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A large grasshopper landed on her outer skirt. Having only seen one on the pages of a book, she studied its fat green body for long minutes before urging it to land elsewhere. Scooping up the bulk of the stiff fabric with both hands, she pivoted and went inside, the opening not nearly wide enough for her dress. If she did succeed in becoming this homesteader’s wife, she’d need a more practical wardrobe.
Why did her cousin’s intended groom have to be the most stubborn man this side of the Mississippi River? Why couldn’t she have been met by a man eager to end his solitude? If Frank ever managed to discover her whereabouts, a husband would help put an end to his relentless pursuit.
Mr. Burgess’s refusal to even consider marriage complicated things.
Jane sat playing with her doll at the only table in the room. Like the chairs and kitchen furniture, it was constructed of rough timber. Had he crafted everything himself? The cabin walls were made of shaved logs, the spaces between filled with a mixture of clay and other materials. A loft area ran along the right side. She couldn’t see what was up there because of the half wall running its length. The ceiling rafters soared high above her head, giving the living space an airy feeling. Or perhaps that was due to the limited amount of furnishings. There were only four chairs in the home, each seated around the table. The windows on either side of the massive stone fireplace didn’t have curtains. Neither did the one in the kitchen.
This home—brown, boring and bare—was in desperate need of sprucing up. Grace moved to the mantel and ran a finger along the top edge. Dust coated the surface. She examined more closely a carved wooden replica of a plantation-style house. The craftsmanship was exquisite. Painted white with black shutters flanking the windows, there were four miniature columns along the veranda and chimneys flanking the roofline.
The sheriff had spoken with a slow drawl. Perhaps this was a memento to remind him of his family’s home.
Picking up the tintype she’d seen earlier, she studied the sheriff’s younger image. How handsome he’d looked in his uniform. Or was it his carefree expression that made him seem so different? There was a zest for life and adventure in his countenance that the real flesh-and-blood man lacked. The man she’d met carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.
What had he meant by what he’d said? Was he truly so traumatized by his changed appearance that he didn’t feel worthy of marriage? The thought saddened her.
“Momma?”
Replacing the frame with care, she looked up and frowned. Abigail was reclining on the sheriff’s bed again. Sweeping past Jane, she entered the bedroom and sat on the mattress edge, crinoline and skirts billowing about her.
“What’s wrong, honey?”
“I don’t feel well.”
Grace tested the warmth of her forehead and cheek. Her skin was hot and flushed. Concern swept through her system. Her quieter daughter wasn’t one to complain.
She smoothed her dark curls. “Does your head hurt? Or your tummy?”
“My head.” Her deep brown eyes bore witness to her misery.
Grace smoothed the alarm from her face to avoid upsetting Abigail. “I’ll get you a drink of water and a cold compress for your head. Perhaps Mr. Burgess has some tea on hand.”
She called for Jane.
The chair scraped across the floorboards. Stopping at the foot of the bed, she clutched her porcelain doll to her chest. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Sit with your sister while I go and locate the well.”
Leaving them in the spacious, utilitarian bedroom, she searched the kitchen for a water pail, discovering a dented tin one on a lower shelf of the long counter opposite the stove.
New worries brewed like a summer squall. Illness, especially in children, could turn deadly in a matter of hours. Did Cowboy Creek even have a qualified doctor? Residing on her mother-in-law’s estate, they’d had access to the finest medical care in Chicago. Here, she was among strangers. She didn’t know Noah Burgess well enough to guess whether he’d have compassion for a sick child or whether he’d force them to remove to the hotel as he’d stated, no matter the circumstances.
Father God, I know You’re probably angry with me. Deception is not something You take lightly. I understand that. But I beg of You, please don’t let this sickness be serious. Please let Noah be sympathetic.
She went outside again, and the heat struck her with more force this time. The air had gone still. She explored the yard and discovered the well behind the house, halfway between it and the stream. The procession of towering cottonwoods and the generous swath of shade they cast called to her, a sheltering oasis on the vast prairie. The entire time she was at the well, she expected to encounter the sheriff. But he was nowhere to be seen.
It wasn’t until she was back inside, arranging a damp cloth on Abigail’s forehead, that he finally showed.
His impatient stride carried him through the cabin. He hovered in the bedroom entrance, gloved hands braced on either side. “I’ve got the wagon out front. Do you have a preference for how the trunks are stowed?”
Straightening, Grace smoothed her hands down the front of her bodice, which seemed to have grown tighter with his arrival. He’d washed the grit from his face, and his hair was damp, rendering it a deeper hue, like pan-heated syrup.
“No preference.”
Nodding, his light blue gaze touched on Abigail huddled beneath the blanket and Jane, who stood on the opposite side of the bed, her demeanor subdued. He inclined his head toward Abigail.
“Something wrong?”
Grace forced herself not to cow before his commanding presence. She wasn’t a docile girl who shattered at a single unkind word or dark glare. Not anymore. She could handle his annoyance.
What if he’s the type to act out his anger? a small voice prodded. Ambrose’s impatience with her had mostly manifested itself in fuming tirades. Occasionally he’d taken her by the shoulders and shaken her until her neck ached and vision swam. Only once had he risen his hand to her.
Shutting out the unpleasant memories, she stiffened her spine. Sure, she wasn’t exactly welcome in his home, but this development was out of her control. Besides, his friend had given him a glowing recommendation. One of the original town founders, Will Canfield was also a wealthy and powerful property owner. Surely he wouldn’t have misrepresented the sheriff’s sterling reputation.
“I believe she has a fever.”
Pushing into the room, he came close and studied her daughter. “What are her symptoms?”
“Her head hurts, and her skin’s dry and hot.”
“Anything else?”
“Not yet.”
His penetrating gaze lifted to Grace. “Has she been in contact with any sick folks?”
“I’m not aware of any. The train car was crowded, but no one displayed outward symptoms.”
Noah’s inspection was shrewd. Did he not believe her? This she wasn’t lying about.
“What about you?” he asked abruptly. “And the other girl?”
He wasn’t asking out of concern for their health, of course. They were a burden to him. A disruption in his ordered life, one he’d been on the verge of getting rid of.
“We’re feeling fine.”
A resigned sigh lifted his broad chest. Massaging the curve between his neck and shoulder, he said, “I can’t take her to the hotel and risk exposing the other guests to whatever this is. You’ll stay here until she improves.”
Grace had to dig deep for gratitude. Her child was sick with who knew what, and all he was worried about were the fine people of Cowboy Creek.
Dipping her head to hide her true feelings, she said, “I appreciate your generosity of spirit, Mr. Burgess. We’ll do our best to stay out of your way.”
Chapter Three (#ulink_c1616c69-ae20-5e15-8048-c32ae3ba90a5)
The widow’s words pricked Noah’s conscience. Generous? Hah. Anxiety and frustration built inside like a cannon about to blow. Grinding his back teeth together, he studied the wee girl.
Her mussed curls were damp, and errant tendrils clung to her neck. She shivered a bit beneath the thick wool blanket. Not a good sign considering the air was hot and stagnant with the windows closed.
He had no idea how to help her. Children in general made him antsy. Sick children made him downright skittish. To his shock and dismay, numerous soldiers had had their wives and children join them. The women had cooked meals and washed and mended uniforms. The children had assisted in these chores, their eyes haunted by the gory sights and sounds of war. One small boy had gotten caught in the cross fire—killed instantly by a stray minié ball.
Noah had steered clear of the lot of them. They’d had no business being there.
Abigail whimpered. Constance adjusted the compress, murmuring reassuring words. Alarm punched him in his midsection. Whatever was ailing the little girl could be serious. And while he hadn’t asked for their presence, they were under his protection for the time being.
“Want me to fetch the doctor?”
Constance’s head snapped up. “There’s one in Cowboy Creek? I wondered... Can you tell me about his reputation?”
“Doc Fletcher set up his practice several years ago. While I personally haven’t needed his services, folks around here have nothing but good things to say about him.”
Her lips pursed as she considered his words. “If she isn’t improved by morning, then I think that would be best.”
He saw the unease and fear beneath her brave facade. She’s far from home. Her expected groom has blasted her plans to pieces. And her daughter is ill. Of course she’s afraid.
As the urge to take her hand and reassure her fought its way to the surface, he backed up a step. Compassion was an unfamiliar emotion, one he’d thought the army had drilled out of him. “I’ll return the wagon to the barn and rustle us up some supper.”
“I can help. Show me what you want me to do.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
Noah hadn’t had a decent meal in days. He wasn’t about to let a pampered socialite loose in his kitchen. Constance Miller probably didn’t know the difference between a spatula and an egg beater.
Not giving her a chance to respond, he left the house and tended his team, all the while mentally forming a rebuke that would singe the hair on Will’s and Daniel’s heads. Constance and her daughters shouldn’t be here. If Will hadn’t butted his nose where it didn’t belong, Noah would’ve been able to give the town’s problems his full attention.
The bank heist wasn’t his only concern. There’d been other unsolved crimes in recent weeks. Poisoned cattle. A sabotaged lumber delivery that had delayed construction of several important buildings. An invader in Will’s private quarters at the Cattleman. The Murdoch brothers were a troublesome bunch, bent on getting rich off others’ hard-earned money. But they weren’t all that smart. Noah suspected someone else was behind the town’s troubles. Someone with an agenda.
In the far-left corner, Wolf rested in the straw-strewn dirt, golden eyes tracking his jerky movements. Noah hung the bridles in the tack room.
“We’ve got a fresh set of problems, old boy. The chief one’s name is Constance.”
Wolf’s pointy ears perked up.
“Can you believe she was scared of you?”
The animal’s eyes closed as if in disbelief.
“Crazy, huh?”
Constance’s reaction wasn’t abnormal. Most folks kept their distance from Wolf, which suited Noah just fine. Since the wolf dog accompanied him most everywhere, it meant they kept their distance from Noah, as well.
He forked fresh hay in the horses’ stalls. The damaged skin on his shoulder and upper chest protested the movements. Since his release from the hospital, he’d made a habit of applying honey mixed with lavender to keep the skin soft and supple. Skipping the past several days hadn’t been a good idea.
“One of the twins is sick.”
Wolf blinked.
“Hope it’s nothing serious.” Leaning his weight on the pitchfork, he stared out the double opening to the cabin framed by gently rolling plains. “I thought my scars would disgust them, but they didn’t seem to notice.”
He’d expected Constance to recoil as so many others had upon first seeing him. The first time it occurred had been days after his doctor proclaimed him on the mend and suspended the lead paint treatments. The coverings had been removed, and he’d been allowed a mirror to see his new appearance. Just as he’d been confronted with the monster he’d become, a wife or sister of one of the patients had passed by, taken one look at him and clapped her hand over her mouth. Her horror had seared itself onto his brain.
He’d thrown the mirror to the floor, smashing it to bits, and sunk into a soul-deep melancholy that had lasted for months. If not for Daniel and Will, he might never have left the sick ward.
Striding to the corner stall, he checked on his dairy cow. “Hey, Winnie.”
Twisting her head, she gazed at him with molten brown eyes.
“I see Timothy was here this morning to give you relief.”
He hadn’t had to hire help until getting pinned sheriff. Daniel had suggested his employee’s adolescent son, and Noah had taken his advice. It appeared the boy had done a decent job, but he’d check the springhouse to see if the milk had been stored properly.
The pangs in his stomach became audible. Pushing off the ledge, he left the barn and headed straight for the henhouse. His plans to dine at the Cowboy Café after settling the Millers at the hotel having been thwarted, he’d have to fix something fast and easy. Scrambled eggs and fried ham wouldn’t take but a few minutes. There wasn’t time to make biscuits, but he was sure the blue-eyed girl—Jean, was it?—would like flapjacks.
The thought of little girls and flapjacks had him thinking about his sisters. The three of them had argued over the best way to eat them. Lilly had preferred them smothered with butter and jam. Cara insisted on molasses. The youngest, Elizabeth, wouldn’t eat them unless there were sausage links rolled up inside.
In the henhouse, he tried to push aside thoughts of his family and failed. Lilly, Cara and Elizabeth were no longer little girls. They were in their early twenties now, likely married with children. His parents would’ve aged considerably. Were they well? Struggling due to the South’s defeat? He couldn’t help wondering how his family had fared during the long years of fighting.
He could remedy that by writing them, but that last spectacular row with his father prevented him. That, and the fact he didn’t wish them to know that he was a shadow of his former self, that his inner self was as twisted by the war as his outer appearance.
Quickly gathering the eggs into a basket he left hanging inside the henhouse door, he chose a container of milk from the springhouse and hurried to the cabin. He could imagine the widow’s disdain over this simple meal. Oh, she wouldn’t let it show. No doubt she’d had lessons on how to hide her true feelings. But the image of the refined lady tucking into a five-high stack of syrup-smothered flapjacks put a smirk on his face.
When he entered, Constance emerged from the bedroom, her expression shadowed.
“Abigail is asleep, and Jane is amusing herself with a picture book.” Her skirts swayed and swished as she moved to meet him beside the counter he’d crafted. “Since you won’t allow me to assist in the meal preparation, may I ready the place settings?”
Her formal speech matched her appearance. He indicated the wall behind him. “The plates and utensils are in the hutch.”
She worked without speaking as he lit the fire inside the stove box and mixed the flapjack batter. Out of his peripheral vision, he noticed her frequent glances and wondered what was going on inside her head. He had little experience with females outside his family. He’d joined the army before he’d had the chance to properly court any of the local girls. His nurses had been kind and proficient, but they hadn’t had the time or desire to socialize.
Having company in his home felt odd. Daniel and Will stopped by occasionally. Mostly they gave him space and waited for him to come to them.
Noah snagged the kettle from the row of shelves above the dry sink. “Do you drink coffee?”
“I never acquired a taste for it. Do you have any tea?”
“Tea’s for ladies and little girls.”
One flyaway brow arched, and he suspected she’d like to blast him with a tongue-lashing. Her composure fully intact, she said, “Milk will suffice.” Approaching the counter, she laid her ringed hand on the container. The gaudy jewels sparkled. “Do you mind if I pour some for Jane and myself?”
“Be my guest.”
Turning away, he procured a knife and, placing the ham slab on the plate, began to carve thick slices. He was acutely aware of her position in the room as she moved about. By the time he had the food ready to dish up, his skin prickled with tension and his appetite was long gone.
“Where would you like for us to sit?” She stood framed by the window, Jane—not Jean—beside her.
“Doesn’t matter.” He hated feeling flustered in his own home. The sooner this meal was over and he could make his escape, the better.
Constance chose the seat opposite his. The girl sat on his right.
Noah scooted his mug closer and cleared his throat. “I normally say grace in my head.”
