"Yes." He frowned slightly. "I heard about your… Society." His upper lip twitched nervously. "Quite frankly, the ladies in town are most distressed with you and your friends flaunting your unfortunate state of life."
He made them all sound like lepers.
Smile, Rachel, smile, her mind coaxed. "Why Mr. Sprague, I wouldn’t think you would be a man to listen to idle gossip."
"’Course not, m’dear." He cleared his throat, rocked on his heels, and nodded. "But you must see that I have to be careful. Don't want to offend the citizenry. Seattle's not so far away that some wouldn't be tempted to travel a bit of a distance if they felt put out with my banking establishment."
"I understand," Rachel countered quickly. Far better than he thought, probably. As a matter of fact, she had considered going into the city to deal with a larger bank. But she'd finally decided that she would have a better chance with a bank that already knew her and her business. Although it was difficult at times, dealing with a man who cared more for what his customers thought of him than for making a good business deal.
She was willing to wager none of the businessmen in town had to explain the way they lived their lives in order to secure a loan.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a man leaping off the boardwalk on the opposite side of the street.
Jackson.
Instinctively, her heartbeat quickened.
As Mr. Sprague droned on about the seemliness of spinsters setting up house together, Rachel turned her head slightly to watch as Jackson landed directly in the path of an oncoming freight wagon. She gasped as he missed being run down by a hair's breadth, then he moved nimbly out of the way only to step in front of a horse and rider. He jumped backward and bumped into a woman carrying a basket full of vegetables from the farmers’ vegetable stand.
One corner of her brain noted that Howard Sprague was still talking, but she wasn’t listening. Instead, she watched Jackson and struggled to keep from laughing.
He picked up the woman’s spilled cabbages, brushed off the spattered mud, and replaced them in her basket. The woman shouted something, and he ducked when she swung her knitted purse at his head. Backing carefully away from her, he tripped over a dog and staggered to catch his balance. Finally, muttering under his breath, he loped across the clearing toward her.
"So," Mr. Sprague was saying, "if you'll come by the bank this afternoon, we'll discuss your plans in full."
"Hmmm?" She snapped her head around and smiled at the man. "Oh, thank you. I'll be there. Shall we say two o'clock?"
Jackson leaped up onto the boardwalk. " Morning, Cousin."
She nodded at him briefly, then turned to the banker. "Thanks again, Mister Sprague. I'll see you this afternoon."
"This afternoon?" Jackson echoed and looked from Rachel to the banker. Giving the man a knowing grin and a quick wink, he said, "Sprague, is it? You’re a friend of Rachel's?"
The portly man drew himself up to his less than imposing full height and peered along a narrow nose at Jackson. "I, sir, own the bank."
"Ahh…" Jackson nodded. "A well set-up man then. Are you married?"
"Jackson !" Rachel's voice was strangled, horrified.
Mr. Sprague glared at him and huffed like a man running uphill. "Not that it's any of your concern, Mister…?"
"Call me Jackson. I'm Rachel’s cousin."
Rachel felt the banker’s disgruntlement and shared it. How could Jackson do something so stupid? She grabbed his forearm with one hand and squeezed, hoping to shut him up before it was too late.
"Now," her "cousin" went on, "as to being my business or not, guess it wouldn't be, ordinarily. But I couldn’t help noticing how you had your eye on Rachel, here."
"I beg your pardon?"
"No need." He paused to look down at her fingers, digging ever deeper into his arm. He shook his head slightly, patted her hand, and turned back to the banker. "Just between us men, I wanted to let you know that you have my permission to court her."
"Of all the… "
Mr. Sprague shook all over and his shiny pate turned a deep, violent scarlet.
"Good God," she muttered and tried to put herself in between the banker and the ghost.
"Why wait till this afternoon to get together and… talk. Why don't the two of you sneak off somewhere quiet and get to know one another?"
"Oh, for heaven's sake," Rachel groaned, unable to keep it in.
"Sir," the banker countered in a high, shaky voice, "you insult me!"
Clearly surprised, Jackson’s eyes widened as he looked at the other man. "No such thing," he said. "I only wanted to help you two —"
"And you!" Mister Sprague turned offended hazel eyes on Rachel, who wanted the boardwalk to open up and swallow her whole. "I'd thought better of you, Miss Morgan!"
"Mister Sprague," she started, "I can assure you —"
"Frankly," the banker cut her off rudely, "I'd imagined it far beneath you — using feminine wiles to sway my business decisions."
"Wiles?" Rachel snapped a quick glare at Jackson, but he didn't notice.
He was already moving up to the banker. "Hold on a second, mister," he said and stopped close enough that the other man took one nervous step backward.
Mr. Sprague's gaze raked him up and down. "I am appalled. A member of her own family conspiring to assist her in her nefarious schemes?" He pulled a snowy white handkerchief from his coat pocket and blotted the beads of sweat forming on his pate and upper lip. "For shame, my good man! For shame."
"Nefarious?" Jackson asked, obviously puzzled.
"Oh, good heavens !" Rachel muttered.
With one last look at the two of them, Howard Sprague turned on his well polished heel and scuttled off down the boardwalk toward his bank.
"Well?" Rachel demanded a moment later.
Jackson stared off after the man and asked, "What's nefarious?"
"That's all you have to say?"
He pulled his gaze away from the retreating banker and shrugged. "I figure I got a right to know if I’ve been insulted."
She shook her head, then tossed the broom down in disgust. Planting both fists on her hips, she said, "Nefarious. Corrupt. Criminal. Disgraceful."
Jackson frowned thoughtfully. "Just as I thought. I'll just go see that fella and have a little talk with him. Set him straight on a few things."
He took a step, but she grabbed his arm and stopped him in his tracks.
"I think you’ve talked to him quite enough for one day," she countered. "Just what was that all about?"
"You know darn well what it was about."
"A husband again."
"I told you, I'm here to see you married."
"To Howard Sprague?"
He looked in to those wide, amazed blue eyes and conceded. "I admit, he’s not much to look at, but he's a banker. Must have plenty of money. Certainly looks like he eats well."
"His wife is a very good cook."
"Wife?"
"Yes, wife."
"Oh." Jackson swiveled his head to look for the still retreating figure of the banker. Why, he wondered, hadn’t he picked up that piece of information about the man? But he knew why. He hadn’t waited for the information to come to him. Instead, he had leapt right into the middle of things. "Well, how was I supposed to know he was married?"
"Not only is he married," Rachel told him, folding her arms across his chest. "Howard Sprague is the worst prig I've ever met."
"Huh'?"
He turned back to look at her. The fire in her eyes nearly burned him.
"A prig. He is as straitlaced and prudish as… as… I can’t even think of someone as rigid as Howard Sprague." Her toe started tapping a furious rhythm on the boardwalk. "He'll never give me the loan I wanted now."
"Why wouldn’t he?" No one was stupid enough to pass up a good business deal because he, Jackson, had said the wrong thing.
"Because, thanks to you, Howard believes I was trying to seduce him into a loan!" An un
believing chuckle shot from her throat. "Seduce. Howard." She shook her head slowly. "Now I'll have to go into Seattle and find a banker there."
Jackson rubbed the back of his neck. He'd done it again. Blast it, he seemed to have a real talent for throwing rocks into the lake just before the fish were about to bite.
"I'll go with you," he said.
"No, thank you. I'll do it myself. Some other time."
Jackson scowled thoughtfully. She didn't want his help, and he could hardly blame her.
"What made you do something like this?" she asked.
He inhaled deeply. "Sprague looked like the kind of man who could take good care of you. Give you a good life."
"I can take care of myself."
He shook his head at her. "It's not the same thing."
"Jackson, you can't just storm up to a complete stranger and try to talk him into marrying me."
Fine, he thought. Maybe he hadn't handled that situation as well as he might have. But she wasn't being much help. Fighting him all the time, arguing.
A lumberman passed them on the boardwalk, and Jackson stepped closer to her to let the man by. "Look, Rachel," he said under his breath. "I can't stay here forever, you know. I’ve got to find you a husband. And I have to do it soon."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why is it so bloody important that I be married?"
He inhaled sharply, drawing her soft, faintly floral scent deep within him. Even as he enjoyed the sensation, he knew it was a mistake. Because noticing one of Rachel’s charms only opened the door to becoming aware of the rest. However, then he met her eyes, and the look that met his told him that the sweetness of her scent belied her rising temper.
Rachel glanced around her quickly, making sure they couldn't be overheard before saying in a rush, "You keep insisting I marry — but you don’t say why. Why would someone send a ghost to see that an on-the-shelf spinster finds a husband?"
He frowned and scratched his jaw. He'd already told her more than she probably should know. It would only make things worse if he was to start telling her about the children she was supposed to have. Besides, she probably wouldn't even believe him if he told her about one of her daughters being a lady doctor.
Who would?
"It's just important. That's all."
She crossed her arms over her chest and tilted her head back to look up at him. He had to force himself to meet her eyes. "There's something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?"
"Rachel…"
"No." She shook her head, then bent down to pick up the broom. "Never mind. I don't want to know."
Relief swamped him.
"It doesn't matter, anyway," she continued, ruining his brief sense of peace. "Because no matter what else you’re not telling me, it won’t change a thing. I won't marry except for love."
Love. He was getting almighty tired of that word.
His gaze swept over her and not for the first time, he silently admitted what a handsome woman she was. As he looked at her honey-colored hair, Jackson couldn't help wondering just how it would feel in his hands when released from that bun she insisted on wearing. His fingers itched to pull her hairpins free. He wanted to see her hair spilling wild and free around her shoulders. He wanted to thread his fingers through its length.
Caught by surprise at his own imaginings, he blinked away the thoughts and forced himself back to the matter at hand. Now was not the time to let his idle brain stroll down a path that stopped at a dead end.
Love, he reminded himself. That's what this was all about. What did he know about love for God's sake? Rachel wants love, and his mind was busy with lust.
Oh, they made a fine pair.
Still, if she were serious about wanting to find love, it wouldn't hurt her any to cooperate a little. Before he could tell her so, though, he saw her gaze slide past him to stare at something or someone behind him. When her features tightened, something inside him shifted. Was she afraid?
"Come on," she said. "Let's go inside."
"Why?" He turned around and looked down the boardwalk at the milling people. What had she seen? Or rather, who?
"Someone’s coming, and I'd rather not have to talk to him if I don't have to."
She didn’t sound scared. More like anxious. His eyebrows lifted, and he examined the crowd more thoroughly, determined now to find the source of Rachel's discomfort.
If there was a man in this town who could make her nervous, Jackson wanted to meet him. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the slightest notion of who he was looking for. His gaze moved over the constantly shifting crowd. Lumbermen, miners, a couple of fancy women from the saloon, and one or two wives with baskets on their arms passed in and out of his line of sight. Old men gathered in little groups and exchanged lies. Wagons and horses pushed through the muddy street.
Then a familiar face flashed briefly through a parting in the mob. Jackson frowned, drew his head to one side, and looked for that face again, sure he was mistaken.
Rachel pulled at his arm, but he didn't move. He couldn't.
His feet felt as though his boots had been nailed to the planks beneath him. If his heart had been beating, it would have stopped. Seconds crawled by. The sounds from the street disappeared. He held his breath and waited. In moments, his patience was rewarded with another glimpse of the face he was watching for.
There was no mistake.
It was him. Here.
Headed right toward Jackson.
"Blast it," Rachel muttered, just before plastering a smile on her face. "Good morning, Mister Lynch."
Jackson shot her a quick, disbelieving look, then snapped his head back to face his past.
The gambler stepped up to them and stopped just a foot or two away. He glanced briefly at Jackson, then dismissed him and concentrated on Rachel. Pulling his hat from his head, he gave her a half bow. "Miss Rachel. Lovely to see you."
Just hearing her name fall from those lips sent chills sweeping over him."What do you want?" Jackson grumbled, his eyes narrowed into slits.
Lynch lifted his eyebrows and he slanted Jackson a thoughtful look. Clearly amused, he answered, "Why nothing at all, Mister…?"
"Tate." His voice was tight. "Jackson Tate."
"Of course." Again, that dismissive nod, then he turned a slow smile on Rachel. "May I invite you to share a cup of tea with me?"
Tea?
With him?
Jackson surged forward, his fists hard and ready. He was checked by her hand on his arm.
Rachel felt the tension in his muscles. Shimmering waves of tightly leashed anger seemed to hover around him. Fear and worry spiraled together in the pit of her stomach. It was all she could do to keep her voice even, polite.
"Thank you, Mister Lynch, but no. I'm afraid my cousin and I are quite busy at the moment."
Noble Lynch spared Jackson another brief look, but whatever he was thinking didn't register on his features.
"You stay the hell away from her," Jackson said then, and the gambler's sharp gaze narrowed.
She swallowed heavily and forced herself to breathe. Something was terribly wrong.
"Whatever passes between Miss Rachel and myself is hardly your concern."
Rachel shivered. The gambler’s voice was light, but she sensed icy fury beneath the words.
"Everything about Rachel is my concern, Lynch."
Stunned by the rage glittering in Jackson’s green eyes, she tugged at his forearm, drawing him closer to her. In the few days she and Jackson had been together, she hadn’t seen this side of him. His usual affable good humor had disappeared as if it had never been. The sharp planes of his face looked to be carved from solid marble.
Something flip-flopped inside her, and she didn't even question the instinct to protect Jackson. To help him through whatever was tearing him apart. Tugging on his rock hard arm again, she said, "If you'll excuse us…"
Her ghost didn't budge. His gaze remained locked on the man opposite him. She wasn�
��t even sure he knew she was there beside him.
"Do I know you?" the gambler asked, taking a slow side step closer to Rachel.
Jackson moved so quickly, she didn't have time to react as he pushed her safely behind him and answered quietly. "We met a long time ago."
A strained, taut silence stretched out for what seemed like forever. Then, from behind Jackson’s broad back, she heard the gambler say, "I’m afraid I don’t recall."
Rachel took a half step to the side and glanced up into Jackson’s features. He looked like he wanted to leap at the other man's throat. Instead, he only said, "I recall enough for both of us."
Lynch’s fingers tightened on his hat brim.
Out in the street, a dog barked, someone shouted, and another wagon rolled through the mud. Rachel tugged on Jackson’s arm again. A sense of urgency rose up inside her.
She wasn't sure why, but she knew that she had to separate the two men quickly."I'm sorry, Mister Lynch," she said abruptly. "You'll have to excuse us."
"Naturally," he replied, his gaze never leaving Jackson's.
Rachel reached behind her, turned the knob, and shoved the door open. Planting her feet, she pulled at Jackson’s arm until he had no choice but to follow her. She didn't relax until the door was closed behind them, shutting out Noble Lynch and everyone else in town.
She leaned back against the door and willed her heart to stop racing. What had just happened? What was there between the two men? And if it were important enough to cause such a reaction in Jackson, how could Lynch not even remember it?
Or was the man lying?
Rachel drew a long, shaky breath and turned her head to look at the man whose memory had been a driving force in her life.
Jackson crossed to the nearest window and stared out into the street. "What's going on between you two?" he said, and his voice rasped into the sudden stillness.
"What do you mean?"
Green eyes blazing, he wasn't looking at her, but rather he was following Lynch’s progress as the gambler strolled down the boardwalk in the direction of the saloon. "I mean, him. Lynch." He spat the name out like it was a mouthful of mud. "Why is he sniffing around, trying to get you to step out with him?"
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