Catherine

by Raine Cantrell

  “And mute,” he muttered as the solicitous woman prosed on about the ailments one could take from a chill.

  Definitely mute. Gregory glanced balefully at the unconscious figure of the snoring drummer, wriggled downward in his seat and closed his eyes.

  The Lord and fate would never be so cruel as to deny him his wish.

  Chapter Two

  Catherine Rose Hill in twenty-two years had never outgrown her love for surprises. She believed that to be true until today. And as her income-producing flock of chickens had grown over this past year, she had developed a tendency to name her days after the various ways to cook eggs.

  Some days were as soft as a three-minute egg, a few were hard-boiled, some deviled, others poached. Here and there were scrambled days, others perfect sunny-side up ones—which Catherine loved best of all. Then came over-easy days, a second favorite. Of course, there were the rare rotten ones.

  This lovely April day of 1882 had brought to her home in Hillsboro in the New Mexico Territory a surprise. One Gregory Michael Mayfield the third, rolled in a rotten, scrambled, bedeviled omelette.

  Her paying houseguest—and from the amount of luggage in the Bott’s Livery buckboard, it could be no one else—had arrived three weeks early.

  Catherine, perched in the upper branches of a newly budded cottonwood tree, wondered if she had made a terrible mistake in agreeing with her friend’s madcap scheme to save her brother from himself.

  In the next moment she reversed her thinking. It was uncharitable to doubt her friend’s motives as anything but sincere. The man had been ill, was in need of rest.

  A more practical side of her nature reminded her of the fact that she had already spent his money. She didn’t have the funds to replace what he’d paid, and couldn’t back out of the arrangement she had made with his sister.

  Friends did not desert each other when in need. And Suzanne, despite the miles and years that separated them, was a good friend.

  Still, Catherine hesitated to make her presence known to him.

  There was something odd about his appearance as he climbed down from the buckboard and approached the front of the house. Suzanne had warned her that her brother was a stickler for social niceties. He’d be appalled if she called out to him while up the tree.

  But Catherine’s hard-won independence and all it entailed reasserted itself. She no longer depended upon anyone to order her days or make decisions for her. Those restrictive days had ended with her husband’s death. She could handle one male boarder for a short time. Only a month. If all went well with her friend Mary’s birthing, then Sarah, a widow like herself and owner of the house, would return before the end of Mr. Mayfield’s stay.

  Then again, Sarah had been vague about when she would return.

  Catherine pressed back against the crook of the tree. If asked at this moment, she couldn’t have explained why she continued her hidden observation of the perplexed male who peered into the parlor window.

  But he was closer now. A black brimmed hat hid his face. She realized the brim drooped. Some new fashion from New York, no doubt.

  He stepped to the edge of the porch. Catherine looked straight down at him. The impeccably tailored gray suit clung to his wiry build. There was something wrong with the way he looked, but she couldn’t define it. She wished she remembered more of Gregory Mayfield as he had been, to better judge the man he had become.

  But impressions made on a six-year-old mind of a young man sent off to military school were at best vague. Gregory, at fourteen, had had little time for either his sister or her friends.

  Enough musing! She had to get down with the kitten she had climbed the tree to rescue without Mr. Mayfield seeing her. Easier thought than done.

  If Lord Romeo behaved as an adult cat should, he would be the one caught out on a limb.

  The tabby kitten resisted her coaxing. Catherine braced herself. She lifted the kitten and tucked it between her shirt and camisole. Freeing a bit more of her shirt from her pants made a pocket.

  “Poor baby,” she whispered, wincing as the kitten’s tiny claws, sharp as needles, pierced her skin. “We’ll both owe Lord Romeo for this one.”

  The weighty, battle-scarred tom with orange-marmalade and new-cream-colored stripes felt it was beneath his dignity to climb trees for any reason. But then, Lord Romeo had other uncatlike traits she tried not to dwell upon.

  The sudden pounding on the front door warned her of her guest’s impatience. And Suzanne would not appreciate the welcome, or rather the lack of one, that Catherine offered her brother. Not after the trouble Suzanne had gone to getting her brother to agree to this trip.

  But why did the man have to arrive so early!

  Catherine felt for the branch below with one foot. When her footing was secure, she stretched once more for a lower limb. Her hands scraped against the bark of the tree as she slid a little. She tried to ignore the mewling of the frightened kitten, but she couldn’t ignore the claws digging into her tender skin.

  She couldn’t press tight to the trunk or she would crush the kitten. Her arms were stretched high above her head, her long legs stretched below as she sought firm purchase on another limb.

  Just as her foot pressed against the solid branch, the kitten wiggled its way to her side. Catherine released the branch with one hand to hold the kitten still while she was placing her other foot on the limb below.

  She had never mastered the art of tree climbing. Her parents did not believe in allowing her to learn boyish skills. Marriage to Louis offered neither the chance nor the desire to indulge in a childish joy.

  She was trying to hurry. The kitten moved once again, this time clawing its way up until the tiny head with ears laid back popped out of her shirt. She was startled. But her move to push the kitten beneath her shirt cost her her balance.

  Her hand failed to grab hold. Her feet slipped from the branch and down she went.

  Her ankle wrenched beneath her as she twisted to land on her back. She flung her hands over her face to protect herself as the kitten clawed, then scampered over her head before bolting toward the barn. Lord Romeo gave chase.

  Catherine hurt in so many places that she didn’t know which one to think of first. Squeezing her eyes shut and hiding beneath the cover of her hands was only momentary relief. She suddenly sensed a male presence close by.

  She’d thought she was at a disadvantage only minutes before, but now she was dismayed to find herself sprawled on the new spring grass at the feet of the man.

  A quick peek showed muddy boots. Where could he have gotten mud on his boots? There had been no rain this week.

  Hiding was ridiculous. She was not a coward, despite the overprotective upbringing and marriage she’d endured. She flung her arms to her sides and opened her eyes. She stared at him. He looked as if someone had dunked him in a horse trough. Either that, or this man went swimming with his suit on.

  But hope was not dead. She smiled. “Please tell me you’re lost and stopped to ask directions.”

  “Only if you’ll tell me you’re not the widow Hill,” Gregory countered.

  “Oh dear,” she muttered. That crushed the hope she harbored. He was Suzanne’s brother. The way he leaned over her made her attempt to rise awkward.

  Racked with a chill, Gregory straightened. He eyed the woman sprawled at his feet with a sense of doom. “So, am I graced with the… er… presence of Mrs. Hill? Or have you just dropped in to add misery to an already horrendous day?”

  Stuffed shirt! “Ah, you’re one of those,” she muttered, letting her impulsive nature rule her tongue.

  He stepped back. “I beg your forgiveness not to pursue that remark.”

  Catherine’s smile disappeared. The sarcastic bite of his voice left no room to find humor in this. She struggled to remember charity was a virtue. The man had been seriously ill, he had been traveling for days. They couldn’t have all been sunny ones, either, to judge from his damp clothes. She tilted her head back to look at his
face.

  Suzanne’s description of her brother left a great deal to be desired… like the truth. There was a definite hitch in her breathing. She knew it was rude to keep staring at him, but couldn’t stop herself from doing it.

  She attempted to reconcile the man eyeing her with distaste with the boy she vaguely remembered from childhood.

  The two remained separate.

  He was not a handsome man. Not that she set a great store on a man’s looks. Not anymore. Gregory Michael Mayfield III had pride stamped on his features in a lean and predatory face saved from ruthlessness by the natural seductive curve of his lips. Intensely male features. Strong. And this despite the illness that had left him pale.

  Dark brown hair, neatly trimmed to collar length, appeared thick. His sideburns swept his lean cheeks. His eyes were a green so dark they almost appeared black, but were saved by a scattering of gold flecks. At least she thought they were gold flecks. It could have been a trick of sun and shadow.

  A poet’s face with a warrior’s eyes.

  His brows nearly met over a straight, thin nose as his frown deepened while she continued staring up at him. Rarely at a loss for words, Catherine couldn’t think of one to say. The man and her position defeated her. What had happened to the backbone she had been firming from the first months of her widowed state? Likely it was crushed beneath her or squished beneath the man’s boots.

  She glanced at his hands, extended to help her up. He wore driving gloves. Finely tanned ones, too. Louis disdained wearing them. He had been proud of his hardworking, callused hands. She suddenly remembered that Mr. Mayfield was a man who dealt with enormous sums of money, while her savings amounted to one hundred and sixty-three dollars and thirteen cents. But while Mr. Mayfield had amassed a fortune that cost him his health, she had nothing to be ashamed of. She had worked hard for the first time in her life to earn every cent she had saved.

  “Far be it from me to rush a lady,” Greg said with every attempt to keep irritation from his voice, “but I must insist that you show me to my room.”

  “So sorry to keep you waiting,” she snapped. But as Catherine reached for his extended hand, Lord Romeo returned to protect her. She rolled to her side, her glaring look a silent communication that her cat should stay put. She waved Greg off when she saw Lord Romeo was not going to obey her.

  The massive tom, marmalade hair bristling, one ear pressed flat to his head, the other—torn in a long-ago fight—dropped to one side, giving him a quizzical look, wiggled his body into an attack crouch. Battered appearance aside, the cat—as most animals discovered—was a fierce opponent.

  “No! Don’t!” Catherine ordered the cat, and to Greg said, “Get back.”

  With a hissing growl the cat lunged for Greg’s hand. Greg, his expression one of disbelief, barely managed to snatch his hand up and away in time.

  First the bonbon-eating Posie, now this mangled-looking creature. Outside of enough! His only association with cats brought the opinion they were placid, downright lazy creatures content to sit and stare out a window for hours. Or else they rubbed against one’s black evening trousers, leaving behind copious amounts of hair that were an embarrassment and the despair of his valet.

  “Don’t touch the cat,” she warned. Then made cooing noises to coax Lord Romeo to her.

  Greg ignored her, his gaze riveted on the animal.

  Lord Romeo, too, ignored her pleas, intent on the man.

  Catherine struggled to her knees, but she couldn’t put weight on her ankle. If she hadn’t been aware of the damage the cat would do, she would find him comical. A peek revealed the man’s fascination.

  Lord Romeo, massive body arched, performed a stiff-legged dance that brought him behind Greg, then to the other side. To keep the animal in view, Greg had to twist his upper body. Between the continuous growls and the strange hopping dance, he thought the cat was issuing some sort of challenge to him. But he was afraid that the cat would hurt the widow. He braced himself to make a grab for the cat the moment it came closer.

  The growls lowered in volume but were all the more threatening. Truly a dangerous creature. Raucous squawks distracted him. He rubbed his eyes, uncertain that it was a flock of chickens advancing on them. The cat jumped in anxiety, or perhaps, Greg thought, he was projecting his own feeling on the cat.

  Greg spread his legs to evenly distribute his weight. He lunged for the cat and slid on the lush new spring grass. He went down with a thump. His hat sailed off toward the converging hens.

  “I’ve come to a lunatic’s house.” He shook his head, shocked to find himself sprawled on the ground. Enough—this day was truly enough. But he didn’t act quickly enough to stop the attacking cat. Three thin scratches appeared on his wrist between the edge of his glove and the cuff of his jacket. He yanked his hand back and tucked it in his pocket. Visions of lawyers and court danced in his thoughts.

  Lord Romeo continued his war dance.

  Catherine crawled over to Greg and shooed the cat away. The cat was not in an obedient mood. Or, it could be, she thought, striving to find some explanation for his most unexplainable behavior, that the cat couldn’t hear her over the loud squawks of Miss Lily and the new flock of guinea hens.

  She was thrilled that Mr. Mayfield hadn’t drawn a weapon. Louis would have shot Lord Romeo, then turned the gun on the hens. Miss Lily, her first hen, and the cat’s cohort in more mischief than she wanted to think about now, had her feathers ruffled. Catherine didn’t know where to direct her attention. Lord Romeo required forceful discouragement. She had no sooner shooed him away, when she had to wave off the hen. Handicapped by the pain in her ankle, she couldn’t move as fast as she needed to.

  Miss Lily—as she repeatedly had done in the past—eluded her reach. It was one reason why the old hen had never made it to the stew pot. Louis would have mocked her making a pet of the hen, but then Louis was no longer around to declare that animals were never meant to be pets.

  Breathing hard from her exertions, Catherine gave up all effort to deter the animals. She flung herself over Greg’s body.

  “Enough!” she yelled. “There’s no danger from him. Get back! Go on, you silly creatures, go!”

  It took her a few minutes before she brought order. Miss Lily, cackling as she rounded up the smaller guinea hens, herded them away a short distance, where they proceeded to investigate the foreign presence of Greg’s battered hat. Lord Romeo resumed his attack crouch, his tail whipping from side to side, as he waited for an opening.

  “Don’t you dare move on him, my Lord Romeo.” Catherine waited a few seconds, then rolled off Greg. As the realization that she had lain upon a perfect stranger hit her, heat rose to her face. She lay on her back, afraid to look at him. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I hope you will forgive them and me. They’ve never done this, you know. I can’t explain it.”

  Greg had to turn to wipe the grass and earth from his mouth and nose. He eyed the cat, then turned to the widow. She ought to be locked up as a public nuisance for wearing pants that left nothing to a man’s imagination. But she repeated her apology and he had to respond.

  “Are you suggesting this was a random attack? Of course, you are. It could be nothing else. Suzanne’s schemes tend to involve me in the most absurd circumstances. But think nothing of it. Just more of the friendly western hospitality I was warned to expect. Truly, madam, you need not have gone to such trouble. All I wanted was to be shown to my room. I’ve had a most trying day.

  “Perhaps my sister didn’t mention the reason for my visit? What’s that?” he went on quickly, too quickly for Catherine to speak. “You don’t remember reading that particular bit of correspondence? Well, allow me, madam, to remind you. I required peace and privacy.” His voice rose on the last as he noticed the anxious blue eyes that watched him from beneath the tangle of blond hair.

  Catherine saw that there were gold flecks in his deep green eyes. She fought the feminine awareness alerted by his mellow tone of voice. But his
sarcasm had to be acknowledged. She angled her head to the side. “You are very angry.”

  “Madam, you aren’t even close to knowing what I am feeling at this moment.”

  “You’re right to be furious. If the kittens hadn’t—”

  “Kittens? Do you mean to tell me there are more of that creature’s breed about?”

  “A new litter,” she murmured. Oh dear, he hates cats. How can I set things right?

  “Say no more. I’m leaving.”

  “But you can’t!”

  “Can’t, Mrs. Hill? Watch me.”

  Chapter Three

  Greg arrested his move to rise as he looked, really looked at the widow. A tendril of hair curled over her smudged cheek. Blond hair shaded from newly churned butter to the gold coins in his pocket. Dewy fresh skin begged a touch.

  He studied her profile, her chin a sharp line saved by the generous curve of her mouth. Her nose had the suggestion of an upward tilt at the tip, giving her a saucy look. He watched the long sweep of her pale lashes as she closed her eyes. The widow appeared provocatively tumbled and he caught himself leaning toward her. He jerked his head back, closed his eyes briefly and wondered what he was doing.

  When he opened his eyes, he saw that the cat had edged closer. “That animal has moved. Is it safe to get up?” He wished the words unsaid. He had been humiliated enough. But the cat stared at him with the intense curiosity peculiar to cats. The look unsettled him.

  Catherine longed to laugh to release the tense air, but something warned her not to do it. She knew he had studied her, and couldn’t help wondering what he thought. A year ago she would have been mortified to find herself lying in the grass with a perfect stranger. Especially one whose nearness sharpened her senses. That was a complication she could do without. Her widowed state was allowing her to savor the freedom from anyone’s dictates for the first time in her life. As much as she missed the intimacy of marriage, she had no intention of allowing a man to rule her life again.