“Is that what you want me to tell Father?”
“Yes.”
His eyes narrowed as he drew in his breath. “How well do you think that’s going to go over?”
She looked him straight in the eye and didn’t bat an eyelash. “I don’t care. I am almost thirty-one years old, and I’ve found something here I never thought I would―something I never thought existed for me. I’ve found someone to love me despite the flaws Father so often pointed out.” She grabbed her reticule, dug out some coins, and left them on the table as she rose to her feet. “I’m staying, and that’s the end of it, Xander.”
Head held high, she strolled to the door and didn’t once bump into a chair or a table or anything else that might impede her progress. She didn’t look back, either.
Once outside on the sidewalk, she stopped and took a deep, calming breath, fully expecting Xander to come after her. She’d never spoken to him in such a way before. Yes, he may have been younger than she by more than two years, and they hadn’t always gotten along, especially when he was siding with Father, but she’d never openly defied Magnus’s directives before.
She peeked in through the window, her heart thumping in her chest, her hands shaking. He wasn’t pursuing her. In fact, he hadn’t moved. He remained at the table she’d just left, a very befuddled expression on his face. He didn’t change his position at all, even after Mrs. Dunleavy removed his full, but cold, plate of food from him.
After a moment, the bewildered look left his face, and he began to smile then laugh as he stood, pulled money from his wallet, and placed it on the table.
And then the expression of triumph on his face hit her. Like a bullet between the eyes. He’d won . . . everything he always wanted. Not only the position at the newspaper―the one she had wanted at one time―but their father’s everlasting approval as well. With her out of the way, he’d be running the Tribune before he turned thirty. Once more, Xander was the golden child, the one who could do no wrong, while she . . . she couldn’t seem to do anything right.
She’d been used. Her stomach twisted with nausea. Tears misted her vision. She’d never known Xander hated her that much.
She took a deep breath and swiped at her eyes to remove the wetness that threatened to spill down her cheeks and let herself back into the restaurant, closing the door quietly. Mrs. Dunleavy tilted her head at her, a quizzical expression on her face. Ryleigh put her forefinger against her lips, silencing the woman before she even spoke, and approached the table.
“Xander.” He turned quickly, his eyes widening. A guilty flush stained his face, confirming her suspicions. He had used her for his own purposes, dangling the position at the newspaper in front of her nose like a carrot. And she’d fallen for it, played into his hands beautifully. “You set me up to fail, didn’t you? You knew Sheriff MacDermott would never give me his story and even if he did, you were never going to let me have that position, were you? It’s just like that article I wrote and you stole. Father loved that article, but you took all the credit for it. He never believed I wrote it.” Her gaze bored into his, and her fists curled at her sides. She’d never wanted to hit someone more than she wanted to hit him now, if only to wipe that victorious smirk from his face. “Why? I just don’t understand.”
He cocked an eyebrow, then pressed his lips together for a moment before he opened his mouth. “The truth?” She nodded. “You’re smarter than I am. A better writer, too. You could run the newspaper without even trying, and it would have only been a matter of time, despite the fact that you’re a woman, before Father realized that.” He shrugged, as if his confession wasn’t important. “I didn’t want the competition.”
His words hurt, but at least now she knew. “Thank you for being honest.” She drew in her breath against the pain in her heart, then straightened to her full height, all five feet eleven inches, and gave him a slight nod. “Goodbye, Alexander. Despite everything, I wish you well.”
Ryleigh didn’t wait for any kind of response from him. She simply turned on her heel and strode to the door, her head held high, but paused with her hand on the knob. He may have thought he’d won, but it was really she who was the victor. Taking a deep, calming breath, she started to smile, and as she let herself out the restaurant, her smile grew.
• • •
Ryleigh stuck the key in the door to Room 6 and smiled. Seeing Xander and learning the truth about how he really felt about her had freed her, more than she’d known it would. Realizing she didn’t want to work for her father at the Tribune, and eventually, her brother, had unchained her even more, enabling her to put her next steps into action.
Earlier today, she’d had the pleasure of watching Xander get on the stagecoach and head back to San Francisco. She hadn’t said goodbye, didn’t want to see him again after he’d told her the truth. The only thing she regretted was that she wouldn’t be able to see the great Magnus Steele’s face when he learned of her plans.
And tonight, her meeting with Wesley Bronson and his wife, Althea, had gone better than she expected. Much better. He hadn’t merely offered her a job, but rather, a partnership. She’d own twenty-five percent of the Guardian, provided she could come up with the capital. It was an offer she couldn’t refuse. Why would she? It was more than she’d ever thought possible. Grandpa George would be pleased knowing the inheritance he’d left her would be put to good use.
She placed the key back in her reticule and opened the door only to stop short, her breath stuck in her throat, heat flashing through her body, the happiness of only a few short moments ago evaporating as if it never existed. Teague lay on her bed, his shoulders propped up on the pillows, his feet crossed at the ankle, the pages of her book in his hand. Other pages were spread all over the pretty quilt.
He looked up, and she physically recoiled from the betrayal and sadness evident on his face. “What is this?” His voice was low and thick, his smoky gray eyes glittering like ice. He swung his legs off the bed and rose to his full height, mouth pressed together in a thin line. From where she stood in the doorway, she could see the muscle jumping in his clenched jaw.
Instantly, she stiffened, her hand grasping the doorknob with white-knuckled fingers, as fear . . . and anger . . . struck her all at once. He’d found her book, the one about his life, before she’d had a chance to explain. True, she hadn’t hidden it. Not really. The pages had been on the table out on the veranda. Anyone could have seen them, but still uninvited, he’d apparently read every word she’d written. She considered that an invasion of privacy, regardless of the fact she had tried to invade his.
“You promised.” His voice was still taut but now, contained an accusatory tone that matched his expression―forehead furrowed, brows dark slashes drawn low over his arctic eyes, lips pressed together. He stalked across the room to meet her in the doorway, the heavy thud of his boot heels on the wooden floor so . . . final. “You gave me your word you wouldn’t print what I told you in the newspaper.” He flung the pages on the floor at her feet. “I trusted you.”
She bent down to retrieve the papers, her fingers clumsier than usual. Anger consumed her, making her entire body quiver. When she stood up straight, she glared at him. “How dare you come into my room and go through my personal things! What are you doing here anyway?”
“I came to surprise you, but it looks like it was me who was surprised. I found that―” he pointed at the papers in her hand, his chest expanding as he struggled for breath, “instead of you. The wind was blowing your pages all over the place. I picked them up. Saw my name.” He glowered at her, his brows lowering even more, his icy eyes narrowed. “You played me for a fool, Ryleigh. A damned fool.”
Ryleigh backed up a step in the face of his anger, though she was just as enraged. Her mouth dried, and she swallowed hard. “You’d rather jump to conclusions and accuse me of treachery than ask for an explanation. I never―”
He cut her off before she could begin to enlighten him. “There is no explanation you cou
ld give me that I would believe, Ryleigh. I trusted you, damn it, and that―” he pointed at the pages in her hand again, “is how you repay me.”
He pushed past her, his body hard as it brushed against hers, anger radiating from every pore, and didn’t walk down the stairs, but rather, stomped, his boots heavy on the risers.
Ryleigh slammed the door before he made it to the lobby, the bang not quite satisfying, and leaned against the door, her heart pounding, her eyes watering. Pain rippled through her as she slid to the floor.
He would never forgive her for this.
What have I done?
Chapter Sixteen
Teague pulled the brim on his hat lower to shield his eyes from the late-afternoon sun as he stepped from the Prentice. The stagecoach had come and gone over an hour ago. No passengers had disembarked. None had boarded, either, yet the twisting in his gut persisted. Raw, nervous energy sped through his veins like quicksilver while he waited for the bullet in his back.
Jeff Logan had been released from Canon City four days ago. So where was he? Why wasn’t he here making good on the promise he made so long ago?
The waiting was eating him up inside. His stomach twisted into knots and burned constantly. He’d become anxious, his words brusque when he spoke to just about anyone. It wasn’t like him. Roy had become offended when Teague snapped at him over a simple question. Nate and Celia suggested, not so gently, that he seek the counsel of the good Reverend Miller if he couldn’t share his concerns with them.
He’d done that. He’d taken their thinly veiled hint and spoken with Josiah at length, but no amount of guidance or advice had helped.
It wasn’t only waiting for Logan that had him impatient and ornery. It was Ryleigh as well. Josiah’s recommendation that he talk with her and hear her explanation about the pages he’d found made his gut clench even more.
He hadn’t spoken to her since he’d learned of her betrayal, the words she had written about him, though quite good, still stuck in his brain, making his stomach churn even more with the acid of her duplicity. Coffee became so bitter, he couldn’t drink it. Food tasted like sawdust, even his favorite dishes. And whiskey? His gut rebelled as soon as he opened the bottle, the pungent aroma twisting his belly before he could even pour himself a glass.
Avoiding Ryleigh was relatively simple. Putting her out of his mind was not. He admitted, only to himself, that he thought about her all the time―the sweetness of her kiss, the warmth of her body, the brilliance of her smile―and then he’d remind himself of the deception in her heart.
Still, every day, he rode past the Prentice and looked up to the second-floor balcony to see her sitting at the table, her fingers flying over the keys of her typewriter, the rhythmic clickety-clack reaching his ears. Sometimes, she’d pace, going from one end of the porch to the other before she raced back to the typewriter. Or he saw her walking to the Guardian’s office, where she now worked. He’d watch her put on the leather apron over her clothes or sit at the desk, pencil in hand, head bent over whatever she wrote. A time or two, they’d passed each other on the sidewalk. She’d smiled tentatively, but he’d just touched the brim of his hat, the polite thing to do. And she’d walked away, her head down, shoulders slumped in defeat.
He couldn’t forgive her. Not yet anyway―his heart was still too hurt―but in time, he was certain he would simply because he loved her. That hadn’t changed.
He shook his head, dismissing Ryleigh from his thoughts for the twentieth time since breakfast and adjusted the gun belt slung low around his hips, shifting the weight of the pistols that had become so much heavier as the days slowly crept by. He glanced at Shotgun. “Come on, boy, we got to go.”
The dog gave a small yip, rose to his feet, and pranced to his side. He shook, his ears flopping back and forth, then fell into step beside him as Teague strode down the sidewalk toward his office. Several people stopped to speak with him as he patrolled the street, but his mind wasn’t on small talk.
Where the hell is Logan?
He took a deep breath and stepped up on the sidewalk, trying, without success, to dismiss the uneasiness that made his stomach tighten. He took another breath, then reached for the doorknob to his office. The fine hair at the back of his neck stood straight up, and an icy chill chased down his spine. He looked left then right but didn’t see any reason for his disquiet. Shotgun didn’t seem concerned, either.
He twisted the knob and let himself in. Roy wasn’t there, but a note had been scrawled on the chalkboard beside the door. Teague grimaced as he read the words, torn between happiness for Roy and his own misery. His deputy was off to an early dinner with Bethany and her boys. Was today the day he’d finally ask her to marry him? Roy had already purchased a ring, a pretty gold circlet with a small pearl. He’d been staring at it for the past week while he practiced the words he would say when he proposed.
Teague shook his head to clear it as Shotgun trotted to his customary place and settled down on the small throw rug in front of the jail cell. He sighed as he rested his muzzle on his paws. In moments, he closed his eyes, and his entire body relaxed.
“Hmmm. I’m glad someone is content. Wish to hell it was me,” Teague muttered as he unbuckled his gun belt and hung it on the hook beside the door, thoroughly disgusted and tired of the weight of it. He removed his hat next, hanging it on the same hook as his belt before he ran his fingers through his hair and strolled into the back room to see if Roy had left any coffee on the small potbellied stove. It may taste like shit, but it would keep him awake and alert.
At the sound of the office door opening, he heard Shotgun’s nails on the hardwood floor as he moved from his rug to greet the visitor. “I’ll be right with you.”
“Take your time.”
“Can I bring you a cup of coffee? It’s probably the worst you’ve ever tasted, but it’s all I have.”
“Thank you, no.”
Coffee cup in hand, Teague moved out of the back room and stood in the doorway. “Can I help you?”
The man said nothing as he slowly removed his hat and played with the brim.
Teague’s eyes narrowed as he assessed the strange young man standing so stiffly in his doorway. He didn’t move away from the door, just stood there, his body rigid as the dog poked his nose in inappropriate places. A blush stained his cheeks.
Teague snapped his fingers, drawing the dog’s attention, then pointed at the rug. Shotgun obeyed instantly. “I saw you outside the church Sunday.”
The man nodded but didn’t say anything, though he did lick his lips.
“And walking past my office yesterday afternoon. Several times. I thought you were going to come in, but you never did.” Apprehension began to thunder though him, making his muscles stiff. His heart thudded in his chest and his mouth went dry. “Why?”
“I’ve been working up the courage to approach you.” He gave a nervous laugh as his fingers worked the brim of his hat. “I was afraid you’d shoot me first, then ask questions later.”
“Shoot you? Why would I shoot . . . ” The question died on his tongue as his throat constricted. The uneasiness in his gut, his constant companion for the past four days, exploded as the realization hit him like a bolt of lightning. He felt queasy, bile rising from his gut to almost choke him.
Jeff Logan.
How had he come into town without Teague’s knowledge? It wasn’t on the stage. He’d been there every day when the stagecoach stopped at the Prentice, and this man never disembarked. He wasn’t registered at the hotel, either―Krissa or Oscar would have warned him.
Teague swallowed against the nausea swirling in his stomach as more questions filled his mind. What had he expected? Fanfare and marching bands? An announcement in the newspaper? Why hadn’t he recognized him when he walked past the office yesterday? Or after church on Sunday?
Granted, it had been more than four years. Logan had changed, but not that much. He’d matured. Grown up. A scraggly beard covered the bottom half of his face,
and his hair had been trimmed, different than the way he looked while he sat in the jail cell, but still, Teague should have recognized him. Had he been so preoccupied with Ryleigh’s deception that he’d missed seeing what was right in front of his face?
Teague’s eyes flicked to his holster hanging from the hook beside the door, too far away to help him. “You here to kill me?”
Jeff shook his head. “No, sir. I’m unarmed.” He gestured with his hat toward the desk. “May I?”
Teague nodded. “Slowly.”
“Yes, sir.” He placed his hat on the corner of the desk, then carefully moved his hands to the front of his suit jacket. As gently as one would touch a baby, he unbuttoned his jacket and pulled the edges away, revealing nothing beneath except his shirt. No guns, no bulges, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t still be hiding a weapon behind his back.
“Take the jacket off.”
Jeff did as he was told, removing the coat and laying it over a chair. He turned in a small circle, his hands held up high.
Satisfied, Teague asked, “If you’re not here to kill me, then why are you here?”
The blush staining Jeff’s cheeks darkened, and he let out a breath. “I don’t have a grudge to bear with you, Sheriff. Actually, I came . . . to thank you.”
Of all the things he’d expected to hear, that wasn’t one of them, and he raised his brows in doubt. “Thank me?”
“Yes, sir. And to apologize.”
Stunned couldn’t begin to define what Teague felt at that moment. This was not at all how he pictured his meeting with Jeff Logan after four long years. Where was the bullet in his back? Where was the young man who threatened to one day take his life? If not a bold-faced lie, it meant four long and wasted years of . . . fear.
“I know that’s not what . . . May I sit? I find I’m a little shaky.”
A Kiss in the Sunlight Page 26