Mr. Reynolds clenched his jaw and waved a finger in her face. “I know a liar when I hear one.” He singed her with a baleful glare as he stormed past her, making sure his shoulder delivered a glancing blow.
When his footsteps faded, Mr. Hoyt stepped up to Ellie. “Just what are you doing in here, going through his things? That curiosity of yours is going to get you k—”
“Is that all you’re going to do to him? He laid hands on me. I should think that would be a firing offense.” Not that she wanted Mr. Reynolds fired—at all—but she found it curious Mr. Hoyt wouldn’t do more to right this wrong. “What if you hadn’t walked in when you did?”
“The man caught you with his wallet. Certainly, he overreacted, but he won’t touch you again. I’ll see to it. But you need to tell me what you’re doing in the bunkhouse.”
“I was bringing these to you.” She pulled the bundle of letters from her skirt pocket and stared at them for a moment, wondering about the chivalrous thoughts expressed in them. “I can hardly believe you wrote them.” She shoved the letters into his chest. “Chivalry is not on display at the moment.”
Frowning, looking almost hurt, he splayed his fingers over the letters.
At the very least, Ellie recognized that indignation gave her an excuse to put a little distance between them. She needed distance so she could think. Reynolds had frightened her. She was angry with Mr. Hoyt. Not to mention, disappointed by his unwillingness to act on the affront.
Ellie tilted her head and studied Mr. Hoyt, his face shrouded in an almost mysterious shadow by his Stetson. No, she wouldn’t be flustered anymore by those intense, smoldering brown eyes, or the kiss that had nearly stolen the breath from her. Looking at his lips, the edges peppered with a little stubble, she could too easily recall the heat of his mouth on hers, his arms around her. She cleared her throat and stepped back. “He’s a cad. Anyone else would fire him.”
Wasn’t it interesting that both he and Mr. Reynolds had arrived at the ranch at nearly the same time? Was there any possibility the two of them were working together? That could explain why he wouldn’t fire him for manhandling a woman.
“Miss Swank, firing a man isn’t a decision to be jumped to lightly.”
“Lightly?”
Jim pinched the bridge of his nose and struggled to keep calm. He couldn’t fire Reynolds until the man’s identity had been confirmed. Confound it, this woman kept getting in the way. He had to turn Miss Swank to his side if he expected to use her to investigate. Clearly, she liked to ask questions and she had the courage to snoop, if not the skill. “I only meant I should get both sides of the story before I react. Don’t you think that would be wise?”
“Yes, of course.” Her stilted tone suggested she believed the opposite, however. “I’m going back to the house.” She spun on her heel and started marching for the door.
“You should take the bread out of the oven next time,” he called. Her step faltered and her shoulders came up to her neck. “Next time you go snooping.”
Fingers pressed to her forehead, Miss Swank shook her head slightly and stomped out the door.
But things can’t end this way . . .
“Wait, Miss Swank.” She stopped on the porch and he hurried out to her. “I’ve been meaning to apologize . . . ” She crossed her arms and tapped her toe, but wouldn’t look at him. Tired of being on the defensive, Jim leaned in a little closer and lowered his voice. “I wanted to say—” he took off his hat, remembering his manners. “I wanted to say I’m sorry for assuming I could take the liberty of a kiss . . . but I’m not sorry for the kiss.”
She gasped and looked at him with shock and—yes, he saw it—the warmth of desire. “You were most certainly out of line.”
“Yet you kissed me back.” He recalled it clearly.
“I did no such thing.”
His turn to study her. He saw a woman playing games. Fine. He was a master at poker. He could bluff with the best. “Then I won’t kiss you again, unless you kiss me first.”
Her little chin rose to a haughty level. “I would never.”
“Never is a mighty long time.”
8
Pushing Miss Swank away, presenting her with a challenge, was a dangerous game. If Jim read her right, she wouldn’t be able to stand it and would play just to see if she could topple his willpower. He’d never met a woman yet who could resist the ploy.
Honestly, he wasn’t so cocksure of it this time. Miss Swank was hard to read. Annoyed he couldn’t seem to get a handle on the woman, Jim sat down at his desk with the letters. He wanted privacy to invade the real Clegg Hoyt’s thoughts, and reached across the small room to close the door. He pulled a letter from its envelope and dropped the rest on his blotter. Leaning his chair back on the wall, he began reading.
One letter turned into twenty.
Seeking a hearty woman of amenable temperament and determination . . . Build a life together . . . companionship for the lonely evenings by a fire . . . horseback riding across the vast expanse today and thought of you . . . applied via telegram with Miss Stella today . . . believe I have the position . . . I have heard Ireland is as green as Wyoming grass in the summer, so green it hurts your eyes . . . eager for the day I have children to bounce upon my knees . . . no brothers and sisters . . . alone so much of my life . . . have been steadily employed . . . resourceful . . . never touch my lips to alcohol.
An hour after reading, Jim straightened up and stretched the stiffness from his neck. He had learned some interesting things about Clegg Hoyt. The man was not afraid to spin a lie or pay someone to do it for him. To say that he was steadily employed was true in the sense that while he worked jobs hit or miss, he was a steadily-employed thief, though with no convictions, yet. Jim supposed you could call that resourceful. But the bit about not drinking. Patently false.
Still, if any of the musings could be believed, Clegg Hoyt seemed to long for what every sane man desires—a home, children, a good wife. Sane. Not one obsessed with his job. Someday maybe, Jim would be ready to turn in his badge, try to return to what he’d been raised on—ranching. He did miss it, but the excitement and challenge of what he did now still held sway in his heart. A pair of bewitching sapphire eyes would not change that.
He shook his head. He just couldn’t imagine Miss Swank with Hoyt. She was too strong, determined, intelligent. And Jim seriously doubted Clegg Hoyt knew how to treat a lady, much less a wife, or stay out of jail. At some point in this investigation, Jim would make sure Miss Swank knew the truth about the man.
He glanced at the letter again. Of course, two seconds after talking to him, she would know Hoyt hadn’t written these letters. Most likely he’d hired the matchmaker to help him. A common practice.
And it had worked. The flowery words and pretty pictures had drawn her in. He flipped through the letters looking for that one particular sentence . . .
To stand beside you as the oranges and reds of a summer sunset turn the mountain peaks to flames.
Jim could picture it because he’d seen it. The San Juan Mountains in Colorado awash in an August sunset. For a moment, he let his mind wander to a meadow full of wildflowers high in the Rockies. The sun was about to slip behind the ridge allowing a chill to creep into the air. But Miss Swank sat behind him in the saddle, her body pressed to his, her arms around his waist, their body heat warding off the cold.
He hadn’t seen that meadow since he’d left home. Not thought of it in years, much less daydreamed about taking a woman to see it.
Maybe someday he’d go back. Someday, however, was far in the future.
First, he had to find Sean O’Dea. And to do that, he needed Miss Swank’s help.
Ellie tapped the end of the pencil on her nose and tried to decide what information to telegraph Mr. O’Toole and what to send to her editor. She had nothing conclusive, but the circumstantial evidence was compelling. Reynolds had to be O’Dea. How to prove it? And was he working with Mr. Hoyt?
She started wr
iting.
AN IRISHMAN HERE. STILL CONFIRMING IDENTITY. ONLY ONE INTERESTING COIN FOUND. She pondered the sentence. No. She struck a line through it and wrote, ONE SHINY GOLD COIN FOUND. ALSO, SECOND PERSON OF INTEREST HERE. WOULD O’DEA HAVE AN ASSOCIATE?
To her editor she wrote, TWO INTERESTING SUSPECTS. CAN YOU GET INFORMATION ON CLEGG HOYT? MOST RECENTLY OF DENVER AREA.
Ellie stirred the chocolate cake batter but didn’t have her mind on it. Her thoughts were where they’d been for two days now: Mr. Hoyt.
If she was so upset with him over the kiss, and over the fact that he wouldn’t fire Mr. Reynolds, then it would look odd if she stayed here. Absently, she took a taste of the batter, trying on different ideas and angles for a reason to remain at Whiskey Creek.
She could only come up with one: forgiveness.
And she’d been wrangling with God over it for hours now. She didn’t want to forgive Mr. Hoyt. She wanted to throw something at him. He’d forced a kiss on her, let a man get away with violence against her person, and then had the audacity to insinuate if they kissed again, it would be her idea. The man had nerve. No brains, but nerve.
The situation had stymied her investigation and, therefore, had to be resolved. She hadn’t spoken to Dave Reynolds since the ruckus in the bunkhouse and would not without Mr. Hoyt in close proximity. Time to eat some humble pie—she dipped her finger again—or, perhaps, chocolate cake.
“Miss Swank?”
Ellie’s heart actually lurched at the sound of Mr. Hoyt’s voice, and for an instant, she marveled over the sensation. Surprised at herself, she shrugged it off and turned to him. “Good afternoon.”
Standing in the doorway, he twirled his black Stetson in his hand—not nervously, Ellie noted, but more out of impatience. “I was wondering if you would accompany me on a picnic.” He crossed the room to her and worked out half a smile. “I’ll behave . . . as I promised.”
The barb stoked that little fire of anger in her, but she splashed a dash of forgiveness on it. Grudgingly. “It’s a beautiful afternoon. I wouldn’t mind.”
Miss Stella breezed into the kitchen, all smiles and knowing eyes. “We’ve got leftover fried chicken, biscuits, and,” she swiped a finger in the batter and took a taste, “a chocolate cake by the smell of it. A fine dinner.”
Ellie poured the batter into a cake pan. “I’ll need an hour. If you want cake.”
Miss Stella brusquely shoved Mr. Hoyt forward. “Have cake when you get back. Go on and enjoy the weather. This is Wyoming. It might be snowing by nightfall.”
Ellie held tight to the wagon seat as the rig rocked back and forth. This road was barely more than a washed-out buffalo trail. What was Mr. Hoyt thinking?
“If I may, Miss Swank,” he asked from beside her, “I would like to ask for a second chance to impress you.”
“Jesus told Peter to forgive how many times? Seventy times seven. I don’t suppose I should do any less.”
He tugged lightly on the reins and the horse turned, leading the wagon down a bumpy, rutted washout that barely passed as a road. “Your faith. It’s important to you.”
“My faith?” He used the word in such an impersonal way. “It’s more than that. He is more than that. Jesus is very real in my life.” Conviction tweaked her conscience and she thought about her driving ambition. Was it nudging Him aside? Troubled by the thought, she tried to ignore the wiggle of guilt by focusing on Mr. Hoyt’s apparent conundrum. “Forgive me, but how does a man who waxes so eloquent on the Old Testament sound so distant from God?”
Mr. Hoyt sucked in a breath, and his brow furrowed. He seemed to wrestle with the question for a moment. “Truth be told, I haven’t talked to Him in quite a while.”
She appreciated the honest answer. “Why is that?” She flinched as her unbridled curiosity leaped ahead of her brain again. “I’m sorry. That’s personal.”
The wagon dropped into a rut and bucked. Mr. Hoyt reflexively put his hand out to catch Ellie, but didn’t touch her. To his credit, he didn’t use the bump to ignore the question. “Just got busy. Not much of an excuse, I suppose.”
A gentle breeze, laced with a hint of cold from the high country, lifted a hair and brought it across her nose. Tucking it behind her ear again, she pondered a possible dilemma. “A Believer is not to be unequally yoked.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t a Believer.” He cut his eyes at her. “I just need to get to know Him again.”
Relief flooded Ellie. Not that it mattered to her, of course, whom Mr. Hoyt married, but she was glad to know his feet were still on the straight and narrow, even if he was dawdling a bit. Perhaps the real Millie Swank would help focus him.
The thought brought her back to his original question. “You know, I’ve always heard you only get one chance to make a good impression.” Mr. Hoyt’s shoulders drooped. His slightly crestfallen expression tweaked her heart. “Nevertheless, I’m curious what you meant by asking for a second chance.”
“I’ve been thinking about the letters, and the things I had on my mind when I took this job. I lost sight of them, what, with the workload and the challenges of a new position. I got caught up in it.”
Ellie could understand that. Work could certainly be a passion. Seeing her name at the top of a story gave her a feeling like no other. She risked a curious peek at Mr. Hoyt. His kiss had also given her a feeling like no other.
But he could be a criminal, which would also mean he’s a liar. Which meant she had no business thinking about that kiss.
“Life is short. A man needs to choose a profession that fulfills him, but doesn’t possess him. He needs to have something left to give to his family.”
“Yes, I agree.” But she was glad she was far, far away from making plans like that. Too many bylines called. The real Miss Swank might appreciate it, though. Unexpectedly, that thought bothered Ellie.
“Part of my employment here at Whiskey Creek Ranch was an option on two hundred acres, and Miss Stella has a standing agreement to sell her foreman one hundred head of cattle after a year. This is a great set-up for a man wanting to put down roots and build a future.”
“It sounds like it.”
He cleared his throat and pointed at a rise. “I know where I want to put the cabin. I wanted to show you.”
The cabin. A home for a married couple. This lie was weighing on Ellie more and more. She wished she could call it off, but that didn’t seem to be an option at the moment. So, she had to go along. “I’d love to see it.”
The wagon rolled on to the top of the hill, and for a moment Ellie was struck by the vast, sprawling ocean of green hills, punctuated here and there with groupings of lodgepole pines or ancient rock formations. Not far off, the Laramie Mountains and their white tips reached for the sky. As before, she was impressed—no, awed—yes, awed by the big sky overhead, and the sprawling expanse around them.
She shifted on the wagon seat beside Mr. Hoyt, but didn’t turn her face to him. “There is so much room to . . . be out here. Boston will feel small now.”
Mr. Hoyt’s chin dropped to his chest. “I guess that means you’ve made up your mind. You’re going back.”
“No, I just meant . . . ” Yes, she was going back. She had to. He couldn’t know that, not yet. “I mean something has changed. My perspective on . . . the pace of life.” That at least was true. Boston would not only seem small, it would be loud, crowded, and dirty. Yes, something had changed in Ellie’s outlook.
The back wheel dropped hard into a deep rut and bounced Ellie over, almost into Mr. Hoyt’s lap. Laughing, he caught her, and snugged her close to him. “Hold on, it’s a little rough through this patch, but it’s worth it.”
Their eyes met for an instant and Ellie could have sworn the air around them stopped moving, the earth stopped turning. Another rut jarred her, and she clutched his knee for stability. Touching him warmed her and she leaned into him, briefly enjoying the feel of his arm around her waist.
“You’ll have to fix this road.�
�
“I was planning on it.”
No sooner was the sentence out of his mouth, when they both heard an ear-splitting cracking noise. The rear axle snapped where the hub met the wheel. Ellie squealed. Mr. Hoyt tightened his grip on her as if he knew what was coming. “Whoa, whoa,” he yelled at the horse, as he pulled back on the reins.
The left wheel squealed, jerked, and fell off in the tall grass, jolting the wagon, and leaving it sitting at a steep tilt. Afraid the wagon wasn’t done falling apart, Ellie clung to Mr. Hoyt. The horse neighed and tugged unhappily against the shift in weight, but Mr. Hoyt held the mare steady.
He whistled in astonishment. “Well, this is a heck of a note, as my father would have said.”
Ellie didn’t hear him. She had her arms around Mr. Hoyt. He had an arm around her. Her face was pressed into his shoulder and he smelled so good. And he was strong and warm and safe. Her heart started slowing and a sense of sublime tranquility cascaded over her.
“Here, let me get you out of the wagon.” He lifted her as easily as if she weighed no more than a child, and jumped to the ground with her in his arms. Lithe, easy, effortless—like a cat.
The muscles of his shoulders moved beneath her fingers, lean and taut. He held her like that for a moment. His breath passed over her ear, raising the hair on the back of her neck. His lips paused at her temple, and electricity arced over her skin. Her heart started galloping all over again.
His mouth grazed her forehead, light like the wings of a butterfly. She knew if she tilted her head up . . .
She pulled one hand from around his neck and laid it on his rapidly rising and falling chest. His heart, too, was drumming at a breakneck pace and that pleased her immensely. She affected him.
Lips that felt like an intoxicating fire drifted to her cheek. Heat radiated from him. Ellie wanted to lose herself in it, be consumed by it. Just the slightest movement and she could bring her lips to his. Her reason disappeared into a fog, drowned out by a wildly hammering pulse, short, desperate breaths, an overwhelming hunger.
The Brides of Evergreen Box Set Page 33