Her Lone Protector (Historical Western Romance)

by Pam Crooks

  “As a matter of fact, there is.” He lifted his hat, threaded a hand through his hair. His inability to locate Gina’s mother was as much a concern as the espionage. For Gina, maybe more so, and time was against them both. “Check the surrounding infirmaries to see if Louisa Briganti was brought in. Hell, check all of them in the city.”

  He had to extend the boundaries of their search beyond the general area of the shirtwaist factory. There was no other answer for it, not after the checking and rechecking they’d already done.

  “And Miss Briganti, sir?”

  An instant image of her formed in his mind. How she looked last night, sheathed in silvery starlight. An urgency went through him, a longing to be with her again.

  “I’ve put her in hiding,” he said finally. “On my father’s ranch. She’s safe, for the time being.”

  “Of course. You would see that she was. Very good, sir.”

  As if they both had the same thought, their work waiting for them, they quickly shook hands and parted.

  Creed headed toward the palomino, his steps lengthening as he drew nearer, his need to see Gina consuming him. Now that he was ready to head back, he couldn’t get there soon enough.

  He made it a fast ride out of town and onto Sherman land, but as he approached the West Camp’s line shack, the sheer quiet of the place shot dread up his spine.

  If she was here, she would’ve heard him ride up, and come out to meet him.

  But she didn’t.

  Their blankets were still outside, her precious sketches on top, their edges fluttering in the breeze. The peculiarity of the sight gnawed at him. Wasn’t like her to be careless with her designs, and she sure as hell wouldn’t leave them behind.

  Voluntarily.

  He dismounted, unshucked a revolver, and went inside. His gaze clawed the perimeter of the shack, his senses fine-strung to what he’d find. His weapons, each accounted for, lying on the cot. Her soup still hot on the stove, a plate holding a few slices of bread, and two tin bowls with remnants of broth inside on the tabletop.

  She’d been with someone. Who?

  And where was she now?

  He bolted outside. The tracks in the dirt, the trampled grass, told him that a lone rider had been here not long since. His dread deepening, his gaze lifted to the crude lean-to, and his worst fear came true.

  Gina’s horse was gone.

  He headed toward the palomino with a curse, the vow strong within him to search the far corners of Sherman rangeland until he found her, but the muted sound of voices told him he didn’t have to go far.

  By the time he could figure where they were, somewhere behind the shack and getting closer, Creed was mad enough to peel a rattlesnake. He’d given Gina strict orders to stay put. What if her whereabouts got back to the Sokolovs somehow?

  He waited. Refused to go to her first. He kept his Smith and Wesson cocked, just in case, but his curiosity raged. The line shack’s location couldn’t have been more remote. Who would have found her all the way out here?

  She appeared, then, side by side with another rider. In no hurry. Oblivious to Creed’s presence. The man kept her engrossed with their talk, and at first, only their profiles were discernible.

  Until they realized he was there.

  They pulled up in surprise. And Creed recognized Markie.

  The last person he wanted to see, with the sole exception of the Old Man himself.

  “You are back!” Gina exclaimed.

  He dragged his gaze to her. She looked feminine sitting there on the horse. Sophisticated, too, with her hat and Sunday dress. Their outing had colored her cheeks fresh-air pink and sparkled her eyes like black diamonds. Gotten rid of some of her worry, too. Creed had never seen her so relaxed.

  No wonder Markie couldn’t keep from staring at her like a pie-eyed greenhorn. And why did it rile Creed that he did?

  “I told you to stay here, Gina,” he growled, sheathing the revolver.

  Her surprise shifted to wary defensiveness. “You tell me not to follow you. I do not follow.”

  “You up and left without a care. Didn’t even bother to arm yourself, did you?”

  “We didn’t go far, Creed,” Markie said. “Quit yelling at her.”

  His teeth gritted. He wasn’t yelling. Only on the brink of it.

  “What are you doing here?” he snarled.

  Markie leaned forward on the saddle horn. He looked relaxed, too. Unruffled by Creed’s lack of hospitality.

  “Just happened to be taking my turn checking fence, that’s all,” he said. “Saw smoke coming from the shack’s chimney. Decided I’d have a look-see.”

  “We do not expect to find each other,” Gina concurred. “But it is nice that we do. Did you learn any news about my mother?”

  “No, but I’ve got Graham checking on it,” he said, shifting the conversation’s gears with her.

  “There is nothing? Again?”

  She appeared crestfallen, and it tugged at him hard.

  “He’ll check every hospital in the city. We’re doing everything we can.” He realized how trite the words sounded, but he meant each one.

  Her throat worked, and she squared her shoulders, the strength he admired about her. “Yes. This I know.”

  “Gina told me you’ve got a hell of a fight on your hands,” Markie said, shifting the conversation again.

  Creed’s attention swung back to him. That riled, too. Gina confiding in him. His kid brother knowing, seeing the unpleasantness of war, even one brewing right here in America.

  Beginning from his early days at West Point, it’d been that way for Creed, a curious kind of protectiveness of his family. Shielding them from what he did. Killing and deceiving. The ruthless life he lived for six long years to defend them from the enemy.

  “She did, did she?” he demanded.

  “I want him to know,” Gina said. “It is important. Too long, you are gone, and your family does not understand why.”

  “If I’d wanted them involved, I would’ve done it by now,” he bit out.

  “Don’t blame her, Creed,” Markie said. “I kept flapping my jaws at her, asking questions. A whole string of ’em.”

  Creed’s attention bounced between the pair, both of them looking down at him from their horses, sides drawn. Made him feel like he was on the losing one.

  “Bring her out to the main house,” Markie said quietly. “She’ll be safer there.”

  Creed stiffened. Run to the Old Man for help? Face Mary Catherine again? “No.”

  His brother sat back in disgust. “That pride of yours might just get her killed, then, and you along with her.”

  “Don’t recall asking your opinion, Markie.”

  “Well, I’m giving it. This time, your fight’s close to home. No shame in going back if you need to.”

  Creed gritted his teeth. He’d left there once, twice, and he refused to return. Not for a good long while, and sure as hell not now, when going would put the whole outfit in danger.

  “What do you expect her to do out here, anyway?” Markie persisted. “No one’s around for miles. You’ll just hide her away while you go off to fight your little war? You may as well dig her a hole and cover her up in it.”

  “She’s my problem. Not yours, damn it. And it’s not a little war. What would you know of fighting one?”

  “Stop!” Gina flung her hands up in exasperation. “You argue like schoolboys! Both of you, stubborn bulls!”

  “He’s as bullheaded as they come, for sure. Always was, as I recall.” A muscle twitched in Markie’s tanned cheek, the annoyance he held in check. He took up his reins and touched a finger to his hat. “I’ll be moving along. It’s been a real pleasure, Gina. You’re a fine woman. I’d like to see you again soon, if that’s all right.”

  “Thank you, Marcus. I would like that, too.”

  He gave her a quick nod of acknowledgement before his glance turned back to Creed.

  “You know where to find us when you smarten up,” h
e said.

  With that, he turned his mount and rode off.

  Creed stood stock still and watched him go.

  His brother had some starch in him, for sure. Something he never had when he was twelve. It unsettled Creed how much of a man he’d become. No longer afraid to stand up and speak his mind.

  And Creed had missed every bit of it. Six years’ worth of growing up. Learning starch. Gone.

  Gina dismounted. “You are not very nice to him.”

  Creed grunted.

  “He wants to help us, but you spit in his face.” She strolled to the blankets and picked up her sketches.

  “The hell I did.”

  “He admires you, and that is how you treat him.”

  The sting of her scolding rolled through Creed. He tried hard to be unaffected by it. And failed.

  “A high and mighty soldier you are, eh?” she taunted. “Too important for your family?”

  “Gina,” he grated.

  She rolled the blanket into a tight ball, held it beneath her arm, and stood stiff before him.

  “And then you say I am a problem to you.” She sniffed. “I do not want to be your problem, so I will go back to my apartment.”

  His eye narrowed at her threat. Did she really believe he’d let her go? After all that had happened between them?

  Besides, how could he explain he’d tangled horns with his father almost from the time he’d been able to think for himself, that too many hurts and disappointments had wrenched them apart, taking Markie with them? Maybe forever?

  And throw a woman, Mary Catherine, into the mix…

  “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded,” he said, scrambling to save himself. “You know I didn’t.”

  Her wounded silence challenged him to try harder, a warning he was sinking fast if he didn’t.

  “I’ll protect you the best way I can under the circumstances,” he continued. “I want to.”

  “So does Marcus.”

  She headed toward the line shack. Creed clenched his jaw and caught her arm before she could pass him. If she thought she could goad him into a little jealousy, she’d damn well succeeded.

  “You two were acting mighty friendly for having just met,” he rumbled. “First-name basis. Going riding together. Guess he knows a pretty face when he sees one, doesn’t he?”

  Eyes flashing, she yanked free. “I feed him lunch because you are late. We talk. He wants to show me a little bit of the Sherman land. We talk some more. That is all!”

  If he’d taken the time to think about it, Creed would’ve known as much. But the accusation tumbled from his tongue without his having the sense to keep from saying so.

  “He is a good man, Creed,” she said with more calm. “He loves his home, his family. And he loves you. But you are too much like a mule to believe it.”

  She swung from him, then, with a flaring of her hems, and went inside, leaving him to fend for himself against a barrage of guilt from his own stupidity.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Gina knew it was only from Creed’s need to make amends that he offered her a bath in the hot mineral springs.

  Well, it worked.

  Targeting her feminine side to soothe her annoyance with him had been a clever strategy. What woman would refuse such a luxury? And in the healthful waters, no less?

  She could hardly wait to get there. A few miles, he’d said. Not far. A nice ride, with many things to see along the way.

  He was right about that, too.

  His knowledge of the plants and wildlife which roamed free on his father’s land captivated her. The gray brush rabbits who fed on green clover; the small kit fox who watched them from his burrow; the condor gliding high in the California sky, graceful and majestic. The wildflowers and grasses that grew; the sheep and cattle grazing in the distance. The fields of wheat…

  Proudly, he showed her all these things.

  This place where he’d grown up was still a part of him. He didn’t say so, but Gina knew it from the way his gaze soaked everything in, as if he were hungry to see it again.

  Yet as they crested a hill and spotted a log structure snuggled in the belly of the valley, he drew up and frowned in puzzlement. He twisted in the saddle and swept his glance around him, a recheck of his bearings.

  “What is it?” asked Gina.

  “The hot spring should be down there. But I don’t recall the shelter.”

  “It is not the bathhouse?”

  He studied the place for a long moment. “He must’ve built it for her.”

  “Who?” she asked.

  “My father. For my mother.”

  Gina returned her gaze there, too. She couldn’t imagine having her own mineral spring bath, even one located by itself in the hills. “How fortunate she is.”

  “Was.” He grew somber and resumed their ride. “She got sick. Living out here with the wind and dust made it hard for her to breathe some days. Her lungs weren’t strong enough. So he’d bring her out here as often as he could.” He squinted into the big blue sky. “She died a couple of years ago. At least, that’s what they told me when I got back.”

  Gina’s heart dipped in dismay. “Oh, Creed. I am sorry.”

  Their eyes met, and she read the pain of his regret that he hadn’t been there with his mother when she would’ve needed him most. Being deprived of the opportunity to say goodbye would be a loss he’d feel all his life.

  “If Mama dies, I cannot bear it.” She refused to think of the possibility. By not thinking of it, she didn’t go so crazy.

  “You’ll have her back,” he said quietly. “It can’t be much longer.”

  Gina clung to the memory of her visiones. The police, the nursing nuns at the infirmary, Graham… so many knew Louisa Briganti was missing. With their help, she would be found.

  “Wherever she is, she’d want you to enjoy your bath, wouldn’t she?” Creed’s tone turned to a gentle tease.

  Gina smiled. “I think the bath can make her a little envious, too.”

  They pulled up in front of the rectangular structure, and their conversation ended. Neatly made of logs, the place contained an open doorway at one end which invited entrance, yet the rest of the enclosure provided plenty of privacy. At the top, a skylight with a roof; open sides allowed illumination within. The odor of sulfur hovered in the air.

  “Pa discovered this mineral spring when I just a kid.” Creed made no move to dismount; his memories kept him in the saddle. “It’s a runoff from the Santa Monica Mountains. The waters run below the ground, a couple thousand feet deep. They flow for miles, and along the way, they pick up the precious minerals in the earth. The waters absorb its heat, too. At some point, probably hundreds of years ago, cracks formed in the rocks beneath, and the water pushed up to form springs like this one.”

  The awe-inspiring force of nature paralleled that of the springs in Sicily. In her country’s case, however, it’d been the volcanoes that formed many of them.

  “The faster the water is pushed to the surface, the hotter it is,” Creed added. “You’ll like this one. It tends to run the perfect side of warm. At least it used to.” He dismounted. “Ready to give it a try?”

  “I cannot wait.” She dismounted, too, taking her small valise with her.

  “There’s a clean towel in my left saddlebag. Help yourself.”

  He went inside to inspect the bathing chamber, and she moved toward the palomino to take advantage of his offer of the linen.

  “Will you use the waters, too?” she called to him.

  His head poked out from around the doorway. “Is that an invitation?”

  “To use them with me?” she asked, taken aback. She hadn’t intended the question to be provocative, but it amused her that he took it as such.

  “Just say the word, honey, and I’ll dive right in.”

  She tried not to laugh. It would only encourage him. “I think again the price you want to charge me is too high.” She flipped open one of the leather bags. “We will go
separate.”

  He sighed dramatically, and she lost sight of him again. She rooted among his belongings, packed tight in their small confines, and finally found the towel. She pulled the article out, but something else came along, too.

  A bundle that dropped to the ground. Small, wrapped in elegant, rose-colored paper. From the battered condition, he might have carried it with him from the far ends of the world, but wherever it came from, there was one thing for sure.

  The package was meant for a woman.

  The breeze tugged the crumpled wrapping loose and fluttered the filmy contents inside. Handkerchiefs, she realized. She scooped them up before they all went flying, and once they were safely in her grasp, she stared at them outright.

  Delicate, lace-trimmed handkerchiefs, of the finest quality. A whole stack of them, from white to the softest pastels, some of them plain, some of them embroidered, and, oh, no…

  He’d bought them for someone special.

  Someone female special.

  “Have to admit the Old Man did a nice job on the bathhouse,” Creed said, striding back outside. Seeing what she held, he halted. And frowned. “Hell, I forgot about those.”

  Well, he sure as blazes works fast, don’t he?

  Marcus’s contempt dropped into her memory, and suspicion stirred.

  “Who are they for?” she asked. It was none of her business, but the question was out before she could think of it that way.

  “Her name is Mary Catherine.”

  A beautiful name, and it conjured up instant images of the woman who bore it. A slow pique began to simmer, deep inside her.

  His frown deepened. “At least, they were going to be.”

  “And she is…?” Gina held her breath, not wanting to know, but needing to and hating herself for it.

  “Someone I planned to marry, that’s all.”

  She gasped. “What?”

  “It didn’t happen,” he said, watching her.

  “You want to marry her?”

  The pique spilled over, then. Hot and bitter. She shoved the bundle against his chest. Quick reflex kept him from dropping the whole bunch.

  “Hey,” he said, startled.