The evidence at the table said they were honest people with open hearts. So why did he suddenly mistrust them?
Angry for letting his emotions get the better of him, he excused himself a short time later, led Cache to the livery across the street and took a circuitous route back to the St. Cloud.
* * *
By the next Sunday, he was no closer to finding Tad Overton and more agitated than he could ever remember being. Concentration fled like a startled rabbit and he found himself retracing his steps and coming up empty.
Goldpan Parker had no news. No more horses had tromped through his camp in the middle of the night. Nor had there been any more in Doc’s barn as far as Haskell could tell from sneaking around in the dark. He had even dropped word at the livery that he was looking for anyone who had come into ownership of new horses. The truth hit a high, strained pitch when he pulled his coat over his badge and insinuated he might be looking for a new mount.
But he could take no chances. The smithy knew everyone in town and then some. Which meant the man could tip off a friend and have him gone before Haskell saw his dust.
He looked in the glass that hung above his washstand. What had happened to his cold objectivity? Rubbing the linen towel over his face and across his hair, he formulated a telegraph for the captain. Maybe Overton had moved on. He needed to do the same. The more distance he put between himself and Martha Hutton, the clearer his thinking would be.
Decision made.
Tossing the towel aside, he pulled on his clean shirt and tucked it into his trousers. If he hadn’t given Pastor Hutton his word, he’d ride out now. Instead, he was headed to a Sunday morning service and something called a basket social.
He’d leave that part out of the telegram.
Haskell set out for the church house at the other end of town, passing a much larger, elegant brick building on the way. Well-dressed people streamed inside the broad doors and a bell tower chimed out the fact that he was late. Another personal trait gone by the wayside since landing in Cañon City—promptness. He was losing his grip.
“Discipline.” His father’s admonition rang in the bells’ aftertones. “Hunger. Temper. Loneliness.” Keep a tight rein on your desires. They’ll lead you by the nose if you let them.
Two blocks later, singing penetrated his dark mood and he mounted the steps to the church. The pews were filled, and several men stood at the back, hats in hand. Martha should be toward the front, if not in the very first pew.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Right.
She was as much out of his mind as she’d been out of his arms when he pulled her from Cache’s back. Had he read more into her invitation to supper that night than she’d intended? Had his heart taken the bit in its teeth and run off with his common sense?
Songbooks closed like buckshot spitting across the sanctuary.
It didn’t matter. He’d never pass the Huttons’ muster for their daughter, even if she was of age.
“Please be seated.” Pastor Hutton looked him in the eye and tipped his head in acknowledgment. A small red-haired woman delayed seating herself and glanced over her shoulder. Her shy smile pinned him to the wall as certain as a sharpshooter’s trigger finger.
The man to his right snorted and slapped his hat against his leg. Haskell didn’t recall meeting him, but something about him felt familiar. His slight frame, an impatient air bordering on disrespect. Haskell ran his hand through his hair and cut him a sideways glance. A smirk curled the younger’s man’s lip. Had he thought Martha smiled at him?
Maybe she had. The idea sobered Haskell and he pushed his shoulders back, straightened his stance.
“What is faith?” Hutton’s voice reached all the way to the back of the cramped room, louder than Haskell had heard him before.
“Some say it’s trust. Others say it’s hogwash.”
Several parishioners tsked and others snickered at the remark. In the few sermons Haskell had heard, the preacher hadn’t used such common language. Maybe he’d been missing out all these years.
“Doesn’t matter what some folks say. It matters what God says. And he’s told us in the letter to the Romans that faith is the essence of what we hope for and evidence of what we can’t see.”
Haskell’s attention rose at the word evidence.
“Faith is knowing. It’s banking on what God tells us. It’s proof of the invisible—like Him. We don’t see God Himself, but we can see His handiwork around us and His love in our families and neighbors. We know He’s with us.”
Haskell understood evidence. But he also followed his gut at times without any real proof. Usually, he was right.
The young man snorted again. Haskell looked straight at him and conceit looked back. Haskell’s hands began to sweat.
Chapter 13
He came.
But so had Tad. Martha would recognize those roguish good looks anywhere, though he’d aged considerably. But hadn’t everyone?
And Haskell stood right next to him. Hopefully he wouldn’t cause a scene during the sermon, throw Tad down and drag him away in shackles.
Martha twisted a wad of skirt into a wrinkled knot and then smoothed it out. She toed her basket from under her seat for another quick look at the wide blue ribbon encircling the wicker. A flamboyant bow blossomed on top, the same color as Haskell’s eyes. She’d paid extra for that ribbon at the mercantile—against her grandmother’s attempts to give it to her free of charge.
Her pulse kicked up. Would he notice? Did men see such things? Likely not. But he’d be sure to notice the fragrant fried chicken and fresh biscuits she could smell from where she sat.
Years ago she’d have stood on her head to get Tad’s attention to buy her basket. Now he seemed like a mere boy standing at the back of the church next to Haskell. A boy much too sure of himself, if she read his expression correctly. She’d seen that look in her pupils’ eyes, particularly young ruffians who thought they had pulled a prank she didn’t know about.
Tad had not called on her since her return, nor had Martha seen him in town when she walked to the library or the mercantile. What was he up to these days? Could he really be stealing horses?
She pushed the basket beneath the pew and tried to concentrate on her father’s sermon. Her childhood training to recite three points from the message had stayed with her all these years. She had even practiced it with Joseph—whose image fled her best efforts to bring him into focus. She strained to capture his features in her mind’s eye and recall one of his many sermon topics.
“Faith is the substance of what we hope for.” She blinked back to the present and her father standing behind the pulpit, obviously invigorated by the words he spoke.
All right, Lord. I get it. First Livvy, now Papa. God was indeed trying to get her attention.
But she’d always had faith. She grew up believing, knowing. Wasn’t that enough?
“Let us pray.”
Ashamed that she had missed so much of her father’s message, she bowed her head and absorbed his benediction.
Afterward, all the women gathered at the front of the church, as was the custom for the fall basket social, and placed their ornately decorated baskets along the platform’s edge. Martha glanced back at Haskell who stood oblivious to what was going on. She wanted him to bid on her basket. Not Tad or any other man, and not some old codger out to get a good meal, Lord forgive her.
“All right, ladies, please be seated toward the back of the room,” her father said. “Gentlemen, step forward and we’ll get under way. My stomach’s empty as a new post hole, Mr. Russell, so kindly start the bidding.”
Howard Russell, a rotund man with a bushy red mustache, stepped to the platform and shook her father’s hand. An auctioneer who prided himself on the speed with which he could singsong people out of their
money, he puffed out his already protruding chest and thumbed his suspenders. Her father lifted the first basket, and the bidding began.
Martha’s agitation drove her from her seat. Who cared if she was being unseemly? She forced her feet into a dignified pace and strolled toward the back until she caught Haskell’s eye. He leaned against the wall with no apparent intention of participating. Tad had disappeared.
She stopped next to Haskell and cleared her throat. When he made no comment, she glanced up at him. His jaw worked like a horse straining at the bit, his tension palpable. What had gotten into the man?
“Blue is my favorite color.”
He looked down at her, arms folded across his chest, his black hat gripped in one hand.
Did she have to sketch it out for him? “I thought you might want to know.”
“Oh.” He pushed away from the wall and stood evenly on both feet. “All right.”
He was obviously distracted. Maybe he’d figured out who had been standing right next to him. But wouldn’t he have disappeared with his quarry if he’d known?
Tad’s voice suddenly cut through the room. “Four bits.”
Her basket dangled in her father’s fingers, a not-so-happy expression on his face.
“Four bits, I have four bits,” Mr. Russell sang. “Do I hear six bits a dollar?”
“Haskell.”
He looked at her and realization dawned. “Six bits,” he bellowed.
Several men turned to see who had bid and before they could turn back around, Tad barked, “One dollar.”
Oh my. Martha’s throat tightened. She may be dining with Tad Overton at one of the picnic tables scattered across her parents’ front lawn. Please, Lord. Please.
“Two.”
Haskell’s booming bid made her jump. He threw a challenging glare toward the location of Tad’s voice.
“Three!”
A murmur rippled through the congregants as they turned to gawk, and now everyone in the room saw her standing next to the tall stranger.
Why couldn’t she have stayed in her seat with her mother?
Her mother. She searched for the woman and realized she was in the yard spreading tablecloths and setting up a lemonade stand on the porch. Martha should go help, but she couldn’t pull herself away from the bidding war.
“Four.”
She flinched. Haskell was willing to pay four dollars for her basket? Surely that would bring an end to this public display and they could enjoy her chicken in the quiet shade of her parents’ giant elm tree.
Tad stood and held a shiny gold coin above his head. “I’ll give the church a double eagle for that pretty little basket with the blue ribbon.”
The room went deathly quiet. Martha’s heart stopped, and Haskell tensed beside her. His left hand curled into a fist.
“It’s all right,” she whispered, hoping he could hear her. She touched his arm and it was hardened steel beneath her fingers. Oh Lord, help us all. The men mustn’t come to blows right there in her father’s church.
Haskell took a step forward and she dug her nails into his arm, forcing his attention to her. “It’s all right. I don’t mind. I mean—thank you.”
The tension in his arm eased but his eyes burned with a hot, blue flame.
Mr. Russell slapped the pulpit as if prompted by the Spirit. “Sold! For twenty dollars to the young man on my left. Come claim your prize, sir.”
Martha shuddered at the insinuation. Her father’s expression dared Tad to pry the basket from his hands. Tad’s lips curled in what Martha had once considered a sly and secretive smile, but now it made her skin crawl. She released Haskell’s arm and straightened her shoulders. How had Tad known?
“Mama’s basket has a yellow ribbon and a yellow checkered cloth draped over the top.” She couldn’t be any clearer. If Haskell missed her cue, there was no helping him.
Martha waited by the door as Tad dropped the gold piece into Mr. Russell’s hand and took the basket from her father—her kind and loving father, whom she’d never known to stare daggers at anyone, until now.
If Tad didn’t read the warning, he was a fool.
* * *
Haskell’s jaw ached and his fingers were numb. He’d squeezed the blood clean out of them. The silhouetted figure from Doc Mason’s barn two weeks ago had outbid Haskell for Martha’s basket. At great cost he reined in his temper.
He watched the thin man through slitted eyes. No wonder the palms of his hands were sweating. He’d been standing right next to the sidewinder through the whole sermon.
Tad sauntered to the back of the room, stopped and saluted Haskell with a finger to his forehead. Then he placed his hand intimately against Martha’s elbow and directed her out the door.
Haskell nearly lunged for him over the possessive gesture. If Overton touched her in any other way...
Sudden laughter tore his attention from the door to Pastor Hutton holding a basket with a yellow ribbon. The impulse took him before he could reason it out.
“Ten dollars.”
A collective gasp and the room stilled again.
The auctioneer twitched his mustache. “Well, the Hutton women have certainly drawn some serious bids today. Sold!” He slapped the pulpit and everyone applauded.
Haskell’s steps bounced off the crowded pews as he strode forward and solemnly claimed his dinner. Pastor Hutton gripped his right hand and transferred the basket with the other. “Thank you for trying. I appreciate it.”
“Three more baskets are all we’ve got left,” Russell warned. “A few of you are going hungry today unless you can bribe someone into sharing.”
Mrs. Hutton did not come forward. Haskell scanned the room and then recalled the pastor’s mention of the parsonage yard. Maybe she was already there.
He trotted down the front steps and around the side of the church. Several tables were scattered across the clover lawn and couples and families were already seated, enjoying their meal. Martha’s mother served lemonade from the near end of the porch, and another table stood empty at the opposite side. The perfect vantage point.
Overton and Martha sat beneath a large shade tree with Martha’s back to the yard and Tad facing the group. He smirked as Haskell entered the front gate and walked toward the house.
Haskell ground his teeth, refusing to take the bait Overton dangled in his arrogant eyes. He could break the man like a matchstick and wanted to. But that would not serve the purpose of his assignment. Nor would it endear Martha Hutton to him. He may be just a hired gun as far as her parents were concerned, but he still cared for their daughter.
More than he should.
As his boot steps sounded on the porch, Mrs. Hutton looked up from her ladling. “Oh, Mr. Jacobs. How kind of you to bid on my basket. I hope you don’t mind starting without me. Just have a seat at the table there, and I’ll bring you a glass of lemonade.”
He gave the cheerful woman a curt nod and attempted a smile.
Setting the basket on the table, Haskell seated himself at an angle so he could keep an eye on Overton. From the cover of his hat brim, he watched the scoundrel flash a brazen smile and lean low across the table, mouthing something only Martha could hear.
She moved discreetly backward every time Overton leaned toward her. Haskell grunted. If he weren’t so drawn to her himself, the situation would be comical. Like a seesaw, the two of them leaned back and forth across the table. The signal was clear.
Mrs. Hutton brought the promised lemonade. “Please don’t wait on my account, Mr. Jacobs. The chicken is cold already, but there is a jar of my apple butter tucked inside for the biscuits.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” He lifted his hat and quickly replaced it. “I’m sure everything will be as good as it smells.”
She left him with a warm smile and a
hand on his shoulder as she turned away. Evidence of—what?
He pulled the bow and the ribbon fell. Assuming the checkered cloth was a napkin, he set it aside and investigated the contents. A small jar nested in one corner and he set it on the table with two knives and forks. Two small plates of fried chicken followed, with another cloth holding several biscuits like those he’d had at the mercantile. He picked up one.
The memory raised his eyes to the pair seated under the tree and his gut twisted. Overton had moved to Martha’s side of the table, straddling her bench.
The seesawing began again.
Martha scooted to her right. Overton followed. Haskell crushed the biscuit.
He glanced to see if Mrs. Hutton saw him destroying her food without eating it, but she was chatting with another woman and two small children holding their cups out expectantly.
He dusted the crumbs from his hands and reached for another biscuit just as Overton reached for Martha. Haskell’s chair tipped back and he was off the porch by the time she had pushed the polecat away.
A sudden hush draped the yard and Haskell stopped inches from Overton, drilling him with a hard look as he spoke to Martha. “Miss Hutton, is everything all right?”
Overton’s jaw clenched and his face reddened. He threw Haskell a dismissive wave. “Yeah. Everything’s right as rain.”
Haskell fisted his left hand, raised the other waist-level and held the edge of his coat. “I was speaking to the lady.”
Overton swung his inside leg over the bench and rose to the challenge. A full head shorter, he was forced to look up. Anger brimmed in his eyes, and his hands opened and closed.
An easy read that could go one of two ways.
Instead of throwing a punch, Overton stepped back and stretched his lips in a cold smile. “Good to see you again, Marti. Maybe next time we can dine without interruption.” He picked up his hat and leaned close to her ear. “And by the way, you and your dinner were worth every dollar.”
Romancing the Widow Page 11