Prologue Page 17

  “You know I was in prison,” he began.

  She nodded.

  “You probably think I deserved to be there, even though you don’t know why I was sent.”

  She glanced at her lap.

  “And you think I escaped.”

  “Well, didn’t you?” she asked, looking up at him.

  “No.” Shifting in his chair, he searched his back pocket and produced a piece of grimy paper, folded many times, and handed it to her.

  Hesitating a moment, she reached out and took it from him. She opened it and found a document decorated with seals and ribbons, authorizing the release of one Travis P. McGuire from the Oregon State Penitentiary. It was dated February 5, 1894 but offered no details.

  Surprise was plain on her face. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you let me go on believing you’d run away?”

  His smile was wintry. He’d let her believe it because it had been one more way to keep a barrier between them. The reasons for that barrier had once been so very clear to him. "It doesn't matter."

  He began talking but putting feelings into words was a struggle for a man who'd learned to choke back his emotions. He glossed over the pain of his lonely childhood, his feelings of insecurity and rootlessness, of his desire to settle in one place, of the cholera epidemic that took his family.

  Chloe listened carefully as his story washed over her, lulled by the sound of a voice she'd become accustomed to.

  "So, Lyle Upton agreed to let me apprentice in his blacksmith shop," he continued, "and Lyle had a daughter name Celia." He paused here, recalling the first time he'd seen Celia, and the ghost of a long-dead passion crept into his voice.

  "She was beautiful. A tiny little thing with a waist no bigger than this." He made a circle with his hands. "Sky blue eyes and hair the color of ripe wheat."

  A faint smile curved his mouth and he stared at the tabletop for a moment, lost in a memory.

  Chloe caught the name she'd heard him say during his nightmare. He may have cursed Celia then, but now Chloe felt an unfamiliar pang of jealousy nag at her over a woman who brought such a rapturous look to him, and worse, who was small and dainty. It made Chloe very conscious of her height and the fact that she didn't have a waist "no bigger than this."

  Suddenly Travis roused himself and lifted the bottle stowed between his legs to take another drink. Then he left his chair and began pacing the kitchen. His face was animated with an angry hurt that would no longer remain silent. His words poured out in a torrent.

  "I was crazy about her. A year after we met, we got married. Huh. What a heartless, selfish woman."

  Chloe blanched at his words. He was married?

  "I was happy with my wife and my work, glad to have a real home, an ordinary life. But not Celia. From the first day we tied the knot, she started nagging. She wanted to see bright lights, new things—she wanted to move to San Francisco, for chrissakes." His voice was full of exasperation and growing louder by the minute. He didn't seem to be aware of Chloe's presence anymore. He thundered at the walls, the stove, the floor.

  "I didn't want to move. I'd been on the road all my life. I was born in a damned covered wagon." In frustration, he kicked the leg of the stove as he passed it.

  "When I got home at night, all we did was argue. After a year or so, she pretty much admitted that her main reason for marrying me was to get out of Salem. Like an idiot, I kept trying to make her happy. To make her love me. But she was telling her father I made her miserable."

  He whirled toward Chloe with such fierceness that she shrank back in her chair and gripped its arms.

  "But the worst part . . . the hardest thing . . . I was hearing rumors, dirty little stories. Rumors that my wife was bringing men home to our bed when I was gone. I realized she wasn't a virgin on our wedding night, but hell, I sure wasn't either and I figured, those things happen. It didn't much matter to me. As bad as things got between us, though, I didn't believe she was cheating on me. Not then, anyway. Later I found out how wrong I was."

  Travis stopped then and flopped back into his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose in an effort to regain some control. He set the whiskey bottle on the table and folded his arms over his chest again. His words took on a tortured, quiet tone.

  "One night in February, Lyle and I stayed late at the shop to catch up on some work." He shook his head in wonderment. "I still remember it just like it happened yesterday. The details are so clear.

  "I didn't get home until about nine. It was raining to beat hell and I even remember my horse nearly trampling a man on my street who was running to get out of the weather. The house was quiet and I looked everywhere for Celia. I found her naked in our bed." He paused and faced her. "She'd been strangled with a belt. My belt."

  Chloe, who'd sat listening to his bleak story, gasped. "Oh, God! Travis, how horrible!"

  His eyes were as dark as thunderheads. "I rode for the sheriff right away and he investigated but weeks went by and he couldn't find the killer. Lyle was furious, like a mad dog. Someone had to pay for the death of his daughter." His mouth twisted into a hideous grin. "He accused me."

  "But, Travis—he was with you the night it happened!"

  "Yes, but he sent me on an errand at seven and he claimed it gave me plenty of time to kill Celia. Actually, I was only gone for a half hour and he knew I never could have done his errand, gone home, and come back in under an hour. But Lyle also knew Celia and I weren't getting along and he believed the stories she told him about our marriage. And it didn't help that it was my belt she was strangled with. It was all circumstantial evidence but he had a lot of influence in Salem. And I think in his own mind he believed it was true. The verdict was in before the trial ever started."

  He mercilessly recounted to Chloe his arrest and the years of degradation and brutality he experienced in prison. His candor made her blush uncomfortably but he didn't notice.

  "I guess I was luckier than most of the others locked away in that place. I had a real job." His words were heavy with sarcasm. "When one of the trustees learned I was a blacksmith I was set to work making iron manacles."

  The cruel irony of this squeezed her heart and she remembered the angry scar on his ankle. "But how were you released? For that matter, why weren't you, uh . . .

  "Hanged?" he supplied, and was out of his chair again, restlessly pacing from the table to the window to the door in a continuous circuit. “The jury found me guilty but the judge was never satisfied that I was. He sentenced me to life. As for how I got out, six months ago Lyle Upton took to his deathbed and decided he wouldn't get to heaven with such a black lie on his soul. He finally admitted that it was impossible for me to have killed Celia. But he said I was responsible for her murder, the same as if I'd cinched that belt around her neck. Because I failed to make her happy, she was driven to other men and one of them killed her." As he passed the table, he grabbed the whiskey bottle again and held it up to his mouth. Then, as if thinking better of it, he slowly set it down without taking a drink. "I was released with five dollars and an apology from the warden. He said Lyle asked that I go see him after I got out. Why? So he could ease his conscience? I was afraid of what I'd do to him if I ever laid eyes on him again, so I headed east."

  "But if you were legally set free, why do those manacles look like they were broken off? Why do you even keep them?"

  Again, that awful smile. "Oh, one of the guards took a serious dislike to me after I turned down an offer for his—company." His eyes riveted on her face, as if he suddenly remembered who he was talking to.

  "Company?" Chloe asked, mystified.

  "Well, never mind," he mumbled awkwardly, then continued. "The day I was let go, he was supposed to unlock the leg irons but, wouldn't you know it, he just couldn't find the key. So he shot the locks off. I keep those chains as a testament of human kindness. Besides, I made them." He raked a hand through his hair. "Anyway, I've drifted from town to town ever since, always worried that someone will . . ."

&n
bsp; Here he faltered for the first time since he'd begun his story, then looked away.

  "Someone will what?" she prompted quietly.

  He paused for a moment at the window and turned to stare at the yard, leaning both hands on the counter, shoulders hunched.

  "That Jace Rankin will hunt me down like an animal, saying it was all a mistake. That I was never supposed to be released. And that'll be my last day on this earth because he'll have to shoot me before I'll go back."

  "Who's Jace Rankin?" she asked.

  "He's a bounty hunter who started chasing me about three months ago. I don't know why he's after me, but I've never let him get close enough to ask, either."

  "But why run from him? Why don't you talk to him and find out what he wants?"

  “Were you born in this house?" he asked.

  "Yes," she replied, puzzled by the question.

  "And every night since you were a baby, you've gone to sleep under this roof." He paused and glanced at the ceiling. “Warm quilts in the winter. Cool, clean sheets in the summer."

  "Yes, I guess that's true," she responded, still not sure what this had to do with the bounty hunter.

  "So you don't know what it's like to be locked up in a dark cell that leaked like a rotten canteen when it rained. To freeze in the winter under moth-eaten blankets and try to see the sky from a window that was one-foot square." His voice was rough with weariness. He looked over his shoulder at her. “Well, I do know what it's like and I'd rather be dead than go back to it. I can't take the chance to find out why Rankin is looking for me."

  Chloe thought back to that first day he spent upstairs. "When you woke up here that's what you thought, wasn't it. That you were in prison again."

  He nodded, his back still to her.

  "Did you ever learn who killed your wife?"

  Travis continued to stare out the window. "No. I used to lie awake nights imagining what I'd do to that man if I ever found him. Celia was a blue-ribbon bitch but she didn't deserve to die, especially like that. And thanks to that swine, whoever he was, I lost almost five years of my life, too."

  Chloe was heartsick. It was difficult for her to comprehend a woman as self-serving and uncaring as Celia. It was impossible for her to imagine a father so vengeful and crazy with grief that he would send his own son-in-law to jail, fully aware of his innocence.

  "Why didn't you tell me all this sooner?" she asked. "You knew what I was thinking and you let me go right on thinking it. You aren't guilty but you act guilty"

  He pushed his hands into the tight pockets on his denims. He took so long to answer she thought he wouldn't.

  Finally he murmured, "I don't really have anything to be ashamed of, either, but I am ashamed. You can't begin to imagine what it's like to be thought of as a con, a jailbird. The first time someone called me a jailbird, I wanted to die." He turned toward her then and said to the floor, 'The reason I take a drink sometimes is because of the nightmares. Now and then it helps me sleep, but not always." He raised his eyes to look at her. "Now you know what pain I'm trying to kill. Since you've got enough to make the payment on the house, you don't need me anymore. I've got to be leaving town in the morning."

  She realized then that he was far more sensitive than he'd allowed her to know. She was so positive she'd been right about him but now she regretted her harsh assumptions. She rose a bit unsteadily and came to him. Several seconds passed before he looked up at her. The evening was quiet except for the crickets outside.

  “Thank you for telling me," she said. "I'll never repeat it. But you don't have to leave. You're innocent. Stay awhile longer." What could she say to ease the hurt? Unable to think of something better, she opened her arms.

  He stood uncertainly, considering her offer of basic human comfort and contact. Oh, he wanted to go to her, to feel a hug again. She opened her arms wider, reinforcing her invitation, and with a low groan he leaned into her embrace. She enfolded him and his throat closed with emotion.

  She felt a silent sob wrack his body, once, twice, and her heart ached for him. He drew a deep, shaky breath and then he was still, his arms tight around her. It felt good and right to be in his embrace and to have him in hers. As impatient as she had been to see him go, she now could not tolerate the idea of it. She wasn't sure if she loved him but knew she stood on the edge of it, feeling closer to the emotion than she ever had with Evan.

  Bah, Evan! There was no thrill of fire and ice water rushing through her when she looked at Evan. She didn't long to have his lips on hers as she did Travis's. The only feelings she could summon for Evan were impatience and mild revulsion, the same ones she'd always had for him and had been unable to really admit. If Travis would stay he might even come to care about her, too. She did not examine her motives too closely or ask herself what she expected of him. She only knew that if he left, she'd never see him again and the thought was unbearable.

  Finally he stood away from her, drained and exhausted, but not sorry he'd confided in her. As he looked into her face, he saw vulnerability, trust, and desire. Before he realized what he was doing, his mouth was covering hers.

  Except for their interrupted kiss the other day, the sensation compared to nothing Chloe had experienced before. Evan's awkward attempts had not felt like this. Those uncomfortable encounters had left her feeling like she should wash. This was far different and with a sigh she gave herself up to the moist softness of his lips moving slowly over her own.

  The urgency of the kiss increased and Travis parted her lips with his tongue. Panic grew in her to mingle with emerging passion. She could feel one hand low on her backside pulling her against his hips. His other hand cradled her jaw.

  In the dim corners of his reasoning mind, Travis knew he was overstepping his bounds, that he might be frightening Chloe. This wasn't what she'd offered when she took him into her arms. But her soft mouth, the scent of her hair, and the feel of her body against his fanned the desire he'd had to deny for so long. He wanted this woman, this blacksmith's old-maid daughter.

  She tried to pull away and discovered that the muscled arms she admired were every bit as powerful as they looked. When his hand left her head and slid down her shoulder to cover a breast, she struggled in earnest.

  Suddenly he released her and they backed away from each other, neither certain what might happen next.

  Chloe was tempted to prolong the scene, lured by the physical sensations Travis ignited with his kiss. Propriety dragged at her and held her back, but with just a look, a touch, he had the power to make her forget propriety.

  Travis knew it was up to him to stop this before it went too far. It would be so easy to escape his bitter memories for a while in her soft body. It would be easy, but not right. They were both vulnerable. And he was afraid that once he'd tasted that rich sweetness, he'd never be able to leave. Taking control of the moment, Travis leaned forward and kissed her flushed cheek.

  "Good night, Chloe."

  Before she could respond, he was out the back door and down the steps, lost in the darkness.

  * * *

  Maybe telling Chloe about his past triggered the image that came to him as he lay on the cot in the shop. He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled its tails out of his pants. The evening was silent, the air hot and still. Somewhere a dog barked, then was quiet.

  Travis closed his eyes and Celia appeared before him again as she sometimes did when his memory forced him to relive her death.

  He remembered the moment he'd walked into their bedroom and found Celia—her face blue, her horrible look of surprise.

  His wife had been murdered, that beautiful blossom, the deceitful bitch.

  For weeks he had slept with the lamp burning. Only he couldn't sleep. Stunned and grieving her death, and confronted with her faithlessness, he'd stare at the ceiling and get that ache in his chest from trying not to cry. It was dumb, he supposed. What did it matter if he cried? Nobody was there to see him during those black winter nights.

  Sometimes when t
he wind had rushed down the valley and moaned around the corners of the house, it almost sounded like Celia was calling him. The voice was a lot kinder than hers had been when she was alive.

  Or, when he'd finally found sleep, she would come to him in dreams as she had in life: sweet-scented, with skin so creamy and pure that a man was afraid to touch it. Always the dreams would dissolve into grisly nightmares as she turned from bride to corpse.

  Then the sheriff had come and arrested him. That was the day Travis had stopped loving his wife and promised himself he'd never risk his heart again. He'd loved Celia more than he wanted to care about another person ever again.

  But that was before he met Chloe, who pulled him in directions he didn't want to go.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Chloe stood in the kitchen, dazed by the warm tenderness of Travis's touch. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, remembering the feel of his lips on hers. She hadn't expected this rush of sensation, filling her with a longing she had never known before and couldn't identify. She glanced at the front of her dress, envisioning his hands where he'd caressed her.

  She put out the lamp over the kitchen table and went upstairs to begin her nighttime ritual. Her bed loomed before her, now seeming a place of empty loneliness rather than rest. Stepping out of her dress, she went to the open window in her camisole and petticoat, every nerve in her body sensitized. A full August moon, heavy and yellow, hung low in the eastern sky. In the remaining twilight, she looked across the sun-baked plains and saw green-black clouds gathering on the horizon. The wind came up, cool and rain-scented, blowing the curtains against her body. Then glancing down at the shop, she saw Travis standing in the doorway, looking up at her. Startled, she almost jumped back, but the sight of him leaning against the doorjamb, ankles crossed, his shirt open, made her want to loose her hair and let it hang down her back. A restlessness filled her. Instead of pulling away, she stayed at the window, her gaze steady on his face.

  He read her naïve invitation, and his hands itched to pull the pins from the red-gold length of her hair. He straightened and crossed the yard to stand beneath her window. He’d tried to be gallant, to make her save her virginity, but self-sacrifice was not one of his virtues and his resistance was worn down.