Prologue Page 8

  Chloe bristled at the familial term. There had been no love lost between her father and the reverend. In fact, they'd exchanged strong words on at least two occasions; once when Mitchell took it upon himself to reprimand Frank for his wicked life, and another time when he wanted a donation.

  "I've managed," she answered carefully. "Things could have been easier, but I have a good roof over my head and I'm not starving."

  Mitchell reached over and patted her hand. "You know, I'm quite fond of you, dear. Your courage is inspiring. It makes me want to help you all the more."

  As he spoke, she heard the quiet squeak of the back door hinge. Soft footfalls, that could have easily been mistaken for house creaks, sounded in the kitchen. Mitchell appeared to notice nothing and in an intimate tone, prattled on about her pluck. She wondered where this conversation was headed. She also wanted to pull her hand back, but it would seem too rude.

  "I've given a lot of thought to your predicament and I've prayed and prayed, begging the Lord to show me a solution. I believe He has finally answered those prayers."

  Beginning to feel cornered, Chloe glanced over the back of the settee and saw Travis in the kitchen doorway, one shoulder braced against the jamb. His arms were crossed over his chest and his eyes were riveted on the back of Adam Mitchell's head.

  "I appreciate your interest, Mr. Mitchell, but really—"

  He continued as though she hadn't spoken, his tone one of grave concern. "Hiring a stranger to live and work here is very risky business, especially since you're here alone. You would know nothing about him. And think of the gossip you'll stir up." He leaned toward her, as though to impart the wisdom of the .ages. "Now, I myself have a room in a boardinghouse in Vale and I was thinking I could rent a room here just as easily and pay you the money. Then every three or four weeks when I come to Misfortune to minister to my flock, I would stay here."

  Chloe gaped at his jowly face. "You say God gave you this idea?"

  He gave her a modest smile, as though she were overwhelmed by his genius. "I thought it was quite resourceful myself. We could work out a price that would include laundry and, oh, a few other personal services. Not having a wife, there are some—conveniences—I miss. And who knows," he smiled, his expression as oily as his voice, "if the congregation's needs increase, I may have to visit more often. You could do far worse, my dear. Life can be difficult for the unworldly and unprotected, as you are discovering." He squeezed her hand, then pressed a wet kiss on it.

  Chloe wrenched her fingers from his grip. Every suspicious feeling she'd harbored about the minister congealed within her. What a lecherous fraud, passing himself off as a kind and decent man. He disgusted her.

  "Mr. Mitchell," she retorted, "my life may be ‘unworldly' as you say, but I grew up in a mining town and I'm not naive. I need someone to work in my blacksmith shop. I'm not opening a boardinghouse or a whorehouse for you or anyone else. I would dig for gold in the hills, and starve to death if I failed, before I'd consider your revolting proposition." She jumped from her seat. "I want you out of my house, right now."

  At her forthright response, Mitchell's expression turned flinty, his face red. "My dear, I enjoy your spirit, I really do. It's your most attractive quality. But you had better not be so hasty" he replied. "You

  don't appear to be in a position to turn down my offer." He reached out and tried to grab her hand again.

  Furious words tumbled one over the other in her throat, rendering her speechless.

  "Miss Maitland asked you to leave."

  Chloe turned toward Travis as he strode into the room, his bruised brow creased with a frown. She'd forgotten he was there, watching, waiting. He was tall as it was, but suddenly he looked as big as a fir tree, commanding and intimidating. His battered face gave him a fearsome edge.

  Startled, Adam Mitchell's head swiveled around to look at the man who'd eavesdropped on his proposition. But he covered his astonishment and rose to his feet. Travis deflected his imperious gaze as it swept over him, taking in the minister with a dark, assessing glare.

  Travis leaned over and grabbed Mitchell's hat from the settee and jammed it into the man's hands. "Don't forget your hat," he said with a frightening smile. Then he bent forward a bit and said in a low voice, "One more thing. The next time you talk to this lady, if there is a next time, she's Miss Maitland to you, not 'Chloe', not 'dear', do you understand?"

  Mitchell walked to the door, obviously trying to maintain his dignity while hurrying. "I'd hoped to save you, Chloe—Miss Maitland," he said, falling back on self-righteousness. "But I'm afraid you're already lost."

  Travis shut the door and Chloe heard the man's footsteps as they crossed the porch and went down the stairs. She dropped to the settee again, waiting for her nerves to calm. She glanced up at Travis, expecting some remark from him, but he only returned her gaze for a long moment. Then he turned and walked back through the kitchen. That he'd bothered to get involved at all was surprising. He definitely did not impress her as the kind of man who would step forward to help anyone. He was too cold-blooded and distrustful.

  Chloe knew she had done nothing, nothing to give Adam Mitchell the idea that he had the freedom to make such an outrageous suggestion to her. She thought of all it implied and a shudder racked her from her scalp to her ankles.

  She looked around the room again, at the faded furniture and papered walls. This was home and she had to find a way to save it, without the kind of "help" Mitchell had offered.

  * * *

  That evening when Evan came for dinner, she kept the events of the afternoon to herself, although she was preoccupied while she searched her mind for a solution. Asking him for advice was an option she'd discarded long ago—she had to find the answer by herself. She was used to that from years of practice with her father. Besides, Evan had so little grasp of her predicament, he wouldn't be able to help. He seemed to think things would work themselves out.

  "Miss Chloe, I don't think you've heard a word I've said. Is that drifter still here?" he questioned, as she poured his tea.

  "What? Oh, yes, but he'll finally be leaving tomorrow," she replied, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. "Doc said he's well enough to go. I think he's still surprised Travis lived. He said he must have an iron will to have pulled through."

  "He's too mean to die," he said.

  Chloe gave a delighted laugh, heartened that he'd tried to cheer her. "Evan, you made a joke."

  He simply stared at her. "No, I didn't. I never joke."

  "Oh." She glanced at her plate and twiddled with the corner of her napkin, momentarily discouraged. No, he never joked.

  "At least we didn't have to suffer the man's company at dinner," Evan continued.

  Travis had already eaten in the kitchen and was now upstairs, asleep again. He wanted to get an early start in the morning, he'd said.

  "I just wish he'd been someone I could hire to work in the shop," she fretted, more to herself than Evan.

  He reached for the sugar and put two heaping spoons in his tea. "I'm glad he wasn't. I wouldn't want him around here."

  Chloe sighed. Carrying this burden of worry by herself sometimes wore her out. Even if Evan couldn't help, maybe talking about it would make her feel. a little better. "I don't know what I'm going to do if I can't turn things around soon. I could lose this house."

  His bland face became sympathetic and another spark of hope flared in her heart. "I know how hard this has been for you. I think you're the bravest woman I've ever known." He squeezed her hand in his fingers. "But try not to worry so much. I know you'll do whatever it takes to find a way out of this."

  Of course, he was right. The answer was here somewhere. She just hadn't discovered it yet. She began to collect the dishes to take them out to the kitchen while her mind raced on, trying to grasp the elusive solution.

  Abruptly, Evan put his spoon down and rubbed his temples, his expression oddly wide-eyed and attentive, as though listening for something.

 
"Oh, dear," Chloe said. "Is it another one of your headaches?"

  At length, he nodded.

  Evan had begun having headaches a couple of months earlier. Sudden and apparently severe, they were getting closer together, now occurring once or twice a week.

  "I'll get an aspirin powder," she said, rising from the table, dishes in both hands.

  He stopped her. "No, no, don't bother. Aspirin doesn't help. This will be gone soon."

  Chloe sat again and looked at him doubtfully. "Have you talked to Doc Sherwood about this?" she asked.

  "No!" he snapped, his expression suspicious. "No doctors. They don't know anything."

  "All right, all right," she agreed, baffled by his attitude.

  He did submit to a cold cloth on his forehead and when he finally left, Chloe felt drained by both the event and his presence. There were so many things in her life to worry about. So many things.

  Later, long after Evan had gone back to the farm, Chloe sat at the desk in the parlor, wishing again for a nice man to answer her advertisement, the kind of man Travis had ridiculed. But for all her thinking, only one reality came to her mind.

  No nice man was going to come along in time, if ever, to help her save her home. No amount of wishing would make that different. She would have to take in this drifter for now. If she could just get past this current crisis, it would give her time to find someone else later.

  She took a low deep breath and let it out. Then she placed her palms flat to the desktop and pushed herself to her feet. For that moment she felt like a very old woman as she struggled with the only choice desperation left her, and it was a galling choice. It felt only slightly better than it might have if she were forced to accept Mitchell's offer. She carefully stacked her papers, closed the desk, and went upstairs.

  She hung back in the doorway to the nursery, watching Travis. The candle flame from her night-stand revealed his shape on the bed. He lay with one muscled arm thrown over his eyes and his breathing was slow and even. Chloe was grateful for the dim light because the corner of his sheet covered only one slim hip and just barely anything else, and she could see where that narrow strip of hair on his belly went. Why couldn't he keep the sheet over himself? She quickly averted her eyes to his face. This naked, dangerous drifter—she must be out of her mind to consider hiring him.

  Go on, she urged herself. She took one step closer to the bed, then another. When she stood next to him she reached out a tentative hand to shake his shoulder, but withdrew it. Finally she gave the leg of the bedstead a hard kick, making the springs twang.

  He woke with a jerk and pulled himself up to his elbows, sleep-fogged. "What the hell are you doing?"

  She stood with her arms crossed over her chest. "I'm willing to take you on, for a while, anyway. You'll start work tomorrow. I'll fix up the spare room in the shop for you." Then she turned and left the nursery, pulling the door closed and making sure it latched this time.

  "Will that be all, Your Highness?" he called irritably through the door.

  "It's enough," she called back. Being forced to hire an outlaw was more than enough.

  She added another black mark to Frank Maitland's list of misdeeds.

  * * *

  Travis woke at dawn the next morning tangled in a snarl of sheets. Trying to turn his long frame on the narrow bed during the night had him wrapped like a mummy. He'd been dreaming again, this time about snakes that could assume human form, and he knew Evan Peterson and Adam Mitchell had triggered the vision.

  He hadn't meant to get involved in that scene yesterday with the minister. He'd heard a male voice in the house and, always alert for Jace Rankin, he'd crept in to learn who it was. When he'd heard the drift of the conversation he listened, more in amazement than anything else, waiting to see what Chloe would do. For all he knew, maybe she wouldn't mind being kept in her own house by that bastard. As far as Travis could see, it was a toss-up between Mitchell and Peterson as to which was the worst choice.

  But when he realized she wasn't interested and that the situation could get ugly, he had to step in. In all his years on the road with his family, he'd seen too many of that type: the hypocritical preacher, spouting damnation and cursing sin, then trying to seduce any vulnerable young woman available.

  At least it hadn't been Jace Rankin in her parlor.

  He thought of the last close call he had with the bounty hunter. He'd been in Sodaville, planning to hire on at a logging camp, but Rankin had gotten there a couple of days ahead of him. Rankin talked around and two nights later, after meeting the camp foreman, Travis had been galloping toward the forests of the Cascade Mountains, observed only by the Milky Way and an occasional owl.

  To be chased was bad enough; to have his pursuer outguess him was hell. Even if Rankin weren't hunting him, he'd done enough damage just by talking with people. No one would even give Travis a job after they learned he'd been in jail.

  In groggy frustration Travis worked himself loose of the sheet and sat up on the edge of the mattress, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. By leaving a confusing, meandering trail, he hoped he'd finally lost Rankin. But if he got close again, Travis would have to strongly consider crossing into Canada. He might be able to lose him in that unknown territory. Maybe that was the only way to be free.

  For now, though, he focused on being a blacksmith again. It might not be so bad, working at a forge. This time things were different. This time if he didn't like it he could pack up and move on.

  His stomach growled. Now that he was feeling better, his hunger was unrelenting. At least it was if he didn't have to be around Evan Peterson. That man was enough to steal anyone's appetite. He listened a minute for kitchen noises. He'd quickly gotten used to the clank of the coffeepot and skillet as Chloe made breakfast in the mornings. The homey sounds were comforting, but this morning the house was quiet.

  Intending to investigate the shop, Travis pulled on his new pants and boots and carefully opened the door separating his room from Chloe's.

  She was asleep, her heavy hair tumbled around her. He was crossing the room but stopped for a moment at the foot of her bed. Her high-necked nightgown was partially unbuttoned, revealing the swell of a lush breast. She was a tempting sight, nestled amid lace-edged pillows and pink coverlet, her sharp tongue stilled. A faint pulse throbbed along the side of her smooth white throat.

  His long-denied body responded at once to her feminine shape. How long had it been? he found himself wondering as he looked down at her. When had he last lain in a big soft bed with fancy linens and a warm female tucked in his arms? Not since his marriage, he realized.

  Well, there was Roxanne, that brassy-haired young barmaid in Canyon City. That had been three months ago, now, but it hardly counted. She'd sold him a half hour of her time and was the first woman he'd had in five years.

  She'd taken him to a small, airless storage room that led to an alley and pushed him down on a wobbly cot. The strong smell of beer had risen from dark kegs lining the walls. While cooing over his muscled, rawboned body, she'd emphasized her words by massaging the front of his pants. The intuitive skill with which he'd responded to these practiced ministrations surprised her and their coupling was so fierce, for one semi-lucid moment Travis had thought the rickety bed would collapse.

  Yet when it was over and his body had cooled, he'd felt used and oddly hollow, although he couldn't imagine why. He'd gotten what he'd paid for, physical satisfaction. But the nagging pain that had sent him to the saloon was replaced with an emptiness that felt worse. He'd declined the purring girl's offer to let him have another go, free of charge, and tweaking her chin, let himself out into the alley.

  Even the memory of that episode was vaguely depressing and that puzzled him. But gazing at Chloe, he understood the yearning he felt. His desire included physical passion, but a need to belong as well, peace of mind and stability. And for the space of a breath, he imagined taking off his pants and boots and climbing into her bed.

  Travis s
hook his head at the dumb idea. Forget it, McGuire, he told himself and crept out the door leading to the hall. His search for those very qualities—peace of mind, stability—was what had gotten him into trouble to begin with. He didn't need anything or anyone, least of all a woman with a razor-sharp tongue.

  This job and this town, they were only temporary. Then he'd be gone from here, and away from the blacksmith's old-maid daughter who was becoming far more attractive than he wanted her to be.

  * * *

  Chloe woke a few minutes later when the sun broke over her windowsill, blasting her in the face.

  She rose quietly and took up her hairbrush, thinking Travis still slept in the next room. She would make sure that she kept a businesslike distance between herself and McGuire. Moving him out to the shop would help. Now that he was well the nursery was much too close.

  She went to the open window while she brushed her hair. When she looked out, she was startled to see him in the paddock with her horse, Lester.

  Travis was bad-mannered and disrespectful, the way he was always challenging her, baiting her, so how could she admire the striking picture he made? The width of his shoulders was a sharp contrast with his narrow hips where his jeans hung low and snug. His leanness accentuated the length of his legs and torso as he advanced in a fluid motion of muscle and bone. Maybe it was like looking at a painting, she decided. She could appreciate a work of art and not like the model. If she thought of him in such abstract terms, his allure was easier to accept.

  Again Chloe’s imagination combined with her memory of his naked body as she envisioned his bare back, his broad furred chest, his long, straight legs.

  Mortified by this mental picture, she forced herself to think of Evan—Evan in his black suit, with his oiled hair and his musty smell.

  Her musings were interrupted as a voice, carrying easily on the new day, floated up to her.

  “Steady, girl,” Travis coaxed the mare, his hands at his sides. “I’m a friend.”