Prologue Page 7

  Suddenly Travis rolled to his back and sighed. Chloe froze. When he didn't open his eyes or move again, she pressed her hands to her skirts and glided from the room. She felt very clever.

  * * *

  The room had a warm somnolence to it and it was easy to drift in peaceful suspension where there were no memories or nightmares. The shades were pulled against the late afternoon sun and Travis lay on his back, eyes closed, his pillow hugged to his chest with one arm.

  He thought he heard a rustling, like the whispering of petticoats, but he ignored it until the noise stopped. Finally a combination of scents stirred him; of meat and potatoes, of feminine fragrance. Glancing around he saw that Chloe had left a dinner tray on the night-stand next to him and his mouth began to water. The hellcat had brought him real food at last. Since coming here she'd had him on broth, porridge, and bread, and before that, he'd survived on skimpy food that traveled well, beef jerky and the occasional rabbit. Thank God, she'd given him coffee, too.

  He sat up and lifted the tray to his lap, looking forward to his first full meal in weeks. Then voices floated to him from the main floor and he remembered he was going downstairs for dinner tonight. But the tray on his lap indicated that Chloe had other ideas. Upon closer examination, he saw she'd taken what appeared to be pork chops and cut them up into pieces so small she must have thought he was as toothless as a newborn. Next to the bits of meat was a cold, loose blob of mashed potatoes mixed with dried-up green peas. He poked the mess around the plate with his fork and even tried a taste or two before giving up in disgust. If this was a sample of her cooking, it was a good thing he wouldn't be working here. She'd offered room and board in her advertisement. .He’d assumed the board would be edible and this sure didn’t qualify. On top of all that, his nakedness trapped him in this room.

  It was then he noticed the new clothes draped over the end of the iron bed. He put the tray back on the nightstand and closed a hand around a leg of the jeans.

  If she wanted her romantic little dinner for only two, she should have fed him something better than this.

  * * *

  “Will you have more potatoes, Evan?” Chloe asked with a straight face. The potatoes had a consistency of wallpaper paste.

  “Yes, thank you,” he replied and took the bowl from her.

  She was glad to see that Evan’s appetite was voracious again tonight, soothing her regret for the quality of this dinner. She’d looked forward to spending some quiet time with him. He wasn’t a prince on a white steed, but at least he respected her and didn’t threaten her in the dark, troubling ways Travis did. She was thinking of her decision not to hire the drifter when she heard the ominous thumping of boot heels moving across the floor overhead.

  Both she and Evan looked up at the ceiling, their gazes following the path of the sound as it headed toward the staircase. Oh, damn! She thought. She’d been so worried about waking up Travis that she’d forgotten to move his clothes. It would seem he’d found them.

  “Wonderful,” she said under her breath, then put her napkin on the table. “Excuse me a moment.” Ignoring Evan’s puzzled expression, she rose from her seat to head Travis off in the parlor.

  She saw him at the bottom of the stairs, carrying his tray like it was a box of scorpions.

  His transformation was both intriguing and disturbing.

  His face was not yet healed and since he hadn’t shaved, his dark beard masked his features more each day. But he was somewhat combed and his new clothes fit very well, distractingly so. The denim pants hugged his long slim legs and backside as though they’d been tailored for him. The shirt she’d chosen, a plain chambray, stretched across his broad shoulders and tapered along his narrow waist. No man had the right to look that good, she thought.

  “I didn’t think you’d feel like getting up yet,” she said, trying to will him back to the steps. Evan didn’t need to meet Travis. Not just yet anyway.

  “You hoped I wouldn’t feel like getting up yet,” he corrected. He frowned at the mess on the tray and launched into his complaint. “You couldn’t keep a chipmunk alive with food like this.”

  “Will you keep your voice down, please? My fiancé” She caught herself but not in time. “I have company in the dining room,” she hissed and glanced over her shoulder.

  It was then he noticed that she was dressed up. Her hair, pulled softly to the loose knot on top of her head, gave her a less rigid appearance. She wore a crisp pale blue blouse with enormous sleeves and tight cuffs that reached her elbows and gave her femininity a much-needed boost. A cameo fastened her high, close-fitting collar. Her skirt was cream-colored and that surprised him—Chloe Maitland struck him as the kind of woman who'd never wear such a color because it would only get dirty. All this fancy dressing must be due to her special caller. His curiosity was kindled. Travis wanted to get a look at the man willing to take her on. He'd have to be tough enough to wear sandpaper for underwear.

  "Well, maybe I'll get something better than this if I join you," he said and started to push past her.

  "No, no, you can't do that," she replied, panicky. She did not want to get into the complications of having the two men meet. What if Travis said something at the table to make Evan believe she'd accepted his proposal when she hadn't? And how would Evan react to this intimidating stranger?

  "Besides, what I gave you is no worse than what we're having. You may as well just take this food back upstairs." She pushed the tray more firmly into his hands.

  Why was she so skittish? he wondered. It might be this Evan was a hulking buffalo with a jealous streak who would make all kinds of wrong assumptions. "Maybe your intended won't like my being here," Travis ventured.

  "Miss Chloe, is everything all right?" Evan called from the dining room.

  Truthfully, Travis didn't care whether her company liked it or not. He was hungry. He stepped around her and made his way to the table. If there was going to be a problem with the fiancé, he'd face it head-on.

  Seeing Evan, he nearly laughed aloud at his wildly inaccurate mental picture of him. This juiceless milksop looked as though he'd be afraid of the dark. But as Chloe introduced them and Evan extended his hand with obvious reluctance, Travis felt every hair on his body rise. His appetite drained away and a peculiar aversion overtook him. The sensation was so powerful Travis could only stare at Evan, who twitched under the inspection.

  "Peterson," Travis acknowledged brusquely. After the teacher's damp, limp handshake, Travis barely suppressed the urge to dry his hand on his jeans.

  The tension in the room was so heavy, Chloe swore she could see it. "Shall we eat?" she suggested weakly.

  The meal proceeded at a snail's pace. As dishes were passed among the three, Travis was watchful and silent, Chloe struggled to keep conversation going, and Evan yipped out one-word responses to her dinner table remarks. In all, it was the worst hour she'd ever spent. She was so annoyed she failed to notice that Travis never tasted one bite until the meal was nearly over.

  The evening did have its blessings, she noted as she cleared the table. Evan was too intimidated to ask Travis any questions about himself. Travis's closemouthed hostility prevented him from talking to Evan and possibly revealing the lie Chloe had told about their supposed engagement. And the outlaw's presence almost guaranteed she would not have to sit on the porch swing with Evan after dinner.

  Indeed, as soon as the last dish was removed from the table Evan was up and on his way to the door. Travis had succeeded in scaring him off and Chloe was mortified.

  "I hope I'm not being too rude, Miss Chloe, to eat and leave so quickly, but I have to be up before daybreak tomorrow to help Ben Tolliver." His eyes flickered to Travis, who sat unmoving at the table, his gaze steady upon the teacher.

  "Why, no, Evan, I understand if you feel you must go. But I have chocolate cake and coffee for dessert. Are you sure you can't stay for some?" She followed him to the front door.

  "No, really, I have to be on my way," Evan stressed,
his hand already on the screen door. "Perhaps I can drop by tomorrow afternoon—when you've made tea." He glanced pointedly at Travis again, then back at Chloe, as if to say, I hope he's gone by then. "Will you save a piece of cake for me?"

  "Of course. I'm so glad you could come tonight." Chloe had never felt more humiliated.

  Travis rose from his chair and began walking toward the kitchen, then stopped. Looking back at Evan, he said, "Nice meeting you, Peterson."

  To Chloe, it sounded like, "I'll see you in hell."

  * * *

  Chloe stormed into the kitchen. "Couldn't you have tried a little harder to be pleasant? First you barged in on our dinner, then you practically ran Evan off. I have to believe your mother taught you better."

  Travis was leaning against the back doorjamb, sipping a cup of coffee. He turned a flat look on her, which did not frighten her as it had Evan. She expected him to shout back. Instead, he pushed himself away and walked toward her. He paused, his face just inches from hers, and held her with that same closed expression.

  "My mother didn't teach me anything about snakes, but my old man did."

  Chloe gazed up at him, suddenly mesmerized by a primal force she hadn't noticed in him before. "Snakes?"

  "He said never turn your back on them, and get rid of them as fast as you can." He put the cup in the sink. "Thanks for the coffee," he said, then turned and strode to the parlor.

  Chloe stared after him, her mouth slightly open, knowing only that for one instant, she did not control the situation. Travis did. And she wasn't completely certain she disliked it.

  * * *

  Travis lay naked on his narrow bed in the dark, the hot night close around him. Only the faintest breath of air stirred the curtains. He'd left the door ajar between his room and Chloe's to catch the occasional cross draft, but it wasn't helping much. Anyway, the small room felt too much like a cell when the door was closed. He couldn't stand confining spaces and now that he was getting well, he was more aware of the walls around him.

  While the clock downstairs chimed only ten times, he felt like he'd been lying there for hours, restless and edgy, chasing sleep that remained beyond his reach. It often did.

  Tonight it was because he couldn't get Evan Peterson out of his mind. The teacher lurked there in the shadows of his thoughts, nagging at him with a vague sense of dread, worry—something—and he didn't know why. Travis only knew he didn't trust the man.

  God, let it go, he told himself. He had enough problems without adding to the list.

  He could see the dim silhouette of his clothes where they hung on the end of the bed. One more day here and then he'd be gone. This time he'd head west for the Silver Creek Ranch near John Day. Before he'd seen Chloe's blacksmith advertisement, he'd heard they were looking for a few hands. If he could sign on with the ranch, the job would probably last through fall roundup. Then he'd move on again. With the exception of a few years of marriage and prison, he'd never lived in any one place for more than several months.

  Frustrated, he got up and sat on the chair by the window, propping his feet on the sill. Below, the yard lay frosted in moonlight and crickets called from the shadows. He let his head drop back against the chair's high back and closed his eyes.

  He'd found that given the right amount of time and effort, a person could escape just about anything, good or bad. Loneliness, love, financial obligations, imprisonment of the body or spirit—there were ways around these and more. He'd seen people manage it many times. But memories were not put off so easily. They popped up anytime, invited or not, regardless of evasive mental maneuvers.

  Sitting here in the darkness, his past rose in his mind and he saw his parents. Originally immigrated from famine-stricken Ireland, they had been good, loving people. But his father, possessed by a wanderlust and the unlimited promise of America, had taken his mother, brother, and him zigzagging from one side of the country to the other. Always the new boy wherever he went, and so a target to be challenged, Travis had gotten into more than his share of fights.

  This existence had turned him into a loner, an outsider who'd watched the secure lives of others with a painful longing that, in time, he'd been able to subdue but never conquer.

  Travis was sixteen when his parents and younger brother died of cholera in a desolate Oregon valley. Driving the wagon away from three unmarked graves, he'd not only been stunned by the loss but struggled with both guilt and relief that he'd mysteriously been spared. On his own now, he'd vowed to settle in the next fair-sized town he came to. He wanted the one thing his parents had not given him. He wanted a normal life—he wanted a home.

  Three weeks later, he'd arrived in Salem and gone in search of his dream. He found Lyle Upton, a local blacksmith with a good business, and persuaded him to take on an apprentice.

  His work with Lyle had been hot and hard, but Travis thrived. He revealed a true talent for fashioning horseshoes, kettles, and wagon wheels. Finally, he'd settled down.

  Then, too, there had been Lyle's daughter, Celia—

  Suddenly he heard Chloe's footsteps in the next room and he opened his eyes. She'd get a real surprise if she decided to look in on him and found him sitting here, without a stitch on. And she apparently hadn't noticed that the door between their beds was ajar. Her candle flame threw a wedge of light on the floor next to him. He was getting used to her routine just by listening to her. The rustle of fabric reached him as she changed her clothes, the splash of water in her washbasin, the whisper of her brush through her hair. What did her hair look like when it was loose, flowing down her back? he wondered. Was it only as long as her shoulder blades or did it hang lower? Did it wave like an ocean of gold and copper wildflowers? Maybe it fell like a satin drape, heavy and lustrous. And her skin, it would be soft, like the inside of white rose petals, smooth and yielding under his touch . . .

  His sat up with a start when he realized the direction of his thoughts. He must be losing his mind if he could even imagine anything appealing about Chloe Maitland.

  He waited a few silent moments after she blew out the candle. Then he went back to the old bed and lay down with an irritable huff to search for sleep again.

  * * *

  Chloe pushed her dust rag over the old sideboard. She remembered the dreadful, awkward dinner last night, and the scene that followed in the kitchen, and wondered if she'd imagined it all. Her jittery uneasiness had turned her hands so cold they looked blue. From the yard she heard the dull sound of hammer on wood where Travis was fixing one of the kitchen chairs. This was his first full day out of bed, and to have him up and around and well, around, was so intimidating she could barely keep her mind on her work.

  Having him come downstairs to dinner had been bad enough. But last night, the sound of those screeching bedsprings had given him a new status, an extra edge of danger. She knew he'd been out of bed, maybe even watching her from that darkened room. She thought she'd gotten accustomed to him being there, on the other side of the wall. And she had, too, but as a patient. Now, an invalid no longer, he could prowl around his room, her room—the entire house. The possibilities had her so rattled, without thinking she rubbed her forehead with her grimy hand.

  This morning he'd come downstairs, dressed, looking for things to do, and had taken it upon himself to mend the chair. He'd said lying around for a week had made him creaky and he wanted to stretch his legs because he'd be leaving tomorrow. And not a moment too soon, as far as she was concerned. Her orderly life had been in utter turmoil ever since he got here.

  She was on her hands and knees, dusting the legs of the china cabinet when someone knocked on the screen door. She dragged herself out of the corner, and it occurred to her that in the last week she'd had more people coming to see her than in the whole six months since her father's death. Several had dropped by, she suspected, hoping only to get a look at "the stranger." Their neighborly interest in her welfare was too sudden to be believable.

  But when she went to the front door she was d
isturbed to see Reverend Adam Mitchell on her porch. He was dressed completely in black, making her think of death. With everything that had happened in the past few days, she'd forgotten he was planning to come over. "Mr. Mitchell, this is a surprise."

  "Chloe, dear, I hope I haven't come at a bad time," he said, his hand on the door pull. His smile was broad and ingratiating, his voice as smooth as oil. "I know I didn't tell you which day I would be dropping by."

  She pushed at her hair, loose in its pins. "I'm afraid you've caught me cleaning this morning. You'll have to forgive my appearance."

  She wore an old faded dress she saved for housecleaning. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror on the hall tree, she saw a big smudge on her forehead.

  "Nonsense, Chloe," he said, stepping in and removing his hat. "I think you're as lovely as a rose."

  It was another of those personal comments that made her feel so uneasy around him. As he said it, his eyes traveled beyond her and around the room, as if he were looking for something. Or someone.

  She motioned him to the settee. "Can I offer you tea or lemonade?"

  He sat down and patted the upholstery next to him in invitation. "No, no, I don't want to put you to any more bother. I understand you've had a busy week. Your guest has created quite a stir around town."

  Chloe stifled her irritation as she sat at the far end of the settee. There was no escape from Misfortune's curiosity and McGuire's arrival was probably the biggest event to happen here since the last gold mine went bust. She was just going to have to accept that.

  "Mr. McGuire came here in answer to my advertisement. But we decided that it probably wouldn't work out."

  "Ah, that's a pity," Mitchell nodded sagely, "but it brings me to the proposal I want to discuss with you." He settled back more comfortably. "I know you've had quite a struggle since Brother Maitland passed on."