Prologue Page 4

  “My name is Chloe Maitland and you're in Misfortune.”

  “Tell me something I don't know.”

  She suppressed a sigh. “The name of the town is Misfortune.”

  He looked at her a moment, searching his memory for the reason this sounded familiar. Then he hit on it. “Oh, yeah. Hard Luck.”

  She ignored the remark and went on to relate the day's events, stressing how seriously ill he had been and still was. When she had explained what he wanted to know, his memory was sufficiently nudged to recall what had happened and his frown diminished a bit.

  “That still doesn't tell me why you know my name,” he reminded her.

  That he'd almost died didn't seem to trouble him nearly as much as her knowledge of his identity. At this point, she thought it was an unreasonable thing to be upset about, but the hard glint behind his swollen lids told her he expected an answer.

  “You told me your name not more than four hours ago, right here in this room.”

  Travis found this very hard to credit. He never told anyone his last name if he could possibly avoid it. His survival might depend on it. There was only one other way this dried-up hag could have learned who he was.

  “You’re lying. Where’s my saddlebag?” he asked, his tone demanding and surly again.

  “Downstairs in the kitchen,” she responded. Chloe could only hope she sounded casual. That saddlebag with the damning evidence she’d discovered because she’d snooped. It didn’t matter that her intentions had been innocent.

  “And did you look in it?”

  Chloe had sensed the question coming and fearful guilt bloomed in her. She’d obviously learned something he didn’t want anyone to know. Should she tell him the truth and risk his almost certain anger, or should she lie and perhaps even save her life? There was no way of telling what form his fury might take.

  Dodging the direct question and trying to appear unruffled, she replied, “I make it a point to mind my own business. I know your name because after Doc and I carried you up here, you seemed to wake up for a moment. I gave you a drink of water and asked you your name. You told me.”

  Travis dimly remember that except he thought it had been part of his nightmare. He sank wearily to the pillow, satisfied for the moment.

  Feeling the sheet brush his bare hip, he lifted the covers and looked down. Their eyes met for a moment, then he let the sheet drop and crossed his arms over his chest. “And did you undress me, too?”

  This was too much! Resentful of his question and unnerved by the memory of his long, muscled torso, her outraged modesty made her answer without thinking first. “Of course not! Doc had to cut off your clothes and I was not present when he did it!” The words were out before she realized she could be adding fuel to his cooling anger.

  “Cut off my clothes!” He would have been shouting if his voice were not still hoarse. “And tell me, Florence Nightingale, what the hell am I supposed to wear? They were the only ones I own!”

  Now that his clothes were gone, so was the chance for a quick getaway, she assumed.

  He jerked himself up to his elbow again and leaned forward, his eyes fixed on her face. “Who told the sawbones to do that?” he demanded. But as quickly as his rage flared it left him, the exertion costing him the little strength he had. He flopped back against the mattress and closed his eyes.

  Chloe had shrunk back into her chair, her heart thudding in her chest at his outburst. But when he appeared to lose consciousness she jumped up and placed her cool hands against his face.

  “Ouch!” He winced and pulled away.

  Fearing another dose of his wrath, it took her a moment to catch herself. Why should she be afraid of him? And how dare he speak to her like that? She certainly was not going to let him think he'd have the upper hand with her.

  “Mr. McGuire, I don't know why you are so angry with me. If I had refused to let you stay here you might be dead by now. You came into my yard, uninvited, looking for a job and a drink of water. You passed out on my lawn and took five years off my life trying to die in my kitchen. I've answered your questions. Now I have one. Why in the world should I hire a man as rude as you?”

  He eyed her carefully, properly scolded, but not cowed. “Because you won't get anyone else to work here for what you're offering. And I'm one hell of a lot better than nothing.”

  She stood over him, uncomfortable with that assessing stare of his and astounded at his gall. Why, he was insufferable! She was especially annoyed because she could think of no rebuttal to his glaring truth. Three months had passed since she ran her advertisement. She may as well have stood on her front porch and sung “Yankee Doodle” for all the response she'd gotten. But she wasn't desperate enough to invite this fugitive to stay.

  “I think you overestimate your value, Mr. McGuire.” Her tone became commanding. “Now I'm going to change my clothes and fix some broth for your dinner. Please stay in that bed until I get back.”

  “I won't get far dressed like this, will I?” he asked, his voice tired but sarcastic.

  “Forget your clothes for now,” she advised, her patience dangerously low. “We'll work out something later.”

  “I don't have much choice,” he muttered.

  She sighed in exasperation and fatigue. “Must you always have the last word?”

  With sullen stubbornness, he rolled over to face the opposite wall, silently dismissing her.

  Chloe stared at his naked back for a moment, confounded by his behavior. And in her mind a clock began ticking by which she would measure his progress till the day he was well enough to leave.

  “Don't worry about thanking me for my help, McGuire. I would have done the same for any sick animal that wandered into my backyard.”

  * * *

  As soon as he heard the door close, Travis Patrick McGuire rolled over again and stared at the ceiling. Looking at the wall reminded him too much of the other one he'd stared at for five years.

  Misfortune. What a fitting name. It didn't matter to him that the town was in the middle of nowhere. Except for a couple of brief years, he'd felt like an outsider for as long as he could remember, full of anger and later, bitterness, no matter where he was.

  When he read about this job it had sounded close to ideal, although six months earlier he'd sworn to himself he'd never go near a forge again. But desperation could drive a man to break all kinds of promises. He needed a corner of the world to hide in.

  A clean scent wafted over him from the bed linens and he lifted the hem of the sheet to look at it. How long had it been since he'd slept in snow-white bedding like this?

  Not since Celia.

  Celia, Travis recalled darkly, just before sleep overtook him. That beautiful, unfaithful, nagging bitch he'd married when he was eighteen, the last woman he'd ever allow to get close to him.

  Celia, staring at him from their bed with astonished eyes, still crystal blue even in death, his belt cinched around her slim, creamy throat.

  * * *

  After Chloe washed her face, repinned her hair, and changed her clothes, she went downstairs to fix dinner. She was at the stove, simmering beef bones for Travis's broth and mulling over her patient, when she heard pounding on the frame of the screen door.

  “Miss Chloe! Are you there?”

  Oh, dear God, she thought. Evan. Word had spread faster than she'd counted on. “Yes, Evan, I'm coming,” she called as she crossed the parlor to let him in.

  “Miss Chloe, what's this I heard about that desperado attacking you in your yard?” he demanded as he stepped in.

  “That's ridiculous, Evan. No one attacked me.”

  He looked at her with disbelief, as though she were plainly bruised and abused. “Mildred DeGroot told me she saw you running down the street, screaming, with your dress torn. She said you must have been beaten.”

  Damn that Mildred DeGroot, Chloe thought. It was bad enough that the woman and her husband gabbed incessantly about everyone, but they might at least get their facts
straight before they started talking.

  “Do I look like that?” She held her arms wide, inviting his inspection. “You should know better than to listen to the gossips, Evan. A stranger came into the backyard while I was doing the wash to ask about working in the shop. He was very sick and collapsed. I was afraid he was dying and I ran to get Doc Sherwood.” For the second time that day she explained their frantic efforts to revive Travis. She was careful to omit her discovery of the manacles. Just why she kept that secret, she wasn't sure.

  “Well, where is he now?”

  Chloe hesitated. Despite her confident remarks this afternoon, she really wasn't sure Evan would understand why Travis was asleep upstairs. Still, she plunged ahead. “He's staying here for the time being. Doc said it would be dangerous to move him.”

  Evan stared at her incredulously, his thin lips parted. “Here? Miss Chloe, that certainly is not proper! I don't approve of this arrangement and—and I forbid it! You can't live in this house alone with a strange man. You'll have to stay with the DeGroots or the Prestons while he's here.”

  Chloe's brows locked. He looked so proud of himself for standing up to her. She hadn't expected him to choose this time to assert his will over hers and it was irritating.

  “For heaven's sake, Evan, the man is too sick to get out of bed. There's nothing indecent about him being here and I can't leave him alone while I stay somewhere else. I can't just let him die. Surely you wouldn't want me to do that.”

  “No, of course not,” he responded without conviction, and then more vigorously, “but how does this look? What will people say?”

  Ah, so that was it, Chloe realized, piqued. What will people say? Her patience had reached its end. She had been working all day, she'd had to deal with the perplexing, hostile Travis McGuire, and now Evan was lecturing her about moral propriety. If he knew about the manacles, she could imagine the howling he'd set up.

  "If the opinion of this town is so important to you, then I don't care what you tell them," she snapped. "Naturally, I can understand that you wouldn't want to be disgraced by the scandal of my saving a sick man's life. Now I ask that you excuse me because I am very tired and I haven't eaten my dinner. Good evening, Mr. Peterson."

  Evan stood rooted to the spot. She'd never spoken to him like this and she could see the effect of her words. Trepidation made his Adam's apple bob up and down.

  "P-Please don't take offense, Miss Chloe. I didn't mean to insult you," he gulped, as though trying to unstick the sides of his dry throat. "It's just—I didn't intend to suggest that your purposes were—are immoral."

  "Good night, Evan," she repeated, on the verge of tapping her foot to stress her desire that he leave.

  "Uh, yes, well—good night, Miss Chloe," he stumbled, his brave moment at its end. He backed out the door, still making apologetic noises as he crossed the porch. She hooked the screen door to lock it and went back to the kitchen to fix a dinner tray for Travis.

  The nerve of the man, she thought, slamming the silverware and a clean glass on the tray. How dare he question her actions and sit in judgment on her? He hadn't thought anyone might find it improper for him to have dinner alone with her all these months.

  And Mildred DeGroot. Torn dress? Screaming? Leave it to the town crier's wife to assassinate her reputation.

  Then there was her houseguest, she continued to fume. What a delightful person he was. Sullen, rude, argumentative—and an outlaw besides. And he wanted her to give him a job. At least he was conscious. As soon as he was well enough, she'd send him packing, saddlebag and all.

  Her anger gave her a spurt of new energy and she marched up the stairs with the tray, as mad as she could remember being in years.

  She entered the little bedroom and was relieved to find Travis awake and alert. His dark hair and beard were stark contrasts to the bedding's snowy whiteness. He looked menacing and out of place in the lace-edged room. She took a deep breath and forced herself to approach the bed.

  When Travis saw the tray he dragged himself to a half-sitting position, wondering if he was in store for another tongue-lashing. He hadn't meant to be so short with her earlier. His temper showed itself most easily when he was cornered or frightened; he'd awakened in a strange place, sick, weak, and scared. Fiona McGuire had once compared her son's bad temper to a boiling kettle and warned it would bring him grief if he didn't pull it off the fire. He'd still not learned to control it very well. And he'd never learned to apologize with any grace so he didn't try.

  Instead he asked, "Who were you arguing with downstairs?" The muffled sound of her voice, tinged with vexation, had reached him, but he'd been unable to distinguish the words. The voice of the other person, a man, Travis thought, had been nothing but a low hum. He didn't know if he'd been able to throw Jace Rankin off his trail with that detour around Prineville, but if Jace had made it to this backwater, Travis would be leaving, sick or not.

  His question startled Chloe. Had she and Evan been speaking so loudly? Hoping he hadn't heard the content of their conversation, she responded coolly, "I wasn't arguing, Mr. McGuire. I was just visiting with a neighbor." She spread a napkin across his chest and put the tray on his lap.

  Travis studied her for a moment. She didn't have the kind of face that could easily hide a lie so he let the matter drop. Now that she was cleaned up, she looked a little better, but still careworn. And she smelled good, kind of like sunshine. She wore a brown skirt and white blouse with a high neck. Her hair was a nice color, somewhere between red and blond, but it was bound to her head as though she were afraid it might be stolen.

  "Do you want me to feed you or do you think you can manage it yourself?" she asked.

  The question made his temper rumble but when he caught the scent of the broth, hunger triumphed and he let it slide. "Just give me the spoon," he said and impatiently yanked it from her hand.

  Chloe sat on the rocker again, watching the spoon travel from the soup bowl to his mouth back to the bowl. "As soon as you've finished your dinner, I have to clean up your face and put some ointment on it. You're fairly scraped and bruised.

  He'd just bet he was, after landing face-first on sunbaked dirt. He nodded and continued to spoon the rich broth into his mouth. He was beginning to feel stronger already, fortified by the simple meal.

  Chloe wanted the answers to a dozen questions but hesitated to ask him anything after the way he'd behaved just because she'd learned his name. Still, there were certain things she felt were her right to know. She opened with a subtle inquiry

  "Are you from around here, Mr. McGuire?"

  Travis shook his head as he swallowed. Now the prying would start. "I've never lived anywhere for very long." He shot a glance at her. Did she know he'd been a guest of the state for almost five years?

  "Is your husband the blacksmith?" he asked.

  She stood and poured him a glass of water from the pitcher on the nightstand. The sunshine fragrance drifted to him again. "No, it's my father's business."

  "Does your husband work here, too?"

  Now it was Chloe's turn to feel defensive. Somehow he'd turned the conversation and put her in the position of answering questions. "I'm not married, Mr. McGuire."

  Another blacksmith's unmarried daughter, Travis thought sourly. He was struck by the overwhelming sensation of living a recurring nightmare. This was bad news all the way around. If he didn't need this hiding place, he'd be out of here as soon as he could put one foot in front of the other.

  "Well, thank your father for letting me stay."

  How easy it was to be polite to someone he'd never met, but he couldn't be civil to her, she smoldered. "You're stuck with having to thank me. Since my father died last spring, I'm the only one here." She could have bitten off her tongue for revealing that information in her haste to spite him.

  Travis answered with like sarcasm. "Don't worry, lady. You're not my type.”

  Scorched with embarrassment, Chloe jumped from the rocker and snatched the barely finis
hed tray from his lap. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "No? Well, you've just admitted that no one is home but you, you're blushing like a twelve-year-old, and you seem pretty peeved." He took a big drink of water and scowled again at the salty taste. "I admit it's a brave thing to do, taking a strange man into your house when you're here all alone. After all, I could be an escaped criminal or some other kind of outlaw." He threw out this last comment just to see how she'd react, but her face simply registered annoyance. "And I mean only to ease your mind. As I said, you're not my type."

  Chloe slammed the tray on the dresser and reached for the tin of ointment and the water basin. Not his type, she simmered, telling herself she was glad. What possible interest could she have in a long-limbed, wide-shouldered man with hair on his chest? "I'm relieved to hear that, Mr. McGuire. I'm sure my fiancé will be equally relieved when he learns of it." Fiancé? She could scarcely believe she'd said that.

  Travis was skeptical, too. Was there a man who would willingly shackle himself to this woman? When she'd been younger, maybe—

  She approached the bed with the basin and a towel. "I'll try not to hurt you." That, she thought with perverse satisfaction, will be nearly impossible.

  "Well, come on, let's get it over with," he coaxed irritably. The little strength he had was fading and he wanted to get her out of the room. Dealing with her was exhausting.

  Setting the rocker next to him, she dipped a corner of the towel in the water and touched the biggest gash on his cheekbone. He nearly flew off the bed. The sheet fell again, not even covering his lap. Chloe jumped back, his nudity firing embarrassment and wicked curiosity in her.

  "Goddammit!" he croaked. "What's on the end of your hand? A wire brush?"

  "I'm sorry," she replied, holding up the towel, now stained pink. "Let me try again. I promise I'll be more careful."

  "Forget it, sister!" Travis lay down and dragged the sheet up. This pinched-up female would just have to find her fun someplace else, maybe by pulling the wings off a fly or something, but she wasn't going to touch his face again. "I'm not going to die from a few scrapes."