When Hope didn’t reply, Bentley hobbled away. She could hear the clatter of the woman’s cane as it click-clicked on the wooden stairs.
Is she right? Hope wondered, shifting her gaze back to the churning ocean. True, she wouldn’t feel pain at her family’s passing now if she hadn’t known them, but just how much would she have missed if that were so? She couldn’t imagine a childhood without Luke’s gentle grin and boyish escapades. She couldn’t imagine a night without her father’s bedtime stories. Hell, she couldn’t even imagine the state of California without a bulging-eyed Old Joe haunting it.
And what about Drake? Was it possible he had other motives for what he’d done? Motives he hadn’t told her about? If nothing else, Bentley was right about one thing; he had gone to an extraordinary amount of trouble on her behalf. Once, briefly, he’d even confessed to feelings for her.
But he never said he loved you, she reminded herself.
You never aid you loved him, either.
Never had the scar that marred her back obsessed her the way it did lately. She thought of Drake’s finger—warm and rough—running against the puckered flesh and a shiver of heat curled up on her spine. There had been no repulsion in that touch, only tenderness.
Had she misjudged her gunslinger? Would she ever really know?
“Who the hell do you think you’re kidding, Hope Bennett,” she muttered to herself, pushing the hair from her brow as she glanced up at the rigging. “It isn’t your scars, it’s death that frightens you. You’re afraid that if you love Drake Frazier he’s going to die just like everyone else you ever loved.”
There was a crash of waves against the ship’s hull. The impact of her words hit her as hard as if she had climbed over the rail and tossed herself into the icy ocean depths. My God, why hadn’t she ever realized that before?
Hope pushed away from the rail, deciding to take that stroll after all. A little exercise would do her good. But even wandering the spray-slickened deck and drinking in the crisp salt air couldn’t keep her thoughts from straying back to the old woman’s words and her own realizations.
Chapter 21
She’d been home here for four hours, but Hope still couldn’t get over how little had changed in the brick house Bart Bennett had built for his family after the main house had burned down. Two small bedrooms stood off the main room, one on each side. Neither was used for more than sleeping, since the main room held the kitchen table, cupboards, and fireplace. The floor was plain, its unstained planks unrelieved by so much as a scatter rug.
Although not grand on any scale, this small brick cabin beat the rickety shanties of Thirsty Gulch hands down. It might be the same size as the one they’d shared in the Mother Lode, with an extra sleeping room, but at least she didn’t have to worry about a strong wind blowing it down around their heads.
Hope speared another of the “musketballs,” as her mother used to call them, with her fork, dipped it in the spicy sauce, then popped it into her mouth. The flaked, salted cod, mixed with mashed potatoes then rolled into tiny balls that were fried to a crisp, golden brown, melted on her tongue.
Luke smiled at her from his place on the opposite bench. She returned the smile, but it thinned when she saw her father staring at her oddly. The time had come. Swallowing hard, she said, with typical Bennett bluntness, “How’d you manage to escape the fire?” She was careful to keep her voice lowered lest she wake up Bentley, who had foregone supper for a nap on the cot beside the dancing fire.
“Could ask you the same thing, missy,” Bart replied poignantly. “Last time I saw you, you were showing your friend Frazier the henhouse. I thought for sure you came back in the house when you saw the flames.”
“I didn’t see the flames. At least, not right away. By the time I did, it was too late. Drake and I tried to put the fire out, but it spread too fast.”
“Hmph!” was all the reply Bart made.
Luke quickly took up where his father left off. “We hid in the root cellar, Hope. Pa said the cabin went up faster’n a matchstick and that we’re lucky we made it out at all.”
“Hotter’n hell down there,” Bart grunted as he pushed his plate away. “Couldn’t hardly breathe from all the smoke.”
Luke nodded in agreement. “Pa made us wait until he was sure the fire was out before he let us go up. That weren’t easy, either. The door stuck from all the stuff that fell on top of it. We looked all over for you, Hope, but we couldn’t find you.”
The root cellar. Of course! She had never thought of that, but it made perfect sense. What better place to hide from a fire there was no apparent way out of? She nodded thoughtfully. “I was gone by then,” she said absently, pushing the remaining two musketballs around her plate. “Everything happened so fast—the fire, Tubbs, the gunshot.”
Luke’s head jerked up. “Gunshot? You got shot?” He scowled, his gaze raking her body in brotherly concern. “You don’t look like you got shot.”
She smiled patiently. “I healed, you big lug, thanks to Drake Frazier. Say all you want about him, Papa, but he nursed me back to health single-handedly.”
“Frazier?” Bart grumbled, raking his fingers through his graying hair. “Should have known he couldn’t keep his nose out of things.” He glared at his daughter. “Where’s this paragon of virtue now? I would have thought he’d follow you like a trained seal.”
“I left him in Boston, visiting his brother,” she murmured evasively. Suddenly, the food on her plate held great interest, although not a bit of it went into her mouth. What was wrong with her father? Last time she’d seen him, Bart Bennett had thought Drake Frazier was God. Or, at the very least, the next best thing to Him. So what changed his mind? she wondered. “You shouldn’t be so hard on Drake, Papa. He saved my life.”
Bart’s gaze hardened. “Drake, is it now? And what happened to ‘Frazier,’ or ‘that no-good gunslinger,’ or ‘that conniving, low-down rat?’ Something changed that I should know about?”
Hope didn’t know what to say. Although she dearly wanted to say yes, the truth was, she wasn’t entirely sure. She spared herself from answering by changing the subject. “What about Old Joe?” she asked as she reached for a mug of hot, spiced cider. With elbows on the table, she sipped at it, regarding her father from over the chipped rim. “Did he—” she sucked in a ragged breath, “um, make it out of the fire?”
“That old grizzly bear?” Bart chuckled, his eyes sparkling. “It’d take more than a puny old fire to do him in. Stubborn as a mule, and twice as ornery. Got a letter from him last week—Kyle wrote it, ‘course—said he was still working the mine and it was paying like a whore with four—” her father flushed and sent her a guilty look. “Sorry, no offense. Anyway, he said it was paying right fine. Better than we’d ever hoped. We should be seeing more of the profits any day now. Joe sends them on when he can. Then I’ll see what I can do about hiring on some help and replanting the south field. Do my heart good to see some cotton growing in that dirt again.”
Hope frowned. She lowered the mug to the table and for the first time noticed how the last ten months had added a new network of lines to the creases shooting out from her father’s eyes. His hair was grayer, too, his skin thicker and weather-darkened. “But if the mine’s paying so good, why are you here? After everything we did to get that land, I’d think you would’ve stayed and worked as much gold out of the claim as you could.”
“Did—for a while,” Bart shrugged. His long fingers played with the coffee cup in his hands as Bentley’s snores punctuated the air. “But things change. I’m not the type of man who likes to wander far from home. You know that, missy. I get damn itchy being away from these hills. So, once we pulled out enough money to pay the taxes, I turned the lead over to Joe. Figured that even if I didn’t have enough money to replant, I could pay the taxes. The land would be ours, the way it should be.” He scowled. “Only....”
“Only what? What happened? Had someone already bought Lake’s Edge when you got here?”
>
Bark shook his head and scratched his stomach. “Noooo, just the opposite. The taxes were paid in full by the time we docked. I had Bat Knowley, he’s the county clerk now, check around to see if he could find out who put up the money. I wanted to pay the fellow back. Anyway, Bat came up blank. He tracked the funds to St. Louis, but then the trail went as cold as a rock in winter. I still don’t know who did it—or why—but I’m not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, either. I put the money I brought with me to good use. Started building the house up and planting crops. That sort of thing.”
“I think whoever did it died before he could let anyone know,” Luke added his opinion, as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “What do you think, Hope?”
“Good question,” she replied thoughtfully, studying the steamy cider as she swirled it in her mug. “That’s a lot of money to be pulling out of the bank to help a neighbor or friend. And most people would want credit for their generosity so they could get their money paid back. But if they expected something in return, wouldn’t they have asked for it by now?” She sighed, shaking her head. “I don’t know. It doesn’t make much sense. I’d be careful if I were you, Papa. This mysterious benefactor of yours could pop up any day to call in his loan.”
Bart grinned. “Fine with me. Joe’s been sending along our share of the take pretty regular lately. If anyone shows up, I could pay him. It’d mean putting off planting for another year, but I could do it.”
The cot squeaked as Bentley rubbed her eyes, then pushed her tired old body into a hunched-over sit. “If you ask me, I say keep your money in your pocket until someone asks for it. No sense looking for trouble when there isn’t any.”
Hope stiffened. As it had all afternoon, tension crackled in the air between Bart and Bentley, as real and as loud as the flames dancing in the hearth.
“Ain’t a gentlemanly way to pay back a favor,” her father mumbled before taking a sip of his scalding hot coffee. “Not that a woman like yourself would know anything of it, 'course.”
“Bah!” she hobbled over to the bench, her cane patting the floor, and eased herself onto the seat next to Luke. “Know more than you think, old man. I borrowed money in my day, and I lent it. I’m smart enough to know that whoever gave it to you would ask for it back if they wanted it.”
She’s enjoying this! Hope thought as she watched her father’s face flood an angry shade of crimson.
“Oh really?” her father asked with open dislike. His coffee cup slammed loudly on the table. Dark brown liquid sloshed over the side, dotting the dented wood.
Bart launched into a tirade about the benefits of paying a debt, which Bentley wasted no time in staunchly rebutting. The two were deep into their discussion, with Luke watching like it was a tennis match, and no one noticed when Hope rose from the bench and inched toward the door. They barely looked up when the old metal knob creaked beneath her hand.
Stealthily, she slipped into the chilly, starlit night. The Blue Ridge Mountains stretched to the west, dark, black mounds jutting the moonswept horizon. To the east, hill and tree dotted the Great Basin as far as the eye could see.
She shivered and hugged her arms close for warmth. Her breath fogged the air with each rhythmic breath.
She considered going back for her black cloak, then dismissed the idea. She had no wish to hear her father and Bentley arguing again. They had bickered back and forth since their first meeting, and their surly banter showed no signs of letting up. If anything, it worsened with each minute one was forced to spend in the other’s company.
Oil and vinegar, she thought, as her booted feet crunched over dry leaves and twigs. Fire and water. She wandered past a line of white oaks. Hope and Drake.
A seagull squawked overhead, its wide wings flapping as Hope's thoughts took an abrupt turn. Where is Drake now? she wondered with a distracted sigh. Did he know where she’d gone? Did he care?
Although she would like to believe he did, she had a devil of a time convincing herself. He had, after all, only hired her to do a job, a job she had seen to it herself she was paid for. Pitifully. Now that the job was done, her services were no longer required, or wanted. He was probably relieved she’d left. Why else hadn’t he shown up at the dock to keep her from boarding that ship?
Because he doesn’t care.
Her breath caught as she remembered his hand caressing the puckered flesh on her back. He had been shocked, but not repulsed. Concerned, but not condescending. Certainly that was not the response of a man who didn’t care!
The image of Drake, enfolded in Angelique’s embrace, his calloused palm gliding over her smoothly perfect spine, stopped Hope cold. Again, she shivered, although this time the tremor had precious little to do with the brisk night air.
She wasn’t foolish enough to delude herself that Angelique would not take full advantage of her absence. No doubt the sly witch would convince Drake quickly of his “wife’s” infidelity, deception, lack of feelings—whatever it took to win him into her bed.
Oh, how Hope could see that feline smile when Angelique learned she’d left. It was the opportunity the conniving witch had been waiting for, planning for, living for. She wouldn’t let it go to waste.
But what would Drake’s response be?
It was a question Hope didn’t dare contemplate. If she were still in Boston, she would fight Angelique every step of the way. But here, in the hidden valleys of Virginia, there was precious little she could do to stop Drake’s seduction.
She walked on, mindless of where she was going. Her feet knew these foothills by heart, she wouldn’t get lost.
She thought of her vow to Bentley—her vow to get Drake back. Could I get him back? she wondered. Did I ever have him to begin with? Isn’t it a little too late to start fighting for him now?
“Life won’t come to you, little one.” Her mother’s softly spoken words rang through her mind. How often had Emma Bennett said that? Often enough for the haunting voice to have an immediate response on Hope. “If you want something badly enough, go out there and fight for it like a Bennett. You’ll never win a race if racing is the only time you ride. And you’ll never ride if you get thrown from the saddle and refuse to get back up.”
All her life, she’d taken her mother’s wisdom to heart. Back in the saddle she’d always gone, never allowing herself to be defeated—at least, not without a damn good fight.
Is this so different? she asked herself, stopping to lean against the rough bark of an oak.
No, she thought, it wasn’t any different at all. She’d fallen off the horse that was Drake Frazier, but she’d never gotten back on. She’d hidden behind a cloak of fear, afraid he would hurt her worse than she was already hurt. He couldn’t, of course, but she hadn’t known that then. She hadn’t realized until now that the prize for fighting Angelique would be the man in all his glory. And the man and his love was what she wanted more than anything in the world.
Fight for it like a Bennett, her mother would advise.
Damn it, but if that wasn’t exactly what she intended to do! Hope pushed away from the tree with new resolve. Her strides, as they carried her back to the house, were long and filled with determination.
She hadn’t expected ever to see her family again, but she had, proving that miracles do happen. Now all she had to do was set about making a lifelong miracle of her own.
A week, she decided firmly. She would spend a week with her family. Then she would return to Boston, with Bentley in tow, and she would fight for Drake Frazier. She’d do whatever it took to make him love her. And if she lost, at least she could console herself with the knowledge that her defeat was not due to lack of effort.
A smile played about her lips as she neared the house, and a plan began to form in her mind. Her steps lightened as her mind whirled to smooth out all the details. The plan was so wonderful in its simplicity, she cursed herself for not having thought of it before.
Everything came around full circle, she thought, and that was exactly wh
ere Hope intended to take her relationship with Drake Frazier. Back to be beginning.
It was silly. Preposterous. Perfect! How could he resist? She would simply hand the gunslinger an offer she knew he couldn’t refuse. It wasn’t as though this was the first time!
“Drake, if you do not stop prowling the deck like some caged animal I’ll have you dragged below and tied to the bunk until we reach port. Now, come have a seat, and do try to relax.”
Drake ignored his friend as he continued to pace the deck. He sent Elbert a heated glance. One look at the small man, leisurely reclined in a lounge chair, basking in the midday sun with a legal journal open on his gaunt lap, made Drake wonder why he had ever chosen this insensitive oaf as a friend. It also made him question his wisdom in having asked the man along, although he knew the logic behind that reasoning well enough. Elbert Sneyd was the only man in Boston Drake trusted, and he trusted Elbert with his life.
Proof.
The single word shot through Drake’s mind like a bullet, as he jammed his hands in his pockets and lifted his cheeks to the salty breeze. When he found Hope—and he would find her, there was never a doubt—he’d need proof to back up his somewhat wild but truthful explanation. After everything what had passed between them, he couldn’t expect her to believe his story simply because he said it was true. If they were ever to have honesty between them, they would have to begin anew. He had to be sure she never doubted him again because, deep in his soul, he knew he’d never give her another reason to.
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