by Carol Finch
Smiling wryly, Hanna watched her handsome husband portray the gentleman shopkeeper. He could be polite and sociable when the mood suited him. Now the mood suited because he was on a mission of utmost importance, and he’d vowed to do whatever was necessary to build a case against Pryor.
“Hanna, glad you’re back,” Cale said as he glanced over his customers’ heads. “These good people were telling me about the fandango scheduled for this weekend. It’s become an annual festivity, so I’m told.”
“I’ll look forward to it.” Hanna smiled brightly at the two men, owners of the bakery and barbershop, respectively.
“There will be plenty of food, music and dancing in the town square,” the barber reported, then shifted uneasily. “Sometimes things get a bit rowdy around midnight, but we do our best to avoid trouble.”
In other words, thought Hanna, Pryor’s brigands drank heavily and posed problems for the citizens. Hmm. Perhaps she needed to purchase more laudanum for the occasion.
“Now, gentlemen, perhaps you would like some instruction on the use and care of your new pistols,” Cale offered, jostling Hanna from her pensive musings.
While Cale assisted his customers, Hanna went upstairs. Cale had told her to go about her daily business affairs and establish a predictable routine. He’d made it clear that Pryor’s spies and informants were keeping close tabs on the new arrivals, and it was important to do nothing that might arouse suspicion.
With that in mind, Hanna set up her easel and canvas. Her vantage point from the window provided a scenic view of the tree-lined river, rolling hills and horses grazing in the distance. Gathering paints and brushes, Hanna applied splash-and-dash sweeping motions to fill in the background. She used her charcoal pencil to sketch in the trees, then tried her hand at drawing a herd of grazing horses.
After two hours her landscape painting had begun to take shape. She stepped back to appraise the results. Her shoulders slumped and disappointment swamped her. Obviously oil wasn’t her medium, either. Her horses resembled long-necked coyotes. The rolling hills appeared flat and the trees looked more like scraggly bushes.
Blast it, did she have no hidden talents whatsoever? Thus far, her quest of self-discovery indicated there was nothing to discover. She couldn’t draw, couldn’t paint and couldn’t knit. Her attempt to write detailed notes for the investigation were too descriptive and probably contained far more pages than Judge Parker preferred to read.
Frustrated, she spun around, surprised to see Cale hovering inside the doorway, scrutinizing her painting. She didn’t ask for his honest opinion because she wasn’t in the mood to hear the discouraging truth aloud.
When his lips twitched and his dark eyes twinkled, Hanna lost her temper. “This is not amusing,” she muttered.
“Of course not,” he said in mock seriousness. “Maybe with a little more work—”
“Waste of time,” she interrupted as she snatched up the canvas and turned it against the wall. “After we have lunch I’ll try my hand at designing a gown with the fabric I brought from Fort Smith. Or perhaps I can make you a colorful vest.”
He made a muffled sound that could have meant anything, then said, “One of Pryor’s men came in before I closed for lunch. He had his eye on a new rifle.”
“Good.” Hanna breezed across the room. “Make sure you remove the firing mechanism if he decides to make the purchase. I prefer to see him shoot blanks.”
Cale followed Hanna down the steps, noting the frustrated pelting of her feet. He’d hoped she’d find a talent with oils to satisfy her craving. Unfortunately, she was as bad with oils as she was with charcoal pencils and knitting needles. He could only hope she had a gift for stitchery, because she was running out of hidden-talent options.
Throughout lunch Hanna didn’t have much to say, which was unusual. She’d always been a font of chitchat. Oh certainly, she spread her endearing smile around the café in her ongoing attempt to ensure the McClouds were accepted as part of the community. But she was discouraged. Cale could see it in the lack of sparkle in her eyes. He had to do something to cheer her up, he decided.
“I received a telegram from my attorney,” Hanna told him as they ambled back to the gun shop. “My trust fund has arrived.”
Cale halted in his tracks when an uneasy feeling settled over him. “When did you contact your attorney?”
“At Bennigan’s. I asked Benjamin Caldwell to send the funds to Cromwell. Why?” she questioned.
“Damn, Mags, you left a paper trail,” Cale muttered. The color drained from her face. “Dear God, what have I done? If the Pinkertons find out where I am and come charging into town to apprehend me, I might jeopardize your…Oh, Lord!”
When she swayed on her feet Cale grabbed her elbow and steered her into the shop. “It’s okay,” he said reassuringly. But it wasn’t okay. Having her father or the Pinkertons come thundering into town would definitely complicate his investigation and scare off Pryor. Damnation, why hadn’t he thought to caution her to wait a couple of weeks before making contact with her lawyer? Timing was essential here.
“No, it’s not okay a-tall,” Hanna said bleakly. “It gets worse.”
Cale stilled, watching the last bit of color seep from her face. “How much worse?”
Hanna fidgeted, muttered an unladylike curse half under her breath, then reluctantly met his probing gaze. “I sent a message to Bennigan’s this morning, asking for Julius’s and Pierce’s help with this investigation.”
“What?” Cale exploded before he could stop himself.
Hanna flinched. “I thought you needed help against the lopsided odds.”
“Help?” he repeated stupidly.
“Arliss Fenton warned me that the town marshal reads all outgoing and incoming telegrams, so I made it sound as if I was asking my brothers to come help us set up shop.”
Cale wanted to scold her for jeopardizing the investigation, and yet he wanted to hold her close because she looked utterly miserable and guilty. He decided to do both at once. He roped his arm around her waist, pulled her flush against him, dropped a kiss on her lips and said, “Damn it, Mags, do you realize how complicated this situation could get if your father’s detectives and two deputy marshals descend on Cromwell simultaneously? Pryor is cautious by habit and he’ll know something is afoot. Scores of innocent people could be caught in the crossfire.”
Big shiny tears dribbled from her eyes and her lower lip quivered. “I—I’m s-so s-sorry,” she said brokenly. “I can’t seem to do anything right. I’m nothing but useless window dressing, just as my father claims.”
When she howled in dismay Cale cuddled her closer. “No, you’re not. You’ve got lots of impressive qualities.” A sudden idea dawned on him and he abruptly set her away from him. “Wait here, Mags. I’ll be right back.”
Cale bounded up the steps two at a time to grab Hanna’s writing tablet and pencil. Reversing direction, he leaped down the steps to fetch a shiny new shotgun from the display table.
Tears streaming unchecked down her cheeks, Hanna stared at him. “If you’re planning to shoot me and put me out of my misery, I won’t object. But what’s the tablet for? So I can write my last will and testament?”
Cale locked the front door, grabbed her hand and towed her toward the back exit. “Skeet, stay,” he ordered the dog, who was sprawled beneath the display table. If anyone decided to break in and steal the weapons, Skeet would have something to say in the matter.
“Where are we going?” Hanna asked as Cale scurried down the alley, then headed for the trees that lined the river.
“You’re going to take target practice,” he replied.
“Not a wise idea,” she murmured as she wiped her tears on the sleeve of her gown. “I might accidentally shoot you.”
Cale squatted on his haunches to hastily draw a bull’s-eye on the paper, then strode over to attach it to a tree. He was certain that no one—even a novice with weapons like Hanna—could miss the target with the wide-scat
ter pattern of a shotgun. If nothing else, she could blow her frustration to smithereens. There was nothing like blasting an object to bits to make you feel better, he mused as he strode back to her.
Cale briefly explained the procedure of balancing and bracing the weapon against her shoulder and steadying her legs to counter the kick of the shotgun. He showed her how to take aim down the sight and focus on her target.
Sniffling, Hanna followed his precise instructions, then, before Cale could rattle off another comment, she pulled the trigger.
The kick of the shotgun knocked her off her feet. Yelping, she landed on her backside in the grass. Cale swooped down to hoist her upright.
“I told you to be prepared for the kick,” he said as he brushed twigs from her gown.
“I didn’t realize the weapon would kick with the force of a mule,” she grumbled as she rubbed her throbbing shoulder.
“Next time I’ll stand behind you for additional support. Once you get accustomed to…” His voice fizzled out when he glanced at what was left of the paper target. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
“No doubt you will, thanks to me and my stupidity,” she mumbled. “I’ve spoiled everything in this investigation.”
Cale thrust his arm toward the demolished bull’s-eye. “Look at that, will you?”
Hanna’s eyes widened in disbelief when she saw the battered target. “I did that all by myself?”
Grinning in response to her pleased expression, Cale drew another target and placed it on a branch. “This time back up a few paces,” he requested.
Hanna backed up, lifted the weapon, braced herself for the inevitable kick and stared down the barrel. Cale positioned himself directly behind her so she wouldn’t knock herself off her feet again.
The discharging shotgun propelled Hanna against him, but he barely noticed that her elbow slammed into his solar plexus. He was too busy gaping at the tattered target. Jaw sagging, he glanced down at Hanna. This was definitely more than beginner’s luck. Hanna had a natural eye. Of all the hidden potential she had hoped to discover, who would’ve thought she was a natural sharpshooter?
Cale took the shotgun from her hands and reached for the pistol he kept tucked at the small of his back. “Okay, Miz Crackshot, let’s see how you do with small firearms. Different arm position, different sighting. Now pay attention here.”
Hanna listened with absolute concentration while Cale instructed her to hold the weapon waist-high, using the invisible line from her shoulder to the target to ensure accuracy. He showed her how to cock the trigger and squeeze in one fluid motion.
While Hanna waited eagerly, Cale sketched another target and hung it on the tree. “This requires more concentration for accuracy, Mags,” he told her. “You’re working with a bullet, not a spray of buckshot. Now then, whenever you’re ready, take aim and fire. Keep the pistol parallel to the ground. That’s good.”
The report of the pistol broke the silence. He squinted at the target, then his eyes popped. In disbelief his gaze leaped to Hanna. True, he’d drawn a large bull’s-eye, but still…!
Cale threw back his head and laughed in delight. His dainty little bride, who’d been sheltered and stifled all her life, who couldn’t knit, couldn’t paint, sing or draw, had an amazing knack with weapons. Who would’ve thought it?
Cale was still chuckling when Hanna threw herself into his arms, and he had to grab the pistol barrel before it clanked against his skull. “Watch where you’re pointing that thing, woman.”
“Sorry.” She practically squeezed the stuffing out of him, then said, “I’m going to love you forever for giving me back my pride and self-confidence. This is wonderful! Now that I know I have an aptitude for weapons you can teach me all about them and I can mind the shop so you can devote your time to monitoring Pryor’s activities. Now that I’ve bungled everything, time is of the essence.”
And then she kissed him, and Cale forgot about target practice, the investigation, an irate father hot on their heels, the Pinkertons and two deputy marshals who might walk into an ambush, and the tempting stack of money that had arrived to finance Hanna’s dreams of adventure in the West. The only thing on his mind was the woman who’d become so entangled in his life that letting her go would be like amputating his arms and legs.
Cale kissed her back and his hands wandered at will, mapping her lush curves and swells. When the pistol dropped from her hand and thumped on his boot, Cale gave himself a mental shake and set her away from him.
“We need to get back to the shop,” he rasped.
Hanna nodded, then rearranged the bodice of her gown where his hands had been prowling moments before. “Right. I have scads of things to learn about weapons.”
“And starting now, since you can shoot, I want you to carry a derringer strapped to your thigh and a dagger in your boot. I’ll rest easier knowing you’re armed.”
As Cale and Hanna walked hand in hand to town, her words echoed in his mind. I’m going to love you forever. She hadn’t meant it literally, of course. She’d only meant that she was grateful that he’d discovered her hidden talent. Regardless, the words rattled him. He wasn’t the kind of man who deserved a woman like Hanna. He couldn’t match her social status, her pedigree, and he wasn’t accepted and respected in most communities because of his lack of breeding and his profession.
He glanced discreetly at Hanna, noting the pleased smile on her face, the confident set of her shoulders. He’d bolstered her self-esteem and given her a useful purpose. He should be satisfied with having an impact on her life—temporarily.
It had to be enough. He’d never expected much from life, and this wasn’t the time to start wanting more. He and Hanna had made a deal and he’d keep it. Despite all these alien feelings that sometimes got in his way, this was still a charade and he couldn’t let himself forget that.
Otis Pryor stared at the approaching horseman, wondering if Sam Vickers was riding out to the ranch to report more bad news. The past few days hadn’t gone well, and Otis was in no mood for more complications. He’d ranted and raved at his negligent guards for not securing the corral gate after they’d added the stolen livestock to the herd before the trail drive. It had taken four hours and considerable manpower to regather the herd and begin the drive to the Texas and Pacific Railroad depot at Fort Worth. With half of his men absent, Otis felt twitchy and vulnerable. He preferred feelings of absolute power and dominance over potential threats.
To make matters worse, something had been niggling him since he’d met the newcomers in town. There was something in Grayson McCloud’s dark, penetrating gaze that seemed unnervingly familiar. Otis swore he’d never laid eyes on the gunsmith before, but the expression around McCloud’s eyes and mouth reminded him of another bronzed face that belonged to a knife-wielding Indian who’d viciously attacked when Otis had latched on to his pretty squaw. The incident had nearly cost Otis his life.
Injured and bleeding, Otis and his men had headed south to Texas and never returned to Indian Territory. It had taken six months to recover from that crazed Indian’s attack. And Otis had suffered excruciating pain each time he moved.
Fearless, Otis thought suddenly. That was the similarity in expression between that vicious Indian and Grayson McCloud. That’s what bothered him about the new gun-smith. Yet it was McCloud’s beguiling wife that occupied Otis’s thoughts most every night. She was exactly the kind of attractive trophy he needed at his side while he ruled this region of Texas. Incomparably beautiful and obviously well bred, Hanna McCloud could bring him the cultured respectability that would complement his acquired land, vast cattle herds and wealth.
The only thing standing between the woman Otis decided he wanted to reign by his side was the man with no fear of anything—save one. A diabolical smile pursed Otis’s lips. Grayson McCloud’s greatest treasure was also his greatest weakness.
“What are you grinning about, boss?” Sam Vickers asked as he dismounted from his lathered horse. “Last time I saw you, you
were pitching a fit and cursing because the men keep leaving the corral gates open and cattle keep scattering to kingdom come.”
Otis momentarily discarded his erotic thoughts of having Hanna McCloud in his bed. “What are you doing out here?” he asked. “I told you to keep close tabs on the McClouds.”
“Have been.” Sam spat a stream of tobacco, wiped his mouth on his grimy sleeve, then retrieved the telegrams from his pocket. “But I came across a couple of interesting messages I thought you’d like to see—pronto.”
Otis frowned curiously as he unfolded the messages. His brows shot up when he noted that Hanna had inherited a trust fund. How much? He didn’t know. The message didn’t say. But judging from Hanna’s polished manners and sophistication he suspected she’d come from considerable wealth. The second correspondence, from Hanna to her brothers in Indian Territory, caused him to frown warily.
“Bennigan’s Trading Post?” Otis mused aloud. “I swore Hanna said they’d come from New Orleans. What are her brothers doing there?”
“Dunno.” Sam spat tobacco juice as he leisurely propped himself against his sweaty horse. “I just thought you’d like to know she’s called in family. Four newcomers in town at once will be more difficult to keep up with. Especially with half your men headed to Fort Worth.”
Otis was getting another bad feeling. He needed to act quickly to counter any potential threats to his control over the town. He never questioned these uneasy feelings, for they’d kept him one step ahead of the law for years.
“Get back to town and keep watching the gun shop,” Otis ordered.
“Not much to see, except customers tramping in and out,” Sam reported. “After lunch I looked through the window to see McCloud hugging his wife.” He grinned wickedly. “I’ve seen him do that twice already. That chit must really be something in bed.”
The comment reinforced Otis’s craving to have Hanna at his beck and call. He did indeed have plans to make and he needed to make them now. He also needed to ensure Hanna’s brothers didn’t live long enough to complicate the situation.