by Pam Crooks
That troubled him.
He had to keep their feet on the ground. He couldn’t let them forget what had happened yesterday, what might happen tomorrow. They could be allies today, now, this minute, but in the next, they could be enemies.
It all came down to survival. Lark’s survival. She’d do what she had to do to save her neck from the noose, whether she knew it or not. And if that forced her to turn against them, Ross and Chat both, well, Ross would understand it.
Chat wouldn’t.
And that troubled him, too.
“I want you to go into town today, Chat,” he said grimly.
Whatever they’d been talking about ended. Chat and Lark swiveled, their full attention upon him.
“Sure,” Chat said. “Any special reason?”
“Information.”
Somber, she nodded. “About Catfish Jack.”
His gaze slid to Lark, lingered over the wild curls which coiled against her temple. What were the old hens in Ida Grove saying about her? Had they shredded her reputation to ribbons by now?
“Among other things,” he said. “Catfish was wounded when he attacked Lark in her sleeping room. Might be he needed medical attention.”
Chat nodded. “I’ll see if Doc Seeber knows something. I’ll be discreet, of course.”
“Very discreet,” Ross said.
“This isn’t a good idea, Santana.” Lark sat stiff in her chair, looking miserable.
“We can’t stay out here with our heads in the sand,” he said, the words rougher than he intended. “Any piece of news Chat can find out for us will help keep you safe.”
“But the risks!”
“I won’t draw attention to myself,” Chat said quickly. “I promise.”
“You don’t understand how underhanded Catfish can be,” Lark said. “Neither of you.”
“The hell I don’t,” Ross growled.
“I’ll be careful. Truly, I will.” Chat jumped up, carried her dishes to the sideboard. “It’s getting late. I’d best dress and get going.” She dashed off to disappear inside her room.
Lark rose, gathered her own dishes. “If anything happens to her, I’ll never forgive myself.” She leveled Ross with a reproving glare. “Nor will I forgive you for sending her.”
Her words stung, but Ross took their bite.
Because if he failed in protecting either one of them, he’d never forgive himself.
Chat draped a flour sack over her basket of eggs and slid the wicker beneath the buckboard’s seat. “I’ll be back well before supper, so don’t start cooking again before I arrive.”
Lark managed a small smile and thought of the long hours that lay ahead. “It would give me something to do, you know.”
“Who says you have to do anything? Just be lazy today.”
Lark detested “lazy.” “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”
Chat cocked her head. Looking young and carefree in a fawn-colored skirt and ivory pearl-buttoned blouse, one would be hard pressed to guess the true purpose for her trip to town.
“You could get to know Ross better,” she said.
Lark’s gaze was steady. “I do believe I know him well enough as it is.”
“He needs a woman like you in his life.”
“Hmm.” She squinted into the sky. “I don’t think so.”
“It’s true. He’s been different since you came here.” Chat shrugged, thoughtful. “I don’t know. More alive, maybe.”
“I imagine I’ve given him something different to think about, that’s all.”
“Better you than his boring furniture all the time.”
Lark could feel Chat watching her, but she refused to meet the girl’s gaze. What if Chat saw the truth in her eyes?
“He’s a little gruff at times, but he’s one of the most gallant men I’ve ever met,” Chat went on. “Truly.”
Chat idolized him, and that affected her thinking. But Lark had seen a side of him that Chat hadn’t—the violent, justice-minded side—and she held no doubt Santana wouldn’t have a gallant bone in him if he ever unlocked her secret and had to drag her off to jail because of it.
“I’m sure any woman around could give him far better company than I could,” she said.
And why were they having this conversation anyway?
“He won’t let them.”
Intrigued in spite of herself, Lark glanced at her. “Why not?”
“Oh, he could have any female he wanted, believe me. But he’s pretty much sworn off all of them. His eye, you know. His lack of one.”
Santana approached from the far side of the house, and Chat shifted her stance to keep her voice from reaching him. Lark suspected he’d never approve of his sister talking about him like this, and to Lark, especially.
“He’s a proud man, Lark. He doesn’t want anyone’s pity, and for some reason, female pity is the worst for him.” She reached for her hat, which was sitting on the wagon seat, her movement casual and relaxed, as if they merely spoke of the weather. “You’re different, though. You treat him like a normal man, like the eye patch doesn’t exist.”
Her brow arched. “Normal?”
Santana had the power to destroy the honest citizen she’d become. How could that be normal? Couldn’t Chat see Lark’s fear in that? Had she hidden it so well?
Santana knew, though. And was only biding his time until the truth came out.
He drew closer, and their conversation had to end. Chat smiled brightly up at him.
“Everything loaded up?” he asked.
“Yes. My eggs and six crocks of butter to sell at the dairy.” She patted her skirt pocket. “And money for a few supplies at the grocery store.” She smiled. “As usual.”
“Make sure it stays that way.” He dropped a few extra coins into her palm. “Here. When you meet up with Sarah, treat yourselves to a doughnut at Nell’s Bakery. Find out if Sarah’s heard or seen anything around her mother’s boardinghouse that might indicate Catfish Jack’s whereabouts.”
“She’ll tell me if she has.”
Santana frowned. “Be careful. We don’t know if he’s working alone or if he has a gang hanging around town listening for word of Lark’s whereabouts.”
“I know most everyone in town, Ross. So I’ll recognize a stranger when I see one. If there’s news, I’ll hurry back with it.”
He bent and kissed her forehead. “Be careful.”
“You’ve told me that a hundred times already.” She rolled her eyes in exasperation and tied her stylish brown velvet hat under her chin, covering the brunette hair she’d earlier crimped and braided into a coil around her head.
Her attractiveness made Lark keenly aware her only dress still needed mending and that she stood in the yard with her toes buried in the grass, that she was still wearing Chat’s nightgown and Santana’s white shirt as a robe.
He placed his hands at Chat’s waist, hefted her into the wagon seat. “Be back by midafternoon. No later.”
“I will.”
“Earlier, if there’s trouble.”
“There won’t be.”
She took the reins and smiled conspiratorially down at Lark.
“Remember what we talked about,” she said, giving Lark a wink that Santana couldn’t see.
“It’s better that you remember what your brother has told you,” Lark replied quickly and with far more seriousness.
“I’ll remember.” She slapped the reins, and her horse took off with a clatter of wagon wheels. “See you both this afternoon.”
Lark watched her go. Santana did, too, both of them standing in the yard, at each other’s side. Like parents, worried about a child’s safety.
“What did she tell you?” Santana asked when a cloud of dust was all that remained of her and the wagon.
“She told me I wasn’t to cook in her absence.” Lark tilted her head back and looked him square in the eye. She thought of the true way of the conversation, that of Chat’s matchmaking, and what would he think of tha
t?
His masculinity crept into her awareness again. Lark had never looked at him like this, boldly and without trepidation. She wasn’t particularly curious about the black patch he would always wear. Certainly not repulsed by it, either. She’d lived the life where men who survived by their guns were maimed by them, too. Her own body carried the scar left behind by a lone bullet.
Santana’s bullet.
Instead, the dark depths of that single orb he had remaining kept her standing in front of him. Motionless, hardly breathing, as if he wove a peculiar riveting spell around her. The eye was a beautiful deep brown, and oh, how it must have devastated him to lose its mate.
She looked away. She couldn’t think of Ross Santana’s pain, an ugly consequence of the days he’d once lived, like she had. Days which were filled with vengeance and violence.
She chose a safer route, thoughts that wouldn’t snap the tenuous truce that had unexpectedly formed between them.
A truce she didn’t want to destroy.
She tucked a loose curl behind her ear and studied the empty road, prolonging the moment when she’d have to go into the house, envying Chat her freedom.
“Chat sells butter in town?” she asked.
“Yes. Eggs, too. She raises several dozen chickens.” He glanced over his shoulder with a wry frown. “Can’t you hear them?”
Her ear tuned to the squawking fowl somewhere behind them, and she smiled. Evidently, he had little patience for the creatures. “She has a small business going for herself then.”
“It’s only been since this past spring that I’ve let her try her hand at it.”
“She must be succeeding. I’ve seen her at the bank now and again. Making deposits to her account.”
He nodded, his approval evident. “I want her to be independent. If anything should happen to me, she has to be able to take care of herself financially.”
He was all she had, Lark knew. Again, she wondered about their parents, their absence in his and Chat’s lives. The transition from bounty hunter to guardian of his younger sister would’ve been a difficult one.
“You’ve been successful, too,” she mused.
“With Chat?” His dark gaze regarded her. “Or building furniture?”
“Both.”
He shrugged. “Either one gets supper on the table, I guess.”
His modest logic amused her. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Yeah, well, a man has to do what he can when his life takes a turn for the worse.”
Her amusement faded at the harsh reminder of what had happened to him back in Canada. Her part in it, most of all, however unintentional.
“But then, it all depends on a man’s perspective, doesn’t it?” she asked in a frosty tone.
“It sure as hell does.” He stepped away with a scowl, their truce gone, the old bitterness in its place. “I’ll be out in the shop. When you get dressed, join me there.”
Her hackles rose with his imperious tone. “So you can keep guard over me?”
A cold smile formed. “Exactly.”
Chapter Eight
Lark was taking her own sweet time coming out.
He had it coming, Santana supposed. Having to wait. He’d been short with her, and she’d gotten miffed with him over it.
She hadn’t deserved it, either.
He’d been an ass.
Just when things were getting polite between them. Breakfast had been a…pleasure. She’d given him a glimpse of what a normal family life could be like. Of what having a woman in the house would be like.
And Lark Renault was all woman.
He blew out a self-deprecating breath, picked up another board and set it neatly on top of one just like it. Until now, he hadn’t had the opportunity to straighten up the lumber she’d scattered last night after she ran into the pile, trying to hide from him. It’d been dark as pitch. A wonder she didn’t break a bone when she fell.
Then again, this same lumber kept her from escaping him. The racket she raised alerted him to her presence and—
Escape.
Ross muttered an oath. He should’ve thought of the possibility sooner, and he bolted to the door. If she wasn’t in the house, if she’d taken one of the horses, if she’d left him, by God, he’d—
A few steps beyond the shop, he saw her. Coming out the front door. She wasn’t wearing Chat’s nightgown anymore, and she’d done something to her hair, and damn if his heart wasn’t pumping hard enough to burst right out of his chest.
He eased backward, took a minute to regain his control. She couldn’t see him from this proximity. Not that she was looking. She pulled the door closed and paused with her hands clasped behind her back, her head angled toward the road that led to Ida Grove.
What was she thinking?
Whatever it was, she didn’t appear troubled by it. She finally lifted her skirts and descended the steps. In no hurry. Again, she paused, this time in front of Chat’s flowers, bordering one side of the porch. The bed was colorful with black-eyed susans and vibrant primrose, and Lark bent to finger the delicate petals, admiring each one. She eventually straightened and crossed the lawn, but in the drive, she stopped a second time. She perused the barn, the chicken house, the Iowa countryside. At last, she turned toward his workshop.
Ross slid back into the doorway. Throughout her dawdling, her expression registered curiosity, nothing more, and the relief that swept through him was a tangible thing.
He couldn’t have her figure out what he’d thought about her. That his trust in her had slipped. She had kept her promise about not trying to escape, even complied with his command to meet him out here in his shop.
But on her own terms. When she was good and ready.
Ross conceded that her rebellion was understandable. Might be he’d act the same way if he was in her place.
He stacked the last of the boards and acted as if she hadn’t been on his mind most of the morning. By the time she appeared at the doorway, he had the design for the revolving bookcase spread out in front of him. He stared hard at the lines he’d drawn, the numbers he’d written, distracted as hell by her presence but not acknowledging it.
For long moments, neither said anything, each waiting for the other to speak first. In the end, it was Lark who made the first move with a casual stride toward him.
“I neglected to bring the leg irons,” she said coolly. “Should I have?”
She halted in front of his workbench. He straightened, meeting her gaze. “You tell me.”
She rolled her eyes, like Chat did now and again. Why did women do that when they were annoyed?
“Believe me, Santana. If I wanted to escape you, I’d find a way.”
The sun shone in behind her, wrapped her in a soft light. She’d mended her dress, he noticed. The neat, tiny stitches made the tear on her shoulder almost unnoticeable. The blood was gone, too, and the fabric pressed crisp. She’d piled her hair on top of her head, but a few curls managed to break away and coiled at her temple.
It freed a man to see her neck, with all that hair held back.
She had a nice neck, shaped real graceful and feminine. Nice skin, too. Creamy and smooth. She looked prim, though, in her buttoned-to-the-throat dress. Respectably proper, and this was how folks saw her every day in Ida Grove.
Prim. Proper. Respectable. Without an inkling of her past life.
Most likely, he knew more about her than anyone. And not just her life as an outlaw. He’d seen her with her hair down and scattered across a pillow. He’d heard her voice early in the morning, husky from sleep. Only thing missing was how she’d feel in his arms—
He shut the thoughts down. He had to scramble to remember what it was she’d just said.
“Seems to me we had an agreement, Santana. I’ll hide out for a while with you, at least until we see if Chat has news about Catfish.”
“So?”
“So your part in the deal was to trust me.”
He hadn’t, of course. He should have
. And now he’d offended her.
“Yet you still feel I need to be guarded,” she said stiffly. “I heartily resent that.”
“Considering the situation—” he growled in an attempt to defend himself.
“The situation, Santana, is that you insist on feeling sorry for yourself because you lost an eye.”
He stood there, unmoving. The accusation came out of nowhere. “That’s enough, Lark.”
“And you hold me responsible for it.”
“It wasn’t your gun that shot me.”
“No. But it may as well have.”
“You’re wrong.”
Wasn’t she?
“Think what you want about me,” she said, her voice revealing the barest of quivers. “But you weren’t the only one who’s suffered because of that awful day. The difference between us, though, is that you’ve moved on. I, on the other hand, am still dealing with the consequences.”
“You think I’m not ‘dealing with consequences’?” he demanded. “Every day I see this patch in the mirror I’m dealing with them.”
She gave him a hard look. He guessed it was all she could do to keep from giving him a good shake.
“But you don’t need to be ‘guarded,’ do you?” she asked.
Ross blew out a frustrated breath. Well, hell. Now that he could see her side of it, he realized he really had hurt her feelings and maybe she had a right to be mad about it.
It’d been so long since he’d had a prolonged conversation with a full-grown woman, he’d lost his knack for it. Now he had the uneasy need to apologize.
He hooked a thumb in the hip pocket of his Levi’s. Shifted from one foot to the other. The silence stretched out between them.
“Look,” he said finally. “I shouldn’t have said—I shouldn’t have thought—I’m sorry, all right?”
She rolled her eyes again. Made a tiny oh, sure, you’re sorry sound with her tongue.
Not only was she driving him crazy, that need in him to make amends didn’t go away. When it came to choosing sides—getting along with Lark or arguing with her—he found himself wanting the getting along part most.