by Pam Crooks
“She didn’t deserve the money. My father worked too hard for it. I kept thinking she was wrong to demand ransom of my parents.”
“Not wrong to them, though.”
“My father had just begun building our house. The mercantile was still growing. Paying that much money for us would’ve been a debt he could ill afford.”
“But he’d pay in spite of it.”
“Of course, he would.” She shrugged. “Right or wrong, I wanted to spare him. I just wanted to get Caroline and myself home.”
He nodded his understanding. “Did you?”
“We escaped in the middle of the night. Mae ran after us, but I grabbed a rock and threw it at her. It was sheer luck that the rock struck her in the head and knocked her cold. She wasn’t out long, but it was enough time for us to get far enough away to hide in a ravine.” Her memory relived every detail, every sound. “Unfortunately, we disturbed a rattlesnake, and he bit Caroline on her leg. We climbed out of the ravine, and I tried to keep Caroline running. I would’ve carried her if I could, but ... I couldn’t.”
Even now, her little sister’s anguished whimpers haunted her. The pain she’d endured. The absolute fear that clutched them both.
“I finally had to find a safe hiding place and leave her behind. It was faster to run back to town without her.” The guilt still tormented Morgana. How often had she second-guessed her decision? If it’d been the right thing to do ...
“Still dark then?”
“Pitch dark. It was a miracle I made it back to Wallace. My father and the sheriff rounded up a posse and hightailed it to where I’d left Caroline. She was still alive, but just barely.” Emotion clogged her throat, as raw and burning as it had been then. Why did that stupid rattlesnake have to be there, coiled in the ravine? Why did it have to be so dark that neither of them could’ve seen it? “Dr. Cooper did everything he could do to save her, but she died later that morning.”
Trace’s embrace tightened. “Hell of a thing you had to go through.”
“It was the worst.”
“I couldn’t be sorrier for you, angel,” he said.
Her eyes burned. “No one has felt sorrier for me than me, I’m afraid.”
“Mae’s gang escaped?”
“Yes. Long gone by the time the posse found their hideout.”
“Until they showed up today.”
“Yes.” She drew back and peered up at him. “It was her singing that song in the saloon, Trace. ‘Tassels on the Boots.’” I’d swear it was. She kept singing it that night we were holed up at her hideout.” Morgana’s belly burned with contempt. “Her gang sang with her while they passed around a bottle of whiskey, having a gay old time while they waited for my father to pay their ransom.” Even now, her chin quivered at the memory. “How could they be so callous and uncaring after what they’d done to us?”
“No figuring the way they think, Morgana. They don’t have the conscience that law-abiding folks do.”
A thought rolled in on the waves of a whole new worry, and her arms lowered from around his back.
“Does my father know?” she asked.
He nodded. “Likely does by now. The sheriff told me first, since I could defend you if Mae caught wind we were out here.”
She believed him in that. Trace would protect her and Harriett with every skill he possessed.
But her parents? They weren’t as fortunate to have him.
“As upset as your mother was about Dr. Cooper quarantining you with Harriett and me, the sheriff wanted her to see you as soon as she could,” Trace said. “He wanted Lila to know you were all right and out here of your own accord. Which is why he didn’t tell her, or Stan, right away.”
“My mother will be devastated,” she said. “Terrified, more.”
“If it’s any consolation, Morgana, she’s probably safest of all of you. I figure Mae doesn’t have a grievance with her.”
“It’s me she wants.”
“And your father’s money, I’d guess.”
Morgana inhaled a miserable breath and let it out again. “She failed in stealing money from the mercantile, then failed in getting a ransom, too.”
“Unfinished business, Morgana.”
She stepped away from him and returned to the window, her arms folded across her bosom.
Yes. Unfinished business.
And the time had come to settle up.
“At least my parents will know a reputable bounty hunter will be watching their daughter,” she said.
But would it be enough? Would they get consolation that Trace’s skills, his experience with outlaws, his reputation with Sheriff O’Donnell, would be enough to save her and Harriett from Mae’s retribution? Her insatiable greed?
Or would they think of Trace only as they knew him? A carpenter, passing through town on his way to Nebraska?
Trace moved closer, grasped her elbow and turned her toward him. Dark and fierce, his gaze roamed over her face. He knuckled her chin upward.
“I’m not sleeping outside tonight,” he said. “You might as well know that right now. I told you different, but matters have changed.”
Her belly curled at the knowledge he’d be here with her, the whole night through.
“Yes,” she whispered. “They have.”
Then, as if to seal his promise, his head lowered, her lips parted, and his mouth took hers in a fiery kiss that wound through her blood, into her heart, and claimed her soul.
Whatever happened in the coming hours and days, she would never forget Trace McQuade and all the ways he made her feel.
Barefoot and clad only in clean Levi’s, Trace stretched out on the bed and tried to stay awake. Seemed Harriett had plumb run out of sleep, having used up much of it during the day. Now, in the early hours of morning, she laid beside Trace, her lungs still wheezy and her eyes open.
Got her days and nights mixed up, for sure.
At least, she wasn’t crying. Hadn’t eaten much, either, and she had a long way to go to win her battle against the influenza. But Trace learned the hard way he would take a sick, wide-awake baby before a sick, crying one any day.
The sheet he’d tacked up in the corner to give Morgana her privacy moved, and she emerged, dressed in a white and pink cotton nightgown and robe, buttoned clear to her neck. She padded toward the bed and knelt on the mattress, her gaze going straight to the baby girl.
“She’s still not asleep?” she asked, sounding surprised in a hushed voice.
Trace shifted onto his side and propped his head in his hand. “Not showing much of a hankering for it.”
She stroked the little forehead and tsked. “She’s feverish.”
She slid off the bed and strode to the table and a basin of water. She immersed a washcloth, wrung it of the excess water and came back to the bed, kneeling on the mattress again. Gently, she brushed the cloth over the girl’s flushed cheeks, temple and forehead, leaving her skin shiny and the fine strands of dark hair wet and standing straight up.
“Such a sweet girl, isn’t she?” she said.
“Seems to be, yeah.” Harriett swiveled and fixed her gaze on Morgana’s face. If Trace wasn’t mistaken, he’d swear the girl smiled. “She’s smitten with you.”
Her gaze lifted. “Me? Well, I’m plenty smitten with her, and you would be, too, Trace McQuade, if you just let yourself.”
His brow arched. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You don’t even say her name, do you know that?”
Trace frowned. “Not true. I have.”
“Rarely. Almost never, in fact.”
He rubbed his chin. Hadn’t he?
Morgana dropped a kiss onto Harriett’s forehead, another onto her damp cheek. “It’s not her fault she was thrust onto you, Trace. She has no idea what an inconvenience she’s been.”
“I’m aware, Morgana.”
But the guilt from hearing her say the word stung. Is that what the girl was? An inconvenience? An obstacle thrown into Trace’s carefully
laid plans, scattering them into a mess?
Truth be told, she was, but Trace didn’t blame her. Not really ...
Or did he, really?
“I was waiting for you to ask Doctor Cooper about an orphanage yesterday.” Morgana shot him a reproving glance from beneath her lashes. “Why didn’t you?”
Her question stung. Another arrow slung deftly his way.
“Never thought of it at the time.”
“No?” Her pretty mouth softened, and she dangled the washcloth over Harriett, encouraging her to reach for it. “Well, that’s good.” She glanced at him again. “I hope you never do.”
His jaw cocked. “Too many things to think about first. Getting her well is most important.”
“Of course, it is. I’m glad we agree on that, at least.”
“Morgana.” When before had he seen this feisty side to her? “We agree on most things about the girl.” He exhaled and tried again. “About Harriett.”
A faint glint of amusement shown in her eyes, brightening them to a jade green. Sweeping her hair off her shoulder, she stretched out onto her side, facing him, bunching her pillow under her head, like he had.
Made Trace wonder what Lila would say, the three of them on the bed like this. He figured there wasn’t much help for it. The cabin had only the basics for furniture, this bed being the biggest and most comfortable.
“Tell me about Harriett’s parents,” Morgana said. “Everything you know about them.”
“It’s the middle of the night.” He didn’t want to talk about Emma and Billy. The intimacy of being with Morgana like this—Harriett between them, the cabin quiet and lit only by a single lamp on the table—was far more pleasurable. “You should sleep. We can talk in the morning.”
“I had a nap this afternoon, remember?” Her mouth curved.
He did remember. Every delicious detail. How beautiful she looked in her mother’s rocking chair with her slim body relaxed and her features peaceful. It’d been all he could do to keep from touching her, to stop from leaning in close to breathe in her alluring, feminine scent and run his fingers through that mane of hair of hers. He’d taken his time just looking at her, without her knowing he was, and something had shifted, deep in his chest.
If he wasn’t careful, he’d fall in love with her.
Maybe he already had.
He’d never met a woman like her. As selfless as an angel in her devotion to a baby she didn’t know. Dedicated to a fault, not only to Harriett but to her parents, and Trace, too ...
She didn’t have to volunteer to take care of Harriett that day Trace showed up at the Goldwaters’ house at his wit’s end, desperate and late. What if she hadn’t spoken up? Who would’ve blamed her?
She’d become a big part of his life.
Just like Harriett had.
Both filled a void that needed filling, and only now did he begin to realize it.
Would Emma have approved? Would she think Morgana suitable enough for mothering in her place?
How could she not?
“Trace.” She waved her hand in front of his face. “You’re miles away.”
“Just thinking, that’s all.”
“About what?”
His brain scrambled. “Harriett’s mother.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.” Her eyes twinkled. “What was her name?”
“Emma. Her pa was a cattleman. Friend of mine. Last name Wesley.”
“Emma Wesley.” She patted Harriett’s belly, as if she stored away that lone detail for later.
“Hard to bring up her face, it’s been so long. Guess too much has happened since then,” Trace admitted.
“Were you in love with her?” she asked softly.
“Thought I was. Needed a wife. She was at an age for marrying.”
Morgana fell silent and waited for him to continue.
“And?” she said, when he didn’t.
“Didn’t work out.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. We weren’t meant for each other. Would’ve been a big mistake, besides, us getting married. Found out later she wasn’t the woman I thought she was.”
“That happens, I suppose.” Somber, she nodded her understanding. “Who was she meant for?”
“Hard to say.” He tried to choose the right words. “She tended toward poor judgment at times. She never got the chance to find the right man.”
“It wasn’t Harriett’s father?”
“No.” Reaching across the child, he took Morgana’s hand, twined his fingers with hers and hoped to soften the truth. “It’s best you know she fell in with outlaws, Morgana. Took a fancy to one named Slick-Shot Billy Hayes and bedded him.”
Morgana paled. “You mean, Harriett’s parents were outlaws?”
“Afraid so.”
She pulled away and rolled to her back, staring at the ceiling. Trace figured she couldn’t have been more stunned if she’d painted the word on her face.
“I never would’ve thought ... I can hardly believe ...” she whispered.
His jaw cocked. If he could keep from telling the rest of the story, he would. But, he couldn’t. She deserved to hear what he’d done. He pushed to a sitting position and drew one knee up. “There’s more, if you’ve a mind to listen.”
Her head swiveled on the pillow. “More?”
“Not all of it pretty.”
“Of course, I’ll listen.” Her gaze didn’t waver. “Tell me everything.”
He did, to get it over with. He told her about Robbie’s killing. Billy’s cattle-rustling operation. How Trace and the posse tracked him and Emma to their hideout. Shooting her, the infection that took her life, to Johnny Wesley showing up in the brougham, all the way from Texas.
Afterward, silence deep as a well filled the cabin. Even Harriett seemed lulled into dozing from Trace’s story-telling. Morgana appeared to need some time to take it all in.
Finally, emitting a sound of commiseration, she shifted to her knees, reached out and embraced him.
“I’m sorry about your brother, Trace,” she said. “I know how much it hurts.” Then, before he could accept her condolences or even begin to appreciate her embrace, she drew back and grasped his shoulders. At some point, so fast he missed it completely, her sympathy disappeared, and indignation took its place. Her green eyes flashed fire.
“But don’t you dare blame yourself for what happened to Harriett’s mother, Trace. It was an accident, and if anyone is to blame, it’s Billy. He’s a liver-bellied coward, using Emma for cover like he did, not caring if she got hurt on his account.”
Her vehemence stole away Trace’s ability to think. Didn’t matter if he agreed or not. She didn’t give him a chance to say either way.
“Just because Harriett was born of outlaws doesn’t mean she’ll be one, too,” Morgana said, her fingertips digging into Trace’s shoulders. “As long as we give her all the love she deserves, and we raise her right, she’ll grow up to be honest and proper, and she’ll make us proud—"
As if she realized what she’d said, she froze.
A slow smile curved Trace’s mouth. Her phrasing wasn’t lost on him, and it pleased him, that phrasing. He leaned in to spear his fingers into her hair and drop a leisurely kiss onto her lips.
“Reckon you’re talking in the long-term, Morgana,” he said low. “Can’t say as I’m opposed to it.”
She pushed away with a gasp. “You know what I meant. And—and I didn’t mean what it ... sounded like I meant.” She hurried off the bed and scooped up Harriett, startling her from her doze, and cuddled her close. Her chin lifted. “Warm up a bottle while I fetch a clean diaper, will you? It’s past time to feed her.”
She’d effectively ended their conversation, giving Trace no choice but to move off the bed, too, and head to the kitchen to heat a pan of water. Morgana’s convictions over Harriett stirred up some new thoughts in Trace, making him wonder just what the future held for the three of them.
Chapter 12
Morgana stood within the cramped space behind the sheet and managed to button herself into a summery red dress, printed with tiny white birds and accented with a lace yoke. On the other side, Trace made breakfast. Eggs and bacon in a skillet. But as delicious as they smelled, she dreaded facing him to eat.
What had she been thinking, talking about the two of them raising Harriett into a fine young woman, as if they were a normal family? The words had come out without her conscious thought, her emotions caught up from the startling news about Harriett’s parentage and a fierce desire for the baby to be loved in spite of it.
Outlaws. Who would’ve thought?
And yet, Trace had taken her sentiments in stride. He’d been completely unflappable. Agreeable, even.
Long term ... can’t say as I’m opposed to it.
She snatched a brush from her trunk and ran the bristles through her hair in long, frenzied strokes. He must’ve been delirious from lack of sleep. What did he think she meant? That she was proposing, for Harriett’s sake? That their caring for her over a long period of time meant they’d do so as husband and wife? Mother and father?
Delirious.
Yet, her brushing slowed. Being married to Trace and giving Harriett a home with normal parents had its appeal. Trace would make a fine husband. A handsome one. Hard-working and strong with high principles, and what woman wouldn’t want him for her husband?
Trace, at her side, for the rest of her life.
She stopped brushing and nibbled her lip. Nothing made sense. She had to stop this silly ruminating. He was headed to Nebraska. She was rooted in Wallace. She had plans here. He had plans there.
Long term wasn’t going to work for either of them.
She gave up trying to arrange her hair without a mirror, put the brush back in the trunk and stepped past the sheet. Trace stood at the stove and spooned a good portion of scrambled eggs onto a plate, added a few strips of bacon, and headed for the table.
“Breakfast is ready,” he said.
She smiled, perhaps a little too brightly. “I see that. Thank you. And since you fixed dinner last night, as well, I’ll be sure to prepare our lunch today.”