Prologue Read online

  After two roast beef sandwiches, a pint of potato salad, half a berry pie, and a quart of iced tea, Travis tipped his chair back against the shady wall and closed his eyes, his long legs dangling.

  For her part, Chloe only nibbled on her lunch, uncomfortably aware of the strong arms and chest poorly concealed by the leather apron. With decent food, in only three weeks he'd begun to fill out, losing the sickly thinness he'd had when he got there.

  As if feeling her eyes on him, he spoke. “You said your father died last spring. Was he sick for a long time?" The shop was in such neglected chaos Travis thought no one had done much work there for several years.

  "You might say that," she replied carefully. To Chloe, it was bad enough that Frank had staggered home every night from the Twilight Star for the whole town to see. She didn't want to tell Travis about it. But, yes, she supposed her father had been ill for years. Sick with grief, with whiskey.

  Travis noted the lack of emotion in her voice. He'd been unable to talk about his own parents' deaths for many months without his throat constricting. He opened his eyes and kept his gaze trained on the low distant hills far beyond the back fence. "And that's why it bothers you when I take a drink now and then?"

  She turned to him sharply, but he was still watching those hills, as if looking for someone. "My father was killed in a wagon accident and that has nothing to do with my objection to your drinking."

  "I think it does. I'd say he drank quite a bit for quite a while."

  His voice was calm but his words peeved her. "Who told you that?" she demanded, annoyed that this town respected nothing of a person's privacy, not even a dead man's.

  "Your father did."

  "What?" She grasped the arm of his chair and pulled it forward so hard it landed on its four legs with a crash. "What are you talking about?"

  He faced her but waited a moment before answering, debating what to tell her. Finally he settled on the truth. "The first day I came out here to look around, I found a pile of empty whiskey bottles in the back stall. There must have been over a hundred of them."

  Over a hundred. Not surprised, but humiliated by his discovery, she tried a feeble denial. "He doctored a lot of horses over the years. They were probably old tonic bottles."

  "No they weren't."

  His tone left no room for argument, but neither did it judge. She looked into his face and saw a brief flash of sympathy, something she didn't expect. She sighed and then glanced at her lap. "I suppose I'd better get rid of them. I didn't know they were there."

  He tipped his chair again and resumed his study of the yellow hills. "I buried them next to the back wall one afternoon when you were out delivering laundry."

  She didn't know what to say. He'd done a favor for her and even showed a bit of kindness, but she didn't want to be obligated to this man in any way. In fact, she'd rather that he owed her. And the last time she tried to repay him, after that episode with Adam Mitchell, he'd gotten angry. "Thank you," she finally replied.

  He let the chair drop forward, then stood and put the tray in her hands. "That was hard, I bet. It's not easy letting people do for you, is it?"

  "I got used to doing for myself," she replied flatly, rising from her chair, "because I had to. I learned I'm the only one I can depend on."

  With a mix of respect and exasperation, Travis watched her cross the yard to the house, her back straight, her head up.

  * * *

  "Uh, are you Mr. McGuire?"

  Travis glanced up from the anvil and saw a towheaded boy lingering in the shop doorway with a small wooden crate in his arms.

  "Yeah, but you can call me Travis," he replied. "What's your name?"

  "Cory Hicks. Mr. DeGroot said you ordered this horse liniment. I brung it right away, just like he told me." The youngster advanced only one step.

  Travis smiled at him. How old was he? he wondered. Nine, maybe ten years old? He tried to remember being that age, running barefoot and free on summer days, in holey overalls cut off at the knees. But he had no memories like that.

  He put down his maul and motioned him forward. "Come on in, Cory. You can set it down over here." He directed him to a stool by the back wall.

  The boy obeyed.

  Travis walked over, lifted a corner of the box to test its weight and gave a low whistle. 'That's a big crate for you to carry. You must be pretty strong."

  Cory looked up at him from under snow-blond bangs. He had a bright, engaging face and he nodded in proud agreement. "I got muscles from working with Pa on our farm. That's why Mr. DeGroot pays me a dime to deliver stuff sometimes."

  "Yeah? Let's see," Travis said. "Hold up your arm and make a fist."

  Cory raised his left arm and assumed the stance of a circus strong man, his expression fierce. He had several nasty-looking bruises on his forearm. Some were healing but a couple looked new

  Chuckling with genuine enjoyment, Travis said, "Not bad, not bad. When you get a little more growth, you'd make a good blacksmith's apprentice."

  Cory dropped his fist and looked around. His gaze took in the forge and anvil, the tools hanging from the walls, the kettle handles and wheel rims, and came back to rest on Travis. "I guess you gotta be strong to be a blacksmith, huh?"

  "You do, and you need to be careful, too," Travis teased, indicating the boy's bruises. "It's easy to get hurt doing this kind of work. Your arm looks like my face." He pointed at his own improving black-and-blue marks. "How did you do that?"

  Cory tucked his arm behind him and looked at the hard-packed dirt floor. Travis immediately regretted saying anything about it. He didn't mean to embarrass the boy.

  "Aw, it's 'cause I'm left-handed," he muttered, and reached out to finger a sliver on the rough box. " 'Cept I'm not supposed to be. Mr. Peterson says it's bad and this is the only way I'll remember to hold my pencil right-handed."

  Travis focused sharply on the crown of the child's lowered head, a flame igniting in his belly. He put his finger under Cory's chin and tipped up his face. The disgrace Travis saw there made him feel, for the briefest moment, as though he were looking into a mirror. He reached for the boy's wrist to get a better look at his arm. "Evan Peterson did that to you? Because you're left-handed?"

  Cory nodded shamefacedly and turned his eyes to the floor again. "He always got mad at me about it and told me I had to stop trying to be different, that writing left-handed is wicked." He looked up at Travis, his expression earnest, contrite. "And I was learning not to, I swear I was! Then I got scarlet fever last spring and I missed a lot of school. When I was better, my ma asked Mr. Peterson to give me lessons. I forgot I'm supposed to be right-handed, and that's when he started correcting me. That's what he calls it when he smacks me with the edge of his ruler."

  Travis felt the low flame erupt into a blinding fury that momentarily threatened his ability to reason. His hands clenched into fists and he pulled in a deep breath. When Cory took a step back from him, staring at him with huge blue eyes, he knew his rage must be showing. With effort he released his fists and sank to a crouch next to the boy.

  "Did you tell your mother or father that Evan Peterson beat you?" he asked quietly, trying to remain calm while he talked to him.

  Cory shook his head. "No, but I'm finished with my lessons for the summer, anyway. I won't have to see him again till school starts." A nervous shiver ran through him, as though at the prospect. Then in a small, plaintive voice he asked, "Is it really wicked to be left-handed? Am I gonna go to hell?"

  A twinge of pain twisted in Travis's chest at the question. Goddamn that Peterson, Travis smoldered, rising to his feet. If anyone was going to hell, it would be that son of a bitch teacher. Slowly, to avoid startling him, he put his hand on Cory's white-blond hair.

  "No, Cory, it's not bad to be left-handed. Or different, or short, or a newcomer, or anything like that. The people who are wrong are the ones who'd tell you those things are bad. Do you know what I mean?"

  Cory looked at him a moment, then apparen
tly satisfied with what he'd heard, nodded. "Can I watch you give a horse new shoes?"

  Travis shrugged regretfully. "I don't have a horse here today. Right now, I'm patching a big kettle."

  Cory brushed his bangs out of his eyes. “That's okay. I got to be getting back to Mr. DeGroot, anyways. He wants me to sweep his store." He glanced up hopefully. "Can I come back sometime, maybe?"

  Travis put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Any day you like, Cory."

  * * *

  The quality of the food had definitely improved over the past few weeks, Travis thought later, but the dinner company had not. It was merely in another room. Tonight, as usual, he sat alone at the kitchen table, while Evan and Chloe ate in the dining room. Their conversation was boring, but Travis had begun to notice that Peterson was becoming more vocal in his objections to his presence. Chloe would usually try to divert the man, but more often Peterson doggedly remained with the subject. Now Travis chewed on a chicken leg and listened to Evan's stage whisper.

  "Why does he have to eat in the kitchen?" the teacher whispered loudly at Chloe. "The weather is still good. He doesn't need to come in at all."

  "Evan, he isn't deaf," Chloe hissed back.

  "If he weren't in the house, he wouldn't be able to hear me," he responded, but lowered his voice a bit. "He should be outside. That man is nothing but trouble and I don't like the way he comes and goes around here."

  “Evan, please—" Chloe said.

  "I hate to think what he could do with you two alone here at the end of town. Someone like that—why, he looks like a defiler of women. And why do we never have tea anymore?" he complained. "I like tea much better than coffee. Is it because he likes it?"

  "I thought it would be a nice change," Chloe hedged.

  Travis pushed his plate away, fury taking his appetite. He stood and walked out the door, slamming it so hard the windows rattled.

  * * *

  After Evan left, Chloe was folding the tablecloth when she heard Travis come up the back stairs. He paused in the doorway and gave her an even stare before walking to the stove.

  "I guess we know where Peterson's mind is," Travis said. He helped himself to a cup of coffee, then leaned a hip against the doorjamb. "He thinks I'm here"—and he stopped a moment, searching for the right word—"defiling you."

  Chloe tried not to be embarrassed, but she was. Evan's indefensible rudeness put her in an awkward position. The entire topic was one she would rather not think about. She looked at his strong hand gripping the coffee cup and ventured a quick glance at his eyes before turning her gaze.

  "He's just protecting me, that's all," she replied, keeping her face carefully averted. Surely that accounted for the almost frantic, translucent glimmer in Evan's eyes whenever he complained about Travis.

  He snorted. "Protecting you. Don't flatter yourself. The only people Peterson will stand up to are those who are weaker or smaller."

  "What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded, her voice rising. "I wish you'd remember that he is my fiancé."

  He astounded her with a grim prediction.

  "Lady," his voice was low, "if you marry that man, your life will be so miserable you'll wish you were dead."

  "What?! What in the world would make you say something like that?" she said, shaken by his words.

  "There's something not right about Evan Peterson." He told her about Cory Hicks and the bruises on his left arm.

  Chloe frowned. "Surely you don't believe that. Children tend to exaggerate things—everything is larger than life to them."

  "You bet I believe it," he insisted. "You didn't see that kid's face while he was talking about it." Then he paused a moment before continuing in a quiet voice. "I guess I owe you my life, but the best repayment I can give you is a piece of advice. If you're half as smart as I think, you'll listen to me."

  "But, why—what—" she spluttered.

  "It isn't only that Peterson is a mama's boy," Travis went on between sips from his blue enameled cup. "If that was all there was to it, I'd only think the two of you are mismatched. There's something more I can't put my finger on, a weakness of character, a selfishness, a basic meanness." He pushed himself away from the doorjamb and poured another half cup of coffee.

  Chloe found her voice. "Just because he's worried about me while a strange man is living on my property? Worried that some harm might come to me?"

  She heard a mirthless chuckle. "He's not worried about you. He's scared to death for himself."

  "I don't wonder. When you invited yourself to dinner that night, you stared at him throughout the entire meal and purposely intimidated him," she snapped.

  "No." He shook his head. "I didn't do it on purpose. But he ran out of here as fast as his legs could carry him. If the woman I loved took some drifter into her house, no matter why, I'd be mad as hell. I'd kick his ass all the way to the edge of town."

  Stopped by his words, Chloe looked up into his face. She was arrested by a flicker of emotion she saw there.

  "And if he thinks I'm that dangerous," his voice was still soft, "how could he leave you here alone with me, the woman he loves? I sure as hell couldn't do that."

  Chloe couldn't answer this. How, indeed, she thought to herself. Evan was supposed to protect her from "the stranger," but that mostly amounted to complaining about him. Evan had, in a way, failed her.

  "But Evan isn't like you at all," she replied, almost to herself. "And besides, he doesn't love me."

  He stepped closer. "No? And do you love him?"

  The situation was becoming confusing and the kitchen suddenly hot. He was standing too close and yet not close enough. She tried to look away from his intense gaze but he put his finger under her chin and lifted it.

  "Why do you want to know?"

  "Do you?"

  "No." It was as if he willed the word from her mouth.

  He stepped back, the spell broken. What was this man's secret? Why was he able to make her reveal so much more of herself than she intended? She felt exposed and vulnerable. And how could he so confidently size up Evan in such a brief meeting?

  As though reading her mind, he said, "You meet a lot of different types in prison. After a while, you become a pretty good judge of character."

  Travis was sitting on the porch swing when Chloe went up to bed that night. She took her customary place in front of her pier glass to brush out her hair. Surely she couldn't have told Travis those secrets she had trouble admitting even to herself. Her face burned at the memory.

  How had he pried such personal thoughts from her? She'd told him she didn't love Evan. She'd told him Evan didn't love her.

  Well, so what if they didn't have the romance of the century? She wanted tranquil companionship, a dependable partner to share the years with. People married for far less noble reasons, and love was certainly not one of them. What a dark, enigmatic man Travis McGuire was. Although she and Doc guessed him to be about her age—it was hard to tell with the beard and the bruises—there was a world-weariness about him that made him seem far older.

  His assessment of Evan had been startling and, now she fretted, perhaps true, although she refused to believe that part about Cory. Evan was strict with his pupils, everyone knew that. But certainly he wouldn't punish a child for being left-handed. Would he?

  Travis had been so positive about it, she had the impression he'd felt some empathy with Cory that went deeper than indignation.

  Losing count of her brush strokes, she wondered again what Travis was running from, what crime he'd committed. Funny, but she wasn't as afraid of him as she had been.

  She no longer worried that he might hurt her. Now she feared him in another way entirely.

  * * *

  One evening two weeks later, Chloe looked out the kitchen window as she washed dishes and saw Travis asleep in the chair against the shop wall. There he was again, with that whiskey bottle of his. It was the second time in a week and she felt her annoyance rise. True, she'd never seen him take more tha
n a swallow or two, but this was just another example of his disregard for her authority and her feelings. Well, she'd been unable to do anything about her father's drinking, but she didn't have to put up with it from a man who worked for her.

  Flinging the dish towel on the table, she went outside.

  She stood in front of him a moment, watching him. His head was tipped back against the wall, his eyes closed, his feet propped up on an old nail keg. The whiskey bottle sat on the arm of the chair with his hand closed around it. Not wanting to wake him, she carefully began to pull it from his grip, meaning to pour it out.

  "I'm not finished with that, Chloe," he said. His eyes snapped open to fix on her.

  She jumped and pulled back her hand, as surprised as if a tailor's dummy had started talking to her. Gathering her wits and armed with self-righteousness, she continued. "Oh, yes, you are. This drinking business is going to stop."

  Travis put his hand to his forehead to shade the glare of the low-hanging sun. "What bee have you got in your bonnet now?" he demanded.

  She pointed at the offending bottle. "I am not going to have you sitting out here swilling whiskey."

  He rose to his feet and stood over her. Damn the woman. Whenever he started believing she was bearable, she changed directions on him and turned into a harpy again. "This is the same bottle I brought with me. Got a complaint about my work?"

  "Not yet, but if I let you keep this up, it'll only be a matter of time," she prophesied.

  His jaw tightened. It wasn't any of her business to know why he sometimes sipped at that bottle and he wasn't going to tell her. "Lady, I had five years of being told what to do and say and think. I'm not about to take it from you. Go order your schoolteacher around—he seems to like it. I don't."

  He leaned his face toward hers until his breath fanned her cheek, his gray eyes boring into hers. He smelled of leather, fresh air and faintly, of bourbon.

  "At least I can depend on him," she countered, struggling to ignore the enticing combination of scents. Her mind clutched at Evan's vapid image to distract her from the one before her. "Pretty soon you'll start sleeping late and letting work pile up and nothing will get done. That's how my father got me into this pickle and I'm determined to get myself out of it."