s the right body you’re burying?”
“No,” Susanna said. “It’s so he won’t panic when he wakes up.”
The man looked startled. Then his tired features melted into a grin. “Lady, if you can provide resurrection, you ought to go into business.”
Despite her anxiety, Susanna laughed. “No resurrection,” she told him. “He’s alive, just passed out from too much whiskey. This seemed a best way of transporting him without letting the whole world gawk at him in his miserable state.”
“You’re real kind, Miss. I’m sure he’ll appreciate.”
Susanna bit back a groan as she hurried around the building. Kind? Demented, that’s what she was. Connor would kill her when he woke up. Kill her. Unless his horse killed her first, she thought as Brutus tried to take another bite out of her sleeve.
****
The road west of El Paso ran in a straight line across the sandy plain. There were no trees, no grass. Nothing green, not even a single stem of a struggling cactus or a coarse desert weed. Just the level earth, which allowed the buckboard a smooth passage and gave a clear view in all directions.
Susanna sat in the wagon beside the coffin, keeping an eye on Connor. The midday sun burned high in the sky, making the air sizzle. She took out a spare chemise from her saddlebag and threw the garment over the hole in the lid to protect his face from sunburn.
Every now and then, she surveyed their wake, to check if Pete Jackson was catching up. Late in the afternoon, she spotted a cloud of dust rising in the distance. She lifted a hand to shield her eyes. A minute passed, then another. The outline of four horses, only one of them carrying a rider, took shape against the sandy flatland.
Pete. Leading Santiago and the two spare horses.
While Susanna waited for him to reach the wagon, something stirred inside the coffin. Bang. Bang. Bang. Boot heels struck against the timber base. She lifted the chemise that covered the hole in the lid to peer inside. A pair of bloodshot amber eyes stared up at her.
“What the hell?” Connor mumbled. “Where am I?”
“You are…” Her words trailed away as his lashes fluttered down again. His face crumpled in the reluctant awakening to a hangover. Dear God, Susanna prayed silently as she replaced the chemise over the hole. Let him sleep just a bit longer. I can’t deal with two angry men at the same time.
Pete Jackson grew bigger in her sights, and soon his blue roan thundered beside the wagon. The other three horses followed on a lead rope behind him. Without a rider, they took a moment longer to slow down, charging ahead and prancing about before settling to an easy trot.
As Pete saw the coffin, his posture grew rigid. “Is it Connor? What happened?” His manner was urgent, full of fear.
“He is all right,” Susanna hurried to explain. “He is alive.”
“Alive?” Pete glowered at her. “He is alive in a coffin?”
Dread knotted in Susanna’s belly. In her note, she had only said she was taking Connor home in a wagon and Pete should follow as soon as possible. She had told him to bring Santiago and her saddle, and collect Connor’s saddle and pair of guns from the sheriff. Leaving those behind had reduced the chances that Connor might storm off into the desert if he woke up before Pete arrived.
Hiding beneath her hat, Susanna peered up at the wiry foreman. “He’s insensible with whiskey.”
“You’ve ab…abu…kidnapped him?”
“The word is abducted.”
“You’ve abducted him?” Pete pressed.
Susanna sighed, a guilty, puffing sound. “Only for a little way.”
Pete was shaking his head. He rode forward and ordered the driver to stop. The buckboard lurched as the compact man pulled hard on the reins. When they came to a halt, he wrapped the leather ribbons around his infirm arm, as if it were a post, and used his good hand to push his hat back on his head.
“The name’s Rawlins,” he said.
“Pete Jackson. Are you part of this?”
“No. I only found out after we set off.”
Bang. Bang. Bang. Susanna flinched. Beside her, the coffin vibrated with blasts from Connor’s boots. Her stomach shriveled up. She watched as her white cotton chemise jerked, fluttered, and then slowly slid into the coffin. A pair of strong, masculine hands curled around the edges of the hole in the lid and pushed, making the pine planks bow under the pressure.
“No. Don’t. Wait.” Susanna scrambled up to her knees. Her fingers trembled so violently she struggled to undo the knots on the strips of rawhide. She heard the creak of wood, and then the sound of buckling metal as the eyelets started to pull loose. “Stop,” she yelled. “I’ll let you out. Don’t break the coffin. You’ll get splinters in your eyes.”
Connor ignored her. Timbers yawned as he increased his efforts. A blank broke with a crack. Splinters flew as the whole lid began to break apart. Finally, Susanna had one rawhide knot undone. Then another. The instant she flipped the pair of hooks out of the eyelets, the top end of the lid flung open and folded down again with a bang.
She watched in silent terror as a furious Connor pushed up to a sitting position inside the coffin. The chemise he’d pulled in through the hole had snagged on a button on his shirt and now hung down his chest, almost like a baby’s bib. The disheveled sight had a touch of comedy to it, and a small, hysterical ripple of laughter slipped from Susanna’s throat.
“Funny?” Connor said through clenched teeth. “You think this is funny?”
Susanna tried to become invisible, crouching to hide behind his back, but he twisted around inside the coffin, as agile as a panther. Rag
e burned in his amber eyes. One of his hands shot out and grabbed her braid by the nape of her neck.
“You bitch,” he growled. “You’ll pay for this.”
“Stop,” Pete yelled. Urging his horse alongside the wagon, he jumped in beside them and caught Connor’s wrist, trying to make him loosen his hold.
Susanna winced as her neck twisted at a painful angle. “No,” she told Pete. “Let him rage.” Her scalp burned and her hat fell off, toppling down to the dirt beneath the wagon. She didn’t care. As far as she was considered, Connor could pull out every hair on her head, if that was the price he wanted to extract for his cooperation.
****
Connor scrambled out of the coffin. His stiff legs barely supported his weight, and his back hurt like hell from the effort of trying to break down the lid. He yanked Susanna’s braid with one hand and used the other hand to fling away the delicate piece of fabric that clung to his chest. Even in his rage, he couldn’t help noticing the floral scent that permeated the feminine garment.
“I’m sorry,” Susanna whimpered. “You gave me no choice.”
He refused to let his gaze settle on her because her pleading voice warned him that she had that soft look on her face—the look he’d never forgotten despite years of trying—the look with misty eyes and trembling lips and the vulnerability of a newborn kitten.
“Wrong,” he told her. “It’s me who had no choice.”
Susanna didn’t reply at first. Then she spoke in a low voice. “I took responsibility for your fine with the sheriff and settled what you owed at the livery stables. Shouldn’t that count for something?”
“Stop trying to buy me,” Connor said. “I’m not for sale.”
He heard another voice speak behind him, a voice that brought with it fond memories of the past. “Now, don’t be a fool, boy—”
Connor whirled to face Pete Jackson, almost losing his balance on the buckboard, and he realized he was still a little drunk. “Shut up,” he growled. “This is between her and me.”
He steeled himself against Susanna’s allure and turned back toward her. The instant his eyes focused on her, he knew it was a mistake. The green pools of her eyes shone bright with tears. When she blinked, a few teardrops broke loose and rolled down her cheek, leaving a pale trail in the dust that coated her skin.
You idiot, Connor raged at himself. After thirteen years of trying to hate her, you’re shaken by a couple of drops of salty water.
“What do you want from me?” he asked in a low voice.
“I want you to come to Circle Star and think about it.” She stared up at him, a plea in her eyes. Her lips trembled in the fragile look he’d never been able to resist.
“Think about what?” he said gruffly, forcing her to spell it out.
Her gaze didn’t waver. “About agreeing to a marriage. The ranch you loved so much could be yours.” She gestured between them, a small, elegant flutter of her dainty hand. “Ours. We could run the property together. We could share my father’s legacy—the legacy of Christian Talbot, a man you loved and respected.”
He gave a snort of dismissal and shook his head. “Little Susanna, smart as a whip. Always knew what strings to pull to get what she wants.” He closed his eyes and swayed on his feet. Temptation stalked him, only it was not Circle Star he coveted but its mistress—it’s beautiful, educated mistress who had gone away to become a lady, and a lady she had become. An image formed in his mind of how she had stood before him in the hotel room in El Paso, proud and dignified even in her nakedness.
Susanna’s hesitant voice drifted out to him. “What can I do to persuade you?”
Connor blinked his eyes open and saw her hovering uncertainly a pace away from him, her snakeskin boots braced against the platform of the rickety wagon. She looked exhausted. If the carthorse moved even a small step, she’d lose her balance and topple head first into the coffin.
He felt the bitter hostility drain out of him. “I’ll think about it,” he said. “I was on my way westward anyway, so it’s not a detour. I’ll ride along with you as far as Circle Star, and I’ll leave you a note for the seventy dollars I owe for the fine. You can add it to the balance I owe for the horse I took thirteen years ago.”
Connor watched as a tremulous smile eased the strain on Susanna’s features, and he knew his resolve was already weakening.
Fool, he told himself.
But then, when it came to her, he’d always been.
****
Susanna decided to remain in the wagon, to allow the raw patches on her skin to heal. Connor saddled Brutus and charged on ahead, shrinking to a speck in the distance before merging with the flat horizon. Pete Jackson simmered with fury over what she had done and rode in stony silence alongside the wagon, far enough to avoid the trail of dust.
When twilight fell and they struck camp, Connor still hadn’t come back. Frantic, Susanna rummaged through his saddlebags. If she found something in them that he valued, something that he wouldn’t want to leave behind, she could count on his return.
A skillet. a plate, a cup. Spoon, knife and fork. Those would cost a few dollars to replace. She continued her search. At the bottom of one of the saddlebags, she found three books, so worn they barely held together.
Her eyes misted as she opened the cover of Uncle Tom’s Cabin and found her father’s name on the flyleaf. Connor had printed his own name underneath. When she flicked through the pages, the back cover fell open. On it, Susanna had been written over and over again, in what she recognized as young Connor’s unsteady hand.
A lump rose in her throat. She made a small sound of anguish.
Pete, who was tending to the horses, threw a quick glance in her direction but his frosty anger didn’t thaw. Susanna put the books away and set about cooking a meal on the campfire. When the beans and jerky sizzled in the pan, she heard the sound of thudding hooves. A few seconds later, a black horse with a lean rider emerged from the shadows.
Susanna nearly fainted with relief. “Do you want to eat?” she asked.
Connor dismounted in silence and walked up to her. She filled his plate and handed it to him. He accepted the food without a word and retreated into the darkness, beyond the glow of the flickering campfire. After a moment, Pete went to join him, and Susanna heard them talk in muted voices.
That first night formed a pattern for the rest of the journey which took four days instead of two to complete, due to the slower pace of the wagon. Connor came and went. While he was around, he kept his distance. His black stallion continued to cast mean looks in her direction. Perhaps the horse could sense the hostility between them. Or, perhaps the beast had long ago been taught to hate anyone who answered to the name of Susanna.
Pete was still refusing to talk to her. On the second day, Connor discovered the six bottles of whiskey stashed away in the wagon and took to drinking in the evenings. The driver, Rawlins, observed everything with a pair of curious brown eyes. Susanna suspected he couldn’t wait to get back to El Paso, where he could gossip with the sheriff about the strange scenes he’d witnessed.
****
Connor felt his heartbeat quicken as they reached the familiar landmarks around Circle Star. A timber shack. A stone spire. The shape of the undulating hills, dotted with cacti and scrub. In the distance, he could see the deep groove or the river that even during the height of the summer carried enough water to sustain a large herd of cattle.
Memories flooded back. The booming voice of Christian Talbot rang through his mind, quizzing him about the newspapers. Did you read it all? Can you spell election? Who do you think would make the best mayor for Cedar City?
Then he could hear young Susanna’s voice. I’m going to Philadelphia and be a lady. My mother says ranch hands are not for me. And that was the truth, Connor reminded himself. He was a drifter, a man with a dark past and a blank future. Susanna was a lady, high born and educated. A union between them could never work.
And yet, as the ranch came into view, a sense
of homecoming settled over him. His eyes roamed the contours of the pink adobe house. Two stories high, it had been built like a fortress into a square, with an enclosed patio in the middle. The stables and bunkhouse and other outbuildings had been added later, across a gravel yard bordered with a line of cottonwood trees where the ground sloped toward the edge of the river.
As Connor immersed himself in remembrance, grief pierced him, as sharp and sudden as a knife stuck in his chest. For a decade, he’d used whiskey and hard living to dull the pain of missing his happy years. Now, awareness filled him that Christian Talbot was gone. The man who had been like a father to him was gone—dead and buried.
Bust Susanna was alive.
Susanna was alive—and she needed him.
Connor turned to watch her as she sat on the wagon bed. Before his parents died, he’d had eleven years of happiness. Then two more good years at Circle Star. Almost half of his twenty-eight years, he’d been happy. Surely, it was as much as a man could expect from life? Surely, wanting more was tempting fate, inviting disaster?
His heart told him to stay.
His head told him to go.
And he knew he’d never have a moment’s peace until the two agreed.
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Chapter Seven
To Susanna’s relief, Pete finally broke his stubborn silence when their straggly procession came to a halt outside the stables at Circle Star. He steered his roan gelding next to the wagon and gave her a cool look.
“Do you want me to send for Father Dominic?”
Startled, she stared at him. “Has Connor agreed to marriage?”
“No, but I assume you’ll come up with some way of making sure he does. If you’re planning to blackmail the boy into it, you ought to do it quick.” Pete’s voice gained a hostile edge. “He’s getting sick from drinking all that whiskey and not eating properly.”
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