by Ford, Linda
“God has seen fit to protect me up until this point.”
“He also expects us to use common sense,” he retorted. “The evidence is right here—”
“You can’t be certain Lawrence is the only one around who smokes that particular brand. What if it’s someone else and I wrongly accuse Rachel’s father? I’d have absolutely no chance of staying, then.”
“You’re grasping at straws.”
“I’m erring on the side of caution.” He turned back, heart-weary and feeling decades older than his twenty-four years. “I’m gonna look around for more clues.”
“I am going to question him, Prescott. For yours and Rachel’s sakes, I won’t mention your suspicions, just mine. Let’s hope that’ll scare some sense into him.”
Cole understood that, as the sheriff of Gatlinburg, Shane Timmons would not shirk his duty. “I just ask that you keep it under wraps. Rachel’s dealing with enough right now.”
“Agreed.”
Joining the other men, they scouted the area for another hour. Scruggs’s hired hand discovered an empty tin smelling of kerosene near the pile. No doubt the perpetrators had used it to start the fire. By the time Timmons ordered everyone to go home, Cole was numb with cold and exhaustion.
The entire ride home, he thought of facing Rachel and her onslaught of questions. Mostly he wondered how on earth he was going to keep the truth from showing in his face.
* * *
“Cole, wake up.”
Bent over his sprawled form in the hay, Rachel jiggled his shoulder, exasperation replacing the anxiety that had seized her the moment she woke and discovered the pallet she’d readied for him had not been slept on. Irritation at herself for falling asleep fueled her ire. How had she slept the entire night through while he was in danger?
“Hmm?” His lids fluttered open, narrowed against the sunlight streaming through the open doors.
Still fully clothed with his boots on, streaks of soot clung to his forehead and cheeks. His hair was disheveled and peppered with bits of hay and he reeked of wood smoke.
“What time is it?” He sat up and, running a hand through his hair, looked her up and down. Heat climbing in her cheeks, she tugged the sides of her housecoat tighter. In her haste, she hadn’t taken the time to dress or even tend her hair, which hung in wild disarray about her shoulders. What a sight she must be, standing here in her night clothes and unlaced boots.
“Why didn’t you wake me the instant you got home?” Rising to put space between them, she countered with a question of her own. “I was worried.”
Stroking his stubbly jaw, he stood and brushed the hay from his rumpled clothes. “I’m a mess. It was too late to clean up, and I wasn’t gonna bring this filth inside, so I crashed here.”
She shivered at the air penetrating her thin layers. “Weren’t you cold?”
“I made do.” He shrugged, his unwavering gaze stirring memories of last night, warmth spreading through her limbs as she remembered the feelings he’d aroused in her.
“How’s Abigail?”
She forced the memories aside. “Still sleeping. In fact, she didn’t wake all night. Her skin feels a touch warm but not anything like yesterday.”
“Good.”
“Tell me what happened.”
His jaw hardened. The guard slipped into place, and she wondered why.
“I lost both the cabin and barn. Jimmy Scruggs and his hand tried to douse the flames, but it was too far gone.”
“Oh, Cole.” She wanted to hug him but, shy and uncertain, settled for touching his hand. “I’m so sorry.”
He’d lost his childhood home and all ties to his past. All because of ignorance and close-minded wickedness.
Anger warred with stark fear. Cole could’ve easily been at home asleep when the fire was set. He could’ve lost his life last night. The knowledge turned her bones to jelly and the blood in her veins to sludge, her heart contracting painfully in her hollow chest.
She couldn’t lose him. His exact role in their lives was uncertain, their future far from figured out, but she had to have him in her life. She cared about him too much to let him go. Care is such a weak word to describe how you feel about him, don’t you think? Just go ahead and admit it. You love him.
“Hey,” he said softly, brushing his knuckles down her cheek, “you’ve gone white as a sheet. You don’t have to be scared. It’s over. Everything’s fine, now.”
“It’s not over,” she choked out, her body trembling with fear. “Those men, whoever they are, won’t stop until they get what they want. What if they come here next time? What if—”
He curved his hand around her cheek, steel-like resolve set in his features. “I’ll leave town before I let them hurt you or Abigail. Perhaps...perhaps I shouldn’t have come back. I never dreamed I’d bring trouble such as this to your door.”
Covering his hand with her own to hold him there, she begged him with her eyes. “Don’t say that! You deserved to know about Abby. You’re good for her, and she adores you. I was wrong. You are exactly the father she needs. Please don’t leave again.”
My heart couldn’t take it.
His hazel eyes shot with gold glowed with a fierce light. “Rachel,” he breathed, “can you ever forgive me for leaving? You misunderstood earlier. I didn’t leave because you made me unhappy. I left because you started to get to me. Your sweet spirit, generous heart, contagious smile. I thought I was safe.” He shook his head in wonder. “All those years, I’d managed to keep everyone at a distance. Why should it be any different with you? But it was. From the very beginning, I felt the pull you had on me. I fought it. Believe me, I fought it. And when I realized I was losing, I panicked. And like a coward, I ran.”
Rachel couldn’t speak. Knowing this, it all made perfect sense. His night-and-day mood swings. His almost desperate tenderness, the intensity of those final nights countered with his frozen distance come daylight. She had made him miserable, but in an entirely different manner than she’d imagined.
Doubts and misgivings eclipsed her joy. If he got scared once, what would stop him from pulling away a second time? A lifetime of rejection and solitude had forged him into a man who feared intimacy, who kept his heart locked away, safe from further hurt. How could he shake ingrained habits?
“I forgive you.”
His brow furrowed. “But?”
Dropping her hand, she pulled away from his touch. “That doesn’t mean I want to try again. I want you in Abby’s life. As for you and me...I’m not sure that’s wise.”
“What can I do to earn your trust?” His pained expression chipped at her resolve.
“I don’t know.” She ran a frustrated hand through her tangled waves. “I can’t discuss this right now. I have to check on Abby.”
He didn’t respond, didn’t try to stop her. At the door, she turned back. “If you’d like a bath, bring the tub inside and I’ll heat some water.”
“Thanks.”
“Sure.”
With his forlorn expression seared into her brain, Rachel hurried to the cabin, wondering if a happy ending was even possible.
* * *
Fresh from the bath and smelling like springtime, his hunger sated by a breakfast fit for a king, Cole should’ve felt a sight better than he did. But there was no getting around the fact he was in trouble with a capital T. He was, for all intents and purposes, homeless, with not much more than the clothes on his back to call his own. And he had his father-in-law to thank for it.
Striding down the boardwalk, he noticed not everyone looked away upon meeting his gaze. One or two even waved. The development should’ve improved his mood. It didn’t.
His thoughts were consumed with Rachel and all that had transpired between them the past twenty-four hours. He did not regret kissing her, not in t
he least. However, that one act had forced his hand, and he didn’t like the outcome.
She felt something for him, but apparently it wasn’t strong enough to overcome her misgivings. She didn’t trust him not to hurt her again. And if he were completely honest, he couldn’t be certain he wouldn’t. A depressing thought.
Scowling, he entered Clawson’s and pulled the slip of paper from his coat pocket. The bell above the door announced his arrival, and almost immediately Emmett Moore approached him, his manner somewhat wary.
“Mornin’, Mr. Prescott. What can I do for you?”
“Mr. Moore.” He nodded, held up the slip. “I have a long list of items, I’m afraid.”
Stroking his gray beard, the proprietor squinted at the list and frowned. “All that won’t come cheap. For that amount of supplies, I won’t accept trade or give you store credit. Cash only.”
The cash wasn’t a problem, but Cole had to wonder if it was the quantity that prompted the decision or his reputation, the fact that he was the son of Gerald Prescott, thief-at-large.
“Not a problem.” He handed him the list. “You tally the total, and I’ll run across to the bank and collect the cash.”
The man paled, stumbled back. “Now see here, don’t think you’ll get away with robbing the bank—”
“Emmett Moore,” a feminine voice scolded from behind the counter, “have you taken leave of your senses?”
Cole stared open-mouthed, stunned speechless by the man’s assumption, as a plump blonde clicked her way down the aisle, brown eyes snapping with censure. When she reached them, she elbowed Emmett and turned in apology to Cole.
“Hello, we haven’t met before. I’m Ruthanne, Emmett’s wife.”
“Uh, pleasure to meet you, ma’am. Cole Prescott.”
“Oh, I know who you are.” She waved a hand. “You’ll have to excuse my husband, Mr. Prescott. Ever since the robbery back in the summer, he’s as nervous as a turkey the night before Thanksgiving. He’s suspicious of everyone these days. Please, don’t take offense.”
“Robbery?”
Her flushed face creased in consternation. “You haven’t heard? A gang of outlaws ambushed Emmett, tied him up in the back and stole all our money. Even worse, they kidnapped poor Juliana O’Malley! Oh, it’s Juliana Harrison, now. One of the outlaws wasn’t really an outlaw, you see, and he saved her life. The good news is we got all our money back. Unfortunately, Emmett is still coping with what happened.”
The man managed to appear sheepish and indignant at the same time. “You would, too, if you’d been trussed up and left to die!”
“I discovered you within an hour of the deed,” she soothed.
“That savage could’ve put a bullet through my head.”
“But he didn’t, did he?”
A harrumph was all the answer he gave.
“Let’s get started on that list, shall we?”
Cole watched, nonplussed, as the dynamo of a woman ordered her husband about. He still hadn’t moved when the bell above the door jingled five minutes later and in walked the banker’s wife, Merilee Jenkins, a covered dish in her hands.
“Mr. Prescott, I heard about the fire,” she intoned, her face morose. “My husband and I are truly sorry for the loss of your things. I made this spice cake for you. And I have a basket of fresh rolls and some of my blackberry preserves out in the wagon.”
He blinked, accepted the cake she thrust at him with a sense of unreality. This woman had made it a habit of crossing to the opposite side of street to avoid him. What had changed?
“Um, thank you.”
She arched a brow. “Personally, I think it’s a sign.”
Uh-oh. Here it comes. The warning to leave town.
“Oh?”
“Yes,” she said matter-of-factly. “A husband and wife should be living under one roof. You should be with Rachel, not clear across town. Look at this as an opportunity.”
This day was getting stranger by the minute. “You may be right.”
Her smile was one of self-satisfaction. “I usually am.”
* * *
Rachel listened to him relate the morning’s events with rapt attention. He omitted the last part of Mrs. Jenkins’s conversation, and so was startled when she announced, “It’s a sign.”
“It is?”
Waving a hand toward the baked goods he’d placed on the table, her smile was tinged with optimism. “A sign that people are starting to change their minds about you. First the Scruggs. Now Claude and Merilee. You’ll see, more and more people will follow their lead. They’ll realize that it wasn’t right to punish you for your father’s sins.”
Cole mulled over her assertion, glancing at Abigail playing on her pallet. Her fever was gone, and while her appetite hadn’t fully returned, she wasn’t as fussy as she had been yesterday. Rachel’s sewing basket and a pile of unfinished costumes waited for her near the stone fireplace.
“Think about it,” she continued, “Jerry Scruggs could’ve let your cabin burn to the ground without lifting a finger. If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t have tried to save it. He wouldn’t have even bothered to alert the sheriff.”
“True.” He gazed at her, achingly lovely even in her simple, everyday dress of robin-egg blue, her hair pulled back with a matching ribbon. He tried not to want her, to remember she didn’t trust him and that she refused to give their marriage another chance.
What did she expect from him? To rebuild his ma’s cabin and come for daily visits? That would be akin to torture.
“I just wish...” Fiddling with the basket handle, she shook her head, her expression clouding.
“You’re thinking of your parents.” He composed his features to blandness, wary of revealing too much. He couldn’t let the truth slip. It would devastate her.
“I wish they weren’t choosing to be close-minded.” Her gaze strayed to the baby. “I can’t imagine they’ll find it easy to shun their only grandchild for very long.”
And what of their daughter? Resentment unfurled in his chest at their utter disregard for his wife’s feelings. Guilt was there, too. His return had triggered this mess.
Both of them looked up in surprise when a team entered the yard. Cole’s gut tightened. More bad news?
But it was the reverend and his wife, bearing more covered dishes and baskets of baked goods.
“We came to express our deepest regrets on your loss of property,” Reverend Monroe explained as he passed by Cole carrying a load of food to feed an army. Carol Monroe, with her ever-present smile, followed behind. Cole took the dishes from her, and Rachel was there to help her off with her coat.
She offered them coffee and dessert, indicating Mrs. Jenkins’s contribution already on the table. They quickly agreed, cheeks pink from the ride through town, the mild-mannered gentleman seeming pleased others were reaching out to help, as well.
Despite the regrettable reason that had prompted their visit, it was a pleasant one. The reverend and his wife hadn’t once treated Cole as if he were responsible for Gerald’s crimes. Instead they went out of their way to speak with him and invite him to services, their kindness and concern sincere. The only awkward moment was when the reverend, having seen Cole’s wagon full of supplies, offered to help him carry everything inside the cabin. He and Rachel exchanged a quick glance before he smoothly declined the offer. He couldn’t outright admit his intentions of sleeping in the barn. If the other couple had noticed anything amiss, they hadn’t let on.
As soon as they departed, Cole slipped on his duster. “I’ll be outside for a while getting my stuff situated in the barn. Need anything before I go?”
“Cole, I—” She hugged Abby close to her hip. “I’ve been thinking. Why don’t you stay in here? A pallet beside the fireplace might not be as comfortable as a bed, but it beats t
he barn floor. At least you’d be warm and dry. And with the quilt strung up, we’ll both have privacy.”
He didn’t want privacy from her, but he kept that thought to himself. “Not to mention it smells a sight better in here.”
Her smile transformed her face. “With all that food, it smells like a bakery.”
Patting his stomach, he grinned back. “That suits me just fine.”
His soul lighter than it had been in days, he brought the crates inside and began to unpack. Hanging his clothes beside hers in the wardrobe felt right and natural, setting his shaving supplies on the washstand like staking his claim. Funny, he didn’t feel like running anymore.
This was where he belonged. Was there any chance Rachel would come to the same conclusion?
Chapter Ten
They fell into a routine of sorts. During the day, Rachel cooked, cleaned and took care of Abigail while he sawed, hammered and painted props, in addition to caring for the animals and keeping the firewood stocked. In the evenings after supper, Cole entertained the baby while Rachel put the finishing touches on costumes. He cherished those special hours, just the three of them in their cozy cabin made cheerful with flickering firelight and crackling wood, the cleansing scent of pine garlands and swirls of bold ribbons and lace. Simply being with his wife and daughter filled him with unspeakable joy.
A steady stream of visitors dropped by each day to offer their regrets, bringing cakes, pies, cookies, bread, rolls, casseroles and even flowers. That meant stashing his pallet under the bed and taking down the quilt divider every morning. Neither he nor Rachel wanted people speculating about the state of their marriage. His gaze landed on the poinsettia gracing the center of the table, a gift from Alice O’Malley and the girls. Even Rachel had been surprised by the outpouring of concern. It seemed the tide was turning in his favor, a fact he couldn’t quite wrap his head around. He couldn’t overcome his hesitancy, curious why he was suddenly deemed acceptable.
Was it because of the reverend’s message condemning the act of judging others? Pity because of the fire? Or because they cared about Rachel and wanted to smooth things over for her sake?