by Jillian Hart
And if that reminded him of a boy he’d once known, staring at the rafters trying to fall asleep while listening to the other orphan boys slumbering or crying in their beds, then he wasn’t about to admit it. Nope, not at all. Life’s road had changed him into a hard man. That boy he’d been was as good as dead. Worse, it was as if that boy had never existed at all.
“You eat up. I’ve got a lot to do before nightfall.”
He could feel that itch at the back of his neck and the chill in his bones. A storm would hit before long—it was only a bad storm and not trouble. He slid his gaze toward the bar.
The troublemaker—and his polished Peacemaker—was gone.
Cora Sims felt the oddest sensation, standing alone behind the counter of her dress shop. The front door was closed and locked, her business done for the day. She felt watched, and she couldn’t say precisely why. The dark boardwalks teemed with folks hurrying about their last business of the day—she could see them past the image of the store reflected in the front windows—and no one stood on her step to be let in for a last-minute purchase.
Perhaps this was all the aftereffects of a long day. She tucked the last of her deposit money into her reticule. There. She would stop by the bank on her way home. She didn’t have anyone waiting for her these days. She’d taken in her nephews years ago, but they were young men out on their own now. Her cozy house on the edge of town felt empty without them. Thinking of her vacant home, she found her feet dragging a bit as she extinguished the last lamp by the door and let herself out into the cold December air.
“Evening, Miss Sims!” Rhett Jorgenson called out from a few storefronts down, where he was sweeping his stretch of boardwalk. He looked dashing in his fur coat and cap. “I noticed your shop was busier than mine today.”
“Yes, it was, thank the Lord. Have a good evening.” She waggled her fingers in a wave as she locked her door and headed out, leaving the handsome shoemaker without a backward glance.
Oh, she’d long stopped hoping that the man would take more than polite notice of her. And if her heart painfully squeezed a bit, she no longer noticed such things. She was officially a spinster now, today, her thirtieth birthday. How had she gotten so old so fast?
Another male voice called out, “Evening, Miss Sims.”
It was Mr. Dorian, the land-office agent, middle-aged and happily married, who had always been a good neighbor to her. “Good evening, Abe. I set aside a velvet-encased sewing kit. I noticed your wife admiring it when she was in last week.”
“Did she now?”
“No obligation.” She stopped by his front door. “I will tuck it out of sight just in case you want to consider it. Tell Maryanne hello for me.”
“Will do.” He checked his lock. “You be careful walking alone. It’s dark this time of year and there are plenty of strangers in town.”
Cora mentally rolled her eyes. She was quite used to the men of this town treating her like an old spinster in need of advice. She thanked Mr. Dorian politely and continued on to the end of the block. In her sensible brown wool coat, hat and shoes, she knew what everyone in this town saw—a plain woman beyond her prime.
The trouble was, she was starting to feel that way about herself. She caught her reflection in the hardware-store window. A woman too tall and too slim to be considered fashionable stared back at her. It was a blessing she couldn’t see the tiny lines on her face. Not wanting to think about those, she crossed the street and kept walking.
The jangle of a hand bell broke through her thoughts. Reverend Hadly stood on the street corner with a collection tin on a stand in front of him. “Evening, Miss Sims,” he said. “You wouldn’t be able to spare a few pennies for the orphan fund, would you?”
“You already know the answer to that.” She opened her reticule and extricated a coin from beneath the thick deposit envelope. She dropped the five-dollar gold piece into the tin. Before her minister could comment, she explained, “Business has been very good for me this year. I might as well share a bit of it with those less fortunate.”
“Bless you, Miss Sims.” The minister smiled broadly. “I’ll see you on Sunday.”
She nodded once in agreement and hurried on. There was that odd sensation again, the feeling she was being watched. She glanced behind her, but everyone was busily scurrying from one errand to another. The thickening darkness made it hard to see very far. Perhaps her imagination was playing tricks on her. The rigorous day was catching up to her, no doubt. Good thing she was on her way home.
Ahead of her, the horse-and-wagon traffic had come to a halt. She was nearing the heart of the small town, the center of commerce. The boardwalk up ahead looked jammed. The toot-toot of the departing train on the far side of town alerted her to the time. She had five minutes to make it to the bank. The last thing she wanted to do was carry this much money home overnight, so she ducked down the side street, intending to cut through the alley. Her thoughts returned to the evening ahead.
She’d not heard from her nephews all day long. It seemed as if she would spend her birthday evening alone. Oh, she couldn’t blame the boys for forgetting her. They were so busy these days. The oldest, Emmett, was teaming full-time, and making a good name for himself in the business. And younger Eli was working on a ranch a mile from town—
A shadow separated itself from the darkness and cut into her thoughts. She saw a broad-brimmed hat and a lanky shoulder. She blinked, trying to bring the man into better focus. One of the shopkeepers, perhaps, taking out his garbage? Then why did a hot, prickly urge to run skid through her veins?
The steely click of a revolver’s hammer echoed against the unlit backs of the buildings and into the chambers of her heart. A man with a gun. Here, in peaceful Angel Falls? Fear snaked through her and she stumbled back, glancing over her shoulder. But the lit street behind her seemed impossibly far away.
“Don’t run,” a stranger’s voice barked as he stormed closer, his boots harsh on the hard-packed earth, his gun pointed at her. “Don’t you do it.”
She froze. Nothing but a wheeze of air passed over her tongue. Words failed her utterly. A bubble of panic popped in her chest. She realized the man with the gun was talking, but she couldn’t make out his words. Her pulse roared in her ears. He wrenched her reticule from her. The string around her wrist burned as it tore across her hand and came free. She stared directly at the nose of the gun. Was he going to shoot her?
“You tell the sheriff, and I’ll hunt you down. Got it?” The robber moved back a few steps, his gun still aimed at her. “I’ll know if you do.”
She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. He was already gone, running through the darkness. His footsteps echoed in the narrow alley like strikes of a hammer on a nail.
She was shaking, but it wasn’t from the bitter December cold. She waited until the sound died away, until the man blurred around the lamp-lit corner and disappeared from her sight. His threat echoed in her head. You tell the sheriff, and I’ll hunt you down. She didn’t doubt it at all.
Now what did she do? She covered her face with her hands. She was fine. She was unharmed. It was only money that he’d taken. Thank the Lord. Delayed fear began kicking through her in rapid jerks. Her knees trembled, and as she took a step, they turned watery. Her hand shot out to grab the mercantile wall for support. There was a rushing sound in her ears. Her heart beat thickly and painfully.
If only she could make it the dozen or so steps out onto the street, she would be even more thankful. Her feet had gone numb. Her ribs felt as if an iron band squeezed them, but she was able to breathe in the fresh cold air. It cleared her head and chased the fear from her blood. Feeling better, she stumbled onto the busy boardwalk.
Was the gunman watching her now from some safe vantage point? She glanced around at the riders on horseback and sitting on wagon seats, at the men loading up wagons and carrying packages for their wives. The gunman’s threat wasn’t the only reason she couldn’t report this. Even thinking of the new sheri
ff made her stomach seize up. She did not like that man. Perhaps it would be better just to keep silent about what happened. It hardly mattered, now that the money was gone.
Yes, she thought with relief. That was exactly what she would do.
The clock tower in the town square tolled the hour.
Six o’clock. She stood on the boardwalk, not at all sure what to do. The bank vice president, Mr. Wessox, stood in front of the double doors, locking them. She stood empty-handed, feeling the beat of the cold wind.
“Excuse me.”
Cora blinked, looking up. She was blocking the middle of the walkway. Why hadn’t she realized that sooner? A young mother with a baby in a carriage was unable to pass. The baby was just a wee thing, bundled up in flannel and wool. Cora apologized, stepping back until the wood siding of the mercantile bit her spine.
“Aunt Cora!” A bright baritone rose above the thud of boots hurrying toward her on the boardwalk. “There you are! When you weren’t at the shop, I tried the bank, but you weren’t there, either. I’m glad I found you, or Emmett would have my hide.”
“Eli.” All it took was one look at her young nephew’s wide grin and handsome face—at eighteen there was still a bit of boy left in him—and fondness filled her. She’d always had a soft spot for this one. Goodness, had he gotten even taller since she’d last seen him two days ago? When he reached her, the shock and fear from the robbery rolled off her like water off a tin roof.
Money didn’t matter. Being here for the boys did. “What are you doing here, young man? Oughtn’t you be at your job?”
“Mr. Worthington let me go early when I told him about our special plans.” He offered her his arm. “What? Do you think we would forget your birthday?”
Gratitude pierced her heart like a blade. She hurt with the sweetness of it. She hurt with the knowledge that soon Emmett and Eli would have wives and families of their own, which was good for them, but she would be achingly alone again.
Determined to enjoy this moment, she slipped her arm in the crook of Eli’s strong one. “What do you have planned? I hope you didn’t go to any trouble on my account.”
“Not a lick of trouble, promise.” The breadth of his easy grin said otherwise as they started down the boardwalk together.
Directly in front of the law office, she felt that odd sensation. It was not a friendly feeling. Strange, wasn’t it, how she’d felt this way twice before she was robbed? What if the thief was back? What if he tried to steal from her nephew, too?
She turned slowly, the frost on the boardwalk crunching beneath her heels. As a bitter gust of wind assailed her, she saw him. Not the man who’d robbed her, but a man even more intimidating. She froze, overwhelmed by his image, bringing her nephew to a stop alongside her.
“What is it, Aunt Cora?” Eli glanced around. “Is it Emmett? Do you see him? He’s supposed to be waiting for us at the hotel.”
The boy’s words stayed in the background of her mind. The details of the busy street, the festive strings of holly and cranberries, of garlands and fir boughs decorating the shops, the clatter of the traffic on the street and the sting of the first flakes of snowfall faded into nothingness. She was aware only of the man and his gazing at her intensely as if he knew her well, as if he could see her every secret. He was dressed all in black. He was broad-shouldered and tall, his boot-clad feet braced and planted on the boardwalk. A Stetson hat shaded his brow, and even if it had been high noon, that granite face of his would still have been shadowed. A revolver sat holstered on either hip.
Definitely dangerous. Definitely trouble. Cora gulped, realizing he’d spurred himself into motion and was striding purposefully toward her like a mountain lion stalking its prey, a big man who seemed bad as they came. Only then did she notice her reticule clutched in one of his big, rough hands.
Chapter Two
Rafe strode closer, ignoring all but Cora Sims. It had taken him all but a week to find her. He had a sense for things, a natural talent for tracking. It had been the one gift the Lord had seen fit to give him. Now his job was to figure out what kind of woman she was. His natural sense told him not to underestimate the prim, proper-looking woman on the arm of a boy who was maybe eighteen, give or take. Her son? He wished Holly had been able to tell him more about her missing mother.
He eyed Cora Sims from the top of her brown bonnet to the polished tips of her brown shoes. He’d been keeping a close eye on her, sizing her up from a distance. As he thrust out the reticule, he could see things he’d not been able to see from across the street or through the sun-glazed windows of her shop.
She was pretty. One had to be close enough to see it because her beauty was not a loud or brash beauty. No, hers was subtle and quiet as if she were made of pure kindness. Not the sort of woman who easily abandoned a child, he’d wager, and judging by the shining goodness of the young man at her side, she was a fine mother, too.
There was that warning again, a leaden lump in his gut. Something was wrong; something wasn’t as it seemed.
“My reticule.” She smiled up at him, allowing the lamplight from the mercantile window to spill beneath the brim of her hat and onto her face. “How did you know…?”
“That it was yours? Well, ma’am, I saw what happened. I was standing near the bank and happened to catch sight of you in the alley.” Not the whole truth, because he hadn’t happened to see her; he’d been purposefully observing her. “I caught that piece of garbage by the scruff of his neck and dropped him off at the sheriff’s office.”
“You caught him?” Her eyes were luminous—the lamplight revealed light blue eyes deep with feeling. It was as if her entire heart shone there. “But, sir, that man was armed.”
“Guns don’t worry me much.” He jammed his fists in his jacket pockets, unaffected by her. “I only did the right thing.”
“Oh, if only everyone would do the same, then what a better world this would be.”
“I can’t argue with you there, ma’am.” He shifted his weight. She was a dainty thing, fine-boned and willowy, and she made him feel every inch of his six feet, two inches. He’d never felt so big and awkward and rough. Why was that bothering him? He was used to being an outsider, used to being viewed as dangerous and unacceptable.
The trouble was, Miss Cora Sims wasn’t looking at him that way. No, not at all. A gentle smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Snowflakes clung to the soft curls peeking out from beneath her bonnet. “Bless you. I can’t believe you put yourself at risk, Mister…?”
“Jones. Rafe Jones.”
She gave her reticule a squeeze. “My daily receipts are still there. I am truly indebted to you.”
The young man at her side was rubbing the back of his neck. “Guns? Whoa, there. Why did this man have your reticule, Aunt Cora?”
Aunt, then, not a mother. Rafe nodded slowly as the woman explained what had happened to her nephew. He became aware of the strike of snow on his back. The flakes were coming faster now, falling like a veil between them.
He considered Miss Cora Sims. He could see the resemblance to the young girl he’d left safely in a hotel room at the other end of town. Both had an appearance of sugary goodness, a feminine softness. What had happened? Holly had been abandoned by her mother as a baby. Cora wore no wedding ring on her slender hand and no widow’s weeds. That made him think she’d not left the girl because of some complications in her marriage or a widow’s hardship. What, then? What had made this seemingly nice lady give up a child? It had to have been for a good reason, and no easy decision. He felt a rare squeeze of emotion.
Sympathy? He couldn’t think of a time when he’d felt much for anyone. A weakness—that was all feelings were. He drew his spine straight and steeled his heart. Time to put some distance between him and his quarry.
“I spoke to the sheriff, but you might want to stop by and add your account of things.” He tipped his hat, already walking away. “Good evening to you both.”
“Mr. Jones! Wait!” She took a
step toward him. The wind swirled the snow between them. It was falling ever harder now. “Do you have family in town? Or are you here for supplies?”
“No family, ma’am, and I don’t live in these parts. Just passin’ through.”
“Come have supper with us. I insist.” She swiped snow from her lashes. “This proves no good deed goes unpunished.” She smiled.
“I don’t need any sort of a reward, ma’am.” The rugged man shrouded by storm and shadow cracked a hint of a grin.
“‘Ma’am’ makes me feel ancient. I’m Miss Cora Sims.”
“Miss Sims.” He repeated her name, studying her.
Again, that odd sensation swept over her. This man had a powerful presence, not good or bad but simply powerful. The faint light from the store windows offered a dim impression of his face. He was carved granite and toughness. His cheekbones were high and spoke of some Indian blood. His nose was a straight un-yielding blade, and his eyes dark pools too mysterious to read.
She nudged her nephew. “This is Eli. Eli, please help persuade Mr. Jones to join us.”
Eli, bless him, stepped up. “Mr. Jones, we sure would be honored to have you join us. I know that my brother, as soon as he hears what’s happened, will be wantin’ to meet you, too.”
She felt the man’s gaze sharpen. His mouth remained an unsmiling line, but there was kindness in his rugged face. He was a stranger who had put himself at risk to help her. A bad man didn’t do things like that.
“All right.” His baritone sounded as cold as the coming night. “I can’t stay long.”
“I won’t blame you there.” Pleased, she smiled at him—but strictly cordially. She did not want to frighten him off, as she had done with every other bachelor in town.
Oh, it wasn’t her smile that did it, she knew, but merely the plain brown look of her. She drew her sash more snugly around her waist to keep out the blast of the rising wind. “You might come to regret having supper with an old maid and her nephews, but we will try not to bore you overly much. I promise.”