Prologue Page 6

  * * *

  The next morning before church Chloe was at the stove stirring tapioca when she heard a rustling noise and the sound of bare feet on the wood floor behind her.

  Travis stood in the kitchen doorway, wrapped in his sheet. By the time he reached the table he was soaked in cold sweat and grabbed for the back of a chair.

  Chloe saw him begin to weave on his feet and she rushed forward to press her shoulder against him until he could lower himself to the chair. She had forgotten how tall he was. And how warm he felt.

  "Travis," she huffed, "I can't keep propping you and lifting you. You're just too big. Doc and I got you upstairs, but I can't carry you up again by myself."

  She reached down and tightened the sheet across his lap, her touch unintentionally intimate through the fabric. Mortified, she snatched her hand away and then compounded her mistake by glancing at his face. She saw a flare of something compelling in those gray eyes as he stared back, a restrained energy, and her face heated with a scorching blush.

  "Excuse me—I didn't mean to—why are you downstairs, anyway?" she demanded irritably.

  Travis waited a deliberate moment before releasing her from his gaze, savoring her embarrassment. Then he raised a shaking hand to rake his hair off his forehead. He was a lot weaker than he'd thought when he began this trip to find her. "I want my saddlebags. You've got them and I want them," he said.

  Those things again! she thought with annoyance, her embarrassment forgotten. Her anger rose in spite of her vow to check her temper around him.

  She strode to the pantry, returned with the bags and threw them across the table to him. The tablecloth wadded up beneath them and slid askew. "You can wear them, you can sleep with them for all I care! Why you'd keep those broken shackles is beyond me!"

  His dark head came up sharply.

  "Yes, yes," she continued impatiently, with no thought for what she was saying. "I knew about it the first hour you were here. I went through these things trying to find your extra clothes. I didn't mean to pry. But it didn't require many brains to figure out you escaped from jail, and it wouldn't surprise me to see a posse ride up to my front porch any day. Personally, I don't give a damn about your name or your

  saddlebags or who you are. You aren't doing me any favors by gracing me with your presence. So far, all you've meant to me is aggravation and more work."

  “There's no posse—" he began, but she cut him off as though he hadn't spoken.

  Jabbing him in the chest with her index finger, she continued. "But I locked up your revolver because you are a stranger and I'm alone with you in this house. Even you must agree that given the circumstances, I'd have to be a simpleton to let you keep a loaded gun tucked under your pillow!"

  Travis stared at her, eyebrows lowered. "Don't you want to know what kind of crime I committed so you can blab to your other busybody friends?"

  Chloe's wrath was working up to a full boil and it felt wonderful to vent it on the cause of her frustration. She stood before him, feet planted wide, voice raised. "I told you, Mr. McGuire—oh, I beg your pardon—Travis, I'm truly not interested," she lied, "and if you knew me you'd also know better than to suggest I'm a busybody. You don't matter enough to tell anyone about!"

  God, but she had a temper! A temper as hot as his. Her face was pink with anger and her eyes were snapping. He might have been a little rough on her but she dished it out with twice the passion.

  "Doc's right. You do have a sassy tongue."

  Chloe stared at him, her mouth open in preparation to further defend herself for going through his belongings. This was the last thing she expected him to say. She heard the pitch of her voice increase significantly.

  "Miles Sherwood said that about me?" How dare he make such a remark to an outsider, especially this one? Now she felt like smacking Doc as well as Travis.

  Travis massaged his aching forehead, careful to avoid his right brow. "Yeah, and I agree with him. Somebody ought to take you down a peg. You've got a tougher crust than a bad pie."

  He stayed calm but Chloe sputtered with indignation at his criticism. "Down a peg? I'd like to see you try!" She ground out the words.

  "Huh, not me, thanks. I'm not interested in a job that hard. I only shoe horses, which I can't do dressed like this."

  "You are far ahead of yourself, mister. I didn't say I would hire you. As a matter of fact, I don't plan to."

  "You'll change your mind."

  "Oh, really!" She couldn't believe the gall of this man, dictating terms to her.

  "Even if you don't, I still have to get something to wear. There's money in here"—he gestured at the offending saddlebag—"and I was going to ask you to buy me some pants and a shirt. This sheet isn't my size."

  Chloe's anger deflated a bit. "But Doc said you won't be well for a few more days."

  "He also said I can have dinner downstairs when I feel up to it and I'm going to feel up to it tomorrow night. I'm not used to lollygagging and if I don't get up pretty soon, I'll lie in that bed forever. I don't think either of us wants that."

  Oh, that was just fine, she thought, nettled. Evan would be here for dinner. She regretted telling Travis that Evan was her fiancé, but he'd goaded her into it. And now he wanted to eat downstairs. A jailbird sitting down to eat with her and Evan? It was one thing to take a dying fugitive into the house to save his life—it was quite another to have him sit down at the table with her. Heaven knew what vicious crimes he'd committed.

  "And coffee," he added. “Take part of that money and buy a pound of coffee. I'm sick of that everlasting tea."

  "Are you sure you're ready? To come downstairs, I mean? Tomorrow night seems so soon." Silently, she willed him to deny it.

  Travis watched as the wheels turned in her brain, then gave her a dark-gray look. "I suppose I could find the dry goods store myself if you don't want to help."

  Cornered, she held out her hand for the money. "DeGroot's won't open till tomorrow morning. And you need new boots, too."

  * * *

  " 'And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him,' " thundered Reverend Adam Mitchell from his makeshift pulpit, his fleshy face red with exertion. He stood at the head of the schoolroom, pounding his fist on the lectern. He came through Misfortune once a month, whether the town needed him or not, to save souls, perform weddings, and speak over the dead.

  The reverend was a pompous, haughty man whose depressing sermons dealt primarily with the wages of sin, the importance of Christian charity to avoid damnation, and the necessity of prayer.

  Every six months or so, Mr. Mitchell felt duty-bound to step up his efforts and would set out a dragnet to pull in any wretched stragglers who might have wandered from the paths of righteousness. Today's joyless monologue warned of burning in the fiery pits for transgressions too numerous for him to cover. Holding the congregation's attention by the sheer volume of his voice, his intimidating gaze fell on each face in the school, rousing feelings of guilt where no real guilt existed.

  When his eyes lingered on Chloe, she shifted on the bench. She'd been listening with only half an ear, due in part to her confrontation with McGuire earlier. Her attendance had fallen off since her father's death. A person seeking hope and solace in Reverend Mitchell's church was bound to come away disappointed. The wrathful God Reverend Mitchell presented did not agree with what her idea of what God was like. Surely He had more tolerance for human failings.

  Frank Maitland had thought Reverend Mitchell was decidedly lacking in the skills necessary in a spiritual advisor and usually referred to the man as God's Windbag. Frank had hung this title on the reverend after he came to the Maitlands' to deliver a temperance speech.

  She could imagine her father watching her from wherever his spirit had flown, counting himself lucky to have escaped another of Mitchell's come-to-Jesus-or-else sermons.

  By the time the blessing was pronounced, Chloe's tailbone ached from prolonged contact wit
h the hard bench and her legs were almost numb. She made her way toward the door where the reverend was already bidding goodbye to his much-relieved flock.

  Trying to escape unnoticed, she was on the bottom step when she felt a hand clamp down on her shoulder.

  "Chloe, dear," Mitchell said. "I was hoping to speak with you."

  Her stomach clenched. Something about Adam Mitchell made her distinctly uncomfortable. She knew other women in town flocked around the bachelor like brainless twittering birds, parading their marriageable daughters, inviting him to Sunday dinner, organizing bake sales to fund a real church building, and blushing like schoolgirls when he favored them with his attention.

  Chloe was not among that group of slavish admirers. She sent a brief, desperate glance around the dusty school yard, looking for anyone she could draw into the conversation, but it was hopeless. He had her cornered.

  "I can't tell you how pleased I was to see your lovely face with us today," he said. Although his words were innocent enough, his tone and manner felt too personal to Chloe. 'We have missed you in these past months since Mr. Maitland's passing."

  She gave a short nod, hoping to keep the conversation brief.

  "The reason I wanted to speak with you, Chloe, is because I was talking with Grady Hewitt at the bank yesterday. He said you might be interested in earning some money."

  Grady was the bank president. Chloe could scarcely believe what she was hearing. Was her every movement and waking breath common knowledge? Did the entire town know she owed money to the bank? She sighed. Probably, and they probably knew how much as well. Everyone's business was everyone's business in Misfortune. Still, she considered it extremely ill-mannered of Mitchell to bring it up, especially in front of everyone.

  "Mr. Mitchell, this is hardly the time or place to discuss—"

  "Now, now, my dear," he clucked in a low voice, patting her hand. "Of course we won't talk about it now. I'll be in the area for a few days. What I'd like to do is come by one afternoon next week. I think you may be interested in what I have to propose."

  Chloe doubted that. A very brusque reply formed in her mind but it was tempered by a childhood remnant of respect for his position as a clergyman. "Really, that isn't necessary—"

  Just then, Sylvia Westerman came up, her seventeen-year-old Eula lumbering behind her. Rumor had it that one late evening at the Twilight Star, Albert DeGroot had observed that the chief difference between Eula and his mare was that his horse had the prettier face.

  "Mr. Mitchell, you positively must come to dinner this afternoon. Eula has learned a new hymn on the piano and she's just dying to play it for you."

  Chloe saw her chance for escape and took it, mentally thanking poor, awkward Eula while she hurried down the street toward home.

  * * *

  The clock marked the hour of half-past eleven that night as Chloe sat at her father's rolltop desk, pen in hand, shuffling papers while she again reviewed her financial situation. What was she going to do? The mortgage payment was due in sixty days and she had no idea where the money was going to come from. Evan, she knew, had no assets. His teaching job paid only sixty dollars a year. It would be up to her to provide a home for them if they married.

  She put the pen down and rubbed her forehead, her eyes tired from working under the harsh lamplight.

  Why couldn't her life have been different? she wondered, not for the first time. In a rare moment of self-pity, she thought it seemed like she either had bad luck or no luck at all.

  Her sense of helplessness was doubled because she couldn't find someone to work in the shop. Since Frank's death, everyone around Misfortune had been getting by with their own blacksmithing, and making a poor job of it from what she understood. Even though the town was far past its prime, she wouldn't suffer from a lack of business. But who was there to do the work? Room and board were not much compensation but were times so prosperous that even one man didn't need such basics?

  One such man is sleeping upstairs right now, she reminded herself.

  No. Travis McGuire was beyond consideration. Aside from the fact that he was in trouble with the law, an unacceptable drawback in itself, his quick anger and rudeness would make him impossible to deal with.

  And, of course, there were those other disquieting traits about him that sparked feelings in her she shouldn't be having at her age.

  The stairs creaked suddenly and her head snapped up. Beyond the reach of the light a ghostly white figure was descending. It took her a moment to realize it was her patient.

  "Why are you sneaking around like that?" she demanded, fright and discouragement sharpening her voice. "You shouldn't be down here at this hour, anyway. You're sick."

  Travis approached the desk, wrapped in his sheet like a Roman at the baths. Any other man would look ridiculous in such a getup. He didn't. "I wasn't sneaking. It's hard to stomp barefoot."

  He was much steadier on his feet than he had been this morning. The clean scent of him, subtle yet distracting, drifted to her. "Well, do you want something?"

  He glanced at her ledger and at the wads of paper littering the desk. She looked tired and pinched again, like she was worried.

  "I want a decision from you. Do I have a job or not?"

  Chloe couldn't believe her ears. This man, this outlaw, had insulted her, abused her hospitality, and tried her patience in a dozen different ways. And still he thought she might hire him.

  "I believe I made myself very clear about that this morning. It just wouldn't work out."

  He gestured at her ledger. "Things are going that well, are they? Looks like you can't afford to be so fussy about this. You need me." And he needed to be here.

  She slammed the book shut and leaned back in her chair. Why did he seem to know things without being told? It was unsettling. "No, things are not going that well." She hated explaining her money problems to a stranger but frustration pushed her to it. "A mortgage payment is coming due on this property in two months. I have ten dollars to my name and I've never been in this kind of fix in my life."

  She sat forward again and folded her hands on the desk, her shoulders hunched. "I need a blacksmith to work in the shop to help me make that payment. But I want a nice man who won't insult me at every turn, a man who'll appreciate my help. I don't need a convict." She looked him directly in the eye. "As bad as things are, I'm not that desperate."

  He took a step backward then, out of the circle of lamplight, but not before she saw his expression. Ice-cold anger shone from his eyes, but there was something else, too. For just an instant she saw a flicker of injured pride and a tiny dart of guilt jabbed her. His voice came to her from the shadowed side of the parlor, hushed but heated.

  "You say you want a 'nice' man to work here. What you really want is someone so miserable and down on his luck you can bully him. Some poor bastard who'll grovel at your feet like a stray dog for every bone you stoop to throw him. You're right, lady. That's not me."

  Chloe was speechless. Nobody dared talk to her like that.

  He turned and crossed to the staircase, his sheet rustling along the floor. Then he paused on the bottom step. "Don't forget to buy those clothes for me in the morning. I'll need them if I'm going to leave."

  "You won't be leaving tomorrow," she countered. "You're not well enough."

  "No, but since I won't be working here, I plan to be out of here as soon as I can." He didn't wait for her response before going up the stairs.

  For several minutes she sat staring at nothing, the papers at her elbow forgotten. If she needed another reason to get Travis McGuire out of her house, she had it. Imagine him suggesting she was a bully when he was the one who gave her so much trouble. If fate was going to send someone to pass out in her yard, why couldn't he have been the one she needed instead of the hellion she got?

  She looked down at her column of numbers and refigured them again and again, hoping to find an error in her favor. The total remained unchanged. Her gaze lifted to the darkened room, to al
l the modest furniture and possessions accumulated over generations, and she thought of them belonging to someone else. That was a real possibility.

  Frank Maitland's troubles had ended last spring. His daughter's were just beginning.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The next evening Chloe set the table for two, then hurried to fling pork chops, peas, and mashed potatoes on a plate for Travis. Evan would be here any moment and she wanted this chore behind her. She looked over her shoulder every couple of minutes, expecting to see the tall, dark-haired man standing in the kitchen doorway.

  It just wasn't proper, she told herself again, to have a man of Travis McGuire's background and position sitting down to eat with her and Evan as though he were an honored guest. The very thought had her so flustered, she hadn't done anything right all day.

  Then she'd hit upon a possible solution. It was a flimsy idea but it was all she had: she simply wouldn't wake Travis. He'd been asleep most of the time since he arrived; she'd just let him sleep through dinner. She'd take him a tray so if he woke, at least he'd have something to eat. But she'd also remove the new clothes she'd hung over the end of his bed to make sure he couldn't come down.

  Her cooking had been rushed and nothing turned out well. She'd spent the afternoon bent over the scrub board, then at DeGroot's buying Travis two complete sets of pants, shirts, socks, underwear, and a pair of boots. And since he'd complained so much about the tea, she had bought coffee for him, too. But she'd paid for that. Truthfully, she was getting tired of tea as well.

  As far as tonight's dinner went, the only thing she felt good about was the chocolate cake she'd made this morning for dessert. She'd have to serve Evan the dismal meal. He wouldn't complain, of course. He'd eat a boiled string mop if she told him to.

  Travis, she knew, wasn't so agreeable. She stared at the burned, leatherlike chops on the tray, wondering what to do about them. Finally she cut them up into small, manageable bits and carried the tray upstairs.

  She stood in the doorway between her room and the nursery, watching him. He looked asleep. She tiptoed in, her skirts swishing. To her ears it sounded like the wind stirring a hundred acres of wheat. Why did a person make the most noise when they wanted to be quiet? she wondered. She set the tray on the nightstand, her heart pounding as though she were afraid of being caught in the act of an atrocious crime.