Salvation in the Rancher's Arms

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“Reckon I could do that.”

Mrs. Sutter glanced down at her hand and snatched it back, curling the fingers into her palm and resting it against her belly, holding it in place as if she were afraid it might reach out voluntarily and touch him again.

“Thank you.”

Caleb nodded and pulled up on the reins, irritated with his reaction. The absence of her touch was far too noticeable. When they reached the house, he set the brake and jumped down from the buckboard, patting Jasper’s rump as he passed behind him. He’d kept Jasper tied to the back of the wagon for the ride up, letting the draft horse he’d purchased in Laramie do the work of pulling them. By the time he reached Mrs. Sutter, she was about to jump down. He reached up and grabbed her around the waist, lifting her to the ground.

“I don’t need—” She didn’t have time to finish her reprimand before her feet hit the ground.

“Nothin’ wrong with a man helpin’ a lady down.”

She glared at him. It disturbed him how much he enjoyed it. So much so, he let his hands linger at the curve of her narrow waist. Once again he was struck by how small she was. One stiff mountain wind and she’d all but blow away. Yet he had no doubt her deeply rooted resilience would beat back the wind until it regretted ever making the attempt.

Her hands curled into fists on his shoulders. Mere inches separated their bodies, and God help him but he liked the feel of her in his hands. He watched her swallow, avoiding his gaze.

“You can take your horse down to the barn and stable him there.”

“Think I’ll come inside first.”

Her hands pushed at his shoulders and she slipped out of his grip, stumbling slightly before catching herself.

“That isn’t necessary.”

“I think it is.” He wasn’t about to let her face Kirkpatrick alone. The man would be less inclined to browbeat her for the money if Caleb was there, and if Kirkpatrick tried, Caleb would put a stop to it. His hand brushed his hip. He wondered how long it would be before he got used to not finding his Colt strapped there.

She inched away from him and started toward the porch, keeping her voice low. “I appreciate your silence on the matter of the deed until I figure things out, but my business with Kirkpatrick doesn’t concern you.”

Caleb shrugged and caught up with her on the step. “My house. My concern.”

“Mr. Beckett—” But whatever admonishment she meant to deliver was lost as he opened the door and motioned her inside with a sweep of his hand. She shot him a glare as she marched past.

He walked in behind her and turned his back away from the door. The house had a strange unfinished feel to it, as if whoever built it had given up partway through. The front room served as kitchen, dining room and sitting area with little room left over to maneuver. It held a cookstove, a kitchen table large enough to sit eight and a narrow cot that rested against the far wall. A door next to the cookstove exposed a narrow hallway he assumed led to a bedroom. The whole setup gave the house a cramped feel and he itched to set it right.

The large black woman he’d seen at Sutter’s funeral stood, arms crossed, near the counter, her expression angry and apologetic all at once.

Kirkpatrick set his coffee cup down with slow deliberation and rose from his seat to greet them, as if it were his kitchen they had walked into. Tall and broad, dressed all in black, he made an imposing figure. Caleb guessed him to be closing in on fifty, given the lines around his eyes and the threads of gray marring his coal-black hair. Though his smile was congenial, his eyes held the cold flatness of a snake’s.

Kirkpatrick ignored him, addressing Mrs. Sutter. “Rachel.”

Caleb didn’t much care for the familiarity the two shared. Instinct told him their relationship went beyond just being neighbors, and the notion disturbed him for reasons he chose not to explore too closely.

Mrs. Sutter acknowledged Kirkpatrick with a short nod before conducting the introductions. “This is Shamus Kirkpatrick. Mr. Beckett is the one who brought Robert home.”

Kirkpatrick nodded in his direction. “Much obliged,” he said, as if Caleb had done him a favor, then turned back to Mrs. Sutter. “We should talk.”

“The woman just buried her husband, Mr. Kirkpatrick. I’m sure whatever business you have can wait a few days.”

Mrs. Sutter’s back went rigid. He guessed the widow wasn’t used to having someone speak up on her behalf.

Kirkpatrick’s pale eyes met his gaze. “Won’t take but a minute.”

“It can wait,” Caleb repeated, more firmly this time. He would deal with her umbrage later.

Kirkpatrick fell silent and tension smothered the air in the room. He turned to Mrs. Sutter and smiled. The gesture held no warmth. “Got yourself a new protector, do you now, Rachel? You certainly wasted no time. But, then again, neither did your mama.”

Her swift intake of breath, as if the words had inflicted a deep wound, were all Caleb needed to end the conversation.

“You’ll be leaving now.” He walked in front of Mrs. Sutter to get to the door, blocking her from Kirkpatrick with his body. He didn’t know what that reference to her mother had meant, but he wasn’t about to stand around and let the man land another verbal strike. With one swift shove the door flew open. “I’ll see you out.”

He followed Kirkpatrick, leaning his hip against the porch railing to ensure the man had no intention of lingering. Kirkpatrick untied his horse from the hitching post and swung up into the saddle, settling himself before looking down at Caleb. “You’d best not get yourself involved in this, Beckett.”

Caleb raised an eyebrow at the threat.

“I guess I’ll be the judge of what I should and shouldn’t get myself involved in.” Not that he had much of a choice. Like it or not, he was involved.

He’d grown careless. Ignored his instincts that Mrs. Sutter was a danger he would do better to avoid. But his reaction to her had hit him unaware and now, in the span of a day, he had become entangled in her life.

Worst of all, he could not become quickly untangled without leaving her and her family at the mercy of this villain.

And that, he realized, watching Kirkpatrick ride off in the direction of his own land, was something he could not do.

* * *

Rachel dropped hard into the chair vacated by Kirkpatrick, her head collapsing into her hands. Part of her hated the way Caleb Beckett had stepped in and taken over. Another part of her was secretly relieved. Shamus’s barb about her mother had turned her tongue to lead. Usually his references to her mother were veiled, subversive, and made when only the two of them could hear, his little way of letting her know he had not forgotten. Today he had brought their secret into the open, with a stranger standing in the room. Humiliation had raced through her veins and stolen her voice.

“We’re in trouble, Free,” she whispered into the still silence of the room.

“’Cause of the debt?”

Rachel pushed herself to her feet and walked to the door, looking through the screen. Mr. Beckett was halfway to the barn with the buggy, but she didn’t expect he’d linger there for long. He still hadn’t told her his intentions and not knowing made a restless nest of eels roil in her belly. She placed a hand against it, hoping they would settle, but it did no good.

“He owns the land.”

She heard Freedom approach her. The older woman’s arms wrapped around her protectively. “Kirkpatrick don’t own anything, baby girl. We’ll figure a way out of this. You been tendin’ this land since you was Brody’s age, and ain’t no one goin’ to take that from you.”

Rachel shook her head, the reality of her situation pounding into her with each heartbeat. “Someone already has. Robert put our land up for collateral in a card game. He lost it to another man.”

Freedom’s head turned, following Rachel’s gaze toward the barn.

“Mr. Beckett?”

Rachel nodded.

“Oh, baby girl. What we gonna do now?” Freedom’s arms tightened around her, and Rachel was glad for their support.

“I don’t know, Free. Like you said, we’ll figure out something.” But what that something was, she couldn’t say. She was plum out of ideas. “I guess I best go talk to Mr. Beckett and try to figure this mess out.”

Rachel extricated herself from Freedom’s motherly embrace to head in the direction of the barn and an uncertain future.

Chapter Six (#ulink_8ce5588e-b5a4-571e-b160-7f7ebb29231a)

Rachel found Mr. Beckett in the barn pulling his saddlebags off the wall of the stall where he’d settled the paint he called Jasper. The draft horse was in the next stall over, munching on oats. Mr. Beckett slung the saddlebags over his shoulder and glanced at her when she walked in. At least this time she didn’t embarrass herself by dawdling in the doorway watching him like a love-struck schoolgirl. Still, the effect of his presence had not diminished. If anything, it grew each time she saw him. The man had the annoying ability to muddle her thinking, and she didn’t like it one bit. Right now, she needed all her wits about her.

“You come all the way down here to scold me for kickin’ that mudsill out of your house?”

Rachel was certain she detected a sparkle in his eye, but it must have been her overtired mind imagining things. Mr. Beckett did not strike her as the sparkling type. She pursed her lips and took in a deep breath, letting it out slowly in the hope it would lessen the sway the low cadence of his voice had over her. It did little good. She cursed her body’s weakness, wrestling with the fear Kirkpatrick was right—she was just like her mama.

“I came here to determine what your intentions are.”

“My intentions?” One eyebrow arched and disappeared beneath the low brim of his hat.

Rachel lifted her chin, determined to keep a businesslike manner. “Mr. Beckett, you own my land. I have the boys, Freedom, my hands, and they all need considering. I need to make arrangements as to where they are going to go and how they are going to live. If it doesn’t tax you overly much, perhaps you could let me know how much time I have to accomplish that before you send us packing.”

“And yourself?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Mr. Beckett let his saddlebags slide down his arm to the floor. She wondered what kind of life a man led where he could contain all his worldly possessions within the confines of two saddlebags and a bedroll strapped to the back of his horse.

“You’ve listed everyone under the sun and how you have to make arrangements for them. Where do you fit on that inventory of bodies?”

He shifted his weight and leaned against Jasper’s stall, looping an arm over the low wall and crossing his feet at the ankles. His lean form was relaxed, yet she couldn’t shake the impression that it could change in a heartbeat.

“Well...I...” Her gaze searched the corners of the barn as if the correct answer was hidden amongst the bales of hay and bridles. She didn’t have time to think of herself, she had a family and they came first. “What does it matter to you?”

He shrugged, his steady gaze unnerving her. “Suppose it doesn’t.”

“Then perhaps you could answer my original question with respect to your intentions.”

“I have no intention of running you or your family off your land.”

“It isn’t my land anymore, Mr. Beckett.” The words caught in her throat. She swallowed, determined not to break down in front of this man. Fainting was bad enough, but to cry? She wouldn’t have it.

“Caleb,” he said. “Since it appears we’re going to be spending plenty of time with each other for the current duration, I see no point standin’ on ceremony.”

She bristled at the notion. It made her nervous. Already the short time she’d spent in his company had left her twisted in knots that had nothing to do with losing her land. The more distance she could keep between them, the better. But that would be hard to do if he planned on settling in for a while.

“I think for the sense of propriety it would be best if we kept our relationship more...formal. And how much time will you give us?”

“And I’ll call you Rachel,” he said, as if she hadn’t spoken. “Propriety don’t mean a hill of beans when there’s no one around to judge how proper you’re being.”

“Mr. Beckett—”

“Caleb.”

She gritted her teeth. The man was as irritating as he was handsome. It was a shame one didn’t cancel out the other.

“Unless you’re worried callin’ me by my given name might make you like your mama. Is that it?”

Rachel sucked in a mouthful of air but still couldn’t breathe. Mr. Beckett’s suggestion rendered her lungs useless. “What do you know about my mama?”

Had someone in town said something? Rachel had hoped the rumors about her mother’s behavior would have died long ago when they buried her. Rachel had done everything within her ability to live a proper and respectable life, to erase the tarnish her mother’s actions had put on their family. Living with a gambler and cheat did little to aid her, but it did not stop her from trying. Had the attempt been wasted effort?

“Don’t know more than what Kirkpatrick said to you, but it seemed to hit a nerve so I’m putting two and two together.”

Relief swept through her. She glared at him, resenting the ease with which he leaned there, not a care in the world. And why would he care? He wasn’t the one who had lost everything. Everything she had lost, he had gained.