by Pam Crooks
As if he feared his wife would burst into tears, Stan climbed down from the wagon. “Let’s get this rig unloaded, George. Trace, if you don’t mind, we’ll set everything in the road right here. Alonzo warned us within an inch of our lives not to get too close. Forgive me for how that sounds.”
“Nothing to forgive. I’d help you if I could,” Trace said, frowning.
He wasn’t accustomed to standing with his boots planted on the ground while someone else did work he could manage on his own. But once George dismounted and pitched in, didn’t take long to empty the wagon.
Stan returned to the driver’s seat and took the reins. “Have to get back to the mercantile. We’ll check up on you two tomorrow. Alonzo promised to come out, too, but if you run into trouble, or need anything, anything at all, you ride on into town and call for it, that quarantine be damned.”
“Yes, sir.” Trace couldn’t agree more.
Might be that the gun belt Stan kept strapped to his hips motivated his concerns. Trace had never known a merchant who kept himself armed while selling everyday supplies to his everyday customers in a town that seemed safe enough, but there had to be a reason for it.
“Good-bye, darling,” Lila said. She blew a kiss and then another, and since they’d likely been building ever since she got word of her daughter’s quarantine orders, she crumpled into tears that soon escalated into noisy sobs.
“Mother, oh, don’t worry about us,” Morgana said, her voice quivering. “Please. We’ll be fine. I promise.”
Stan draped his arm around Lila’s shoulders, and she sank into him, her hands covering her face. He managed to turn the rig and head back toward Wallace.
Seeing her parents drive away with her mother plain-out distraught had to be tearing Morgana up inside. Trace put his arm around her, pulling her close against him, making Harriett squirm.
“You all right?” he murmured into her hair.
“At the moment, not at all. But I will be. Just give me a few minutes.” She moved away, and his arm lowered. She headed back inside, pushing the door closed behind her.
Trace swallowed down guilt from the trouble he’d caused her and her family, and damn it, would it ever end?
He’d almost forgotten Sheriff O’Donnell standing in the road, next to that pile of supplies. And from the grim look on his face, Trace suspected his troubles were a long way from being over.
“Got some news you need to hear, Trace,” the lawman said. “Afraid none of it’s good.”
Chapter 10
With the multitude of things Morgana needed to do, the afternoon sped by. At the top of the list was caring for Harriett, of course, which took copious amounts of time—from giving her a tepid bath to help keep her fever down, to cajoling her to drink more from her bottle, to rocking her.
And then rocking her some more.
When before had her mother given her a finer gift than that old fiddleback rocking chair?
In between, Morgana unpacked the crates of food her parents sent. Thank goodness Trace had an ice box, and thank goodness it was almost empty. Several shelves on the wall were also bare. What did the man live on, anyway?
Apparently, little more than beans, bacon and bread, with a little whiskey thrown in.
Now, at least, he’d have plenty of decent food to eat. The ice box and shelves nearly overflowed, and their meals would be easy and varied, for however long they needed to stay here under quarantine.
Morgana could barely comprehend it, even now. Quarantine. Who would’ve thought?
But little tendrils of heat curled through her belly at the prospect of being with Trace, just the two of them with Harriett. A thrill of excitement, too, every time she thought of it.
Which was quite often.
But she regretted the upheaval in his life. He’d been forced to abandon his job at her parents’ house and leave LeRoy without a carpenter. He couldn’t even respond to his banker about that silly ranch for sale in Nebraska.
Truth be told, that part of it made Morgana secretly glad. Was it so terrible he had to postpone his plans to be a cattleman for a baby who needed him? Wasn’t that more important?
As for Morgana, well, she had no plans at all, except to take care of Harriett, too. The child filled her life and her heart, more with every moment she cradled the sweet little body against her own. Never had she been so needed, so fulfilled.
Harriett gave Morgana’s life purpose, certainly, and quarantine or not, there was no other place she’d rather be than right here with her.
Would Trace agree? Did he mind that she and Harriett had moved in, all but taking over his cabin? He understood why, of course, but would he rather be left alone? Did he want his life to go back to the way it was, with his plans for Nebraska firmly in place?
So many questions with so few answers.
It didn’t help he’d been troubled after Sheriff O’Donnell left, and that worried her, too. What had they discussed to make him quiet and subdued, saying little while he brought in the rocker, the crates of groceries and her trunk? He’d even hung up a sheet from the stack of linens her mother sent out, talking little while he fashioned a private space for her, and his thoughtfulness touched her as much as her concerns did.
Afterward, he went outside to see to his horse, and her opportunity to ask questions went with him. Even now, he worked diligently, hammering and cutting wood, repairing the corral fence, which, she’d noticed earlier, sorely needed it.
With Harriett sleeping in her arms, she strode to the window and found him through the glass, and of its own accord, her gaze lingered. Strong and capable, Trace McQuade. A pleasure to watch, too. Honorable and confident, tall and lean and oh, she could go on and on with his fine attributes. What woman wouldn’t feast her eyes on him? Who wouldn’t want him in her life, at her side, protecting her from the fears and uncertainties that never failed to happen? Especially with a sick little girl to take care of?
But she pulled her stare away and exhaled her frustration. Where would this unbridled fascination for him get her in the end? Once he left Wallace?
Heartache, that’s what.
She couldn’t bear to think of it.
She returned to her mother’s rocking chair and eased onto the cane seat with an endearing creak. She propped her feet on an overturned crate, leaned back and rocked, slow and easy, which Harriett seemed to like, and her eyes drifted closed ...
The sensation of a weight lifted from against her body startled her awake. Trace straightened and stepped quietly to the carriage, which she’d positioned next to the bed, and carefully laid Harriett inside.
Morgana held her breath. The child often cried when she tried to lay her down, but Trace stayed bent over her, rubbing her back, murmuring in a low voice. After several moments, with no squeaky sounds of protest, he eased away.
He turned to Morgana. His gaze, dark and shadowed, settled onto her. “Time for supper.”
Two plates lay on the table. Glasses and silverware, too, with an enamel pitcher of water. Something sizzled in the skillet, and she sat right up, plopping both feet on the floor.
“Oh, my goodness.” What must he think of her, sleeping like a stone? “You should’ve awakened me.”
He extended his hand toward her. He’d rolled up his shirt sleeves, exposing tanned forearms corded with muscle.
After a brief hesitation, she laid her palm against his, feeling its callused warmth, and his fingers closed over hers. Gently, but firmly, he pulled her to her feet but didn’t let her go.
“Why would I wake you?” he murmured. “You’re worn out.”
“So are you.”
He grunted and released her. “I’ve been worse. You like sausages with tomatoes and onions?”
She regretted the loss of his touch, but her mind shifted to his change of subject. Now that she knew what sizzled in the skillet, her mouth watered in anticipation. “One of my favorites, yes.”
“Your mother would’ve known that.” Moving to the stove,
he took a towel and wrapped it around the skillet’s handle, then carried the heavy cast iron to the table.
“That I’ll eat sausage any way I can have it, hot or cold, spicy or bland?” Morgana smiled. “Yes, she knows.”
She filled the water glasses. By the time she finished, he’d portioned out their meal. Steam rose above each plate.
“I’ve decided her bark is worse than her bite.” He pulled out the nearest chair and waited.
Well. It seemed Trace McQuade knew how to treat a lady with a little gallantry at the dinner table, and the gesture pleased her. Sweeping aside her skirts, she sat. “Hmm. She’s accustomed to getting her way and pouts when she doesn’t, but she has a heart of gold.”
“Especially where you’re concerned.”
“What mother wouldn’t for her daughter?”
He sat, too. Picked up his fork. “Caroline is another daughter?”
“Yes.” She rarely spoke of Caroline to anyone besides her parents or Dodie. “She was younger by three years.”
He regarded her. “Was?”
“She died last year.”
A moment passed. “Sorry to hear that.”
He sounded so genuine, Morgana’s throat clogged, but she managed to scoop a hefty bite of savory tomato onto her fork. By the time she was ready for another, her composure returned.
She managed a smile and went for a change of subject, anything to distract him from asking questions she didn’t want to answer. Curiosity he’d want satisfied, like anyone would. “This is delicious, Trace.”
“Easy to make a good meal when you have good food to cook with.”
“Only the best from my mother.”
“I owe her for feeding us.”
“You absolutely do not.” Morgana cut a bite-sized chunk of sausage. “She did it for me, you know. All those crates of food and supplies were for my comfort. Not yours.”
His mouth quirked. “I do know.” He took a bite, too. Chewed and swallowed. “Don’t blame her, either. To her, I’m just a lowly carpenter.”
“Whose daughter must bear the scandal of staying with said lowly carpenter in his cabin. With a sick baby, no less.”
“Your scandal? Or hers?”
She inclined her head and conceded him the point. “Both, I suppose.”
“I’m a cattleman more, Morgana.” He took his water glass but didn’t drink. “It’s what I’m going to do when I’m done playing carpenter.”
Only then did he lift the glass to his lips, and his tanned throat bobbed with every swallow.
She didn’t need his reminder. “A cattleman, yes. But my father is quite taken by the fact that you’re a bounty hunter, too.”
“Used to be, yeah.” He set down his empty glass.
“A good skill to have, isn’t it? Chasing down outlaws who need justice, thereby protecting innocent citizens who can’t defend themselves against the lawless.”
“Most times.”
“But not always?”
“No. Hell, no.” He paused. “Might have to go back to being one someday soon, though. Who knows?”
What a strange thing for him to say. He planned to be a cattleman, not a bounty hunter, and a whole slew of questions burst like seedpods in her head. Dare she ask more about his past? His failures and successes? What of the outlaws he’d hunted, what they’d done, who he might’ve killed, and what did he mean by ‘soon’, anyway?
Oh, but why would she ask? She didn’t want to know any of those things. It was only because he’d asked about Caroline that the questions flared up in her head, and no one in Wallace ever asked about her sister anymore ...
They all knew what happened.
She’d needed a man like Trace McQuade once, which is why the ugly memories came crashing back. She’d needed him not nearly long enough ago, and maybe she still did—
“Why does your father arm himself every day, Morgana?” he asked quietly.
Her thoughts skidded to a halt. She scrambled for a proper answer. “It’s ... a habit of his, that’s all.”
“No ordinary storekeeper I know carries artillery first thing in the morning, day after day.”
“Yes, well, I suppose it does seem a bit odd.” She gripped her fork to keep her hand from shaking.
“Maybe Stan isn’t as ordinary as I’m thinking he is. Maybe something happened that made him different than other storekeepers. Something that made him need a gun.”
Her heart beat a little faster. “What are you implying, Trace?”
His gaze didn’t waver. “Just wondering if his being different had anything to do with Mustang Mae Rogers, that’s all.”
Morgana’s fork clattered to her plate. That name, hearing it again, out loud ... the name her parents refused to have spoken in their presence ever again.
“How do you know about her?” Her breath quickened. “She ... my sister and I ... Sheriff O’Donnell told you about her, didn’t he?”
Trace didn’t move, but his gaze riveted on her, unwavering and intense, as if he feared she’d shatter into a thousand pieces if he didn’t watch her, real close.
“Yes,” he said finally, his voice low. “But not as much as I want to know. And need to, besides.”
“She’s back, isn’t she?” Morgana forced the words from her throat. “In Wallace. I know she is, otherwise, the sheriff ...”
“Morgana.”
His grim features confirmed her worst fear. He reached for her hand, but she jerked back, leaping to her feet so quickly the chair catapulted sideways. Trace caught the piece before it clattered to the floor and righted it again; she bolted away from the table, to the window, and stared out the glass with a violent shudder.
She sensed Trace behind her before she heard him, before he placed his hands on her arms and pulled her back against the solid wall of his chest.
Her chin quivered. An image of Mustang Mae, the fiery outlaw with a reputation for rustling horses, loomed in her mind and refused to go away. Morgana had never known a woman more despicable. Or ruthless and conniving.
“Someone in town recognized her at the saloon, drinking it up with her gang this afternoon,” Trace said into Morgana’s hair. “He left to report her to Sheriff O’Donnell, but by the time they got over there, she and her gang were gone.” His palms slid down to Morgana’s elbows, then back up again to her shoulders. Soothing and warm. “O’Donnell figures she’s got unfinished business. That’s why she came back.”
Morgana’s blood chilled. Hadn’t the outlaw done enough? Wouldn’t her crimes keep her on the run, far away from Kansas? Didn’t she know there’d be consequences for what she’d done right here in Wallace?
Why had she come back?
“What unfinished business, Morgana?” Trace rumbled.
Morgana’s eyes closed. She could barely speak of everything that happened all those months ago. The terror, the heartbreak, the utter loss ...
“Tell me about you and Caroline, and why your father is always armed,” he said, persistent. “I know it’s hard, but I need to know what we’re up against out here.”
“Yes.” She bit her lip. Of course, he did.
But the words wouldn’t come.
He turned her around, splayed his hand into her hair, and guided her head onto his shoulder. His arms circled to her back, keeping her against him.
“You’ll feel better for it,” he said quietly. “You’re not alone. I don’t want you to be scared.”
And yes, after all this time, she was still scared.
But he was with her, holding her in his embrace, keeping her warm, sheltered, protected, and in spite of everything, the worry eased. Her arms wound around to his back, all by themselves, without her even thinking about it.
“Not only are you a bounty hunter, you’re a smart one, too,” she said into his shirt.
He chuckled. His hand slid along her spine, sensual and soothing, a caress that practically had her purring. Until she forced herself to stop thinking how good it felt when he chuckled and hel
d her. She had to think about the past instead.
And so, her story began ...
Chapter 11
“It happened on a Saturday, a year ago this spring,” she said. “The bank was closed, but Saturday is the mercantile’s busiest day of the week. Caroline wanted a new dress, and I went there with her to help choose fabric and notions before she went to see the seamstress.” Her eyes closed. “All of a sudden, the door crashed open, and Mae and her gang ran in with their guns drawn, demanding money from the cash register. My father told them he had little cash since he’d just made a deposit at the bank the previous afternoon. They didn’t believe him and forced him to open the register and the safe, too. Mae knew, then, he was telling the truth.”
Morgana could barely move from the ugly memories swirling heavy in her mind. She stayed right where she was, snug and protected in Trace’s arms.
“She was furious,” Morgana continued. “Customers were in the store and witnessed the attempted robbery. She must’ve figured she needed to escape before one of them could get word to the sheriff, so she grabbed Caroline, held a revolver to her head and headed out the door.”
A muttered curse flew from Trace’s throat. “Mae took Caroline?”
“She took both of us,” Morgana said bitterly. “Caroline was screaming, and my father and I tried to keep her from being dragged out the door with them. One of the gang pistol-whipped my father to the floor. Another held a gun to my head and dragged me out, too.”
“Morgana.” Her name sounded torn from him. His utter shock, she knew, from the tale.
“They forced us onto their horses, and we raced out of town to their hide-out. To this day, I don’t even know where it is, exactly. In a valley a few miles out of town. That’s all I know.”
“Damn,” Trace said.
Now that she’d turned the spigot, the words poured out, like water from a faucet. “Within hours, Mae sent word to my father she wanted $5,000 in ransom, payable in twenty-four hours, to get his daughters back alive. I was determined to keep him from having to pay it.”
She sensed Trace’s disapproval. “Courageous of you, Morgana, but it would’ve been better to have him pay it and let the sheriff catch up with them afterward.”