by Pam Crooks
“Complicates things, for sure.” Smoke nodded, grim like the rest of them.
“We’ll handle it,” Pa said.
Creed stared at him. He’d always known the Old Man was a stubborn cuss, but this stiff-necked tenacity in the face of fear and adversity was, hell…
Something inside Creed broke.
Admirable.
His frustration crumpled. Might be the Old Man was an example to follow, after all. Creed had plenty of fear built up inside him. He’d just have to let go of some to formulate a strategy.
He’d done it before. Survived on strategy. A mercenary’s plan to fight and win.
But, then, except for Jeb, he’d had only to think of himself the past six years. Save his own life or die trying.
Never his family’s. And that painted the picture a different color.
“The details of McKinley’s journey are confidential,” he said. “His itinerary isn’t final. But he’ll be here. Soon.”
“Tell us what we can do,” Lonnie said.
“Just name it,” said Hube.
“Anything,” Markie and Smoke added in unison.
Their loyalty hit Creed deep. He’d forgotten what it was like to be surrounded by the devotion of his father’s men.
“Short of sending for the entire United States Army so they can comb every inch of Sherman land to find the Sokolovs?” Creed’s head hurt, just thinking of it. “We wait.”
“That’s right.” Pa nodded. “Let them come to us.” A ghost of a grin showed up on his lips. “Simple.”
Hell.
Creed angled his head away. He didn’t want to feel the effects of his father’s wry humor, and he sure didn’t want to give any back. Not now, when times were serious. Too many years of pride and resentment kept him from it.
Mary Catherine took Gina’s empty coffee cup and set it on the sideboard, saving him.
“I trust you menfolk will have plenty to talk about without us,” she said. “Gina’s exhausted. I’ll take her upstairs to Marcus’s room. She needs some sleep.”
“Oh, but I cannot take his room,” Gina protested, darting a helpless glance at Creed.
“It’s no trouble, truly,” Mary Catherine said. “He stays in the bunkhouse with the rest of the outfit.”
Her explanation was another reminder to Creed his kid brother had grown up to become one of his father’s men. In time, the ranch would be his, and he’d move back into the main house to rule over it all.
Patriarch of the Sherman regime.
In Creed’s place.
And that threw him into a damned confused state again.
Gina remained hesitant despite Mary Catherine’s assurances. Had it been so long since anyone offered her any kind of hospitality?
“Go on,” Creed said quietly. “The room’s yours for the night.”
She nodded, stood, and he rose with her, the courtesy Pa taught and always expected. What a man gave a woman in polite society. Funny how it came back, now, in his kitchen.
Her hand lifted, a farewell and acknowledgement of the others. “Good night, everyone.”
Creed nearly took a step forward to give her a kiss but stopped himself before he could. He had no claim to the intimacy, the possessiveness of such a gesture. Something a husband would give his wife every night for the rest of their lives.
He watched the women climb the stairs, talking softly amongst themselves. They were about the same age. They could be friends if circumstances were different…
Family, even.
And where did that thought come from?
Smoke sighed, long and lusty. Years ago, he was hired to work in the bunkhouse kitchen, and his tendency to burn anything he tried to cook earned him the nickname of Smokey. Wasn’t long after that he was booted out to cowboy on the range, and he’d grown into one of Pa’s best.
“She’s as fine as cream gravy, Creed,” he said.
“Yep.” Lonnie sighed, too. “Them eyes, all black and shiny.”
“Like patent leather.” Hube stared at the now-empty staircase.
“She’s sweet as sugar, too.” Markie rubbed his jaw. “Reckon she’s got us all sufferin’ from a case of Cupid’s cramps, don’t she?”
Creed scowled. When had they gotten so damn poetic?
“What kind of claim you got on her?” Smoke asked.
Smoke always fancied himself a ladies’ man. Far as Creed knew, he was the only one who did. “Who’s asking?”
He hitched up his britches. “I am.”
“You touch her, you die.”
The whole bunch guffawed at their success in getting his hackles up, and Markie smacked him on the arm.
“Aw, pull in your horns, Creed,” he drawled. “Smoke’s just stirrin’ your oats, that’s all.”
Yeah? And he did a damn fine job of it. But Creed kept the complaint to himself.
“That’s enough, boys,” the Old Man said. “Save your play for later. We’ve got some decisions to make.”
Instantly, they turned serious again.
“What would you like us to do, Creed?” he asked. “Your call.”
Creed, too, had to shift his thoughts, from Gina to war, the hell of it being Pa asking his opinion for once.
“We’ll need to send a man to each of the line camps in case the Sokolovs go there to hide,” he said. “And we need to circle guards around the main house, a couple of acres beyond.” He hesitated. The whole outfit had to know the risks. “In case they hurl a bomb.”
For a moment, no one spoke as the implications of what he’d said sank in.
“Consider it done,” Pa said finally.
Creed thought of the time. “I need to ride back out to the West Camp. Gina and I left some things behind.”
The rest of his weapons, for one. Her coat and sketches, for another.
“I’ll go,” Markie said. “I’ve ridden that trail so often I can do it blindfolded.”
“I don’t expect it of you,” Creed said. His brother would have to ride long into the night. “I’m willing.”
“Let him do it,” Pa said. “You got a good crack on the head tonight. Rest up so you’ll be sharp in the morning. Who knows what we’ll have to deal with?”
The rest of the men took his words as an order. They put their hats back on and headed toward the door. Creed followed them out.
The crisp night air filled his lungs, made him glad he was in better shape now than when he rode in. He strode toward Gina’s bay, his legs still a shade wobbly, but getting him where he needed to go.
He untied her valise, then stepped to the palomino for his saddlebags and flung them over his shoulder. Markie approached from the direction of the barn, and Creed noted how quick he’d been to mount up and ready himself to ride out.
“Markie!” he called out. His brother trotted toward him, and Creed unsheathed his Remington .44, one of the finest the company made of its caliber. The rifle had saved his life more times than he cared to think about. “Here.”
He sent the weapon sailing. Markie caught it one-handed.
“Hope you don’t have to use it,” Creed said.
Markie glanced down at the rifle, then back up. In the lantern light, his appreciation showed. “Thanks.”
“Be careful.”
“Sure thing, big brother.” His horse pranced, ready to run. “Hey, Creed?”
“Yeah?”
“Call me Marcus, will you? I’m not twelve anymore.”
Once again, the sting from time lost rolled through him. But oddly, not as deep. Creed liked what he saw. The man his brother had become. A corner of his mouth lifted. “I will from now on.”
“See you in the morning.” He rode off with a wave, leaving Creed to stand alone in the lane, watching him until the night swallowed him whole.
Pa had gone off to the bunkhouse to gather up the rest of the outfit and inform them of the situation. Creed’s arrival had put them all in danger, and if he could take his battle to different soil, spare them the scare a
nd the trouble from what lay ahead, he would.
But it was too late for that. They were as involved as could be, and, troubled, Creed headed back into the house.
Chapter Twenty-One
He found Mary Catherine in the kitchen, washing dishes, an apron tied to her round belly. His stride slowed. She would still remember the ugliness of his homecoming, and he figured he had some amends to make.
She glanced at him over her shoulder and smiled. “She’s a lovely woman, Creed.”
Gina. More woman than any he’d ever known, her being lovely not even half of it. Did Mary Catherine understand how Gina had changed his life? The sheer unexpectedness of it? Or that he was on the brink of falling in love with her, if he hadn’t already?
“She is,” he said instead. “Thanks for making her feel welcome, by the way.”
“Anyone out here would’ve done the same.” She turned and reached for a towel.
“Mary Catherine,” he began.
“Creed,” she said at the same time.
She held up a hand, rosy and damp from the dishwater. “I’ll go first, if that’s all right.”
His gaze spilled over her pale hair, shining in the kitchen’s light, the creaminess of her skin, the freckles on her pert nose. Funny how his preferences had swung toward thick and sable hair, skin with an olive hue, and a nose with a charming little hook.
“We were never right for each other, you know,” she said quietly.
Dreams from the past settled over him, like a misty rain. “At first, Mary Catherine, we were. You know we were.”
“Maybe not even then.” She shook her head in regret. “Oh, we were young, Creed. Our worlds were narrow. We never looked beyond what was directly in front of us. We didn’t know how. And we didn’t know that we should.”
“Until I left.”
“Then we had no choice, did we? In my case, I didn’t have to look far.”
“No.” The Old Man had always been there. Losing Ma helped him find Mary Catherine. And she’d always been there, too. Both of them in each other’s world.
“I don’t think you had to, either,” she said. “Look far, I mean.”
He frowned and resisted what she might imply.
“No farther than the city.” She smiled.
“It’s not like you’re thinking.” He was leaving. He had no room for Gina in his world. And she sure as hell didn’t need someone like him in hers. “It’s not.”
She shrugged. But her eyes stayed on him.
He shifted to the other foot and gave up. Why bother to explain? Nothing would change if he did. He felt the weight of his saddlebags on his shoulder and recalled what was inside. He opened one of the flaps, pulled out the crushed, rose-colored package and thrust the thing at her.
“Here. These are for you. I bought them at Collette’s when I, well—”
He halted. At the time, he’d thought the handkerchiefs were an appropriate gift for his homecoming and impending engagement. But now…
“Oh, Creed.” She stared down at the package in her hands. “Collette’s? For me? You must’ve paid a fortune.”
“I didn’t.”
Not really, and even if he had, seeing the pleasure in her expression now would’ve been worth it.
“They’re beautiful.”
Carefully, as if she feared the contents would get up and fly away, she laid the gift on the table, parted the paper wide and gasped in delight at the miniature squares of cloth, each clearly a treasure.
But of all of them, her fingers lingered over one in particular, in pristine white, delicately edged in lace.
“I’ll make a christening bonnet with this,” she breathed. “It will fit her little head just right.” He must’ve looked confused; her smile grew. “The baby’s, Creed.”
Something swelled inside him. “‘Her’?”
“I’m hoping.” Her eyes twinkled. “Would you like a sister?”
Emotion pushed up into his throat. When he left, he’d miss the baby’s birth, like he’d missed Ma dying, because life went on, his family living it every day without him. The happy times and the sad.
She regarded him again. “All of this is hard for you, isn’t it? The changes since you’ve been gone, I mean.”
“I’m sorry.” He blew out an agonized breath. “I don’t want it to be.”
“I wish it wasn’t. Maybe this will help.” Gently, she took his hand and pressed his palm to the side of her belly. Tiny kicks patted against his palm. “Your father’s baby is real, Creed. I hope you’ll be able to love her as much as we already do.”
The anguish broke. Creed bundled Mary Catherine into his arms and held her tight. He’d been an ass to resent the innocent growing in her womb. He’d been unfair to disdain the happiness she found with the Old Man, too.
“She’ll be lucky to have you as her mother,” he said, voice husky. “And Pa, he never would’ve married you if he didn’t love you enough.”
“Nor I him.” Eyes shimmering, Mary Catherine drew back and kissed his cheek. “We’ll not speak of it again. Go on upstairs now. Your old room is waiting for you.”
His mood lighter, he released her and headed toward the stairs. “Yeah? Does it still look the same?”
“Exactly the same.”
He climbed the first step.
“Creed?”
He halted, one hand on the rail.
“He never gave up hope you’d come back, you know.”
That helped his mood, too. “Good night, Mary Cat.”
He climbed the stairs; at the top, down the hall to the right, was his old bedroom, the door open and inviting. Instead, he turned left, toward Marcus’s room, where Gina would be.
The door was closed, and he didn’t bother to knock before going in. A breeze drifted through the open window; curtain hems flitted and swayed. Moonlight shone in through the glass, illuminating her shape under the covers.
He latched the door and turned the lock. Her dark head swiveled on the pillow, and he could feel her watch him, the awareness between them building. This need in him, too, that wouldn’t go away, even in his father’s house.
Setting her valise on the floor, he dropped his saddlebags on top, and pulled his shirt free from his Levi’s.
“I hoped you would come,” she whispered.
She threw the covers back for him. In moments, the mattress took his weight, and he gathered her into his arms. Desire swept through him, hot and sweet. He succumbed to the power of her kisses, the allure of her body, and fulfilled the promise he’d made in the bathhouse.
By making love to her in a bed. All night long.
The visione came again. But this time, different.
Mama sat in a soft haze of light with her slender body propped against fluffy pillows and immaculate white blankets over her lap. Shining and thick, her hair flowed over her shoulders, a contrast against the brilliance of her gown. A smile filled her face, her happiness as vibrant as the light illuminating her.
Gina called to her, and Mama laughed, her black eyes twinkling. Her arms lifted. Reaching…waiting.
“Mia bella figlia. My beautiful daughter. Come, come to me.”
Gina began to run, her arms reaching, too. Elation filled her heart, the need to embrace her mother consuming. Finally, finally. It had been so long, so frightening.
She ran and ran, yet it was as if her legs were filled with sand, and she could not reach her. Mama sat, smiling, elusive but patient, waiting and waiting…
Gina awoke with a start.
Her pulse pounded. The certainty her mother was safe and alive had never been this strong. This real.
The vision faded, and comprehension of the new morning took its place. Sunshine streamed through the window, freshened by a crisp, clean breeze.
Creed was gone. Startled by it, she sat up. His saddlebags were gone, too. But her valise sat on the floor, where he’d left it last night. On a chair, her coat, neatly draped, along with her sheaf of sketches.
Marcus w
ould have returned from their line shack at the West Camp. Creed was with him, then, and an urgency to tell Creed of her new visione sent her hastening from the bed to find him.
After she dressed and tidied up the room, she rushed down the stairs and into the kitchen. A pot of coffee sat hot on the stove, a skillet heaped with fried potatoes on an adjacent burner. On the sideboard, a basket of eggs and a platter of sliced bread. A stack of plates and cups and forks, too.
Breakfast made, but not served.
Mary Catherine was nowhere to be found, and alarm flickered through Gina. She kept moving, into the front room and out the door. Her footsteps quickened across the porch and down the steps.
A shiny black runabout sat in the lane, and she recognized it as Graham Dooling’s. Why was he here? Where was he? Why hadn’t the Sherman family welcomed him into their home?
Where was Creed? Where was everyone?
Her gaze searched beyond the yard and found nothing; she lifted her dress hem and ran toward the barn, and there she spied a group of cowboys standing with the Shermans and Graham under the wide-reaching shade of a stately cottonwood tree. All of them in a circle, their expressions somber beneath their Stetsons, and her alarm intensified. Gina tried not to be afraid and hurried toward them.
Several of the men were those of the Sherman outfit she’d met last night. Several others, young and old, she hadn’t seen before. Creed and Graham were hunkered next to the cowboy named Lonnie, lying on the ground with his Stetson beside him, his forehead wrapped in a blood-smeared bandanna.
He lay so still, she gasped from the fear he was dead. Heads lifted toward her, and the circle widened, letting her in.
Creed’s grim gaze raised to hers. A rough beard shadowed his cheeks. He wore his Stetson low, like the holster strapped to his hips. The hard glint in his eyes revealed none of the loving he’d given her last night. He was a different man now. Cold and full of hate.
“The Sokolovs bombed the East Camp,” he said. “Lonnie was there, taking a turn at watch, and got caught in it. Hube found him this morning and brought him in.”
“Oh, no.” Horrified, Gina made the Sign of the Cross.