Whispers on the Wind (A Prairie Hearts Novel Book 5)

by Caroline Fyffe

“What?” She’d hoped he’d forgotten he’d asked about her past.

  “You were saying why you aren’t married.”

  “That’s right, I was. Well, my case is a bit different. I’m sure you won’t understand at all—as my parents don’t.”

  “You’re stalling.”

  “You’re right. I’ve never been engaged, and never had a beau. But I’ve always had a dream of owning my own bookstore. I could picture the building, the interior of the shop, and the books in my mind from the time I was six years old.” She shrugged, finding the saying strange even to her ears.

  His gaze was filled with questions. “Do you cotton to the fairer sex?”

  “No!”

  “Just sounded like a question that needed asking.”

  “But I do cotton to having a life to call my own. And being in control of such a life, as much as a person can be. I believe anyone can achieve whatever they set their mind to—as long as it’s a burning desire. All-consuming. Much to my parents’ dismay, I’ve been strong-willed since childhood. If I married, my shop would belong to my husband, as would I.” She shrugged. “That’s not my idea of a life . . .”

  She let her words trail away. He didn’t need to know about her parents’ betrayal with old Mr. Brackstead, how when they’d learned she really was going west, they tried to hoist her off on a wealthy old man. Some things were better left unsaid.

  “I see.”

  His warm breath, still scented from the cookies he’d eaten, slid gently across her cheek, causing her imagination to run wild. What would his kiss be like? Or the feel of his arms? Stories about romance were some of her favorites.

  She slipped a quick look at him as they passed the haberdashery. Was he an honorable man, or was he looking for a fling? Why had he asked to come along? And why was he flirting? Their attraction was irrefutable. You’re turning twenty-nine on Thursday, Tabitha, take a fling if he’s offering. His affections may not be true love, or forever, but isn’t a few days in heaven better than never knowing?

  She heaved a sigh, rounding up her wayward thoughts. She knew she wouldn’t. Her honor meant a lot to her. As it should. It was part of who she was. If God wanted them together, it would have to be in the proper way.

  “Something wrong?” he asked, his eyebrows tented with concern.

  He must have noticed her quietness and felt her sigh. “No. Just enjoying the night. You’re quiet as well. What’s on your mind?”

  “Things.”

  “Like?”

  “The Bright Nugget. There’s still a lot of fixing to do before the saloon will produce up to its full potential. Right now, Kendall only has one working girl.”

  Her feet ground to a halt. His words were an imaginary slap across her face. “Working girl? You mean Philomena?”

  He chuckled. “Who else? I haven’t seen any other women in the saloon since I’ve arrived.”

  “You mean to bring in more, more—”

  He held up a hand. “Tabitha, a lady like yourself doesn’t need to say the word. We’re both old enough to know about the birds and the bees—and what transpires when the lights go out. Saloons and soiled doves go hand in hand. You can’t have one without the other.”

  “I’ve always hated that moniker! I picture a little white dove with sad eyes . . .”

  His amused expression turned hard. “What do you want me to call them? Scarlet ladies, fallen angles, nymphs du prairie? They’re all one and the same.”

  Heat prickled her face over the indelicate topic. The lack of saloons and taverns was one thing she loved about Logan Meadows. The fact that there was one only, when most towns had three or four—or ten—made her new hometown cozy and nice. Less drunks, less shootings, less trouble. She didn’t want to see things change. “What if we don’t want you to bring in more working girls? We like Logan Meadows the way it is now.”

  He gave her arm a tug with his elbow, trying to bring her closer, but she held her ground.

  “No one seems to mind what happens inside a saloon. That’s for men to do and to decide.”

  “That’s because you’re a man!”

  “True enough.”

  “The women mind! They mind very much!”

  His eyes widened. “Don’t get riled. Nothin’s been decided. It’s just an option I’ve been tossing around.”

  Disregarding the intimate feel that only minutes before had clouded her usual good judgment and had her considering an inappropriate affair, she felt compelled to speak for all her female friends. “You’d best review long and hard, Mr. Wade. If not, you just might find yourself on the wrong side of all the women in this town. That’s a place you might not like to be.”

  With agitation rippling inside, they started again toward the store. She stilled the impulse to yank her hand from the crook of his arm and march away. She’d gone against her own best reasoning to walk out in the first place. She knew better. How dare he bring more saloon women here, which in turn would draw more of the wrong sort of men?

  When they were drawing close to the bridge, with Storybook Lodge just across the street, a buggy appeared down the road, approaching from the direction where Uncle Frank lived, and Aunt Roberta, too. It was still too far away to know for sure, but one of the occupants looked like her aunt. The conveyance sped forward, turned, and crossed the bridge, stopping in front of her shop.

  Tabitha jerked her hand free and widened the distance between her and Hunter. Cool air sharpened her mind, opened her eyes to what this looked like. She didn’t dare chance a look at Hunter to gauge his reaction, but she could feel his gaze on her face.

  On one side of the buggy seat was Aunt Roberta, with Thom at the reins.

  It was evident from the scowl on her aunt’s face that she’d seen them—and had drawn the worst possible conclusion.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Tabitha yanked her hand from Hunter’s arm and stepped away as if he were a coiled rattlesnake ready to strike. She was toying with him! And like a stupid fool, he’d fallen for it. She knew her place, and it wasn’t walking in the moonlight with the likes of him. Was he a plaything, the forbidden fruit? Now close to the buggy, Hunter pushed back his anger and buried his injured pride.

  “Aunt Roberta, what brings you back into town this evening?” Tabitha’s normal calm, intelligent tone held a tremor of uncertainty.

  “Once I got home, I discovered I’d accidentally left my reticule at the bookstore.”

  Her chilly tone made Tabitha blink. “Couldn’t it have waited until the morning? It would be safe with me.”

  Thom pushed up his hat, and he heaved a healthy sigh, his eyes heavy with fatigue.

  “That’s what I told her, but she wouldn’t listen. Especially when she wanted me to fetch the buggy and horse from the livery first, instead of just walking back the short distance. I offered to come myself, but she wouldn’t think of it.”

  “I wanted to keep you company,” Roberta said. The smile she gave Thom was strained.

  “For all of three minutes?” The deputy began to climb out, but Hunter waved him off. He quickly approached Roberta’s side of the cart. “Stay put, Thom, I’ll help Mrs. Brown down. I can run in and get your reticule for you. That way you can be on your way more quickly.”

  Her eyes widened. “No thank you, Mr. Wade. I’d like to retrieve it myself. The back of the brooch I was wearing snapped off, so I tucked it away in my reticule, which I put in the desk drawer. It was a gift from my late husband, and is very important to me. I’m sure you can understand I’d be nervous about losing something of such sentimentality.”

  Roberta put her hand into his, and let him help her to the ground.

  Tabitha already had the door unlocked, and had gone inside to light a lamp. Her aunt marched through the opening like a battalion sergeant, and Hunter followed behind. She went straight to Tabitha’s desk, opened the drawer, and pulled out a small woman’s handbag.

  She turned. “Here it is.” Her gaze tracked back and forth between him and
Tabitha.

  He could feel her discomfort from five feet away.

  “I’m sorry you had to come back for it, Aunt Roberta,” Tabitha said in a hollow-sounding voice.

  Roberta lifted her chin. “I’m only down the street.”

  Her aunt made no attempt to move. It hit him that she was waiting for him to be the first to leave. What did she think? That he was going to climb the stairs and compromise her niece here in her own home on Main Street? Anger tightened his gut. “I’ll be going now, Miss Canterbury. Thank you for the walk.”

  Tabitha glanced his way.

  “I hope I didn’t intrude on you too much.”

  Her eyes, a few minutes ago alight with—what, he didn’t know—were now anxious and worried. “It was my pleasure, Mr. Wade. Thank you for coming to my reading tonight. I appreciate the support.”

  He went to tip his hat but realized he wasn’t wearing one. Turning, he stepped out into the blissfully cool air once more, understanding this was where he belonged.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Roberta charged through the door of Hannah’s house totally unconcerned with the noise her clomping boots made on the hardwood floor. What is Tabitha doing? Throwing away all that she’s worked so hard for? She yanked the scarf from around her neck and tossed it onto a chair. That was when she saw Hannah watching her from the supper table, bookwork strewn across the top.

  “What on earth?” Hannah gasped. “Can you please be a little quieter? Your grandson sometimes has a difficult time staying asleep.”

  Markus! “I’m sorry. I totally forgot.” Roberta let out a moan and began pacing the floor. “I knew this would happen. Tabitha in her naïveté is ripe for the pickings. She’s fallen for that gunslinging buffalo hunter who’s all too charming for his own good!” Like I almost did.

  “Buffalo hunter! Charming?” Hannah closed the ledger and stood, watching her mother walk the length of the room. “Who? Mr. Wade? You’re jumping to all sorts of conclusions. Besides, he was a wagon-train guide, Mother, not a buffalo hunter.”

  “Same thing!”

  “No, not at all. And why on earth are you upset? He was a perfect gentleman tonight at the reading. Now that he’s a partner in the Bright Nugget, he’s also a business owner, just like me. You should stop judging him so unfairly.”

  “Surely you’ve heard what Kendall said. He’s a gunslinger and has killed indiscriminately. Doesn’t that worry you?”

  Hannah followed her mother’s steps over to the small writing desk against the far wall. “That’s nothing but hearsay. If he were a murderer, he’d be locked up or already hung. You know as well as I do, Kendall has an ax to grind. I’d not believe what you heard unless it came from Albert or Thom, and it didn’t. As long as Mr. Wade doesn’t kill anyone here, he deserves a chance. There are two sides to every story, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  Roberta pulled out the chair and plopped down, her hands shaking as she opened the drawer and took out a sheet of paper.

  “Mother, what did Mr. Wade do that has you so upset?”

  Roberta didn’t answer, just began writing as fast as she could.

  “Mother?”

  “He and Tabitha were taking a moonlight stroll. She had ahold of his arm, and they looked rather lovey-dovey to me. Marigold has a right to know what is transpiring with her daughter. I’m doing what I should have done the moment he rode into town and turned Tabitha’s head. I’m sending word to her mother!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Hunter descended the steps of his apartment early the next morning, anticipating a cup of hot brew at the sheriff’s office. He knew either Albert or Thom was already below because the savory scent of coffee seeping through his floorboards had driven him from his covers where he’d lain awake the whole night.

  Rounding the corner into the alley between his place and the bookstore, he paused. Irritation stabbed him. He glanced up to the second story, feeling his lips flatten into a frown. With a hand to his whiskered jaw, he contemplated the object of his frustration, most likely still in bed sleeping away the morning. Her rejection last night stung. His pride had been dealt a serious blow.

  As a young, unattainable wagon master, he’d been adored by most of the women moving west. They were grateful for his help to their men, and had let him know with their smiles, secretive glances, and even a soft, womanly hand to his biceps now and then.

  When he was fourteen, and old enough to begin noticing the unsaid innuendos, Thorp had given him a strict lecture about his responsibilities. What his position of authority would be as he grew older. The women would be attracted to the man, any man, they felt held their life in his hands. He was not to abuse that power. Hunter was to be polite and considerate without encouraging flirtations. And never to partake of what they offered, no matter how they insisted their husbands didn’t understand them.

  Oh, he remembered those lessons well. But now, he found himself single at forty. And if he were truthful, feeling more alone than any man ought to. He longed for something more meaningful than the Bright Nugget saloon. If loneliness was a slow killer, he had one foot in the grave.

  Was Miss Hoity-Toity still asleep? By her own words, her habit was to read far into the night. Had she done that last night, unable to get her thoughts off him? He remembered her expression when he’d come to her reading and she’d seen him through the window. Her eyes had softened, and her lips had pulled up in a secretive little smile.

  He might be a plaything to her, but she liked him well enough. She’d just not admit that fact to anyone else, least of all herself.

  Damn her! He hadn’t come to Logan Meadows to pine away over some past-her-prime businesswoman. Especially one who doesn’t want me. His best course of action would be to kiss her as soon as he had the chance. Get her out of his head so he could move on. Once he did that, there was sure to be a slap, condemnation, and a demand for him to stay away.

  That would be paramount for them both.

  The sooner the better!

  Albert Preston looked up from his desk when Hunter stepped into the sheriff’s office. His son, Nate, was perched on his knees on a chair beside him, leaning over his father’s desk. With pencil in hand, he was writing something on a piece of paper.

  “Mornin’, Wade,” Albert said, a friendly smile on his face. He had a stack of official-looking papers in front of him. “Come down for your usual cup of coffee?”

  “You mind?”

  “’Course not. That’s why I asked.” He glanced at his son, who was watching Hunter with wary eyes.

  Hunter forced the smile he wasn’t feeling. “Mornin’, Nate,” he said, wondering why his small friend was now regarding him as if he’d grown sharp teeth.

  More often than not, Nate was here working on some kind of schoolwork before class. Seemed Preston was awfully thankful for the son he hadn’t known he had until a handful of months ago. In the slow hours of the saloon, Kendall had filled Hunter in on the sheriff’s situation, as well as that of just about everyone else here in Logan Meadows. The man was a wealth of information. If there was something Hunter needed to know, he went straight to Kendall.

  Albert cleared his throat. “Son, you have something you’d like to say to Mr. Wade?”

  Nate set his pencil down, his mouth pulling into a frown.

  “You forget to do your homework, Nate?” he asked, wondering if the boy knew how fortunate he was to have a pa watching over him to make sure he completed his studies.

  Nate came forward a step. “No, sir, Mr. Wade. Just writin’ my spellin’ words one more time. If I get ’em all right today, my pa’s takin’ me froggin’ after school.”

  At the child’s scared tone, Hunter was mystified. Shouldn’t he be happy and excited about froggin’?

  “Nate?” Albert prodded. “Go on. It’s best just to spit it out.”

  His small chest expanded. “I’m sorry for scaring Clementine.”

  Confused, Hunter cut his gaze over to Albert.

 
Albert raised his brows.

  “Clementine?” Ah, the reason for the buffalo charge. He hunkered down and looked Nate in the eyes.

  Nate nodded. “I was in the loft when Uncle Win went into the buffalo pen to water Clementine and Max. I was shooting at things with my slingshot, and, well, I wasn’t trying to hit nothin’ really . . . Still, I shot Clementine in the butt.”

  Hunter held back his chuckle.

  “That’s why she stampeded out and almost run over Mrs. Hollyhock,” he mumbled, his eyes cast at the floor. “—and you, too. I’m real sorry for that.”

  “No harm—”

  Albert, seated behind Nate, narrowed his eyes and shook his head. The boy’s father didn’t want Hunter to go too easy.

  “. . . was done—this time. Yet, the situation could have been much worse, being Mrs. Hollyhock is so advanced in age. I accept your apology, and thank you for being so truthful.”

  “I think Nate should do something to make up for his carelessness, Mr. Wade. So the next time he’s tempted to shoot his slingshot, he’ll be a bit more careful what’s in front of his aim. What do you think?”

  Hunter took his time mulling over a punishment that wasn’t too difficult for Nate, but would still be one he’d remember. “Well,” he finally said when Nate had swallowed for the third time. He didn’t want to traumatize him too much either—parenting wasn’t easy. “The saloon’s no place for a boy, but I’m sure Miss Canterbury could use a hand in her bookshop. Maybe sweep up her boardwalk, take out her trash, or dust her bookshelves?”

  Nate jerked his face to Hunter’s, his eyes glowing with eagerness. Ah, he likes Miss Hoity-Toity.

  “I’m sure she’ll have some ideas of her own to keep you busy.” He sent the boy a meaningful glance. “Does that sound fair?”

  Nate nodded.

  “And of course, you’re also going to apologize to Mrs. Hollyhock, right?”

  Another nod.

  “Good.” He reached out and ruffled Nate’s hair. “Glad to hear that. Now, you best get back to your spelling words. You don’t want to miss a chance to go froggin’. Come by the bookshop this Saturday. I’ll let Miss Canterbury know to expect you, and why.” He stood. “Now, for that coffee.”