Prologue Page 2

  “What?” Chloe exclaimed. “That’s not what he told me. Oh, I don't even know why I bother to wonder. Each time the DeGroots repeat a story it becomes more exaggerated.”

  Evan stuffed a buttered biscuit into his mouth. “Albert swears it’s true,” he stressed, eyes wide.

  She shook her head. “I don't care. Unless that drifter is bringing me a bag of gold dust for the mortgage payment, he doesn't interest me.”

  After dinner Chloe sat with Evan on the porch swing to watch the sunset and have their tea and dessert. She was content to rest here, pondering the low hills on the faraway horizon, painted blood red by the sun falling behind them. The wind rustled the dry leaves in the maple in the corner of the yard and sent the yellow tops of the grass bobbing.

  Evan pushed the swing into motion with his foot, reminding her he was there. Glancing at him, she knew he wasn’t the kind of man who made a woman’s heart flutter. He was slightly built and approaching his fortieth year. His sandy hair had surrendered to create a horseshoe effect around his head, leaving the top shiny and bare.

  He had appeared at her door one afternoon shortly after her father’s death, bearing his laundry, a box of chocolates, and a wilting bouquet, to offer his condolences. She’d been feeling blue and asked him to stay for dinner. A man for whom habits were written in stone, he’d since appeared for dinner every Saturday with unflagging regularity. He provided quiet companionship and that was enough, she told herself. Although this evening she could feel him fidgeting next to her, fussing with his collar, his cuffs, brushing lint from the lapels of his somber black suit.

  Chloe didn't want a man who was opinionated or had bad habits and Evan was guilty of neither. If only she could soothe the conflict that sometimes churned in her.

  He was a nice man, she would argue with herself, one side trying to convince the other, the usually silent side of her that questioned her judgment and made her want to pull away from him.

  But now both sides in this debate cringed when, without preamble, Evan leaned over and clumsily groped for her hand with clammy fingers. Lunging his face at hers, he tried to place a damp peck on her mouth, making the swing tilt sharply. Sensing what was about to happen she turned her head away suddenly and the kiss caught the corner of her upper lip. The unappealing smell of chicken and mashed potatoes on his breath made her wonder why anyone thought kissing was a gratifying pursuit.

  Evan quickly released her hand and stared straight ahead, turning several shades of red, his back as stiff as a broomstick. Astonished, Chloe could only gape at him. He'd never tried that before. She fought the urge to wipe her lip.

  “I'm very sorry, Miss Chloe,” his words stumbled out. “I don't know what came over . . . it's just that sometimes . . . I most humbly beg your forgiveness.”

  His awkward discomfort only reinforced what she already suspected. Romance, with its complicated maneuvers and crude, embarrassed fumbling, was not necessary between them.

  Recovering, she reached for the teapot and, using her most sensible voice, responded, “We don't need to go through all that sparking nonsense, Evan. We’re not children on a hayride trying to hold hands and steal kisses. We get along just fine the way things are.” She refilled his cup.

  “Of course, you're right,” he agreed. “I hope you're not angry with me.”

  “No, Evan, I'm not angry at all,” she replied, wishing he wouldn't pursue the subject. “Please, let's just forget it happened.”

  He seemed relieved. Still, she could not help but notice that he'd unconsciously begun to sharpen the creases in his trousers with his short fingers.

  Just as his teacup was filled, he stood abruptly, pulled out his watch and announced loudly “Why, look at the time! I really must be going, Miss Chloe. I wouldn't want to overstay my welcome.”

  Not upset to see him go, she rose from the swing. “I'm glad you were able to come for dinner,” she prompted.

  Although he faced her, he always seemed unable to look directly at her, and his pale, nearly lashless eyes were fixed on a spot just above her head.

  “Thank you for inviting me. The only time I eat a decent meal is in your home.” His lips twitched into the semblance of a smile. “Mrs. Tolliver means well, but her cooking . . . I really look forward to these evenings.”

  The obvious but unnecessary hint for an invitation to dinner next Saturday hung in the air like a tangible thing. Taking her cue, Chloe asked, “You will come again, won’t you?”

  “I would like that very much.” He beamed, staring at the button on her collar. “Shall we say next Saturday?”

  Satisfied with this ritual she had come to expect, she agreed. “That would be nice. I'll plan on it.”

  The clock was striking ten when she put out the lamps and climbed the stairs to her bedroom. The night was quiet.

  After she changed into her nightgown, she stood before her long mirror and thought about what had happened on the porch. She certainly hoped she'd relieved Evan's mind about the nature of their relationship. That business of kissing—she just wasn't comfortable with the idea.

  Or holding hands, either.

  At that thought, she held up her hands and inspected them as though they belonged to someone else, tokens representing what her life had become. Even in this low light she could see their red dryness. Nothing she tried seemed to heal them. The laundry she did every day, in hot water and harsh soap, left them so irritated, they just hurt. It wasn't that she minded working hard. Work never hurt anyone. But she was offended by the unwelcome intimacy required of the chore. She'd never expected to wash and iron strangers' clothes, to sort their stockings and underwear, to support herself.

  Knowing she was perilously close to self-pity, she shook off the thought and released her hair to give it its nightly one hundred and one strokes. Unbound and brushed, the heavy locks tumbled down her back to her waist, catching highlights from the single candle burning on her nightstand.

  Leaning closer to the mirror, she spied one strand that protruded from her head like a piano wire. Puzzled, she pulled it out with a snap and carried it to the candle to look at it. It was white. She stared at it stupidly for a moment as it lay across her palm, and suddenly she felt her throat tighten and her eyes burn.

  With a deep sigh that was almost a sob, she held the strand over the flame and watched it dance and wither until it was gone.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Under the blistering noon sky, Travis McGuire moved in a shambling, tottering manner, the way a horse will stumble when it has been run beyond its endurance. Was this Saturday? Tuesday? He'd lost track of the days; they'd all become one in his mind.

  Exhaustion, thirst, and too many hours in the pitiless sun made him doubt his eyes when he saw a collection of buildings a mile or so ahead. He squinted at the sight through the shimmering heat waves. The image didn't become much clearer, but it didn't disappear, either.

  “Thank God,” he croaked to the scorched landscape, his throat unbearably dry.

  From the marrow of his bones he pulled forth the last trace of energy he possessed and hastened his wobbling progress. The pulse throbbing in his ears all but drowned out the sound of his spurs. As he neared the first building, which was set some distance from the rest, he read the word BLACKSMITH, painted on its weathered side.

  “Thank God.”

  * * *

  Chloe stood in the backyard, scrubbing at a stubborn coffee stain on a tablecloth. The sun was high and her back ached from bending over the washboard for so many hours. She'd wanted to be finished before lunch but now she heard the clock in the parlor striking one o'clock. Letting the cloth drop into the water, she straightened and put her hands on the small of her back to relieve the stiffness.

  She'd always done wash on Monday, but now every day was Monday. She stared wistfully at the silent blacksmith shop across the yard. The extra money that shop could earn would make all the difference, if only there was someone to work it. Impatiently, she lassoed her thoughts. No amount of
wishing was going to change anything and she had hours of ironing still ahead of her.

  As she reached into the tub again, she heard someone fumble at the latch on the gate behind her that separated the yard from the road. Turning, she was startled by an apparition staggering toward her. The head was bowed and she could not readily see the face.

  No one she recognized, she decided. She didn't know any man that tall. His physical presence dwarfed the yard and gave her a sense of sudden danger.

  He's blind drunk! she thought indignantly as he lurched to her on long legs, spurs ringing at his heels. And at this hour of the day! That alone gave her reason to feel fear, aside from his height and apparent strength.

  He wore a pair of denims, although they were so dust-covered, they no longer looked blue. His boots were equally dusty and his shirt was an indefinite color. Its sleeves were ripped off at the shoulders, revealing arms formed with sinuous muscle. A hat concealed most of his dark hair and a blue bandanna was tied around his neck. He carried a saddlebag slung over one shoulder.

  There was nothing between her and this intruder but five feet of dry grass and the hot afternoon breeze. She backed against the washtub, feeling it press sharply into her thighs, and unconsciously clutched the wet tablecloth to her. It soaked her dress front from neck to knees. She thought of her grandfather's rifle, loaded, but in the parlor, and wanted to kick herself for not bringing it to the yard.

  When he raised his head to look at her, she pressed a hand to her open mouth and stood transfixed, eyes wide.

  His face, shadowed by several days' growth of dark beard, was puffy and bruised, as though it had connected with an angry fist. One eye was almost swollen shut and his lips were cracked and peeling.

  “Excuse me, ma'am,” issued a hoarse, almost whispering voice from those cracked lips. “Is this Hard Luck?” He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a tattered piece of paper.

  “Not Hard Luck, it’s Misfortune and—”

  He weaved unsteadily and waved the paper in his long hand. “I'm here about the job.”

  She looked him over and her heart sank. What she didn't need was another drunken blacksmith, and one who brawled, besides. “I'm the one you want to talk to, but I don't think”

  He swayed on his feet. “I don't mean to interrupt, but could I trouble you for a drink of water? I've been walking for a while.” His head moved slightly in the direction of the tin cup hanging on the pump spout.

  He's not drunk, Chloe realized with a start, he's sick. The request jolted her into action and she nearly fell backward into the washtub in her haste to get to the pump to fill her bucket.

  She dipped the large cup in the icy water and held it out to him. As he reached for it with two shaking hands, she warned him, “That water is very cold. You'd better drink it slowly.”

  But she knew her words were ignored when he lifted the cup and drank the water down in one greedy gulp, spilling part of it down his bloodstained shirt. He was about to hold the cup out to her to refill when he suddenly turned away from her and threw up the water and whatever scant secretions his empty, cramping stomach had managed to produce.

  Chloe stood shaking her head in pity. When the bout subsided, he slowly straightened and turned back to her, his head down, unable to look her in the face.

  “I'm sorry . . . ” his words sighed out and she watched in horror as his eyes rolled back and his knees buckled. The cup slipped out of his nerveless hand. He fell facedown at her feet, his hat rolling across the yard. She dropped to a crouch and struggled to turn him over. Perspiration rapidly beaded on her forehead and the back of her neck as she wrestled with his dead weight. Losing her balance, she toppled over and landed on her backside in the mud around the washtub, then scrambled to her knees while she pulled on his arm in an effort to turn him.

  When she finally accomplished the feat she put her ear to his chest and was relieved to hear his heartbeat. But it sounded too fast and his breathing was shallow. She looked around frantically. There wasn't a living soul on the street, which wasn't surprising. Her house was located away from the core of Misfortune and not much traffic found its way down here. The man needed Doc Sherwood and she would have to get him herself.

  But what to do with this poor wretch while she was gone? He was lying in the harsh sun and although he was bone lean, he was well over six feet tall. She knew she couldn't drag him to the shade of the only tree standing in the far corner of the yard. She'd had enough trouble just rolling him over.

  As she looked around she spied a bed sheet she'd hung on the line to dry. Jumping to her feet, she yanked it from the clothesline and stuffed it into the water bucket to soak it. She pulled it out dripping wet and flung it over his inert body, covering him so that only his boots stuck out.

  She backed away to the gate, feeling miserable about leaving him, especially because so shrouded, he looked like a corpse.

  He might become one, she told herself, if you don't hurry

  Heedless of her wet dress, which clung to her bosom, she jerked the gate open so hard it banged against the fence and she flew down the street toward Doc Sherwood's house on the opposite end of town.

  When she reached DeGroot's Mercantile, she poked her head in the door to make sure Doc wasn't there, but only Albert's wife, Mildred, was in the store, sorting hair ribbons. Chloe slammed the door shut again and heard its overhead bell bounce to the floor.

  Behind her she heard Mildred call after her from the boardwalk, “Chloe, that dress looks like you've been making mud pies.” She disregarded the woman's useless observation and kept running.

  When Chloe neared Doc's house, she began yelling for him. “Doc!” she screamed. “Doc Sherwood!”

  The doctor pulled open the door of his examining room to meet her in the hall.

  “Tell me,” he commanded. “A man,” she panted. “A stranger in my yard—he's dying. You've—got to come."

  “I'll get my bag,” Doc said. “Lucky for us I just hitched up the horse.”

  They rushed out the door again and jumped into his buggy.

  “What's wrong with this man? Can you tell?” the doctor asked, flapping the reins on his horse's back.

  “He came into the backyard asking about the blacksmith's job. Doc, his face is so beaten. Anyway, I gave him the water and told him not to drink it too fast, but he did and it came right back up. Then he just dropped over in the dirt.”

  “Were his clothes wet? Did he look like he's been sweating?” Doc questioned.

  Chloe thought hard but she couldn't remember. “I didn't notice. What difference does that make?”

  “Could be he's got sunstroke. That can be very serious—fry a man's brain like an egg.”

  When Doc and Chloe arrived they found the man lying under the sheet just as Chloe had left him, with just his long boots showing.

  “Jesus, Chloe,” Doc murmured. “He’s not dead already, is he?”

  “No, no. I couldn't move him out of the sun so I soaked a sheet in cold water and threw it over him.”

  “Good girl,” Doc nodded approvingly, then stepped up to the form and pulled the sheet off. With only a -scant glance at the battered face, he ripped open the man's shirt and touched his throat, searching for a pulse. After a brief examination he announced, "It's sunstroke, no doubt about that. We've got to cool him down or he'll die. Even if he doesn't die, his kidneys could fail or his brain will cook and he'll be an idiot—a worse fate in my opinion. Drag out your bathtub. We'll fill it and soak him in there.” He gestured at the unconscious form. “But we'd better get him into the kitchen first. He's been in the sun too long as it is.”

  Doc pulled on the limp arms and then slid behind him to hook his own arms around the other man's chest. Chloe gripped the stranger's ankles, taking care to avoid the sharp rowels on his spurs.

  “Ready?” Doc asked.

  She nodded and they lifted him. She wouldn't have guessed that hard muscle and bone could weigh so much. He seemed very heavy for a person w
ith so little spare flesh and getting him up the back steps was not easy. When they were in the kitchen, they laid him on the table. The slack face looked more dead than alive.

  Chloe hurried to the pantry and pulled her big galvanized bathtub from its hiding place. She then grabbed the water bucket that stood by the door and filled it from the pump at the sink. Doc took it away and poured the water into the tub. She pumped until her arm and shoulder ached.

  “All right, we've got enough,” Doc finally announced. “If you've got a fan, we could use that, too.” She nodded and found her mother's old painted Chinese fan in the sideboard.

  They lifted the man from the table and carefully lowered him into the tub, bending his knees sharply to make him fit.

  Chloe fanned the man's bruised face and after they watched him for a few minutes, a low groan escaped the cracked lips and his head rolled to rest on the edge of the tub.

  “What do you think?” Chloe whispered, as though she might disturb their patient. “Is he getting better?”

  “Too soon to tell yet, but this much I do know. He's going to have to be put to bed right away and I'd rather not move him. It's going to be dangerous in his condition.”

  The unspoken suggestion that she keep him stopped Chloe's fanning in mid-swish. A strange man sleeping in the house? And she here alone? A funny shiver darted through her, raising goose bumps on her arms. Although the man was slender—too thin, really—he was nothing but lean muscle. His chest was broad and covered with soft, dark hair. Embarrassed to have even noticed, she moved the fan with determination and saw how that chest hair fluffed in the resulting breeze. Her eyes returned to the bruised, lean-jawed face. It was so haggard she couldn't tell what kind of man owned it. He just looked sick, hurt, and uncared for. And he didn't look as though he were in any condition to give her trouble. She could not refuse him the nursing he plainly needed.

  “I suppose it would be all right if he stayed here,” she offered tentatively.