Loving Katherine
Loving Katherine
Carolyn Davidson
Roan Devereaux Could Gentle Any Filly With A Look And A Touch - but Kate Cassidy presented a real challenge. With her coltish grace and mile-wide stubborn streak, she was more woman than most men could handle - and exactly what he needed. Men were impulsive critters, Katherine Cassidy swore, and Roan Devereaux had only proved that when he'd up and asked Kate to marry him!It was a crazy idea - but no crazier than the sound of her heart singing "yes" in reply… !
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#udd410816-c01c-5c08-a15c-686f320e10d6)
Excerpt (#u7549dddf-bad9-5ff6-b98d-8f54f751f73a)
Dear Reader (#uf589dbb4-0756-5746-a09c-c6a3a3ea70ab)
Title Page (#u1f45d314-33e4-5414-8c5e-04b34f287b8d)
About the Author (#u77f1d6cf-2d50-58b5-b9ef-5df838a8d4ad)
Dedication (#u305b11af-b4de-570b-aa9f-0a25808c5dae)
Chapter One (#ubcb83502-7f1c-566f-9b28-536a7bd58a34)
Chapter Two (#ud90dff4c-4cd5-579b-8068-a9d9191a08dd)
Chapter Three (#u48a9422b-f197-5d9e-8dc1-b8ebbbb03554)
Chapter Four (#u175aef1f-a1cd-5df4-8ccf-4189087636f0)
Chapter Five (#ud99c985a-5efa-53c4-8c79-b29f31d68bdb)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“Sweet stuff?”
Roan dropped his hands from her shoulders and gaped. “Is that what you call it when a man uses a plain little old word like honey instead of just callin’ you by name? Hasn’t anyone ever called you sweet names, Katherine?” he asked softly. “Haven’t there ever been any men hangin’ around, tryin’ to court you or just tryin’ to get your attention?”
Katherine spun back to face him, and her eyes were bleak. “Take a good look at me, Roan Devereaux! Do I look like the sort of woman men come to court? I’m sure not good-looking and I’m too plainspoken for most of the men hereabouts. What have I got to offer a man in his right mind?”
She was serious! By damn, she was! And here he’d been feeling like a randy, apple-cheeked boy around her!
Dear Reader,
In her second book for Harlequin Historicals, Loving Katherine, Carolyn Davidson tells the heartwarming story of an isolated farm woman who meets a man who is determined to overcome her mistrust and draw her out, despite her reluctance. Don’t miss this wonderful follow-up to her first novel for Harlequin, Gerrity’s Bride.
Claire Delacroix continues to delight audiences with her stories of romance, passion and magic. This month’s story My Lady’s Champion, is another captivating medieval tale of a noblewoman forced into marriage to save her ancestral home that will transport you to another time and place.
Whether you’re a longtime fan of Mary McBride or have just discovered her, we know you’ll be delighted by her new book, Darling Jack, the touching tale of a handsome Pinkerton detective and the steady, unassuming Pinkerton file clerk who poses as his wife. And be sure to keep an eye out for multipublished author Ruth Langan’s Dulcie’s Gift, the prequel to the contemporary stories in the Harlequin cross-line continuity series, BRIDE’S BAY.
Sincerely,
Tracy Farrell
Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to:
Harlequin Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
Loving Katherine
Carolyn Davidson
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CAROLYN DAVIDSON (#ulink_6931bdf8-a266-5881-9491-41602a602798)
lives in South Carolina, on the outskirts of Charleston, with her husband, her number-one fan. Working in a new/used bookstore is an ideal job for her, allowing access to her favorite things: books and people. Loving Katherine is her fourth novel. Readers’ comments are more than welcome in her mailbox, P.O. Box 60626, North Charleston, SC 29419-0626
With grateful appreciation, this book is dedicated
to my agent, Pattie Steele-Perkins, who makes me
believe in myself.
And with a heart full of love to my granddaughters, in
the hope that each of them will one day find their own
special hero. To Erin, Rachel, Jennifer Beth, Sarah,
Cherylyn, Karen, Jennifer Lynn and Ashley; and
especially to Katherine, who was but a twinkle in
her daddy’s eye when this story was begun.
Grandma loves you all!
But most of all, to Mr. Ed, who loves me.
Chapter One (#ulink_d7c7d0c3-07ba-559c-b7f3-40caf4754d05)
He’d been watching her for more than ten minutes, curiosity snagging him after the first glance. He’d meant to assure himself that he was indeed finally arriving at Charlie’s place, hoping to see the familiar figure somewhere about the corral or perhaps coming out of the pole barn. But the sight of the lone figure, kneeling in the garden patch, had caught his eye and he’d settled down to watch for a few minutes. Katherine. It had to be Katherine, he decided.
And as for Charlie, where the hell was he? With no sign of him about, he was probably out in a far pasture, checking on his mares. Roan Devereaux nodded his head at the thought and stretched out his leg to ease the cramp in his thigh, grunting his impatience with physical infirmities.
“Seen the time I could play statue for the best part of an afternoon,” he muttered, squinting against the sun, fast making its way toward the horizon. Lifting to one elbow, he disrupted the smooth line of his profile, the better to observe the woman who worked amid the hills of potatoes and the forest of tomato plants next to the cabin. She’d not glanced about or appeared to catch sight of him since he’d placed himself at the top of the hill just minutes ago.
The ride had been short, coming out from town. It was the days of travel before that had brought to mind the old injury he’d rather have ignored. His hand rubbed instinctively at his thigh and he frowned, his eyes narrowing on the woman who knelt less than two hundred yards away.
Even now, she blended into the garden, half kneeling amid the potatoes she’d been gathering, dropping them into a burlap bag.
Reaching for his hat, he swatted it against his leg before jerking it into place against the dark swath of his hair. The wide brim cut the glare of the setting sun, and his squint eased into a more leisurely perusal of the small figure below his vantage point.
“She looks like a mud hen,” he decided with a rusty mutter. “Bustlin’ around in that garden like a brown mud hen, if I ever saw one.” Heaving a sigh, he contemplated his next move. “Guess I might as well go down and introduce myself.”
His brow furrowed, his hand moved to his thigh as he eased himself to his haunches, and then he froze in place. Rising from her crouch, she lifted her head in a gesture of wary alertness that surprised him. She brushed one hand distractedly against her skirt, then raised the other to shade her eyes as she gazed at him.
Even across the distance that separated them, he felt the piercing touch of her survey and met it with his own dark scrutiny. With a lifting of her chin, she dismissed him and walked the few yards to where a basket of late vegetables lay amid the tangle of tomato vines. Then, as if she considered his presence of no account, she turned, heading with measured, firm steps toward the small house.
He grinned. “You’re a spunky little thing, Katherine,” he said aloud. “Dismissin’ me out of hand and strollin’ away like you don’t give a good goldarn about whether I come or go.” Turning to his horse, tied to a tree just a few feet from the crown of the hill, he hoisted himself into the saddle. His leg protested and he frowned at the reminder, settling into the worn leather of his saddle, his boots gripping the stirrups even as his knees nudged the stallion into motion.
With the ease of a man familiar with his saddle, he allowed the horse to find his own way down the slope, and within moments they rode past the neat, even rows of the garden. The scent of ripe tomatoes and the musty smell of the overturned earth in the potato patch met his nostrils and he inhaled it with a sense of nostalgia. It’s been years, he thought. Years since he sneaked out to help in the kitchen garden and got swatted for his trouble when his mama caught him with dirty knees.
Saddle leather creaked and the horse snorted once, his ears flicking as he answered a nicker from the barn beyond the house. One hand easy on the reins, the other resting on his thigh, the man directed his mount, approaching the wide front porch that stretched the length of the unpainted house.
It was uncanny, she decided. The sense of unease haunting her had once more proved itself to be valid. She’d known someone was watching. But it wasn’t an evil gaze. Not like the spine-chilling surveillance of Evan Gardner, invading her privacy last winter.
This time…She considered the man who rode toward her house. He was far from harmless, she thought, noting the erect posture, the easy hand on his reins, his watchful eyes. But not a danger. Yet.
It had been a frightening few moments, turning her back on him as he rose to his feet there on the ridge, a tall figure in dark clothing. She’d counted the steps it took to gain the safety of the house, her arms aching from the weight of the basket she carried and the digging and toting she’d done all afternoon.
Now she watched from behind the white lace curtain as he drew back on the reins and settled deep in his saddle, his unsmiling face shadowed beneath the brim of his hat. Her fingers gripped the stock of her father’s shotgun, and she took a deep, shuddering breath as she wondered uneasily if she could fire it.
Oh, the ability was there. For hours—days—she’d hit cans and scattered rocks until she was as good a shot as the man who’d taught her. But that same man had warned her to be prepared to aim for vital parts if the time ever came for her to prove her skill.
“I will if I have to,” she muttered beneath her breath as she moved to the door and lifted the latch.
“Good afternoon, ma’am.” The hands were in plain sight, his own weapon sunk into the leather scabbard that fit behind his saddle.
Even that was not immensely reassuring, she decided. If she were any judge of men, he could have it pointed in her direction in jig time and the lazy ease in his greeting could turn just as quickly to a threat.
“What do you want?” she asked, putting dark, warning venom into the question.
The husky voice was a surprise. He’d expected a gentle, womanly tone. Perhaps even a waver or a breathless quiver in her words.
“Just to ask a few questions, ma’am.” He lifted one hand slowly, tipping the brim of his hat in a gesture of courtly awareness.
Her eyes followed the movement and her lips tightened. “Ask away, stranger,” she told him after a moment.
She was a sturdy little thing, this daughter of Charlie Cassidy, he thought, the low, throaty sound of her voice once more teasing his hearing. Or maybe Charlie’d taken a wife. The thought was unappealing, he decided, watching her closely. No, she had to be his daughter. She had something of the man about her. Perhaps that stubborn chin or the tilt of her head.
Her gun rose in silent menace as she allowed her index finger to slide into better position “Speak up, stranger,” she said abruptly, her impatience with his dithering at an end.
“Charlie around?” Even as he asked, he sensed the solitary presence of the woman here.
She shook her head in silent negation. “What do you want him for?”
He shifted in the saddle and felt the warning she offered as the weapon lifted a bit higher. Her arms must be getting weary. That old shotgun was a heavy one and she wasn’t much of a size to carry it, let alone hoist it into firing position and hold it steady.
“Charlie told me once, if I wanted a good piece of horseflesh, to look him up.” His hand stroked the neck of the stallion beneath him as if in apology, and a shiver of pleasure ran over the flesh of his animal. The long tail swished once, then, black and thick, it settled into immobility again.
“Charlie won’t be selling you any horses.”
His lifted brow disputed her statement. “He out of stock?” As if mocking his question, a horse nickered once more from the barn. His lips curled even as his eyes hardened. “Or are you doubting my word?”
“No.” She looked down, gripping the stock of her weapon, her index finger easing from the trigger.
She’d turned a bit pale, he thought, and leaning a bit, he looked at her more closely. “You all right?” he asked, looking past her at the half-open door that led into the house. “Is something wrong here?”
She shook her head. “No, nothing’s wrong here.” She raised her eyes once more to look at his face. Brown and dingy, her dress hung straight from the shoulders, caught up only by a leather thong, keeping it from the ground, forming it loosely about her waist.
Her hair was long, a heavy braid hanging to her waist, as thick as his wrist where it left the nape of her neck. Sort of a mahogany color, he decided, amused at his own fanciful description. She’d shed the shapeless hat that had successfully hidden her face from his view earlier, revealing strong features. Her skin was tanned from exposure to the sun and her stubborn chin reminded him of Charlie’s.
It jutted forward now as she faced him without a sign of fear. “The only thing wrong here is the unwelcome company, stranger. I told you Charlie isn’t here. Now move on out.” A movement of her gun barrel provided urging. Then it dipped just a bit and she frowned as she brought it back into line with his leg.
His bad leg. The leg that had been cut and sewn every which way already and sure as shootin’ couldn’t withstand another assault. He shook his head at the thought, his mouth twisting derisively as he considered her.
“Can I at least get down off my horse long enough to get a drink of water?” He leaned one hand against the horn of his saddle, shifting against the leather and easing his right foot from the stirrup.
“Canteen empty?” she asked, nodding at the leather-covered flask that hung from his saddle.
His eyes met hers with a level look that was no answer at all. Even as he swung his leg over the back of his mount, his narrowed gaze clung to her. And it wasn’t until he stood before her, dark and unyielding, that she realized her query had gone unanswered.
Her mouth tightened in annoyance and she tipped her head in the direction of the well just across the yard from where he stood. From her vantage point on the porch she watched as he turned away, his eyes almost reluctantly leaving the shapeless mass of fabric that enclosed her.
With stiff movements that spoke of sore muscles, he reached to pull the bucket from the depths of the well, his back wide beneath the worn cotton of his shirt. Deliberately opening his flask, he turned it up to allow a few drops of liquid to fall, and then, with a deft hand, he tipped the bucket to fill it.
“Who are you?” she asked, her eyes intent on his every movement.
“Roan Devereaux.” He lifted the dipper hanging from a length of binder twine and scooped it into the bucket, then drank thirstily while he soaked in her silence. With a twist of his wrist, he dropped the wooden pail back to the depths of the well and turned to face her.
The look of stunned surprise on her face had not had time to fade and he allowed a small smile of satisfaction to ride the corners of his mouth.
Her shotgun was pointed at the wide boards of the porch she stood on. As he watched, she straightened her shoulders a bit more, lifting her head, enabling him to see the fine color staining her cheeks.
“I owe you, Roan Devereaux,” she said quietly. “My father spoke of you more than once after he came home from the war.”
His nod accepted her words. “Is he ill?” His survey of the place revealed the signs of neglect that told him Charlie’s hand hadn’t been felt here for a while. Yet, there were horses on the place.
“He…no, he’s not ill. My father was healthy till the day he died.” She waved a hand at a small rise that began just to the north of the house, where a nondescript picket fence enclosed a plot of ground. “He’s buried there.”
“What happened?” Abrupt and harsh, his voice demanded details and the woman shrugged, turning back to the door.
“I’ll offer you supper before you leave, Mr. Devereaux.”
She’d turned her back on him, and without a by-your-leave stalked into the house, carrying the heavy shotgun by its barrel. His lips firmed as he tended his horse, loosening the cinch and leading the animal to the trough next to the well.
Waiting till the stallion had drunk his fill, he looked around once more. The bars of the corral delineated the enclosure where Charlie’s horses ran. Several tossed their heads now, all fillies by the looks of them, eager to kick their heels. The barn was good-sized, probably triple that of the house, he estimated. Charlie’d always taken good care of his animals. His daughter looked like she needed some tending, though, Roan thought with a grim-lipped smile. Plain as a gray mourning dove, she was. No wonder she didn’t have a man about. With that forbidding look she wore, it would take a needy specimen to try for her affections.
“I’ve dished you up some stew, Mr. Devereaux.” She spoke from the open doorway, and he tipped the brim of his hat, leading the stallion toward the hitching post at the side of the porch.
“I’ll be right in, ma’am,” he offered, rolling up his sleeves as he headed back to the trough to wash up.
She was at the stove when he ducked to walk in the door. There was room to spare, but his height had given him the habit of allowing a bit of space over his crown. She waved her hand at the towel hanging on a peg by the wooden countertop.
“You can dry off with that,” she said, turning to him with coffeepot in hand. A heavy china mug sat on the table, hugging the full bowl of steaming food she had served him. With spare movements, she filled the mug almost to the brim and then glanced at him, her manner hesitant.
He met her eyes. They were blue, darker than he’d thought, widely spaced beneath a fine forehead. Her gaze was penetrating, assessing, and he waited for her judgment.
“Want some milk, too?” she asked finally, nodding at her own brimming glass.
“Coffee’s fine,” he allowed, aware that she’d deemed him safe.
Nodding, she turned back to the stove, the pot clattering against the metal as she slid it to the back corner to keep it warm.
“Sit down.” The words held a measure of courteous warmth, as if she had finally remembered he was a guest in her home. Her own place held a bowl of the stew, and between them reposed a plate of sliced bread, side by side with a round of butter, moisture gleaming from its smooth yellow form.
“You churned today?” he asked.
She nodded, chewing on the first bite of food. “Once a week.”
“What do you do with it?” He selected a slice of bread and cut into the slab of creamy spread, smoothing it back and forth as he cradled the crusty heel in his hand.
“Sell most of it in town. Along with the vegetables and my extra eggs.”
“You alone here?” His voice was lazy against her ears, the faint drawl softening his words.
She stiffened and stirred the stew with her spoon. “Looks like it, doesn’t it?”
“Your brother around, Katherine?” The woman glanced up, her blue eyes widening with a faint trace of alarm.
“If you’re Roan Devereaux, you should know to mind your own business where my brother’s concerned.”
“Your pa spoke of him.”
“Did he now?” Her words were flat, disbelieving, as if such a possibility were doubtful.
Up against the wall of her distrust once more, he heaved a sigh of disgust. “You’re not what I expected, you know,” he said with a grunt of exasperation. “Your pa would have had me believe you were the best thing to come along in his life. ‘My daughter, Katherine,’ he used to say.” His voice was a close imitation of her father’s Irish lilt.
“Well, I am what I am,” she said, grinding out the words. “My pa’s dead and buried, and I owe you for dragging him off a battlefield in Virginia, Mr. Devereaux. If I can repay you in some way, I’ll do what I can. But we won’t be discussing my brother.”
“What happened to your pa?” he asked quietly, his spoon midway to his mouth as he listened to her terse speech.
She pursed her lips and clasped her hands at the edge of the table. “He was breeding a mare and the stud went crazy for a minute. Pa didn’t move quick enough. If he’d been just a few inches one way or the other, it mightn’t have happened, but one hoof caught his temple and he never woke up.”
“Were you here alone?” He watched as she brushed her fingers along the smooth edge of the table, intent on their progress as she touched the worn wood.
“Yes, I was alone.” She rose abruptly and reached for his bowl. “Would you like more stew?”
The matter was closed. Her movement, her pinched expression and her pursed lips told him she would speak no longer of the death of Charlie Cassidy.
He handed her the heavy bowl and nodded. She might not be overly friendly, but the woman sure could cook. “What kind of meat you got in that stuff?” He tilted his chair a bit as he watched her brisk movements.
“Rabbit.”
His brow rose. “You shoot it?”
Her glance withered him effectively. “No, I hit it with a rock,” she said dryly.
He grinned. Perhaps with a little luck, he could get a new horse here after all. Apologies to the stallion he’d picked up for a song just outside of Lexington, but the horse wasn’t what he wanted for the long road he’d soon be traveling.
And maybe with a small dose of gentlemanly courtesy, he’d even find a bed hereabouts for the night. Anything would be better than the hard ground he’d been sleeping on lately.
The canvas cot he found in the barn was too short, and he grumbled loudly as he awoke for the third time since midnight. It creaked ominously as he shifted once more, turning himself over gingerly as he sought a modicum of comfort. The other choice had been the hayloft; even given the presence of mice, it might have been the better of the two, he decided glumly, staring into the darkness.
She’d offered the shelter of the barn without much prompting. In fact, her brisk words had come as a bit of a surprise as he’d leaned back in his chair, his appetite eased by the rabbit stew.
“You’re welcome to stay out back if you need a place for the night.” Busy at the sink, scrubbing at the empty stew kettle, she’d spoken over her shoulder offhandedly, then swung back to her task.
Hesitating only a few seconds, he’d answered, “That’s kind of you, ma’am. I’d be obliged to take you up on the offer.” His elbows rested on the table, and leaning forward, he watched her. “Maybe we can talk about those horses out in the corral, come morning.”
She was silent, but her movements slowed as she appeared to consider his words. Then she lifted the clean kettle from the soapy water and rinsed it with a small dipper. With deliberate motions, she wiped the inside dry with the towel she’d flung over her shoulder earlier.
“I’ve got nothing to sell right now.” She put the pan on the stove with a resounding clang, and its moist surface sizzled on the hot metal.
“Noticed a nice-looking mare that was a good size,” he observed idly, his eyes narrowing as he caught a glimpse of slender ankles beneath her swaying skirt.
“We’ll talk about it in the morning,” she’d said dismissively.
“Well, it’s morning now,” he muttered. “Pret’ near, anyway.” With one last turn, he kicked at the blanket that covered him and rose from the narrow cot. In the depths of the barn, he heard the rustling of straw as an animal stirred.
Probably the cow, he decided, getting anxious the way cows usually do about dawn. Time for milking soon. He wondered if Katherine was up yet, if that rope of hair was loose or already braided up and hanging down her back. Shoving long legs into his pants, he reached for the shirt that lay over his saddle, next to where he’d spent the night.
He shook the image of her from his mind as he buttoned and tucked his shirt, tightening his leather belt above his hips before he pushed open the barn door. The sky was pink, there on the eastern horizon, and an owl swooped low in a final flight before the sun sent him to his perch. From the corral, he heard the soft nicker of a horse and the answering call from within the barn. His stallion hadn’t taken to being put in a stall when three fillies were just outside the upright slats of the wall next to him.
Roan Devereaux knew the feeling He’d sensed the same yearning last night, just for a moment, when Katherine Cassidy had risen on tiptoe to light the lantern hanging over her table. The movement had drawn the fabric of her dress tautly against her form, and he’d felt a twinge of response as he watched her. Beneath the shapeless dress was a woman’s body, and his own, needy as it was, had answered in a predictable manner. Something about the sun-ripened skin of her cheeks and the length of her slender neck appealed to him. Or maybe it was the intelligence that dwelt in the depths of her gaze as she glanced in his direction, silently weighing him and his purpose here. At any rate, the little brown mud hen was a complex female, he’d decided reluctantly.
“One thing’s for sure, she’s off limits to you, bucko,” he said between gritted teeth, shoving a hand into his back pocket.
The memory of Charlie Cassidy was fresh in his mind and the respect he’d felt for the man spilled over onto the woman who was his daughter. Seeking out an old friend, more for the sake of friendship than the hope of buying a horse, he’d allotted only two days for this detour.
Louisiana was due south, and that was the general direction he’d be heading come tomorrow, if all went well. Katherine Cassidy might be a mite richer when she sold him a mare, but if she ever thought of him again, once she’d seen the last of him, he’d be remembered as a gentleman from the word go. He’d leave the lady as chaste as he’d found her, that was for sure.
Chapter Two (#ulink_185f5913-9b2d-5169-98fb-59fcb354b3e1)
Katherine’s eyes widened in disbelief, and a mocking smile curled the corners of her mouth. The sight of Roan Devereaux milking her cow was not what she’d expected to see this morning. But she’d been properly set back on her heels as she halted in surprise just inside the barn.
“Good morning, Katherine.” His voice was low and husky.
“Eyes in the back of your head, Mr. Devereaux?” she asked dryly, leaning one arm against the doorjamb.
“No, ma’am. Just recognized your step, the way your skirt swished.”
She looked down quickly at the telltale garment and frowned. “Could have been someone else,” she argued idly.
He turned his head from the task he’d assumed and his eyes flashed a humorless message. “No. If it’d been someone else, I wouldn’t have been sittin’ with my back to the door, waitin’ to be ambushed.”
She nodded, accepting the mild rebuke, and stepped closer. “About done there?”
“About.” His hands efficiently stripped the udder of its last drops of milk, and he lifted the bucket to one side before rising from the three-legged stool.
“Where do you want this?” he asked, inclining his head toward the results of his early morning chore.
She shook her head. “It’s enough that you beat me to the chores. I’ll take care of the rest of the job,” she told him briskly, bending to pick up the pail of foaming milk.
His big hand halted her, his fingers grasping her wrist, circling it easily. “I always finish what I begin, Katherine. Just tell me where it goes.”
The warmth of that callused hand was a revelation, she decided, her eyes riveted on the place where his flesh met hers. She almost flinched, felt her muscles flex beneath his palm as his touch transmitted a strange, pulsing heat to her skin. Then his hand slid up to grasp her elbow and her eyes rose to meet his, apprehension tightening her jaw and flashing momentarily in her gaze.
“I don’t need your help,” she said firmly, her chin lifting proudly.
His grin was one-sided, tilting the corner of his mouth in a suggestion of mirth that was gone before the smile could be fully formed. “Didn’t say you did.” His nod just escaped mockery. “Let’s say I’m a little late earnin’ my supper from last night.”
Turning her by the hold he kept on her elbow, he effortlessly lifted the bucket, careful to keep the warm milk from sloshing over the sides. “Now, tell me where this goes, Katherine.”
It was worth more to keep her dignity intact, she decided as she walked through the wide doorway. Arguing with the man would only be practical if it involved something of greater importance than a bucket of milk. She bowed her head in acquiescence and waved her free hand toward the milk house, a small wooden shed, one of several outbuildings.
“There. You’ll find a fresh cloth to cover it with. I’ll take care of it after breakfast.”
“You’re cookin’ breakfast already?” His words were hopeful.
“I’ll feed you before you leave,” she said flatly, pulling from his grasp and heading for the house.
Behind her, he halted, the half grin in residence for a fleeting moment. “We haven’t talked about a horse yet, ma’am,” he reminded her.
Her gait was brisk, and only a man with a quick eye would have noticed the hesitation his words inspired. Roan Devereaux had always prided himself on the accuracy of his eyesight, and he allowed the smile to widen his mouth just a bit. Beneath the brush of his dark mustache, his teeth gleamed for a moment.
“Ma’am?”
Her stride lengthened as she left him behind. Her back was rigid, and chestnut-hued hair hung between her shoulder blades, barely moving against the dark fabric of her dress. Tied with a leather thong at her nape, it reached to her waist. It looked like the silky tail of a Thoroughbred, he noted with absurd pleasure.
Her hand grasped the railing as she stalked up the three steps to the porch. Then, turning to face him, there where he waited, watching her, she spoke, her voice low, her enunciation precise.
“I already told you, Mr. Devereaux. I don’t have any horses ready for sale right now. I don’t mean to be rude, but after breakfast, I’ll expect you to be on your way. I’m sure you’ll be able to find an animal suitable for your purposes in town. The livery stable has a good selection. Thurston Wellman will be most happy to sell you a horse.”
She lifted one hand to shield her eyes from the rays of sunlight shining from above the horizon in the east. He watched her silently, with a measuring look that gave little indication of his thoughts, and she responded with a calm appraisal of her own.
Her eyes swept his form, lingering briefly here and there as she measured his considerable length. His clothing was well-worn but sturdy, she decided, his denim pants clinging to the strength of his thighs like paper on the wall. His shirt was faded to a nondescript color, but intact, neatly tucked into place, hugging the breadth of his wide shoulders, then tapering to the narrow measure of his waist. Long-legged, his stance casual and relaxed as he watched her, he bore her scrutiny well. The mouth that had twice twitched with amusement at her expense was almost hidden now, his lips pressed together beneath the brush of his mustache. His eyes were narrowed and dark. High cheekbones made her think of an Indian brave, and the straight blade that formed his nose was centered in a face too strong and rugged to be considered handsome.
“You can wash up at the well,” she offered finally. “Breakfast will be ready in ten minutes.” Briskly, she turned to open the door, and her skirts swayed as she disappeared into the house.
He ate four biscuits, smothered with pale gravy and flanked by several eggs. She’d risen twice to fill his mug with coffee and was surprised to see him add a generous dollop of cream to the dark brew. It was a crack in his spare demeanor, this small luxury, she thought, watching his fingers move the spoon about in the heavy white coffee mug. Katherine silenced the admiration that surged within her as she acknowledged the raw, dark beauty of the man across the table. Roan Devereaux, her father’s friend, was not what she had expected.
She ate sparingly, aware of his presence in her kitchen, of each movement of those lean hands as he ate, only the small sounds of their silverware against the thick china plates marring the quiet of early morning. And then she nodded at the murmur of his appreciation as he finished the meal she’d prepared.
Pushing his chair back, he lifted his coffee to drink the last of it, savoring it slowly, watching her over the rim of his mug. “Fine food, ma’am. I’m much obliged,” he said, replacing the empty vessel on the checkered tablecloth.
She rose briskly and was up and about, clearing the dishes and removing herself from his presence. He’d been the soul of good manners, she decided, eating the food she prepared and using his utensils with skill and ease. Sometime in his life, someone had taught him well, she thought, wiping up crumbs from the red-and-white oilcloth. Aware of his gaze upon her, she moved quickly, uneasy beneath the cool, measuring eyes that paced her movements.
She rinsed the dishrag and hung it to dry over the edge of the sink, then she set the dishes to soak in soapy water. Closing her eyes, just for a moment, she took a breath and, turning toward him, motioned to the door.
“I’ve got a heap of work to do, Mr. Devereaux. I need to be up and at it.” She’d given him a bed and meals to boot. Roan Devereaux or not, Charlie’s friend notwithstanding, she didn’t need the strangely disturbing presence of this stranger here. Now to move him on his way, out of her house and on down the road.
“Katherine.” His voice reproved her gently.
Her mouth tightened at his reluctance. The sense of unease he inspired within her had to do with that husky inflection in his voice as he spoke her name, she thought. As if he knew all there was to know about Katherine Cassidy and found her lacking. As if he sought to peel away the stark surface she wore like a coat of mail, seeking the softness of the woman beneath the brown drabness. The same warmth she’d felt at the touch of his hand on her flesh earlier reappeared as she listened to the sound of her name on his tongue. He’d rolled it within his mouth, making it appear a many-syllabled word. Not like Pa, who’d more often than not called her Kate or sometimes Katie, when his eyes regarded her with tenderness.
“Katherine,” Roan repeated, rousing her from her wandering thoughts. “Can we talk about a horse now?”
She pursed her mouth and frowned at him, disturbed by her meanderings. “Like I said before, I don’t have any stock ready to sell.”
He shrugged and tipped the sturdy chair back to balance on the back legs. “Can I take a look?”
She shook her head at his persistence. “It wouldn’t do you any good. They’re all halterbroken, of course, but I’ve only put a saddle on two of them. They’ve not been ridden yet.” Her pause was significant before she added her final words on the subject, as if to emphasize their import.
“And you can’t have my mare.”
He shrugged off the edict with a casual grin. “Where’s your pa’s stud?” he asked lazily, watching her hands bury themselves in the pockets of her apron.
She flushed and her eyes shifted from his gaze. “I had to sell him.” The admission was painful, and her mouth tightened.
“You don’t have any stock breeding now?”
“Maybe my mare.”
He frowned, considering. “I didn’t notice.”
“If she took, she won’t drop her foal till March,” Katherine said shortly. “She was in season when I had to let the stud go, so I let him in with her just before…before I sold him.”
He drew in a breath, shaking his head. She was really something, this small woman who spoke of the breeding of horses as if it were not fraught with danger. “You’re not big enough to handle a stallion like your pa’s,” he said. “You’re lucky you got it done without getting hurt.”
She shrugged, dismissing his words with the lifting of her shoulders. “You do what you have to. He was strong and a good size, and he’d carried my pa to war and back. I wanted another colt from him before I let him go.”
“Could be a filly,” he reminded her.
Her gaze was fiercely determined and she shook her head, negating the idea. “No, I need a stud. And I’ll have one, give him a couple of years.”
“How many are you running in your pasture?” he asked. “Thought I saw a yearling or two.”
“Three, actually,” she admitted. “The results of last year’s breeding. My father had great hopes for them.”
“You make it sound sorta dismal, Katherine. Surely the dreams didn’t die with Charlie, did they?”
She shrugged off his taunt. “I’m not made of the same stuff my father was, Mr. Devereaux. Someone had to be practical, and Charlie Cassidy was somewhat of a dreamer.”
“That’s not all to the bad.” He dropped the front legs of his chair to the floor with a thump. To his way of thinking, Katherine Cassidy looked like she could use a little dreaming to brighten up her life. As a matter of fact, he decided with a long look at her stiff demeanor, the woman in front of him looked like she’d had all of her dreams shattered. From the top of her smoothly scraped-back hair to the scuffed toes of the shoes showing beneath her dark dress, she looked like a woman who’d buried more than her pa. She was about at the end of her rope, Roan thought. What am I gonna do, Charlie?
Rising from the chair purposefully, he reached for his hat, hanging on a peg just inside the door. Easing it into place, he settled it with a final tilt of the brim His fingers slid into the pockets of his denim pants, thumbs hooked over his belt and his elbows thrust behind him.
All he needed was a gun belt and he’d look like a gunslinger for sure, Katherine thought, her eyes ranging over the man who was thoroughly upsetting her equilibrium this morning. She struggled against the tension that had gripped her upon his arrival yesterday and had remained deeply seated in the depths of her being. His touch had not eased her disquiet any, either, she reflected grimly. Whether it was a natural reaction to a stranger or some individual sense of danger attached to this particular man was the problem.
The former she could handle. The latter, which was more likely to be true, could create a situation she’d gone to great lengths to steer clear of over the years.
His eyes pinned her in place, taking a leisurely journey over the dowdy length of her, and she began to bristle instinctively. He had no right, she thought with rising indignation. No right at all to come in here and make himself at home and then question her about her livestock as if he could pick and choose.
His next words only added to her turmoil. “What are you gonna do with the three mares out in the corral?” he asked mildly, as if he sought to salve her obvious tension.
Her reply was abrupt, snapped off irritably. “Work with them.”
“I’ll take one off your hands,” he offered easily. “Give me a few days to get in the saddle and I’ll be out of your way.”
“My four-year-old is too small. In fact, I don’t have anything big enough for you. Just a three-year-old and she’s…” Her eyes softened as she hesitated.
“Doesn’t pay to make pets of animals you’re bound to sell off, Katherine,” he said gently.
Once more her chin tilted as she glared at him. “She’s not a pet. But she sure isn’t ready to have a saddle thrown on her back and a two-hundred-pound man digging his heels in her sides.”
“She’s a horse,” he said bluntly. “She was bred to be ridden.”
“Said like a man,” she returned with icy disdain, anxious to be rid of this reminder of her own frailty.
“Any man in particular, Katherine?”
She glanced at him quickly, assessing the question.
He pushed for an answer. “Who made you so prickly?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But something tells me you’re a mite touchy about that sassy little filly of yours.”
“That’s the key word, Mr. Devereaux. She is mine and I intend to keep her.”
He smiled agreeably. “That’s your right, ma’am.” His head nodded in the direction of the barn as he changed the subject with alacrity. “Thought I’d spend a couple of hours out there to pay for my keep.”
“It’s not necessary,” she countered swiftly. She’d felt the warmth creep up into her cheeks as the play of words had swirled between them, and she felt a sudden letdown as he turned from the fray so easily. For a few minutes, she’d felt alive and vital sparring with Roan Devereaux and, in an odd way, enjoying it
His index finger rose to tilt the brim of his hat in a courtly parody, and he headed for the door with long strides that carried him out onto the porch and down the steps before her protest could be enlarged upon.
She watched, almost unwillingly, yet drawn by the sight of him. Slim-hipped, he walked with a lithe swing that spoke of long years in the saddle and an ease with his own body. Only a slight hitch betrayed him, and Katherine’s gaze narrowed as she analyzed the hesitation that marred his easy stride. Then her father’s words came back to her, jolting her with the image of savage warfare they had painted.
“Roan paid for my life, girl,” he’d said grimly. “That leg of his will wear scars for all of his years. He dragged me when he could hardly make it himself…till both of us were so covered with muck and mire you couldn’t make out the pair of us from the mud we crawled through. Him pullin’ and tuggin’ on me, one hand holdin’ my belt and the other clawin’ for a good grip on the side of that hill.”
Charlie Cassidy had spoken often—and well—of the man who’d saved his life in the midst of battle in Virginia. Her eyes softened as they focused on the barely discernible hesitation in Roan’s step now as he strode across her yard.
“I owe you, Roan Devereaux,” she whispered with reluctance in the silence of her kitchen. Her shoulders lifted as an indrawn breath shuddered through her. “Maybe I can figure something out.” And maybe she’d better quit lollygaggin’ around and get busy, she thought, shaking her head as she reluctantly turned her back and headed for the cookstove to bank the fire.
Charlie had left a fine legacy. Although where the mares were concerned, who had produced these charmers was anyone’s guess. The yearlings frolicked about the pasture with long-legged freedom, heads tossing and tails flying, performing as though they sensed the admiration of their audience. Oblivious to their antics, a chestnut mare grazed, her nose lifting as she turned her head momentarily in his direction. The man who’d hooked one boot on the bottom rail, leaning casually to watch the animals gambol about in the pasture, was more than just an admiring audience. Roan had earned his respite, the sweat that drew his shirt to cling to the muscles of his back was a damp testimony to his morning’s work.
He’d walked the boundaries of the pasture, checking and repairing several weak places in the old fencing, tight-lipped as he considered the amount of work that needed to be done. The condition of the posts and wire had disturbed him, and he was aware that his nailing up sagging wire and shoring up fence posts could only be considered a temporary measure.
Charlie’s homestead was not what he’d expected. The horseman who’d befriended him in the last days of his service to the army had not been cut out to be a farmer, it seemed.
Charlie’d been more suited to be a roaming man, Roan thought. More geared to training horses and moving on his way than settling down here on green Illinois pastureland.
And then there was Charlie’s daughter. Roan’s quiet laugh broke the silence and one of the fillies tossed her head at the sound.
“Yeah, Katherine…” His voice caressed the name and his mouth twisted in a wry grin as he considered the woman. Unyielding at first glance, stiff and unbending with that old shotgun aimed in his direction, she’d glared her best at him. She was still glaring, he thought, only not quite as convincingly.
He’d glimpsed her uncertainty earlier, when he’d touched her arm. Sensed the withdrawal as she shrank from his hand. There was a lot of woman there, he decided, hidden beneath the coarse homespun dress she wore like armor against his gaze. But not just his. She made it her business to look dowdy.
“Doesn’t look to me like you’ve earned your dinner yet.”
He spun to face her, his hand brushing against his thigh in an automatic gesture. One her eyes followed with cynical awareness.
“You’re lucky you haven’t lost these horses before this,” he said roughly, his head inclining toward the pasture. “I mended several places that were just one good shove from collapsing.”
Katherine nodded. “I’ve been meaning to check it out. It was on my list,” she said dryly.
Along with a hundred other chores, he thought, aware of the unending job she’d taken on when Charlie died.
“Well, what I did will hold for a while. But it was only a lick and a promise. Some of those posts are rotting where they stand. You’re gonna have to replace them.”
Her sigh was tinged with defeat. “I do what’s most needed. And right now, training those horses in the corral is the most important thing.”
“Who are you gonna sell them to?” He’d lay money she hated the thought of parting with any one of the sleek mares she was so fond of.
“My mare’s not for sale to anyone,” she told him, nodding at the chestnut animal approaching them. Katherine’s hand reached out to stroke the white blaze that flashed through her mare’s forelock and slashed like a narrow sword down the length of her nose. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”
Roan nodded, admiring the picture before him…the woman caught up for a moment in her pleasure with the creature she fondled. “I like the looks of the tall bay,” he said, glancing back at the corral Charlie’d attached to the barn.
“The three-year-old? Well, I haven’t decided about her. The four-year-old is going to the banker’s daughter in town, soon as I finish gentling her real good. The black’s mine,” she said, her voice soft as she turned to watch the horses in the corral closer to the house.
“Charlie teach you how to train?” he asked as they began to walk back to the house.
She nodded. “Ever since I was big enough to snap on a lead rope and drag a six-week-old foal around in a circle.”
They walked side by side, their attention caught by the mares who stood in the shade offered by the barn.
“My pa bought this place from the man who cleared the land and built the house. Matter of fact, we moved in just a while before he left for the war. He’d been fretting about sitting on the sidelines, and one day, he just got on his horse and told me to take care of things till he got back.”
“Just like that?”
Her nod was abrupt. “Just like that.”
“What did you do?”
“I’ve always been a dutiful daughter, Mr. Devereaux. I did as he asked. I took care of this place till he did come back. It was a good thing he’d waited so long to go to war. Things had piled up on me by the time he showed up again. I pampered that four-year-old mare and delivered the three-year-old and bought the black with the last of Pa’s hidey-hole money. A neighbor lost his mare birthing that one and sold her to me real cheap. He didn’t want to waste his time raising her by hand. I spent a lot of hours with a play titty on a bottle till I got her to eat by herself.”
They’d reached the pole fence that surrounded the corral on three sides, and he leaned his elbows on the top rail. The image of Katherine, here alone, struggling with the day-to-day work of caring for a farm and all the animals involved, was an overwhelming idea.
“I don’t see how you handled it all,” he said finally.
“I managed. We all do what we have to.”
“And then?” he said, urging her. “Then he came home?”
“He came home.” She took a deep breath, and her smile was tender with the memory. “He rode that big stallion up to the porch one afternoon and called me out of the house, just as if he’d only been gone for a day or so. ‘Katie, my love,’ he said. ‘Your father’s home.’ Just like that,” she told him with emphasis on the words. “Just as if he’d been to town for supplies.”
“Was your brother here at all while Charlie was gone?”
“No. I haven’t any idea where Lawson was.” She glanced at Roan soberly. “I told you, I don’t talk about him.”
“Charlie—” he began.
“I need to go to the house.” Her dismissal was abrupt. “Dinner will be ready shortly.”
Katherine’s retreat gave him pause, and he watched as she left his side to walk with long, hurried strides across the yard to the small house. You were right, Charlie. She’s small, and fierce, and ready to do battle at the drop of a hat. Not an inch of give to her.
He followed her, stopping long enough at the well to pump fresh water. Within minutes, he was ready to eat, sleeves rolled above his elbows, hair damp and smoothed back from his forehead. He carried his hat with him into the house and snagged it on the peg inside the door as he passed.
She’d already set the table and was pouring a tall glass of milk as he came in.
“I like milk at noontime,” she said, looking his way.
“Sounds like a good idea to me,” he agreed, sliding into the chair he’d used the night before.
He ate his fill before he spoke again, his stomach welcoming the chunks of roasted venison and the abundant array of vegetables she’d prepared.
“Someone sure taught you how to cook, Katherine.” Moving his chair back, he crossed one booted foot over the other knee.
She allowed her eyes to rest on him for a moment. He looked contented and well fed, sitting across the table. Deceptively idle, for even in repose, there was the look of a hunter about him, a faint menace that set her on edge. He was handy with fence-mending tools, though, she reminded herself, and for that she had to be grateful.
“I found early on if you don’t cook, you don’t eat,” she said finally, uneasy with his compliment. “My pa was never one to lend a hand around a stove, so after my mother died, I learned in a hurry how to put a meal together.”
“I wouldn’t mind havin’ dinner here on a regular basis for a while,” he said easily. “Fact is, I’ve got sort of a deal in mind to offer you.”
“I’m not much for making deals. The last time a man tried to make a deal with me, he came close to getting shot for his effort.”
“What did he want? The three-year-old mare?”
She caught the amusement in his voice and flushed. “No, he wanted the whole kit and caboodle. The farm, the horses and me.”
“I take it you weren’t agreeable.”
“It wasn’t any bargain from my point of view.”
“Well, maybe I can strike a better deal than he tried for. It’ll involve some of my time and more work than I’d planned on doing right now, but it might pay you to listen up.”
“Are we back to my three-year-old?” she asked suspiciously.
“She’s a good-sized horse and she’s ready to be saddle-broke,” he said firmly. “If she’s bred from Charlie’s stud, I’d like to have a go at her. I can be in the saddle in a week or so, and you can have a hell of a lot of work done around here in the meantime.”
“I’m not in the market for a hired hand, Mr. Devereaux.”
He flicked her a doubtful glance. “Looks to me like you could use a little help, Katherine. That barn needs some work, and your tack’s in bad shape.”
“I’ll get to it. I can’t afford to hire you.”
“I’ll do a pile of work for a chance at that mare,” he said bluntly.
She looked at him, lips pressed together, holding back the refusal it was her inclination to give. “She’s worth more than a week’s work,” she said finally.
He shrugged. “Set a price. Tell me what you want.”
“I’ll have to think about it.” She hesitated, wondering if she could abide letting the spirited mare go to this man. He was right, she acknowledged to herself. She’d made a favorite of the sleek filly, and now she’d pay the price.
“You’ll stay in the barn,” she said warningly. “I haven’t room in the house for you.”
“I expected as much.” It had been too much to hope that she’d offer Charlie’s bed. It sure had to be better than the cot he’d fought with all night long.
“She’s probably worth more than you’ll want to work out. I won’t give her up easy. I’ll want some hard cash to boot.”
“I don’t blame you. She’s a good-lookin’ horse.” He leaned back in the chair once more. “Do we have a deal?”
She pursed her mouth and glared at him, impotent in her need. “I’ll run you ragged for a month, and then we’ll have to settle on the money end,” she said finally.
“Agreed.” He held out a hand across the table and she reluctantly placed her palm against his.
“Agreed?” he repeated, prompting a reply, his fingers wrapped about hers.
She flushed, aware only of the warmth of his flesh and the strength of the hand she touched. Looking at him quickly, she nodded, tugging her fingers from his grasp.
“Yes…agreed.” She plunged her hand into the pocket of her apron, only too conscious of the triumphant gleam that lit his gaze.
Chapter Three (#ulink_c6e58e57-9191-519a-a866-d707a1f212af)
The man’s a worker, Katherine acknowledged, a bit grudgingly but with inherent honesty. In just over two weeks, he’d been able to tighten up the barn, his hammer pounding audibly throughout several afternoons. Replacing boards, reinforcing the stalls, then coating the entire interior with whitewash, which he’d told her would reflect the light and brighten up the place.
He’d been right. And not only once. Telling her she needed to quit pampering her three-year-old pet and climb on her back had ruffled her feathers more than a trifle, she remembered.
Again, he’d been more than right. She’d babied the mare beyond reason, scratching her ears till kingdom come, confiding in her with soothing whispers, speaking the fears she could trust to no one. Except to the saucy, long-legged creature who’d stolen her heart the first time she’d seen her, all wet and gawky, swaying on spindly legs.
Wincing as she watched him saddle the bay mare, Katherine had almost turned from the sight. Then, gritting her teeth, she’d watched as his big hands gentled the skittish creature. She’d peered from beneath half-closed eyelids as he mounted the animal the first time, his words too low to be heard, whispered for the benefit of the shivering horse. He’d ridden her with tenacious skill, subduing her brief attempts to spill him from the saddle, his hands easy on the reins, lest he damage her tender mouth.
Only when the brown sides were heaving and the sleek coat was daubed with flecks of foam did he ease from her back. And then only to step quickly in front of the mare, facing the flaring nostrils and wide-eyed gaze, touching with soothing hands and speaking quiet words of praise.
Katherine turned away, her heart aching as she relinquished possession. With strength tempered by kindness and an uncanny knowledge she couldn’t help but admire, he’d subdued the feisty creature, forcing her to acknowledge him as master.
“He might as well ride off on her right now,” Katherine said beneath her breath, striding from the corral in the direction of the henhouse. “She’s his, as surely as if he’d already paid cash up front.”
Dealing with the quarrelsome hens took the edge off her unreasonable anger, and she carried the morning’s gathering of eggs in her apron as she left the speckled flock to their scattered grain. From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Roan Devereaux working his magic, rubbing with long strokes at the flank of the filly. Brown coat gleaming in the sunlight, the horse turned her head, looking over her shoulder at the man who tended her with capable hands.
“Turncoat,” Katherine grumbled accusingly. “Just like a female, taken in by the first good-looking man to ride down the pike.” That she accused her own gender didn’t occur to her, since she’d decided long ago that she was a breed apart from the women she’d met in Tucker Center.
“Katherine.” His voice claimed her attention and, turning, she frowned, aware of the triumph gleaming from his dark eyes. Even with the length of the yard between them, she still felt the masculine pull of him, the male force that spoke to some small part of her. Brushing aside the unwanted attraction, she faced him with impatience.
“What do you want? I need to take care of these eggs.”
His eyes rested on the rounding of her apron, clutched closely against her belly, and he felt a flush of pleasure, for a moment imagining that she would look just so with a child growing there. Chasing the rampant thought from his mind, he gritted his teeth. She’d been thrusting- herself into his thoughts with more and more frequency over these past days, and his randy condition was making him ripe for all sorts of foolishness.
She’s Charlie’s daughter, he told himself firmly. You’re leaving for Louisiana in a couple of weeks, owing her nothing. You’ll find plenty of willing women in the next town. Getting hard never killed a man yet, he decided. And he was sure as shootin’ hard up when Katherine Cassidy set him to thinking about planting a baby in her.
He shook his head in disgust.
“I asked you what you want,” she repeated impatiently. “You gonna stand there all day and gloat, or have you got something to say?”
“Gloat?” Her choice of word caught his attention, and he frowned as he considered the accusation. “What would I have to gloat over, Katherine?”
She pinched her lips tightly and slanted her eyes in his direction in that arrogant manner that reminded him sharply of her pa. “Never mind,” she said. “I’ve got dinner cooking. You’ll have time to clean stalls before we eat.” Her eyes gleamed with a triumph of their own as she envisioned him pitching the straw bedding, the aroma pungent in his nostrils.
His nod was quick and he turned away, aware suddenly of her meaning. She’d watched the mare, her eyes anxious, as he rode her. She’d waited, needing to comfort the animal should he deal with her harshly. And then she’d walked away, realizing his taming had only served to bond the creature to him.
“She’s mine now, Katherine,” he said, his words unheard as she stalked up the steps and across the narrow porch. Her stiff posture told the tale. She was mourning the loss of her favorite, and he acknowledged her sorrow. But a flush of triumph overrode the compassion he felt as he remembered the strength of the horse between his legs. He’d craved ownership of the animal from the first. The elegance of her finely formed head and the sleek lines had drawn him. As had the fiery spirit he’d taken care to subdue without damaging the horse’s mettle.
Some lucky man would have to use the same care with Katherine one day. She’d need a light hand, backed by a determined nature, if any man ever expected to keep her in line without shattering the strength of her pride and determination.
Somehow, he no longer attributed her with the stigma of dowdiness. He thought with amusement of his first evaluation. Mud hen. Mud hen, indeed. Her pa had her pegged right, he concluded. She was second cousin to a sparrowhawk, sure enough. Small and feisty, Charlie’d told him. “Plain as puddin’,” he used to say. “But under them brown feathers is a heart that’s bustin’ with courage.”
“Sparrowhawk…suits her better than I’d have thought at first,” he acknowledged aloud, then grinned as he caught himself. “Talkin’ to yourself is a bad sign, Devereaux. Means you been too long without a little female companionship. Makes you drifty.”
The quiet of the dinner table was roughly shattered by the sound of gunfire. Roan shot from his chair as though he’d taken the impact of the bullet himself.
“Shut that door,” he ordered her as Katherine flew to the open doorway.
She obeyed, her response automatic as she sensed the authority in his voice. Gone was the man of easy gestures, courtly mannerisms and gentle speech. She faced him warily, her back against the heavy planks that made up the door, and watched as he delved within the saddlebag that had taken up residence against the far wall of her kitchen.
With fluid movements, he clasped the gun belt about his hips and took on the guise she had attributed to him weeks earlier. Gunfighter. Warrior, perhaps. Whatever name he wore, his stance in her kitchen proclaimed him ready to do battle, and she acknowledged his ability with silent admiration.
“It’s probably not what you think,” she told him quietly.
“How do you know what I think?” he asked roughly, striding to the window to stand at one side and bend his head to peer through the curtain.
She drew in a shuddering breath. “I don’t, of course. I just think it’s maybe someone trying to scare me.”
His look was piercing. “Who?”
“I don’t know,” she quibbled, and then at his frown, she shook her head. “Could be Evan Gardner, a man from town.”
“Why? You got somethin’ he wants?”
“Yes.” A brief smile flitted across her mouth and vanished beneath the pursing of her lips. “He’s the man who wants my farm. Not to mention the horses—and of course, he’d like me thrown in to boot.” Her words were clipped and harsh, and he felt the anger she suppressed.
“Well, I reckon we’ll just have to let him know you’re not available, won’t we, Katherine?” he asked in a deep drawl that offered a threat to the man who dared to encroach here.
“It might not be him,” she said quickly as he strode to where she stood against the door. “It’s just that no one else ever bothers me.”
“Bothers you! Hell, you haven’t even had a visitor since I’ve been here, lady. If this Evan Gardner comes callin’ with his gun cocked and ready, he’s askin’ for trouble.”
Snatching up his rifle from where it stood against the wall, he motioned her to one side and slid the latch on the wooden door.
“Come on out, Katherine.” The voice was cunning, grating against his hearing. “I know you’re peekin’ out. I heard the latch slidin’, Katherine. Did I get your attention?” Wheedling and tinged with mockery, the man’s words coaxed the unseen woman to expose herself.
“Where is he?” Roan asked quietly, motioning to the window. “Can you see him?”
She slid carefully across the wall, her eyes peering through the white curtain as she sought to see the man who called from outside the house.
“He’s right in front of the door, sitting on his horse,” she said, catching sight of Gardner and then moving fully in front of the window. “He’s put his gun away.”
Roan’s lips curled back in a grimace of pleasure that belied the flare of anger in his dark eyes. “More fool than I thought,” he said with quiet satisfaction.
The door was flung open, and he stepped out on the porch, rifle at the ready, feet apart and braced as he faced the man who waited astride a dark mare. It was worth a bundle, Roan decided quickly, just to see the surprise and then the look of panic that painted Evan Gardner’s features, even as his flesh paled abruptly.
“Who the hell are you?” Gardner croaked defensively, fighting for a semblance of dignity. His wide-brimmed hat rode low over his forehead, but yellow hair cascaded over his collar from beneath the band. Bulky and belligerent, he faced the gunman on the porch, his eyes narrowed as he attempted to focus beyond Roan, as if he hoped to espy his quarry within the house.
“I’m the one holdin’ the gun,” Roan reminded him with a tightening of his grip on the stock. “Maybe you’d like to tell me just who the hell you think you are, comin’ here and shootin’ off that weapon in a threatenin’ manner.”
Evan Gardner attempted a jovial gesture, his grin wide and forced. “Just a joke, mister. Me and Katherine always did tend to fool around. Just playin’ a little, you understand.”
Roan observed him silently, his stance unchanging, his rifle poised before him.
“Hell, I didn’t mean anything by it. Katherine knows that. Why don’t you ask her yourself?” His color had gone from pale to pasty as the heavily built man watched the unmoving figure on the porch.
“Katherine, come out here,” Roan ordered quietly.
She approached the doorway slowly, her nostrils flaring as she sensed the danger emanating from the man who called her name.
“Yes, I’m here,” she said, moving to stand beside him.
The barrel of his gun tilted upward, pointing directly at the head of Evan Gardner. “This man the one who gave you grief before?”
“I ain’t been near this place since March,” whined the intruder.
Roan took one step forward. “Well, if I were you, mister, I wouldn’t plan on comin’ back for at least another year. In fact, you might be wise to keep your distance from the lady from now on.”
Evan Gardner’s lip curled in a sneer, as if he realized the danger he was in had receded somewhat. “And what happens when you’re not here anymore, stranger? What happens when Katherine there needs a helping hand, and I’ve got the only one available?”
Roan’s brow lifted in derision. “Somehow I doubt she’ll ever be that desperate,” he said bluntly.
Evan turned his horse in a half circle and touched his spurs to the animal’s sides. “Can’t never tell, mister. You might not be here then.” The horse responded to another urging touch and within moments had crested the hill and headed toward town.
“He from Tucker Center?” Roan wanted to know.
“Yes,” Katherine answered. “He has a place just outside of town, just a small holding. He’s wanted my pa’s horses since the war. I guess he figures he’ll take me along in the bargain. Least that’s what he’s bandied about town.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Katherine,” Roan told her with a sidelong glance. “You’d be the best part of the bargain. To my way of thinkin’, anyway.”
She felt a flush rise from her throat and sweep over her face with a heated rush. Turning away quickly, lest he see the telltale blush, she cleared her throat and touched one hot cheek with the palm of her hand. “I hardly think he’d make all this fuss for a spinster like me, Roan. If there was another way to take over here, he’d do it. He’d like to marry me, but just so he can have what I own. At least I’d be pretty safe. He’s very much aware that if something happened to me, the whole town would know that he was the first man to suspect.”
She took a deep breath, as if she could blot the whole idea from her mind, push it into oblivion. Her smile was shaky, but she persevered. “Anyway, Mr. Devereaux, he’s not going to ever get his hands on me or the stock my pa left me. Not to mention the farm and the house.”
“How do you plan on holdin’ him off, honey?”
She stopped, her indrawn breath filling her lungs as she repeated the endearment in her mind. Honey. Spoken in a hushed, tender tone, so at variance with his harsh tonguelashing of Evan just minutes ago, the word clutched at her heart. Honey.
“Katherine?” He reached for her, his hands heavy on her shoulders, turning her to face him. “What did I say? What’s wrong?”
She ducked her head, the shining crown almost touching his chest as she sought to shelter from his inquiring gaze. “Nothing’s wrong, Mr. Devereaux,” she mumbled, both her hands pressed firmly against the heated flesh of her face.
One long finger inched between their bodies, brushing against the rough fabric of her dress until he found the rounded chin he sought. He tilted it upward, frowning his bewilderment at her actions. The shadows on the porch did little to hide the tinge of color still remaining, and he smiled in understanding.
“I said something to embarrass you, didn’t I?” he asked gently. “What was it, Katherine? Did I doubt your ability to defend yourself? Was that it?”
She grasped at the straw he offered, and her head nodded, her eyes half-closed against his penetrating gaze. “Yes,” she said quickly. “Yes, I…I’m a good shot. I can take care of myself. You have no reason to doubt me.”
“Look, honey,” he began, and watched openmouthed as she tore away from his grasp.
“Don’t call me that!” she huffed. “I’m not your ‘honey’ or anyone else’s. I’m not the kind of woman for that sort of sweetsy stuff.”
“Sweetsy stuff?” He dropped his hands from her shoulders and gaped. “Is that what you call it when a man uses a plain little old word like honey instead of just callin’ you by name?” He viewed her with suspicion as she clamped her lips together and looked away from him, her eyes intent on the barn.
“Hasn’t anyone ever called you sweetsy names, Katherine?” he asked softly. “Haven’t there ever been any men hangin’ around, tryin’ to court you or just tryin’ to get your attention?”
She spun back to face him and her eyes were bleak. “Take a good look at me, Roan Devereaux! Do I look like the sort of woman men come to court? I’m sure not good-looking, and too old to be having babies much longer, and too plainspoken for most of the men hereabouts. What have I got to offer a man in his right mind?”
She was serious! By damn, she was! Standing there telling him she was too dried up to appeal to a man. And here he’d been feeling like a randy, apple-cheeked boy around here for the better part of a week already. With that slim body hiding beneath those ugly dresses she put on every morning, and that long, dark hair that made his fingers itch to twine themselves in its length. Not good-looking? With color like the pale side of a peach and skin like a newborn babe’s and those dark blue eyes that reached inside and touched a man’s soul…Well, it was too much to be believed.
“Ah, hell, Katherine! You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he said harshly. He allowed his eyes to roam the length of her, from the darkness of her hair, fresh and clean and smelling like the soap she kept by the kitchen sink, to the leather thong that held her dress loosely about her waist.
She blinked at him, shook her head in bewilderment at his words. “I do,” she said, denying him.
His hands came to rest once more on her shoulders, this time holding her firmly, lest she pull from his grasp. “Do not,” he growled. And then he bent forward and claimed the mouth that had begun to form another protest.
She gasped in surprise, aware only of heated breath filling her mouth, warm flesh covering her lips, containing her in a damp, hungry embrace that sent her senses reeling. She drew in air through her nose and stared at him, her eyes unable to focus, only aware of the thick brush of his eyebrows, riding above his heavy-lidded eyes. And then he closed them, those dark, unfathomable orbs that had so easily warmed her with their regard just seconds past.
Her lips attempted to close, but he would not let her bring them together, playing along the edges with the hot sword of his tongue instead. There, just inside her upper lip, where the flesh was tender and sensitive, he brushed his weapon. Back and forth he swept with a slow movement that brought a gasp of surprise from her throat. He swallowed that, too, resuming his exploration of her mouth, his lips closing just a bit, his teeth finding a hold on her lower lip as if he would nip lightly at the delicate skin. Then, catching her unaware, he moved to whisper a series of kisses from one side of her upper lip to the other, his mustache teasing her sensitive flesh. He chuckled softly.
“Roan!” she whispered on a quick gasp of air.
“No more Mr. Devereaux?” he asked with another chuckle.
She was stunned. Speechless and inert, she hung between his hands, only the grip of his fingers holding her erect. And then those warm hands slid the length of her arms and somehow fastened themselves about her waist, finding a home at the small of her back, where he clasped his fingers to hold her captive.
“Never been kissed, Katherine?” he asked gently.
“Of course I…” She stopped. “No…you know I haven’t,” she admitted finally, fastening her eyes on his, afraid to allow them permission to look fully at the mouth that had plundered her own so thoroughly.
“You’ll do better with a little practice,” he told her cheerfully. “But for a beginner, you sure pack a wallop, lady.”
“A wallop?”
“A punch,” he explained, delighted by the color washing over her countenance once more. He looked at her assessingly. How had he thought her plain? The fine lines of her eyebrows cast a perfect frame above the brilliant blue of her eyes. Eyes that were viewing him with a wonderment that pleased him immensely. Her nose was almost too straight, only a small deviation at the tip marring its perfection, almost like a dimple. And then there was her mouth. He looked at it again, soft and swollen a bit, reddened from his caresses. He tugged her closer against him and she gasped, the sound a shocked whisper of his name.
“Roan!” She stiffened against him. Against her body, pressed tightly, with only the layers of clothing they wore separating her from its threat, she felt…Her eyes closed again and her lips tightened.
“Let me go.” It was quiet, but a demand echoed in those words, and he obeyed.
“I’m sorry, Katherine. I didn’t mean to…”
She stepped back once, and then again, until the wooden wall of the house pressed against her back. Her face was pale now. Gone was the becoming flush, the pink cheeks stained by her guileless innocence.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said quietly, allowing her the width of the porch, aware he had invaded unforgivably.
“I’m sure you have things to do in the barn or the pasture…or somewhere,” she managed to say, her voice high and breathless in her ears. Here she’d been worried about Evan Gardner coming around, giving her trouble, causing her grief. Somehow she knew Evan Gardner couldn’t hold a candle to Roan Devereaux when it came to causing problems for her.
In fact, if the sensations washing their way through her body were any indication, Roan Devereaux had already managed to cause more hassle than she was equipped to handle.
“And that’s a fact,” she mumbled beneath her breath as she watched him stride, with only an almost imperceptible limp, across the yard toward the corral.
Chapter Four (#ulink_7f54f766-b085-51a9-8dd2-3163927a1e8e)
“I’ll wash your clothes if you bring them to the house.”
He’d wondered how she would greet him this morning. After the general all-around mess he’d made of last evening, he hadn’t known what to expect. Certainly, Katherine knew what to look for from a man who was all hot and bothered. Or did she? Her total experience with males appeared to have begun and ended with horse breeding. Hell, that ought to have taught her something!
He looked at her finally, aware she’d been fidgeting about with her hands all twisted up in her apron, waiting for an answer to her offer. Her expression was calm, but a telltale tinge of pink stained her cheeks, and together with the knot she was managing to put in the front of her voluminous apron, he knew she’d dreaded this encounter.
“I reckon I’d appreciate havin’ my clothes washed up, Katherine,” he responded gently. “I can scrub them out myself, though, if you leave the water when you’ve finished your own things.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ve done a passel of laundry in my day, keeping my menfolk clean,” she answered crisply. Her eyes met his gaze for a moment and then skittered off to fasten on the low ceiling of the barn, just over his head.
“I’ll bring them up to the house directly. Soon as I finish putting this stall door back together.”
She nodded briefly and turned to make her way from the barn. Roan’s eyes rested on the dark dress that hung so limply from her squared shoulders, and his mouth twisted in a smile of remembrance as he visualized the slim form she hid so well beneath the sturdy fabric. His hands had personal knowledge of her waist. It bore no resemblance to the length of the leather thong she had taken to using for a belt.
If any woman needed rescuing from herself, it surely was Katherine Cassidy, he thought idly, his lips twitching with humor. It’d be no small task for the man brave enough to take it on. And it was certain sure he wouldn’t be around to tend to the job.
“Breakfast is almost ready,” Katherine told him, calling the words over her shoulder as she stepped through the wide doorway into the early morning light. “Leave that door for later.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Obediently, he put aside his hammer, brushing his hands against the denim that covered his thighs. The grin he’d restrained for her benefit split his mouth and remained in place as he gathered up the few pieces of clothing he’d folded and stowed beneath his blankets on the cot—anything for a little padding.
That hayloft was looking better night after night. If it weren’t for the fact he’d be leaving shortly, he’d even consider building a bunk against the wall and stuffing a mattress with fresh straw.
Ah, no sense in getting too comfortable. Before long, his bed would be the bare ground. Maybe a few leaves or a good stand of grass for padding. The country between southern Illinois and River Bend was pretty green for a while yet. Autumn was late in coming to the south, and with a little hustle, he could miss the cold nights that would soon be heading this way.
He sauntered to the house, his dirty clothes tucked beneath one arm. Slowing long enough to drop off his bundle next to the washtub Katherine had dragged from the porch, he hesitated. A fire burned not far from the well, a metal pail hanging over it from a tripod, the water within steaming, catching his eye. Retracing his steps, he picked up his shirt and folded it compactly. Then, with casual ease, he reached for the pail, using the shirt to shield his palm from the hot metal handle. After emptying it into her washtub, he filled the bucket from the well, replacing it over the fire to heat.
“Thank you, Mr. Devereaux,” Katherine called from the doorway where she was watching. “I was about to come out and do that myself.”
“Saved you a few steps,” he answered, washing his hands at the horse trough. He splashed the water over his face and used his wet hands to plaster his hair down, running his fingers through it to groom the dark length into a semblance of order. Katherine tossed him a towel as he mounted the steps, and waited until he had dried his face and hands.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Ma’am?” she asked with a lifting of one eyebrow.
“Matches the ‘Mr. Devereaux’ you’ve been spoutin’ this mornin’,” he reminded her with a rakish smile. “Thought maybe you were tryin’ to put me on my best behavior, Katherine.”
“Not much chance of that, is there?” she asked, crossing to the stove to dish up the oatmeal she’d had simmering on the back corner. A pan of biscuits and a plate of sausage from the warming oven up top completed the meal, and Roan settled down to the business of eating, blithely ignoring her final gibe.
“Tell me,” he said between bites, his fork held upright as if he commanded her attention. “Tell me how you got those yearlings out there with not a mare in sight? They got birthed somehow, but I sure haven’t figured out where, or what you did with their dams.”
She lifted one of her eyebrows in a gesture of triumph, and a dimple showed high on her left cheek as she suppressed a smile. “One of my better deals—actually three of them. My father and I offered his stallion for breeding at three different farms hereabouts and asked for a foal from each of the farmers. They all had mares they wanted bred, more than a dozen between them, and Pa’s stud was the best-looking horse in the area. They jumped at the chance. They ended up with free stud service for their mares, and we got the three foals for nothing, once they were weaned from their mamas.”
Roan eyed her with new respect. “Your idea?” he asked.
She nodded. “One of my better ones. We needed new blood, and we didn’t have much money available. Pa’d sold off everything we’d trained and saddle broke, and he was getting itchy feet again. It was hard for him to stay in one place. I think he bought this farm for my benefit, knowing how sick of roaming the countryside I was. He said it was time to put down roots and find me a husband.”
“I expect you didn’t look very hard, did you? Seems to me you wouldn’t have much trouble finding a man if you put your mind to it.”
She sniffed and turned her head aside. “I’ve seen enough men in my time to know for a fact I don’t need one to warm my bed at night. Never could see much benefit for a woman in marriage anyway.”
“Maybe you looked at the wrong men,” he suggested mildly.
“Men are men,” she stated, as if that were the final word on the subject.
His nod was agreeable and he set to eating, accepting her decree. Katherine watched him with furtive glances as he made his way through the abundance of food before him. The man did appreciate good meals, she thought, her eyes focused on the hands that wielded his fork and spoon with innate grace. Well formed and darkly tanned, those hands held eating utensils with ease, as easily as they used the tools from the shed.
With as much skill as they’d demonstrated touching her body last evening, she thought, remembering the heat of his palms against her waist. Even through the heavy homespun of her dress, she’d felt the warmth of him, the bold touch of his fingers tugging her against his hard body. She shivered suddenly, shifting in her chair as her errant thoughts tread the dangerous ground that lured them. Maybe she’d not have been so dead set against getting married if someone like Roan Devereaux had come along when she was more amenable to the idea.
Roan’s eyes speared her quickly, snagged by the quick lift of her breasts as she gained a deep breath, fastening on the flaring of her nostrils and the dark awareness shining in her eyes. He chewed methodically, his gaze narrowing as he watched her…noting the faint flush painting her throat and creeping upward.
Wiping his mouth with the edge of his hand, he picked up his coffee, eyes never veering from the woman across the table. Damned if she didn’t look flustered to beat all.
Things would be better all the way around if she didn’t keep looking at him the way she was right now. He wasn’t the man she needed. And heaven knew he’d got an awful itching urge to cart her off to her bed…and then she’d be compromised, but good. And he wouldn’t be as good for her as Evan Gardner. At least Evan wanted to marry her.
Hell, he couldn’t sit around here any longer, he decided. She had him going in circles and she hadn’t even touched him. Except with the bluest eyes he’d seen since the day he met Charlie Cassidy.
His chair scraped against the plank floor and he rose hastily. “I’ll just get back to the barn, Katherine,” he muttered, groping with one hand for his hat as he turned toward the door. “Mighty fine meal,” he called back as he strode across the porch, his steps long and hurried.
“Here’s your hat…what’s your hurry?” she said beneath her breath, relieved to have him gone. “He stirs me up, and I don’t like it.” Her mouth pursed as she considered him, glaring at his long legs, which carried him quickly across the yard. He was limping a bit this morning. “Not that I care,” she grumbled. “He can limp all the way to Timbuktu and back, for all it matters to me.”
He managed to stay out of her way for the rest of the week, making his way to the house for meals and tending to his business otherwise. The pasture fence took on a new look, the posts erect once more, the poles firmly attached and anchored in place. He’d hung a new gate, after viewing the old one with a shake of his head. Sagging and swinging from handmade hinges with half the nails missing, it was a wonder she’d been able to handle it at all. The ruts were deep where she’d been dragging it across the ground to lead the yearlings in and out, and he frowned at the thought.
How much more had she put up with on her own? he wondered. He hadn’t even looked around much inside the house, not enough to spot the places that needed repairing, anyway. And sure as the sun rose and set every day, she wouldn’t be asking him to spend any time in her kitchen. Leastways, not any longer than it took to eat a meal and vamoose out the door.
“I’ve given her a good case of leavin’ alone, Charlie,” he said dryly, casting his eyes heavenward. Somehow it seemed likely Charlie’d headed in that direction, he thought, remembering the gray-haired soldier who’d made little fuss over his Bible reading or the quick words he spoke over his meals.
“Wish you were here, old man,” Roan muttered, turning his attention to the bridle he was mending. The sun beat on his back through the dark cotton of his shirt and he relished the heat with a lifting of his shoulders. Tugging at the bit, he assured himself that the leather would hold, then, putting it aside, reached for the halter that awaited his care.
He was about done. The month was up and he’d set his hand to every chore he could find, aside from the house Katherine guarded so closely. He’d ask her politely about it before he left, in case she needed something done that wouldn’t hold over the winter. Fat chance she’d give me space to work inside her sanctuary, he thought with a grin. She guarded it like a smuggler’s cave.
His eye was caught by a flash of color and he looked up to see her quickstepping across the yard in his direction. The apron she wore was yellow, bright against her dark dress, and he wondered for a moment where she’d dug it from. Every other single piece of clothing he’d seen on her looked like they’d been cut from the same cloth…dark and somber.
“New apron, Katherine?” he asked teasingly.
She shook her head impatiently and he straightened abruptly, rising from the stool he’d dragged into the sunshine.
“What’s wrong?” His eyes moved over the yard, up the hill to the small cemetery, and then darted across to the rise just east of the garden. Satisfied that no immediate danger threatened, he turned his attention to her face, puzzled by the expression she wore.
A mixture of panic and embarrassment painted her features and her hands were linked tightly against her waist. “I feel foolish,” she blurted, her teeth biting against her lower lip.
Relief flooded him and he grinned at her admission. “Can’t imagine that, Katherine.”
“I’m not generally easy to fluster,” she told him, her fingers flexing as she relaxed the grip that had fused them so tightly. Lifting one hand to her forehead, she brushed aimlessly at the tendrils of hair blowing about her face.
“Well, I’d say somethin’ disturbed you in a big way,” he allowed, amused at her dithering.
Her mouth pinched tightly and she glared at his teasing grin. “It’s not funny, Roan Devereaux!” she spouted. “There’s a whole family of mice underneath my cupboard!”
His eyes danced with delight. “Is this the same woman who threatened me with a shotgun and came within an inch of runnin’ me off her place?” He shook his head in disbelief. “I didn’t think there was a thing in this world that could put the fear of God in you, Katherine Cassidy. I’m glad to see I was wrong. You’re pret’ near as human as the next one, after all.”
She stiffened and narrowed her eyes. “I’m not afraid,” she denied stoutly. “I just don’t know what to do with them.”
He hooted with laughter. “Well, I doubt they’re big enough to warrant a shotgun blast. Reckon a swat with the shovel would take care of the matter.”
She shuddered visibly. “I couldn’t do that.”
“Well, you could always make pets out of ‘em.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she sniffed. “I should have known better than to expect any help from you.” Her skirts tangled about her legs as she spun around and headed back to the house, her face crimson with embarrassment.
His hand on her shoulder effectively halted her progress and the warmth of his breath next to her ear caused another shiver to cascade through her.
“Aw, come on, Kate,” he coaxed softly. “Don’t take on so. I can handle most any kind of problem around here you can throw at me, so long as you don’t get all huffy and stomp off.”
Her head dipped and she caught a deep breath. “Just let go of me, Roan Devereaux, and go clean out that nest of critters before your dinner burns to a frazzle.” Her voice trembled just a bit and he peeked over her shoulder, bending lower to scan her flushed countenance.
“Well, we sure can’t have that, can we?” he said softly. And he then bent even lower to drop a quick kiss against her cheek. “Consider it done, ma’am.” His hand squeezed gently for a moment before he dropped it from her shoulder.
“I don’t want to know…” she began, calling after him as he climbed the steps to the porch.
“Why don’t you go gather the eggs or somethin’,” he suggested from the doorway, turning to face her. She was worrying her bottom lip again, and he fought the smile twitching at his mouth.
“Yes, I’ll do that.” Relief was alive in her voice as she spun away and headed quickly to the henhouse. He watched till she slipped inside the wire fence, shooing the clucking hens before her, preventing their escape from confinement.
By the time she pushed the henhouse door open minutes later, holding her apron tightly to protect the eggs she carried, he’d disappeared from sight. She hesitated, unsure whether he was still in the house, her eyes scanning the garden and beyond for a glimpse of him.
“Roan?”
“Go rescue your dinner.” He was somewhere near the other side of the house, his voice carrying on the breeze.
“Yes…all right,” she said quickly, intent on putting aside all thought of his solution to the problem.
She picked at her food, waiting for the sly digs to begin, certain he wouldn’t be able to resist at least one reference to her being so softhearted. But she waited in vain. He ate swiftly and well, silently offering his plate for seconds, devouring the chicken and dumplings with obvious enjoyment. He sat back finally, a sigh of satisfaction the first sound to escape his lips since the meal began.
“Had enough?” She looked up, still shifting the carrots around on her plate.
His raised eyebrows saluted the movements of her fork. “Looks like you aren’t much for your own cookin’ today, Katherine.”
She placed the utensil beside her plate and folded her hands in her lap. “I guess I wasn’t in the mood for chicken. I didn’t seem to work up much appetite this morning.”
“Well, you can just heat up the leftovers later on,” he told her. “It’ll save you cookin’ supper after while.”
“I’d have to add a mess of vegetables to the pot and call it soup,” she said with a quick smile in his direction. He wasn’t going to tease her, she realized, and her smile widened.
“A pan of cornbread would go real well with that,” he suggested hopefully. “You sure do make good pone, Kate.”
It was the second time he had shortened her name today. She considered him. Leaning back in his chair, he looked utterly relaxed. It was an illusion, she knew for a fact. Rarely did Roan Devereaux allow himself to be off guard. As if he were aware of every movement within his range of sight and hearing, he kept watch. That he could do so and still maintain a conversation puzzled her.
Another puzzle was his calling her “Kate.”
“My father used to call me that,” she said quietly.
“Kate?”
She nodded. “No one else ever has, just Charlie.”
“I didn’t mean to be too familiar. Sometimes you just look like…like you ought to be Kate.” His eyes were dark, their regard warming, and his mouth was pursed as he studied her.
“I don’t mind,” she said quickly. It was a familiarity that pleased her somehow. And she fought against the pleasure it brought her. He’ll be gone… before you know it, he’ll be gone, she told herself. And you’ll miss him.
That admission was a new one. So hurting was it, she rose and gathered up the plates and forks, carrying them to the sink and depositing them with a clatter in the tin dishpan waiting there. She couldn’t afford to miss him, she thought, blinking away the hot tears burning against her eyelids.
“Katherine?”
She heard his chair scrape against the floor and she blinked furiously, determined to hide any evidence of weakness. Not on your life, Roan Devereaux, she thought furiously. You’ve already known me for a softhearted female once today. I’ll be switched if you see me being foolish again.
“It’s time to be movin’ on,” he mused beneath his breath as he pounded the last nail into place. The stall door hung straight, the latch was in place, and for the life of him, he couldn’t find another thing to do in the barn.
On top of that, Katherine was looking better to him all the time, and he surely didn’t need a woman to complicate his life right now. At least, not on a long-term basis. And Katherine was definitely not a bed-’em-and-leave-’em woman.
He watched her from the barn door. Watched as she took the last of his clothing from the line she’d strung between the cabin and the milk house. His gaze was fixed on the heavy rope of hair that caught the sunlight and gleamed with hidden fire. Prettier than a spotted pony and twice as spunky, he thought with a subdued chuckle. She’d be a prize for the right man. One willing to look beyond her fierce pride and drab demeanor.
“Katherine,” he called, reluctantly heading in her direction. “How about if I take a look inside the house and see what needs tending before I head out of here? Thought I’d see what I can put to rights for you.”
Her head shot up and she put out one hand in an unmistakable gesture. “My house will do fine, thank you. I manage to keep it up to snuff without any trouble at all.”
He lifted one eyebrow in silent question. “If you’re sure about that…” he said, unwilling to push, aware of her fierce possessiveness when it came to her own surroundings.
“Are you heading out?” she asked bluntly.
He sauntered closer, his eyes intent on her fisted hands, clenched at her sides, betraying the tension she sought to conceal. Katherine was not nearly as unconcerned about being here alone as she let on, he decided.
“It’s about time. I’m pret’ near thirty years old and my family hasn’t seen me in ten or twelve years.” His laugh was rusty. “Fact is, they might not be too excited about my comin’ home. But I figure it’s time to let ‘em know I’m still alive and kickin’.”
“They’ll be glad to see you, Roan,” she said quietly, her eyes on his guarded expression. “I’ll bet your mother watches for you every day.”
“Well, you sure don’t have any notion of how Letitia Devereaux carries on, I can see that,” he answered dryly. “About the last thing she’s thinkin’ about is her long-lost son. Matter of fact, I’m probably the biggest disappointment in her life. I doubt she ever got over my fightin’ for the North.”
Katherine regarded him thoughtfully. “I wondered that myself,” she admitted. “Just thought it wasn’t my business to ask questions, though.”
Roan squatted in the shade of the milk house and picked up a handful of small stones from the ground between his knees, one at a time, looking each over carefully. As if he considered his words with equal care, he spoke hesitantly.
“Slavery wasn’t the issue with most Southerners, you know. But it was with me. I had a hard time with the right of one man to own another, no matter what the law said. Still do, for that matter. My father and I had a go-round more than once, after I got to be full grown. He said I had to learn my place in life and it wasn’t workin’ side by side with the slaves and bein’ familiar with them.” He looked up at her with somber eyes. “I couldn’t consider the boys I’d grown up with as less than men,” he said harshly. “And to my father, they were ‘boys,’ fit only to work in the fields.” He shrugged. “We didn’t see eye to eye. So I left.”
“And fought on the side of the North,” she said quietly.
“Yeah, that was sorta strange, I guess. When I wrote to my mother, after the war, I told her. She wrote me back while I was in the hospital in Philadelphia, where they patched my leg up for the last time.”
“I’ll warrant she was worried about you,” Katherine told him.
His laugh was harsh. “Maybe, maybe not. What she was was ashamed of me. That I would fight against my ‘own kind’ was more than she could tolerate, she said.”
“Why do you want to go back?” Katherine asked after a moment.
He stood, brushing his hands together as the stones fell once more to the ground. “Haven’t figured that out yet,” he told her with a grim smile. “Somethin’ just seems to be tuggin’ at me to go home. Maybe I think things will be different, now that the war’s over. Maybe I need to make peace with my daddy before it’s too late to put things right.”
Katherine shaded her eyes from the sun as she looked up at him. “What if they don’t want you back?” The thought that any parent would turn aside his child was abhorrent to her, but the possibility surely existed where Roan Devereaux was concerned.
His grin was crooked as he tilted his hat back with one finger. “They might not. Far as I know, they’ve still got my brother there to handle things. If there’s no place for me, guess I’ll just meander along and head west,” he said with a shrug of his wide shoulders. “I’m not sure I’m cut out for that kind of life, anyway.”
“Seems to me you did pretty well, staying here,” she ventured.
He straightened abruptly and his look was deliberately forbidding. “I was tryin’ to pay a debt and puttin’ in time to pay for that mare in the corral, Katherine. All we need to do is come up with an amount of cash to cover the difference and I’m gonna be on my way.”
She frowned at his words. “What debt are you talking about?”
He shook his head. “Never mind. The important thing right now is the money I owe you.” He pulled a leather purse from his back pocket, soft and well-worn at the folds. “What’s it gonna be, Katherine? How much for the horse?”
Her eyes were narrowed, her mouth tight as she pressed her lips together. “You don’t owe me one damn cent, Roan Devereaux. You can get your gear together, including those clothes I just took off the line, and vamoose anytime you want. Consider the work you did sufficient price for the mare.”
If the man wanted to leave this morning, let him get on his way, she thought, annoyance at his high-and-mighty attitude raising flags of color in her cheeks. She spun on her heel and headed for the house, almost tripping over the wicker clothes basket as she went. She kicked it out of her way and stalked to the porch, pulling her skirts above her ankles to climb the steps.
Roan watched, hands on hips, eyes never leaving her drab form as she entered the house. She sure was in a huff. Probably just as well. “Eliminates havin’ a big song and dance about sayin’ goodbye,” he muttered. “I’ll just leave ten dollars on the porch when I go and pick up supplies in town.”
She stood to one side of the window ten minutes later and watched as he rode across the yard, brushing at the tears that would not be denied. He stepped down from the mare long enough to lay something on the porch, and then, with a last look at the doorway, mounted his horse.
His voice carried easily to where she watched, and her lips tightened as she heard his words.
“I’m much obliged, Katherine. You’re a credit to your pa.”
She swiped furiously at the hot tears, and her muttered words fell unheard in the silence he left behind.
“You hateful man. You’re sure not worth crying over.” She hiccuped loudly and sniffed, wiping at her nose with the back of her hand. “Damn you, Roan Devereaux.”
Chapter Five (#ulink_7203bf9c-22be-5e4d-b189-3d0948499306)
“How’d you ever talk Katherine Cassidy out of a mare?”
Roan eyed the livery stable owner with a tight grin. “I worked it out. She needed some repairs done and I’m kinda handy with tools.”
“Huh!” Thurston Wellman expelled his breath forcefully. “Never thought I’d see the day that gal would let loose of another one of her horses, after she had to sell that stud of her pa’s. She’s tighter’n an old maid’s pucker when it comes to her animals.”
Roan waited patiently for the older man’s nattering to cease. He’d known the sight of him atop the sleek mare would set tongues wagging and he’d been right. Evan Gardner had been in the general store just minutes ago, his eyebrows at half-mast when Roan came through the doorway.
“How’d you get your hands on one of Cassidy’s horses?” the man had blurted out. “Does Katherine know you’re ridin’ her mare?”
Roan had given him a glare to end all and turned to the storekeeper. His list was long, and it took more than a few minutes to name the supplies he’d need for his trip. At least for the first leg of the journey.
In the meantime, Evan had stomped out the door, reentering minutes later. “That’s surer than the dickens one of Cassidy’s horses,” he’d said vengefully. “You got no right to that mare, stranger.”
Roan had turned to face the man. “If you got a problem, I’ll meet you out front. Are you callin’ me a horse thief?” The words were spit with precision, the tone tightly leashed but edging toward anger.
Evan Gardner wisely backed off, his face ruddy, his words sputtering without coherency from his lips. “Never said, uh, didn’t mean…sure didn’t…”
Roan had spun to the storekeeper. “I’ll be back in an hour or so. Can you have it packed and ready for me?”
With the man’s assurance still in the air, Roan had left the store, brushing past Evan Gardner with a look of scorn.
Now he tended to the business at hand. The purchase of a packsaddle was next on his agenda. The stud he’d ridden through Tucker Center just over a month ago would carry his supplies, perhaps trading off with the mare if she needed spelling during the long journey.
“You got a packsaddle I can buy?” he asked Thurston Wellman. He’d loosened the girth on the mare and turned the stallion into the small corral while he’d gone to the dry goods store earlier. Now it was time to do his business and make tracks to the south.
Thurston cleared his throat, loathe to miss a sale of any sort. “I expect I can locate what you need, mister. Might take me an hour or so to come up with it, though. You got anything you need to do? Mebbe you’d like to wet your whistle over at the saloon while I check things out.”
The idea of a long swallow of beer was mighty appealing to Roan. It’d been a long dry spell since he’d left Ohio, heading for Charlie Cassidy’s spread. But drinking and riding a trail didn’t mix well in his book. In fact, he might just bed down at the hotel for the night and make it an early start in the morning.
“Sounds good to me,” he told the livery stable owner. “Maybe I’ll stay overnight and head out early.” He swept his hat from his head and tossed it to rest on a bale of hay. “Show me a stall for my mare and I’ll unsaddle her.”
“Second one on the right,” Thurston said agreeably. “You can stow your tack over yonder. It’ll be two bits for the night, if you leave the stud in the corral. I’ll feed ‘em both.”
Roan nodded. He led the mare to the stall and stripped the saddle from her back. Replacing the bridle with a halter, he rubbed her down, his hands possessive as they swept the glossy length of her. Checking twice to be sure she was securely tied, he left the stall.
“I’ll toss her some hay,” Thurston told him. “There’s some for your stud already in the hay rack outside.”
Roan grunted in reply, snatching his hat on the way out the double doors into the sunlight.
Already it had started, he thought gloomily, catching sight of sidelong glances as he passed small knots of townsfolk. Noting the speculative look on the face of the local lawman as he neared the jail, he slowed his steps.
“Sheriff?” he said, greeting the robust man cordially.
“Yessir, I’m Sheriff Doober.” The man straightened from his post against the wall. “You the feller asked about the whereabouts of the Cassidy place a while back? Heard from Evan Gardner you was stayin’ out there. He was kinda upset, bein’ an admirer of Katherine and all.”
“I was there. Now I’m leavin’. My name’s Roan Devereaux. I’m an old friend of Charlie’s,” he told him, hand outstretched in greeting.
With a degree of reluctance, the lawman met his grip. “Heard tell you got away with one of Charlie’s mares,” he said, his words tinged with admiration.
“Mares aren’t Charlie’s anymore,” Roan corrected him. “They belong to Miss Katherine now, and yes, I made a deal with her for one of them.”
“She’s kinda low on stock, ain’t she? What with sellin’ one to the banker for his daughter pretty soon, she’ll be scrapin’ the bottom of the barrel.”
Roan nodded. “Pretty close. She’s got one more filly she’s workin’ with and the yearlings she’s trainin’.”
“Looks like she’d think twice before she sold off her breeding stock,” Sheriff Doober said.
“Want to ride out there with me and ask her about it?” Roan offered quietly.
The other man shook his head. “No, I don’t reckon I do. Just makin’ conversation.”
Roan nodded and walked on, feeling himself the center of attention. The town probably hadn’t had this much excitement in years, he thought with a suggestion of good humor. It sounded like Katherine had a reputation for being stingy, least when it came to her horses.
He made a quick stop at the dry goods, where Orv Tucker, the owner, agreed to store his purchases in the back room till morning. “Won’t be no trouble at all,” he assured him.
Across the street was the hotel, the tallest building in town, with elegantly carved wooden curlicues and flourishes garnishing its framework. As though expecting his arrival, the clerk met Roan with an ingratiating smile, assigning him a room with much fuss and ado. Extolling the virtues of the establishment, the clerk ushered him up the stairs, unlocking the door with a flourish.
“Yessir, we’ve got the finest rooms for fifty miles,” the young man boasted. “Our dining room’s known all over the area. Why, we get folks come from miles away just to eat dinner here,” he said, beaming with pride.
Roan waited patiently, nodding agreeably, then herded the enthusiastic clerk out the door.
“I’ll send up a pitcher of hot water,” came the final word from the young man as he stood in the hallway.
“You do that,” Roan answered, already stripping off his shirt. He turned the glass knob once more and stuck his head through the open door. “In fact, make that a whole tub of hot water. Might be the last chance I get for a good bath for a while.”
A marked contrast to the short cot and the quiet barn, he found the hotel to be a mixed blessing. The bed was comfortable but the sounds coming through the open window kept him awake half the night.
“Didn’t know the saloon would be open till all hours,” he grumbled to the desk clerk in the morning. “Man can’t get a decent night’s sleep.”
“Should have closed your window, sir,” the clerk ventured mildly, counting the coins Roan had given him.
“Felt like I was in a tomb, with all that velvet hangin’ all over the place,” Roan growled. “Can’t sleep without fresh air.”
Breakfast was plentiful in the hotel dining room. Ignoring the speculation he encountered on several faces, he plowed through the plate full of ham and potatoes he’d ordered. It wasn’t near as good as one of Katherine’s meals, he thought, wiping his mouth with the linen napkin.
He deliberately set his mind to other things, her image too vivid for comfort. “Forget the woman,” he told himself beneath his breath, marching down the wooden sidewalk. “She can take care of herself just fine. You got other fish to fry, Devereaux.”
Thurston Wellman, busy harnessing a mare, nodded to him as he strode into the livery stable. “Got you what you need all right. It’s over there.”
The packsaddle lay across a sawhorse outside his mare’s stall, and Roan noted its age with concern.
“It’s in good shape, Mr. Devereaux,” the man assured him as he hurried over. “I checked it out first thing this morning, and it’s good and sturdy. Only cost you a dollar.”
Roan nodded. “Sounds fair,” he allowed, digging for the coin in his pocket.
“Hear tell Evan Gardner is het up about you gettin’ the mare from Miz Cassidy,” Thurston confided in an undertone.
“None of his damn business,” Roan said with a grunt, lifting the mare’s saddle to her back.
“He’s been tryin’ to make her his business for a while now. He’s a determined son of a gun. I’ll put my bet on Katherine, though. She’s a spunky little gal.”
“Yeah, she can handle that shotgun like a trooper,” Roan agreed. The saddle was cinched and he slid the bit into the mare’s mouth, fastening the bridle in place.
“I’ll bring the stallion in,” Thurston offered. “We’ll have you ready to go in no time at all.”
“Yeah,” Roan said glumly, aware that his early morning enthusiasm was rapidly evaporating.
“I did what I could, Charlie,” he said beneath his breath. “I got her all fixed up and things are up to snuff out there. Hell, I got to get on my way.”
The stallion didn’t take well to his status as a pack animal, nudging against the mare’s flanks and nipping more than once at her hindquarters. Roan cast him a look of sympathy as he jerked on the lead rope.
“You got to behave, boy. You got the better end of the deal, totin’ my gear. Just leave this filly alone. She’s gonna let loose with one of those heels, and you’ll be wearin’ a horseshoe across your nose if you’re not careful.”
He stopped long enough when the sun was overhead to tear a heel from the loaf of fresh bread Orv had given him. After cutting a thick slice of cheese from the chunk in his pack, he stowed the food securely and set out once more. There was no sense in stopping till near nightfall. He might even make it to the river by then.
According to the map he’d carried about for over a year, Tucker Center was just a ways east of the big river, and once he reached the Mississippi, he’d be home free. He’d just follow it south, almost all the way to River Bend. Home. His eyes narrowed as he considered what awaited him there.
“Might be nothin’ left for you, Devereaux,” he grumbled. “They probably won’t thank you for makin’ the trip. The damn horse’ll probably get a warmer welcome than me. Pa was always on the lookout for a good piece of horseflesh. He’ll appreciate Katherine’s mare.”
Katherine. He shouldn’t have spoken the name. A dull ache beneath his breastbone nudged him. A vision of dark hair glimmering in the sunlight and blue eyes sparkling with intelligence filled his mind. He shook his head, willing the memory of her to vanish, but to no avail.
“I did what I could,” he growled, as if her image accused him. “No woman is gonna tie me up in knots. She’s set for the winter, anyway. By spring, she’ll probably…”
The angry face of Evan Gardner sprang before him. “What happens when you’re not here anymore, stranger?” As though he heard the question aloud, Roan swore, biting the words off savagely. “He’s a determined son of a gun,” Thurston Wellman’s voice echoed in his head.
“She can face him down any day of the week,” Roan growled, nudging his mare into an easy lope, the stallion falling in behind. The thought was not the comfort he’d hoped for. Once fresh in his mind, the memories of Katherine would not be dislodged, and he turned over each glimpse of her as it appeared before him.
Her stubborn chin, the creamy look of her skin where her throat met the collar of her dress. The strong, well-formed hands that were equally as capable whether she held a skillet or the lead rope of a yearling foal. His mind dwelt for a moment on the surprising softness of her mouth as it had opened beneath his own, and he tilted his head back to gaze at the cloudless sky.
“Damn woman…I don’t need to be thinkin’ about you,” he snarled impotently His mind’s eye envisioned the bulky form of Evan Gardner, imagining the man’s mouth intruding where Roan’s had been the first to venture.
“Never been kissed, Katherine?” He’d known when he asked, known that he’d been the first to taste the sweetness of her mouth. Damn. Evan Gardner’d better keep his hands to himself. Not to mention his slack-jawed…
He pulled the mare to a halt, his hands tight on the reins. With a grim foretaste of disaster, he sensed Katherine’s vulnerability. The whole damn town was probably waitin’ for Gardner to move in on her, he thought glumly. They probably all thought it was the best thing for her, havin’ somebody to look after things there.
He lifted his eyes once more to the brilliant blue sky, watching as a hawk circled and swooped beyond the next rise in the trail. Damn it all, Charlie. I can’t just ride off and leave her to fend for herself. I reckon I shoulda just ridden south from Ohio and stayed out of this mess.
And never known Charlie’s Sparrowhawk? The thought pierced him with dreadful accuracy and he shook his head.
He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he left her with things so unsettled. He cast another look at the sky, shaking his head glumly. “It’ll be full dark before we get there,” he said to the mare, his hand stroking her neck with a gentle touch. “Guess we’d better make tracks.”
“I know you’re not gonna shoot me, Katherine,” Evan said cajolingly, sidling toward the porch. The setting sun cast his face in shadow beneath the wide brim of his hat, but she knew exactly how he looked. She knew the greedy expression his face wore as he considered her. For too long, she’d known he was only biding his time.
“Should have realized you’d be back here as soon as Roan Devereaux left town,” she taunted him, leveling the barrel of her shotgun in his direction. “Too much of a coward to hang around while a man was staying here, weren’t you?”
“I don’t take kindly to bein’ called a coward. I’m facin’ you down, ain’t I? And you with a gun aimed at my belly.” He reached the foot of the steps and tilted his head back to look up at her. “Let me come in and we’ll just talk, Katherine,” he wheedled softly, a smile turning his expression into a parody of friendly persuasion.
“Get out of here, Evan,” she told him wearily. “I don’t have time to argue with you.” The barrel of the shotgun sagged just a bit, its weight heavy.
He halted and peered at her. “I can wait, Katherine. I’m a patient man.” With little grace and much muttering, he made his way to where he’d tied his horse, mounting and riding from the yard.
It was only a whisper of sound, there outside her bedroom window. Almost asleep, she wakened with a start, her heart pounding with a breathtaking cadence. Framed against the opening, his shoulders already inside, was a shadowed figure. Katherine’s mind was muddled, the edges of sleep making her movements slow as she swung her feet to the floor.
“Who is it?” she whispered into the darkness, aware even as she spoke the query that the familiar bulk belonged to Evan Gardner.
“I told you I was patient,” he said with a chuckle. “I been waitin’ out yonder for better than two hours, Katherine. Thought you’d be asleep by now, though.”
“What do you want?” she said, her voice raspy as she struggled to her feet, dread clutching at her throat. Without a gun as an equalizer, she was no match for Evan’s weight and she knew it. The thought of those thick fingers against her flesh made her shudder, and she feinted to evade his touch. To no avail. He was upon her before she could take a step, his body slamming into her with no regard for her woman’s vulnerabilities.
She lost her breath as he bore her down into the feather tick, his heavy torso solid against her slender form. One hand found its way into her hair and he twisted a handful about his fist, anchoring her against the sheet while he sought to rub his mouth over her face. His lips were open, loose and wet, and she shuddered, reaching with both hands to pound against him.
It was futile. Before she regained her breath, gasping for air to fill her lungs, she knew she was in way over her head. Her gun was beside the bed, too far for her to reach, and the nearest help was down the road, almost a mile away. Tears flooded her eyes. Tears of resentment that because she was a woman, smaller and more easily bested, he could come into her home and wrestle from her what she was unwilling to give.
“Evan, no…” Her voice was muffled beneath his weight. His free hand was busy at the front of her nightgown, tugging at the buttons, his mouth vainly attempting to capture hers as she endured the pain of his fist clenched in her hair.
“You wouldn’t be nice about it, would you,” he snarled against her cheek. “I wanted to do this nice and easy, Katherine, but you wouldn’t let me.” His fingers grew impatient; he tore at the worn fabric of her gown, the material ripping with a ragged sound.
“Please, no. Don’t do this, Evan,” she sobbed, aghast as she felt the helpless tears flood her eyes and overflow.
“Aw, come on, Katherine. I’ll make you happy,” he wheezed, his hand fumbling beneath her bodice, fingers grasping for a hold against her flesh.
She felt the brush of a fingernail across the crest of her breast and gasped for air, only to release it in a scream of sheer terror. And once started, she could not be silenced.
“Listen to me, you stupid woman,” he growled, both hands on her shoulders now as he sought to hold her firmly, aware only of her thrashing body beneath him. “Damn it, Katherine, I’m willing to marry you!”
“Nooo…” It was a cry of anguish, followed by a sobbing, mournful wail that reached the ears of the lone rider who approached over the rise east of the garden patch.
“I’ll show you what a good husband I’ll be, Katherine,” Evan told her loudly, attempting to make himself heard over her muffled cries. He fought for a space between her flailing legs, his hands shifting to grasp wherever he could, ducking her fists, which aimed in his direction, more often than not landing sharp jabs.
She screamed again, the sound shrill in his ear. He straightened over her, his hand open and hurting as it met the side of her face, cracking loudly in the darkness.
“Shut up and listen to me, Katherine,” he shouted angrily. “You’re gonna marry me, one way or another, and I don’t mind takin’ my wedding night a day early.”
“I wouldn’t count on that.” The voice from the window was quiet. The sound of a revolver’s hammer being cocked was unmistakable, and the form of the man who climbed silently through the window was familiar.
Evan rolled from the bed, exposing Katherine’s pale flesh to full view. Her gown was tangled about her thighs, the bodice torn and shredded, one breast exposed in the moonlight.
Roan stood to one side of the window, his eyes searching the darkness beyond her bed, narrowing as he spied movement. A form was edging across the floor, making an attempt to reach the door.
“Gardner, stand up where you are,” Roan snarled. “Don’t make me shoot you in the back.”
“Roan?” Katherine moaned beneath her breath, her hands futile in their efforts to tug her gown into place over her breast.
“I’m here, Kate,” he answered, his attention focusing on her, attuned to her distress.
It was all Evan needed, that moment of distraction Katherine had afforded him. He bolted through the open doorway and across the kitchen to the door of the house, crouching low as he leapt from the porch.
With a snarl of disgust, Roan turned back to the window and was gone, landing on the ground with one leap and moving around the house to the front.
“Gardner!” he shouted, stopping and taking aim at the fleeing figure. “Damn fool knows I won’t shoot him in the back,” he growled. Lowering his aim, he steadied his arm and pressed the trigger. The shot was true. Evan hit the ground, rolling to clutch at his leg and shouting his anger.
“Shoot me in the back, would you?”
Roan covered the ground between them rapidly, his eyes intent on the man who was attempting to struggle to his feet. “If I wanted to shoot you in the back, I’d have aimed higher,” Roan snarled in disgust.
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Carolyn Davidson
Roan Devereaux Could Gentle Any Filly With A Look And A Touch - but Kate Cassidy presented a real challenge. With her coltish grace and mile-wide stubborn streak, she was more woman than most men could handle - and exactly what he needed. Men were impulsive critters, Katherine Cassidy swore, and Roan Devereaux had only proved that when he'd up and asked Kate to marry him!It was a crazy idea - but no crazier than the sound of her heart singing "yes" in reply… !
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#udd410816-c01c-5c08-a15c-686f320e10d6)
Excerpt (#u7549dddf-bad9-5ff6-b98d-8f54f751f73a)
Dear Reader (#uf589dbb4-0756-5746-a09c-c6a3a3ea70ab)
Title Page (#u1f45d314-33e4-5414-8c5e-04b34f287b8d)
About the Author (#u77f1d6cf-2d50-58b5-b9ef-5df838a8d4ad)
Dedication (#u305b11af-b4de-570b-aa9f-0a25808c5dae)
Chapter One (#ubcb83502-7f1c-566f-9b28-536a7bd58a34)
Chapter Two (#ud90dff4c-4cd5-579b-8068-a9d9191a08dd)
Chapter Three (#u48a9422b-f197-5d9e-8dc1-b8ebbbb03554)
Chapter Four (#u175aef1f-a1cd-5df4-8ccf-4189087636f0)
Chapter Five (#ud99c985a-5efa-53c4-8c79-b29f31d68bdb)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“Sweet stuff?”
Roan dropped his hands from her shoulders and gaped. “Is that what you call it when a man uses a plain little old word like honey instead of just callin’ you by name? Hasn’t anyone ever called you sweet names, Katherine?” he asked softly. “Haven’t there ever been any men hangin’ around, tryin’ to court you or just tryin’ to get your attention?”
Katherine spun back to face him, and her eyes were bleak. “Take a good look at me, Roan Devereaux! Do I look like the sort of woman men come to court? I’m sure not good-looking and I’m too plainspoken for most of the men hereabouts. What have I got to offer a man in his right mind?”
She was serious! By damn, she was! And here he’d been feeling like a randy, apple-cheeked boy around her!
Dear Reader,
In her second book for Harlequin Historicals, Loving Katherine, Carolyn Davidson tells the heartwarming story of an isolated farm woman who meets a man who is determined to overcome her mistrust and draw her out, despite her reluctance. Don’t miss this wonderful follow-up to her first novel for Harlequin, Gerrity’s Bride.
Claire Delacroix continues to delight audiences with her stories of romance, passion and magic. This month’s story My Lady’s Champion, is another captivating medieval tale of a noblewoman forced into marriage to save her ancestral home that will transport you to another time and place.
Whether you’re a longtime fan of Mary McBride or have just discovered her, we know you’ll be delighted by her new book, Darling Jack, the touching tale of a handsome Pinkerton detective and the steady, unassuming Pinkerton file clerk who poses as his wife. And be sure to keep an eye out for multipublished author Ruth Langan’s Dulcie’s Gift, the prequel to the contemporary stories in the Harlequin cross-line continuity series, BRIDE’S BAY.
Sincerely,
Tracy Farrell
Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to:
Harlequin Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
Loving Katherine
Carolyn Davidson
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CAROLYN DAVIDSON (#ulink_6931bdf8-a266-5881-9491-41602a602798)
lives in South Carolina, on the outskirts of Charleston, with her husband, her number-one fan. Working in a new/used bookstore is an ideal job for her, allowing access to her favorite things: books and people. Loving Katherine is her fourth novel. Readers’ comments are more than welcome in her mailbox, P.O. Box 60626, North Charleston, SC 29419-0626
With grateful appreciation, this book is dedicated
to my agent, Pattie Steele-Perkins, who makes me
believe in myself.
And with a heart full of love to my granddaughters, in
the hope that each of them will one day find their own
special hero. To Erin, Rachel, Jennifer Beth, Sarah,
Cherylyn, Karen, Jennifer Lynn and Ashley; and
especially to Katherine, who was but a twinkle in
her daddy’s eye when this story was begun.
Grandma loves you all!
But most of all, to Mr. Ed, who loves me.
Chapter One (#ulink_d7c7d0c3-07ba-559c-b7f3-40caf4754d05)
He’d been watching her for more than ten minutes, curiosity snagging him after the first glance. He’d meant to assure himself that he was indeed finally arriving at Charlie’s place, hoping to see the familiar figure somewhere about the corral or perhaps coming out of the pole barn. But the sight of the lone figure, kneeling in the garden patch, had caught his eye and he’d settled down to watch for a few minutes. Katherine. It had to be Katherine, he decided.
And as for Charlie, where the hell was he? With no sign of him about, he was probably out in a far pasture, checking on his mares. Roan Devereaux nodded his head at the thought and stretched out his leg to ease the cramp in his thigh, grunting his impatience with physical infirmities.
“Seen the time I could play statue for the best part of an afternoon,” he muttered, squinting against the sun, fast making its way toward the horizon. Lifting to one elbow, he disrupted the smooth line of his profile, the better to observe the woman who worked amid the hills of potatoes and the forest of tomato plants next to the cabin. She’d not glanced about or appeared to catch sight of him since he’d placed himself at the top of the hill just minutes ago.
The ride had been short, coming out from town. It was the days of travel before that had brought to mind the old injury he’d rather have ignored. His hand rubbed instinctively at his thigh and he frowned, his eyes narrowing on the woman who knelt less than two hundred yards away.
Even now, she blended into the garden, half kneeling amid the potatoes she’d been gathering, dropping them into a burlap bag.
Reaching for his hat, he swatted it against his leg before jerking it into place against the dark swath of his hair. The wide brim cut the glare of the setting sun, and his squint eased into a more leisurely perusal of the small figure below his vantage point.
“She looks like a mud hen,” he decided with a rusty mutter. “Bustlin’ around in that garden like a brown mud hen, if I ever saw one.” Heaving a sigh, he contemplated his next move. “Guess I might as well go down and introduce myself.”
His brow furrowed, his hand moved to his thigh as he eased himself to his haunches, and then he froze in place. Rising from her crouch, she lifted her head in a gesture of wary alertness that surprised him. She brushed one hand distractedly against her skirt, then raised the other to shade her eyes as she gazed at him.
Even across the distance that separated them, he felt the piercing touch of her survey and met it with his own dark scrutiny. With a lifting of her chin, she dismissed him and walked the few yards to where a basket of late vegetables lay amid the tangle of tomato vines. Then, as if she considered his presence of no account, she turned, heading with measured, firm steps toward the small house.
He grinned. “You’re a spunky little thing, Katherine,” he said aloud. “Dismissin’ me out of hand and strollin’ away like you don’t give a good goldarn about whether I come or go.” Turning to his horse, tied to a tree just a few feet from the crown of the hill, he hoisted himself into the saddle. His leg protested and he frowned at the reminder, settling into the worn leather of his saddle, his boots gripping the stirrups even as his knees nudged the stallion into motion.
With the ease of a man familiar with his saddle, he allowed the horse to find his own way down the slope, and within moments they rode past the neat, even rows of the garden. The scent of ripe tomatoes and the musty smell of the overturned earth in the potato patch met his nostrils and he inhaled it with a sense of nostalgia. It’s been years, he thought. Years since he sneaked out to help in the kitchen garden and got swatted for his trouble when his mama caught him with dirty knees.
Saddle leather creaked and the horse snorted once, his ears flicking as he answered a nicker from the barn beyond the house. One hand easy on the reins, the other resting on his thigh, the man directed his mount, approaching the wide front porch that stretched the length of the unpainted house.
It was uncanny, she decided. The sense of unease haunting her had once more proved itself to be valid. She’d known someone was watching. But it wasn’t an evil gaze. Not like the spine-chilling surveillance of Evan Gardner, invading her privacy last winter.
This time…She considered the man who rode toward her house. He was far from harmless, she thought, noting the erect posture, the easy hand on his reins, his watchful eyes. But not a danger. Yet.
It had been a frightening few moments, turning her back on him as he rose to his feet there on the ridge, a tall figure in dark clothing. She’d counted the steps it took to gain the safety of the house, her arms aching from the weight of the basket she carried and the digging and toting she’d done all afternoon.
Now she watched from behind the white lace curtain as he drew back on the reins and settled deep in his saddle, his unsmiling face shadowed beneath the brim of his hat. Her fingers gripped the stock of her father’s shotgun, and she took a deep, shuddering breath as she wondered uneasily if she could fire it.
Oh, the ability was there. For hours—days—she’d hit cans and scattered rocks until she was as good a shot as the man who’d taught her. But that same man had warned her to be prepared to aim for vital parts if the time ever came for her to prove her skill.
“I will if I have to,” she muttered beneath her breath as she moved to the door and lifted the latch.
“Good afternoon, ma’am.” The hands were in plain sight, his own weapon sunk into the leather scabbard that fit behind his saddle.
Even that was not immensely reassuring, she decided. If she were any judge of men, he could have it pointed in her direction in jig time and the lazy ease in his greeting could turn just as quickly to a threat.
“What do you want?” she asked, putting dark, warning venom into the question.
The husky voice was a surprise. He’d expected a gentle, womanly tone. Perhaps even a waver or a breathless quiver in her words.
“Just to ask a few questions, ma’am.” He lifted one hand slowly, tipping the brim of his hat in a gesture of courtly awareness.
Her eyes followed the movement and her lips tightened. “Ask away, stranger,” she told him after a moment.
She was a sturdy little thing, this daughter of Charlie Cassidy, he thought, the low, throaty sound of her voice once more teasing his hearing. Or maybe Charlie’d taken a wife. The thought was unappealing, he decided, watching her closely. No, she had to be his daughter. She had something of the man about her. Perhaps that stubborn chin or the tilt of her head.
Her gun rose in silent menace as she allowed her index finger to slide into better position “Speak up, stranger,” she said abruptly, her impatience with his dithering at an end.
“Charlie around?” Even as he asked, he sensed the solitary presence of the woman here.
She shook her head in silent negation. “What do you want him for?”
He shifted in the saddle and felt the warning she offered as the weapon lifted a bit higher. Her arms must be getting weary. That old shotgun was a heavy one and she wasn’t much of a size to carry it, let alone hoist it into firing position and hold it steady.
“Charlie told me once, if I wanted a good piece of horseflesh, to look him up.” His hand stroked the neck of the stallion beneath him as if in apology, and a shiver of pleasure ran over the flesh of his animal. The long tail swished once, then, black and thick, it settled into immobility again.
“Charlie won’t be selling you any horses.”
His lifted brow disputed her statement. “He out of stock?” As if mocking his question, a horse nickered once more from the barn. His lips curled even as his eyes hardened. “Or are you doubting my word?”
“No.” She looked down, gripping the stock of her weapon, her index finger easing from the trigger.
She’d turned a bit pale, he thought, and leaning a bit, he looked at her more closely. “You all right?” he asked, looking past her at the half-open door that led into the house. “Is something wrong here?”
She shook her head. “No, nothing’s wrong here.” She raised her eyes once more to look at his face. Brown and dingy, her dress hung straight from the shoulders, caught up only by a leather thong, keeping it from the ground, forming it loosely about her waist.
Her hair was long, a heavy braid hanging to her waist, as thick as his wrist where it left the nape of her neck. Sort of a mahogany color, he decided, amused at his own fanciful description. She’d shed the shapeless hat that had successfully hidden her face from his view earlier, revealing strong features. Her skin was tanned from exposure to the sun and her stubborn chin reminded him of Charlie’s.
It jutted forward now as she faced him without a sign of fear. “The only thing wrong here is the unwelcome company, stranger. I told you Charlie isn’t here. Now move on out.” A movement of her gun barrel provided urging. Then it dipped just a bit and she frowned as she brought it back into line with his leg.
His bad leg. The leg that had been cut and sewn every which way already and sure as shootin’ couldn’t withstand another assault. He shook his head at the thought, his mouth twisting derisively as he considered her.
“Can I at least get down off my horse long enough to get a drink of water?” He leaned one hand against the horn of his saddle, shifting against the leather and easing his right foot from the stirrup.
“Canteen empty?” she asked, nodding at the leather-covered flask that hung from his saddle.
His eyes met hers with a level look that was no answer at all. Even as he swung his leg over the back of his mount, his narrowed gaze clung to her. And it wasn’t until he stood before her, dark and unyielding, that she realized her query had gone unanswered.
Her mouth tightened in annoyance and she tipped her head in the direction of the well just across the yard from where he stood. From her vantage point on the porch she watched as he turned away, his eyes almost reluctantly leaving the shapeless mass of fabric that enclosed her.
With stiff movements that spoke of sore muscles, he reached to pull the bucket from the depths of the well, his back wide beneath the worn cotton of his shirt. Deliberately opening his flask, he turned it up to allow a few drops of liquid to fall, and then, with a deft hand, he tipped the bucket to fill it.
“Who are you?” she asked, her eyes intent on his every movement.
“Roan Devereaux.” He lifted the dipper hanging from a length of binder twine and scooped it into the bucket, then drank thirstily while he soaked in her silence. With a twist of his wrist, he dropped the wooden pail back to the depths of the well and turned to face her.
The look of stunned surprise on her face had not had time to fade and he allowed a small smile of satisfaction to ride the corners of his mouth.
Her shotgun was pointed at the wide boards of the porch she stood on. As he watched, she straightened her shoulders a bit more, lifting her head, enabling him to see the fine color staining her cheeks.
“I owe you, Roan Devereaux,” she said quietly. “My father spoke of you more than once after he came home from the war.”
His nod accepted her words. “Is he ill?” His survey of the place revealed the signs of neglect that told him Charlie’s hand hadn’t been felt here for a while. Yet, there were horses on the place.
“He…no, he’s not ill. My father was healthy till the day he died.” She waved a hand at a small rise that began just to the north of the house, where a nondescript picket fence enclosed a plot of ground. “He’s buried there.”
“What happened?” Abrupt and harsh, his voice demanded details and the woman shrugged, turning back to the door.
“I’ll offer you supper before you leave, Mr. Devereaux.”
She’d turned her back on him, and without a by-your-leave stalked into the house, carrying the heavy shotgun by its barrel. His lips firmed as he tended his horse, loosening the cinch and leading the animal to the trough next to the well.
Waiting till the stallion had drunk his fill, he looked around once more. The bars of the corral delineated the enclosure where Charlie’s horses ran. Several tossed their heads now, all fillies by the looks of them, eager to kick their heels. The barn was good-sized, probably triple that of the house, he estimated. Charlie’d always taken good care of his animals. His daughter looked like she needed some tending, though, Roan thought with a grim-lipped smile. Plain as a gray mourning dove, she was. No wonder she didn’t have a man about. With that forbidding look she wore, it would take a needy specimen to try for her affections.
“I’ve dished you up some stew, Mr. Devereaux.” She spoke from the open doorway, and he tipped the brim of his hat, leading the stallion toward the hitching post at the side of the porch.
“I’ll be right in, ma’am,” he offered, rolling up his sleeves as he headed back to the trough to wash up.
She was at the stove when he ducked to walk in the door. There was room to spare, but his height had given him the habit of allowing a bit of space over his crown. She waved her hand at the towel hanging on a peg by the wooden countertop.
“You can dry off with that,” she said, turning to him with coffeepot in hand. A heavy china mug sat on the table, hugging the full bowl of steaming food she had served him. With spare movements, she filled the mug almost to the brim and then glanced at him, her manner hesitant.
He met her eyes. They were blue, darker than he’d thought, widely spaced beneath a fine forehead. Her gaze was penetrating, assessing, and he waited for her judgment.
“Want some milk, too?” she asked finally, nodding at her own brimming glass.
“Coffee’s fine,” he allowed, aware that she’d deemed him safe.
Nodding, she turned back to the stove, the pot clattering against the metal as she slid it to the back corner to keep it warm.
“Sit down.” The words held a measure of courteous warmth, as if she had finally remembered he was a guest in her home. Her own place held a bowl of the stew, and between them reposed a plate of sliced bread, side by side with a round of butter, moisture gleaming from its smooth yellow form.
“You churned today?” he asked.
She nodded, chewing on the first bite of food. “Once a week.”
“What do you do with it?” He selected a slice of bread and cut into the slab of creamy spread, smoothing it back and forth as he cradled the crusty heel in his hand.
“Sell most of it in town. Along with the vegetables and my extra eggs.”
“You alone here?” His voice was lazy against her ears, the faint drawl softening his words.
She stiffened and stirred the stew with her spoon. “Looks like it, doesn’t it?”
“Your brother around, Katherine?” The woman glanced up, her blue eyes widening with a faint trace of alarm.
“If you’re Roan Devereaux, you should know to mind your own business where my brother’s concerned.”
“Your pa spoke of him.”
“Did he now?” Her words were flat, disbelieving, as if such a possibility were doubtful.
Up against the wall of her distrust once more, he heaved a sigh of disgust. “You’re not what I expected, you know,” he said with a grunt of exasperation. “Your pa would have had me believe you were the best thing to come along in his life. ‘My daughter, Katherine,’ he used to say.” His voice was a close imitation of her father’s Irish lilt.
“Well, I am what I am,” she said, grinding out the words. “My pa’s dead and buried, and I owe you for dragging him off a battlefield in Virginia, Mr. Devereaux. If I can repay you in some way, I’ll do what I can. But we won’t be discussing my brother.”
“What happened to your pa?” he asked quietly, his spoon midway to his mouth as he listened to her terse speech.
She pursed her lips and clasped her hands at the edge of the table. “He was breeding a mare and the stud went crazy for a minute. Pa didn’t move quick enough. If he’d been just a few inches one way or the other, it mightn’t have happened, but one hoof caught his temple and he never woke up.”
“Were you here alone?” He watched as she brushed her fingers along the smooth edge of the table, intent on their progress as she touched the worn wood.
“Yes, I was alone.” She rose abruptly and reached for his bowl. “Would you like more stew?”
The matter was closed. Her movement, her pinched expression and her pursed lips told him she would speak no longer of the death of Charlie Cassidy.
He handed her the heavy bowl and nodded. She might not be overly friendly, but the woman sure could cook. “What kind of meat you got in that stuff?” He tilted his chair a bit as he watched her brisk movements.
“Rabbit.”
His brow rose. “You shoot it?”
Her glance withered him effectively. “No, I hit it with a rock,” she said dryly.
He grinned. Perhaps with a little luck, he could get a new horse here after all. Apologies to the stallion he’d picked up for a song just outside of Lexington, but the horse wasn’t what he wanted for the long road he’d soon be traveling.
And maybe with a small dose of gentlemanly courtesy, he’d even find a bed hereabouts for the night. Anything would be better than the hard ground he’d been sleeping on lately.
The canvas cot he found in the barn was too short, and he grumbled loudly as he awoke for the third time since midnight. It creaked ominously as he shifted once more, turning himself over gingerly as he sought a modicum of comfort. The other choice had been the hayloft; even given the presence of mice, it might have been the better of the two, he decided glumly, staring into the darkness.
She’d offered the shelter of the barn without much prompting. In fact, her brisk words had come as a bit of a surprise as he’d leaned back in his chair, his appetite eased by the rabbit stew.
“You’re welcome to stay out back if you need a place for the night.” Busy at the sink, scrubbing at the empty stew kettle, she’d spoken over her shoulder offhandedly, then swung back to her task.
Hesitating only a few seconds, he’d answered, “That’s kind of you, ma’am. I’d be obliged to take you up on the offer.” His elbows rested on the table, and leaning forward, he watched her. “Maybe we can talk about those horses out in the corral, come morning.”
She was silent, but her movements slowed as she appeared to consider his words. Then she lifted the clean kettle from the soapy water and rinsed it with a small dipper. With deliberate motions, she wiped the inside dry with the towel she’d flung over her shoulder earlier.
“I’ve got nothing to sell right now.” She put the pan on the stove with a resounding clang, and its moist surface sizzled on the hot metal.
“Noticed a nice-looking mare that was a good size,” he observed idly, his eyes narrowing as he caught a glimpse of slender ankles beneath her swaying skirt.
“We’ll talk about it in the morning,” she’d said dismissively.
“Well, it’s morning now,” he muttered. “Pret’ near, anyway.” With one last turn, he kicked at the blanket that covered him and rose from the narrow cot. In the depths of the barn, he heard the rustling of straw as an animal stirred.
Probably the cow, he decided, getting anxious the way cows usually do about dawn. Time for milking soon. He wondered if Katherine was up yet, if that rope of hair was loose or already braided up and hanging down her back. Shoving long legs into his pants, he reached for the shirt that lay over his saddle, next to where he’d spent the night.
He shook the image of her from his mind as he buttoned and tucked his shirt, tightening his leather belt above his hips before he pushed open the barn door. The sky was pink, there on the eastern horizon, and an owl swooped low in a final flight before the sun sent him to his perch. From the corral, he heard the soft nicker of a horse and the answering call from within the barn. His stallion hadn’t taken to being put in a stall when three fillies were just outside the upright slats of the wall next to him.
Roan Devereaux knew the feeling He’d sensed the same yearning last night, just for a moment, when Katherine Cassidy had risen on tiptoe to light the lantern hanging over her table. The movement had drawn the fabric of her dress tautly against her form, and he’d felt a twinge of response as he watched her. Beneath the shapeless dress was a woman’s body, and his own, needy as it was, had answered in a predictable manner. Something about the sun-ripened skin of her cheeks and the length of her slender neck appealed to him. Or maybe it was the intelligence that dwelt in the depths of her gaze as she glanced in his direction, silently weighing him and his purpose here. At any rate, the little brown mud hen was a complex female, he’d decided reluctantly.
“One thing’s for sure, she’s off limits to you, bucko,” he said between gritted teeth, shoving a hand into his back pocket.
The memory of Charlie Cassidy was fresh in his mind and the respect he’d felt for the man spilled over onto the woman who was his daughter. Seeking out an old friend, more for the sake of friendship than the hope of buying a horse, he’d allotted only two days for this detour.
Louisiana was due south, and that was the general direction he’d be heading come tomorrow, if all went well. Katherine Cassidy might be a mite richer when she sold him a mare, but if she ever thought of him again, once she’d seen the last of him, he’d be remembered as a gentleman from the word go. He’d leave the lady as chaste as he’d found her, that was for sure.
Chapter Two (#ulink_185f5913-9b2d-5169-98fb-59fcb354b3e1)
Katherine’s eyes widened in disbelief, and a mocking smile curled the corners of her mouth. The sight of Roan Devereaux milking her cow was not what she’d expected to see this morning. But she’d been properly set back on her heels as she halted in surprise just inside the barn.
“Good morning, Katherine.” His voice was low and husky.
“Eyes in the back of your head, Mr. Devereaux?” she asked dryly, leaning one arm against the doorjamb.
“No, ma’am. Just recognized your step, the way your skirt swished.”
She looked down quickly at the telltale garment and frowned. “Could have been someone else,” she argued idly.
He turned his head from the task he’d assumed and his eyes flashed a humorless message. “No. If it’d been someone else, I wouldn’t have been sittin’ with my back to the door, waitin’ to be ambushed.”
She nodded, accepting the mild rebuke, and stepped closer. “About done there?”
“About.” His hands efficiently stripped the udder of its last drops of milk, and he lifted the bucket to one side before rising from the three-legged stool.
“Where do you want this?” he asked, inclining his head toward the results of his early morning chore.
She shook her head. “It’s enough that you beat me to the chores. I’ll take care of the rest of the job,” she told him briskly, bending to pick up the pail of foaming milk.
His big hand halted her, his fingers grasping her wrist, circling it easily. “I always finish what I begin, Katherine. Just tell me where it goes.”
The warmth of that callused hand was a revelation, she decided, her eyes riveted on the place where his flesh met hers. She almost flinched, felt her muscles flex beneath his palm as his touch transmitted a strange, pulsing heat to her skin. Then his hand slid up to grasp her elbow and her eyes rose to meet his, apprehension tightening her jaw and flashing momentarily in her gaze.
“I don’t need your help,” she said firmly, her chin lifting proudly.
His grin was one-sided, tilting the corner of his mouth in a suggestion of mirth that was gone before the smile could be fully formed. “Didn’t say you did.” His nod just escaped mockery. “Let’s say I’m a little late earnin’ my supper from last night.”
Turning her by the hold he kept on her elbow, he effortlessly lifted the bucket, careful to keep the warm milk from sloshing over the sides. “Now, tell me where this goes, Katherine.”
It was worth more to keep her dignity intact, she decided as she walked through the wide doorway. Arguing with the man would only be practical if it involved something of greater importance than a bucket of milk. She bowed her head in acquiescence and waved her free hand toward the milk house, a small wooden shed, one of several outbuildings.
“There. You’ll find a fresh cloth to cover it with. I’ll take care of it after breakfast.”
“You’re cookin’ breakfast already?” His words were hopeful.
“I’ll feed you before you leave,” she said flatly, pulling from his grasp and heading for the house.
Behind her, he halted, the half grin in residence for a fleeting moment. “We haven’t talked about a horse yet, ma’am,” he reminded her.
Her gait was brisk, and only a man with a quick eye would have noticed the hesitation his words inspired. Roan Devereaux had always prided himself on the accuracy of his eyesight, and he allowed the smile to widen his mouth just a bit. Beneath the brush of his dark mustache, his teeth gleamed for a moment.
“Ma’am?”
Her stride lengthened as she left him behind. Her back was rigid, and chestnut-hued hair hung between her shoulder blades, barely moving against the dark fabric of her dress. Tied with a leather thong at her nape, it reached to her waist. It looked like the silky tail of a Thoroughbred, he noted with absurd pleasure.
Her hand grasped the railing as she stalked up the three steps to the porch. Then, turning to face him, there where he waited, watching her, she spoke, her voice low, her enunciation precise.
“I already told you, Mr. Devereaux. I don’t have any horses ready for sale right now. I don’t mean to be rude, but after breakfast, I’ll expect you to be on your way. I’m sure you’ll be able to find an animal suitable for your purposes in town. The livery stable has a good selection. Thurston Wellman will be most happy to sell you a horse.”
She lifted one hand to shield her eyes from the rays of sunlight shining from above the horizon in the east. He watched her silently, with a measuring look that gave little indication of his thoughts, and she responded with a calm appraisal of her own.
Her eyes swept his form, lingering briefly here and there as she measured his considerable length. His clothing was well-worn but sturdy, she decided, his denim pants clinging to the strength of his thighs like paper on the wall. His shirt was faded to a nondescript color, but intact, neatly tucked into place, hugging the breadth of his wide shoulders, then tapering to the narrow measure of his waist. Long-legged, his stance casual and relaxed as he watched her, he bore her scrutiny well. The mouth that had twice twitched with amusement at her expense was almost hidden now, his lips pressed together beneath the brush of his mustache. His eyes were narrowed and dark. High cheekbones made her think of an Indian brave, and the straight blade that formed his nose was centered in a face too strong and rugged to be considered handsome.
“You can wash up at the well,” she offered finally. “Breakfast will be ready in ten minutes.” Briskly, she turned to open the door, and her skirts swayed as she disappeared into the house.
He ate four biscuits, smothered with pale gravy and flanked by several eggs. She’d risen twice to fill his mug with coffee and was surprised to see him add a generous dollop of cream to the dark brew. It was a crack in his spare demeanor, this small luxury, she thought, watching his fingers move the spoon about in the heavy white coffee mug. Katherine silenced the admiration that surged within her as she acknowledged the raw, dark beauty of the man across the table. Roan Devereaux, her father’s friend, was not what she had expected.
She ate sparingly, aware of his presence in her kitchen, of each movement of those lean hands as he ate, only the small sounds of their silverware against the thick china plates marring the quiet of early morning. And then she nodded at the murmur of his appreciation as he finished the meal she’d prepared.
Pushing his chair back, he lifted his coffee to drink the last of it, savoring it slowly, watching her over the rim of his mug. “Fine food, ma’am. I’m much obliged,” he said, replacing the empty vessel on the checkered tablecloth.
She rose briskly and was up and about, clearing the dishes and removing herself from his presence. He’d been the soul of good manners, she decided, eating the food she prepared and using his utensils with skill and ease. Sometime in his life, someone had taught him well, she thought, wiping up crumbs from the red-and-white oilcloth. Aware of his gaze upon her, she moved quickly, uneasy beneath the cool, measuring eyes that paced her movements.
She rinsed the dishrag and hung it to dry over the edge of the sink, then she set the dishes to soak in soapy water. Closing her eyes, just for a moment, she took a breath and, turning toward him, motioned to the door.
“I’ve got a heap of work to do, Mr. Devereaux. I need to be up and at it.” She’d given him a bed and meals to boot. Roan Devereaux or not, Charlie’s friend notwithstanding, she didn’t need the strangely disturbing presence of this stranger here. Now to move him on his way, out of her house and on down the road.
“Katherine.” His voice reproved her gently.
Her mouth tightened at his reluctance. The sense of unease he inspired within her had to do with that husky inflection in his voice as he spoke her name, she thought. As if he knew all there was to know about Katherine Cassidy and found her lacking. As if he sought to peel away the stark surface she wore like a coat of mail, seeking the softness of the woman beneath the brown drabness. The same warmth she’d felt at the touch of his hand on her flesh earlier reappeared as she listened to the sound of her name on his tongue. He’d rolled it within his mouth, making it appear a many-syllabled word. Not like Pa, who’d more often than not called her Kate or sometimes Katie, when his eyes regarded her with tenderness.
“Katherine,” Roan repeated, rousing her from her wandering thoughts. “Can we talk about a horse now?”
She pursed her mouth and frowned at him, disturbed by her meanderings. “Like I said before, I don’t have any stock ready to sell.”
He shrugged and tipped the sturdy chair back to balance on the back legs. “Can I take a look?”
She shook her head at his persistence. “It wouldn’t do you any good. They’re all halterbroken, of course, but I’ve only put a saddle on two of them. They’ve not been ridden yet.” Her pause was significant before she added her final words on the subject, as if to emphasize their import.
“And you can’t have my mare.”
He shrugged off the edict with a casual grin. “Where’s your pa’s stud?” he asked lazily, watching her hands bury themselves in the pockets of her apron.
She flushed and her eyes shifted from his gaze. “I had to sell him.” The admission was painful, and her mouth tightened.
“You don’t have any stock breeding now?”
“Maybe my mare.”
He frowned, considering. “I didn’t notice.”
“If she took, she won’t drop her foal till March,” Katherine said shortly. “She was in season when I had to let the stud go, so I let him in with her just before…before I sold him.”
He drew in a breath, shaking his head. She was really something, this small woman who spoke of the breeding of horses as if it were not fraught with danger. “You’re not big enough to handle a stallion like your pa’s,” he said. “You’re lucky you got it done without getting hurt.”
She shrugged, dismissing his words with the lifting of her shoulders. “You do what you have to. He was strong and a good size, and he’d carried my pa to war and back. I wanted another colt from him before I let him go.”
“Could be a filly,” he reminded her.
Her gaze was fiercely determined and she shook her head, negating the idea. “No, I need a stud. And I’ll have one, give him a couple of years.”
“How many are you running in your pasture?” he asked. “Thought I saw a yearling or two.”
“Three, actually,” she admitted. “The results of last year’s breeding. My father had great hopes for them.”
“You make it sound sorta dismal, Katherine. Surely the dreams didn’t die with Charlie, did they?”
She shrugged off his taunt. “I’m not made of the same stuff my father was, Mr. Devereaux. Someone had to be practical, and Charlie Cassidy was somewhat of a dreamer.”
“That’s not all to the bad.” He dropped the front legs of his chair to the floor with a thump. To his way of thinking, Katherine Cassidy looked like she could use a little dreaming to brighten up her life. As a matter of fact, he decided with a long look at her stiff demeanor, the woman in front of him looked like she’d had all of her dreams shattered. From the top of her smoothly scraped-back hair to the scuffed toes of the shoes showing beneath her dark dress, she looked like a woman who’d buried more than her pa. She was about at the end of her rope, Roan thought. What am I gonna do, Charlie?
Rising from the chair purposefully, he reached for his hat, hanging on a peg just inside the door. Easing it into place, he settled it with a final tilt of the brim His fingers slid into the pockets of his denim pants, thumbs hooked over his belt and his elbows thrust behind him.
All he needed was a gun belt and he’d look like a gunslinger for sure, Katherine thought, her eyes ranging over the man who was thoroughly upsetting her equilibrium this morning. She struggled against the tension that had gripped her upon his arrival yesterday and had remained deeply seated in the depths of her being. His touch had not eased her disquiet any, either, she reflected grimly. Whether it was a natural reaction to a stranger or some individual sense of danger attached to this particular man was the problem.
The former she could handle. The latter, which was more likely to be true, could create a situation she’d gone to great lengths to steer clear of over the years.
His eyes pinned her in place, taking a leisurely journey over the dowdy length of her, and she began to bristle instinctively. He had no right, she thought with rising indignation. No right at all to come in here and make himself at home and then question her about her livestock as if he could pick and choose.
His next words only added to her turmoil. “What are you gonna do with the three mares out in the corral?” he asked mildly, as if he sought to salve her obvious tension.
Her reply was abrupt, snapped off irritably. “Work with them.”
“I’ll take one off your hands,” he offered easily. “Give me a few days to get in the saddle and I’ll be out of your way.”
“My four-year-old is too small. In fact, I don’t have anything big enough for you. Just a three-year-old and she’s…” Her eyes softened as she hesitated.
“Doesn’t pay to make pets of animals you’re bound to sell off, Katherine,” he said gently.
Once more her chin tilted as she glared at him. “She’s not a pet. But she sure isn’t ready to have a saddle thrown on her back and a two-hundred-pound man digging his heels in her sides.”
“She’s a horse,” he said bluntly. “She was bred to be ridden.”
“Said like a man,” she returned with icy disdain, anxious to be rid of this reminder of her own frailty.
“Any man in particular, Katherine?”
She glanced at him quickly, assessing the question.
He pushed for an answer. “Who made you so prickly?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But something tells me you’re a mite touchy about that sassy little filly of yours.”
“That’s the key word, Mr. Devereaux. She is mine and I intend to keep her.”
He smiled agreeably. “That’s your right, ma’am.” His head nodded in the direction of the barn as he changed the subject with alacrity. “Thought I’d spend a couple of hours out there to pay for my keep.”
“It’s not necessary,” she countered swiftly. She’d felt the warmth creep up into her cheeks as the play of words had swirled between them, and she felt a sudden letdown as he turned from the fray so easily. For a few minutes, she’d felt alive and vital sparring with Roan Devereaux and, in an odd way, enjoying it
His index finger rose to tilt the brim of his hat in a courtly parody, and he headed for the door with long strides that carried him out onto the porch and down the steps before her protest could be enlarged upon.
She watched, almost unwillingly, yet drawn by the sight of him. Slim-hipped, he walked with a lithe swing that spoke of long years in the saddle and an ease with his own body. Only a slight hitch betrayed him, and Katherine’s gaze narrowed as she analyzed the hesitation that marred his easy stride. Then her father’s words came back to her, jolting her with the image of savage warfare they had painted.
“Roan paid for my life, girl,” he’d said grimly. “That leg of his will wear scars for all of his years. He dragged me when he could hardly make it himself…till both of us were so covered with muck and mire you couldn’t make out the pair of us from the mud we crawled through. Him pullin’ and tuggin’ on me, one hand holdin’ my belt and the other clawin’ for a good grip on the side of that hill.”
Charlie Cassidy had spoken often—and well—of the man who’d saved his life in the midst of battle in Virginia. Her eyes softened as they focused on the barely discernible hesitation in Roan’s step now as he strode across her yard.
“I owe you, Roan Devereaux,” she whispered with reluctance in the silence of her kitchen. Her shoulders lifted as an indrawn breath shuddered through her. “Maybe I can figure something out.” And maybe she’d better quit lollygaggin’ around and get busy, she thought, shaking her head as she reluctantly turned her back and headed for the cookstove to bank the fire.
Charlie had left a fine legacy. Although where the mares were concerned, who had produced these charmers was anyone’s guess. The yearlings frolicked about the pasture with long-legged freedom, heads tossing and tails flying, performing as though they sensed the admiration of their audience. Oblivious to their antics, a chestnut mare grazed, her nose lifting as she turned her head momentarily in his direction. The man who’d hooked one boot on the bottom rail, leaning casually to watch the animals gambol about in the pasture, was more than just an admiring audience. Roan had earned his respite, the sweat that drew his shirt to cling to the muscles of his back was a damp testimony to his morning’s work.
He’d walked the boundaries of the pasture, checking and repairing several weak places in the old fencing, tight-lipped as he considered the amount of work that needed to be done. The condition of the posts and wire had disturbed him, and he was aware that his nailing up sagging wire and shoring up fence posts could only be considered a temporary measure.
Charlie’s homestead was not what he’d expected. The horseman who’d befriended him in the last days of his service to the army had not been cut out to be a farmer, it seemed.
Charlie’d been more suited to be a roaming man, Roan thought. More geared to training horses and moving on his way than settling down here on green Illinois pastureland.
And then there was Charlie’s daughter. Roan’s quiet laugh broke the silence and one of the fillies tossed her head at the sound.
“Yeah, Katherine…” His voice caressed the name and his mouth twisted in a wry grin as he considered the woman. Unyielding at first glance, stiff and unbending with that old shotgun aimed in his direction, she’d glared her best at him. She was still glaring, he thought, only not quite as convincingly.
He’d glimpsed her uncertainty earlier, when he’d touched her arm. Sensed the withdrawal as she shrank from his hand. There was a lot of woman there, he decided, hidden beneath the coarse homespun dress she wore like armor against his gaze. But not just his. She made it her business to look dowdy.
“Doesn’t look to me like you’ve earned your dinner yet.”
He spun to face her, his hand brushing against his thigh in an automatic gesture. One her eyes followed with cynical awareness.
“You’re lucky you haven’t lost these horses before this,” he said roughly, his head inclining toward the pasture. “I mended several places that were just one good shove from collapsing.”
Katherine nodded. “I’ve been meaning to check it out. It was on my list,” she said dryly.
Along with a hundred other chores, he thought, aware of the unending job she’d taken on when Charlie died.
“Well, what I did will hold for a while. But it was only a lick and a promise. Some of those posts are rotting where they stand. You’re gonna have to replace them.”
Her sigh was tinged with defeat. “I do what’s most needed. And right now, training those horses in the corral is the most important thing.”
“Who are you gonna sell them to?” He’d lay money she hated the thought of parting with any one of the sleek mares she was so fond of.
“My mare’s not for sale to anyone,” she told him, nodding at the chestnut animal approaching them. Katherine’s hand reached out to stroke the white blaze that flashed through her mare’s forelock and slashed like a narrow sword down the length of her nose. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”
Roan nodded, admiring the picture before him…the woman caught up for a moment in her pleasure with the creature she fondled. “I like the looks of the tall bay,” he said, glancing back at the corral Charlie’d attached to the barn.
“The three-year-old? Well, I haven’t decided about her. The four-year-old is going to the banker’s daughter in town, soon as I finish gentling her real good. The black’s mine,” she said, her voice soft as she turned to watch the horses in the corral closer to the house.
“Charlie teach you how to train?” he asked as they began to walk back to the house.
She nodded. “Ever since I was big enough to snap on a lead rope and drag a six-week-old foal around in a circle.”
They walked side by side, their attention caught by the mares who stood in the shade offered by the barn.
“My pa bought this place from the man who cleared the land and built the house. Matter of fact, we moved in just a while before he left for the war. He’d been fretting about sitting on the sidelines, and one day, he just got on his horse and told me to take care of things till he got back.”
“Just like that?”
Her nod was abrupt. “Just like that.”
“What did you do?”
“I’ve always been a dutiful daughter, Mr. Devereaux. I did as he asked. I took care of this place till he did come back. It was a good thing he’d waited so long to go to war. Things had piled up on me by the time he showed up again. I pampered that four-year-old mare and delivered the three-year-old and bought the black with the last of Pa’s hidey-hole money. A neighbor lost his mare birthing that one and sold her to me real cheap. He didn’t want to waste his time raising her by hand. I spent a lot of hours with a play titty on a bottle till I got her to eat by herself.”
They’d reached the pole fence that surrounded the corral on three sides, and he leaned his elbows on the top rail. The image of Katherine, here alone, struggling with the day-to-day work of caring for a farm and all the animals involved, was an overwhelming idea.
“I don’t see how you handled it all,” he said finally.
“I managed. We all do what we have to.”
“And then?” he said, urging her. “Then he came home?”
“He came home.” She took a deep breath, and her smile was tender with the memory. “He rode that big stallion up to the porch one afternoon and called me out of the house, just as if he’d only been gone for a day or so. ‘Katie, my love,’ he said. ‘Your father’s home.’ Just like that,” she told him with emphasis on the words. “Just as if he’d been to town for supplies.”
“Was your brother here at all while Charlie was gone?”
“No. I haven’t any idea where Lawson was.” She glanced at Roan soberly. “I told you, I don’t talk about him.”
“Charlie—” he began.
“I need to go to the house.” Her dismissal was abrupt. “Dinner will be ready shortly.”
Katherine’s retreat gave him pause, and he watched as she left his side to walk with long, hurried strides across the yard to the small house. You were right, Charlie. She’s small, and fierce, and ready to do battle at the drop of a hat. Not an inch of give to her.
He followed her, stopping long enough at the well to pump fresh water. Within minutes, he was ready to eat, sleeves rolled above his elbows, hair damp and smoothed back from his forehead. He carried his hat with him into the house and snagged it on the peg inside the door as he passed.
She’d already set the table and was pouring a tall glass of milk as he came in.
“I like milk at noontime,” she said, looking his way.
“Sounds like a good idea to me,” he agreed, sliding into the chair he’d used the night before.
He ate his fill before he spoke again, his stomach welcoming the chunks of roasted venison and the abundant array of vegetables she’d prepared.
“Someone sure taught you how to cook, Katherine.” Moving his chair back, he crossed one booted foot over the other knee.
She allowed her eyes to rest on him for a moment. He looked contented and well fed, sitting across the table. Deceptively idle, for even in repose, there was the look of a hunter about him, a faint menace that set her on edge. He was handy with fence-mending tools, though, she reminded herself, and for that she had to be grateful.
“I found early on if you don’t cook, you don’t eat,” she said finally, uneasy with his compliment. “My pa was never one to lend a hand around a stove, so after my mother died, I learned in a hurry how to put a meal together.”
“I wouldn’t mind havin’ dinner here on a regular basis for a while,” he said easily. “Fact is, I’ve got sort of a deal in mind to offer you.”
“I’m not much for making deals. The last time a man tried to make a deal with me, he came close to getting shot for his effort.”
“What did he want? The three-year-old mare?”
She caught the amusement in his voice and flushed. “No, he wanted the whole kit and caboodle. The farm, the horses and me.”
“I take it you weren’t agreeable.”
“It wasn’t any bargain from my point of view.”
“Well, maybe I can strike a better deal than he tried for. It’ll involve some of my time and more work than I’d planned on doing right now, but it might pay you to listen up.”
“Are we back to my three-year-old?” she asked suspiciously.
“She’s a good-sized horse and she’s ready to be saddle-broke,” he said firmly. “If she’s bred from Charlie’s stud, I’d like to have a go at her. I can be in the saddle in a week or so, and you can have a hell of a lot of work done around here in the meantime.”
“I’m not in the market for a hired hand, Mr. Devereaux.”
He flicked her a doubtful glance. “Looks to me like you could use a little help, Katherine. That barn needs some work, and your tack’s in bad shape.”
“I’ll get to it. I can’t afford to hire you.”
“I’ll do a pile of work for a chance at that mare,” he said bluntly.
She looked at him, lips pressed together, holding back the refusal it was her inclination to give. “She’s worth more than a week’s work,” she said finally.
He shrugged. “Set a price. Tell me what you want.”
“I’ll have to think about it.” She hesitated, wondering if she could abide letting the spirited mare go to this man. He was right, she acknowledged to herself. She’d made a favorite of the sleek filly, and now she’d pay the price.
“You’ll stay in the barn,” she said warningly. “I haven’t room in the house for you.”
“I expected as much.” It had been too much to hope that she’d offer Charlie’s bed. It sure had to be better than the cot he’d fought with all night long.
“She’s probably worth more than you’ll want to work out. I won’t give her up easy. I’ll want some hard cash to boot.”
“I don’t blame you. She’s a good-lookin’ horse.” He leaned back in the chair once more. “Do we have a deal?”
She pursed her mouth and glared at him, impotent in her need. “I’ll run you ragged for a month, and then we’ll have to settle on the money end,” she said finally.
“Agreed.” He held out a hand across the table and she reluctantly placed her palm against his.
“Agreed?” he repeated, prompting a reply, his fingers wrapped about hers.
She flushed, aware only of the warmth of his flesh and the strength of the hand she touched. Looking at him quickly, she nodded, tugging her fingers from his grasp.
“Yes…agreed.” She plunged her hand into the pocket of her apron, only too conscious of the triumphant gleam that lit his gaze.
Chapter Three (#ulink_c6e58e57-9191-519a-a866-d707a1f212af)
The man’s a worker, Katherine acknowledged, a bit grudgingly but with inherent honesty. In just over two weeks, he’d been able to tighten up the barn, his hammer pounding audibly throughout several afternoons. Replacing boards, reinforcing the stalls, then coating the entire interior with whitewash, which he’d told her would reflect the light and brighten up the place.
He’d been right. And not only once. Telling her she needed to quit pampering her three-year-old pet and climb on her back had ruffled her feathers more than a trifle, she remembered.
Again, he’d been more than right. She’d babied the mare beyond reason, scratching her ears till kingdom come, confiding in her with soothing whispers, speaking the fears she could trust to no one. Except to the saucy, long-legged creature who’d stolen her heart the first time she’d seen her, all wet and gawky, swaying on spindly legs.
Wincing as she watched him saddle the bay mare, Katherine had almost turned from the sight. Then, gritting her teeth, she’d watched as his big hands gentled the skittish creature. She’d peered from beneath half-closed eyelids as he mounted the animal the first time, his words too low to be heard, whispered for the benefit of the shivering horse. He’d ridden her with tenacious skill, subduing her brief attempts to spill him from the saddle, his hands easy on the reins, lest he damage her tender mouth.
Only when the brown sides were heaving and the sleek coat was daubed with flecks of foam did he ease from her back. And then only to step quickly in front of the mare, facing the flaring nostrils and wide-eyed gaze, touching with soothing hands and speaking quiet words of praise.
Katherine turned away, her heart aching as she relinquished possession. With strength tempered by kindness and an uncanny knowledge she couldn’t help but admire, he’d subdued the feisty creature, forcing her to acknowledge him as master.
“He might as well ride off on her right now,” Katherine said beneath her breath, striding from the corral in the direction of the henhouse. “She’s his, as surely as if he’d already paid cash up front.”
Dealing with the quarrelsome hens took the edge off her unreasonable anger, and she carried the morning’s gathering of eggs in her apron as she left the speckled flock to their scattered grain. From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Roan Devereaux working his magic, rubbing with long strokes at the flank of the filly. Brown coat gleaming in the sunlight, the horse turned her head, looking over her shoulder at the man who tended her with capable hands.
“Turncoat,” Katherine grumbled accusingly. “Just like a female, taken in by the first good-looking man to ride down the pike.” That she accused her own gender didn’t occur to her, since she’d decided long ago that she was a breed apart from the women she’d met in Tucker Center.
“Katherine.” His voice claimed her attention and, turning, she frowned, aware of the triumph gleaming from his dark eyes. Even with the length of the yard between them, she still felt the masculine pull of him, the male force that spoke to some small part of her. Brushing aside the unwanted attraction, she faced him with impatience.
“What do you want? I need to take care of these eggs.”
His eyes rested on the rounding of her apron, clutched closely against her belly, and he felt a flush of pleasure, for a moment imagining that she would look just so with a child growing there. Chasing the rampant thought from his mind, he gritted his teeth. She’d been thrusting- herself into his thoughts with more and more frequency over these past days, and his randy condition was making him ripe for all sorts of foolishness.
She’s Charlie’s daughter, he told himself firmly. You’re leaving for Louisiana in a couple of weeks, owing her nothing. You’ll find plenty of willing women in the next town. Getting hard never killed a man yet, he decided. And he was sure as shootin’ hard up when Katherine Cassidy set him to thinking about planting a baby in her.
He shook his head in disgust.
“I asked you what you want,” she repeated impatiently. “You gonna stand there all day and gloat, or have you got something to say?”
“Gloat?” Her choice of word caught his attention, and he frowned as he considered the accusation. “What would I have to gloat over, Katherine?”
She pinched her lips tightly and slanted her eyes in his direction in that arrogant manner that reminded him sharply of her pa. “Never mind,” she said. “I’ve got dinner cooking. You’ll have time to clean stalls before we eat.” Her eyes gleamed with a triumph of their own as she envisioned him pitching the straw bedding, the aroma pungent in his nostrils.
His nod was quick and he turned away, aware suddenly of her meaning. She’d watched the mare, her eyes anxious, as he rode her. She’d waited, needing to comfort the animal should he deal with her harshly. And then she’d walked away, realizing his taming had only served to bond the creature to him.
“She’s mine now, Katherine,” he said, his words unheard as she stalked up the steps and across the narrow porch. Her stiff posture told the tale. She was mourning the loss of her favorite, and he acknowledged her sorrow. But a flush of triumph overrode the compassion he felt as he remembered the strength of the horse between his legs. He’d craved ownership of the animal from the first. The elegance of her finely formed head and the sleek lines had drawn him. As had the fiery spirit he’d taken care to subdue without damaging the horse’s mettle.
Some lucky man would have to use the same care with Katherine one day. She’d need a light hand, backed by a determined nature, if any man ever expected to keep her in line without shattering the strength of her pride and determination.
Somehow, he no longer attributed her with the stigma of dowdiness. He thought with amusement of his first evaluation. Mud hen. Mud hen, indeed. Her pa had her pegged right, he concluded. She was second cousin to a sparrowhawk, sure enough. Small and feisty, Charlie’d told him. “Plain as puddin’,” he used to say. “But under them brown feathers is a heart that’s bustin’ with courage.”
“Sparrowhawk…suits her better than I’d have thought at first,” he acknowledged aloud, then grinned as he caught himself. “Talkin’ to yourself is a bad sign, Devereaux. Means you been too long without a little female companionship. Makes you drifty.”
The quiet of the dinner table was roughly shattered by the sound of gunfire. Roan shot from his chair as though he’d taken the impact of the bullet himself.
“Shut that door,” he ordered her as Katherine flew to the open doorway.
She obeyed, her response automatic as she sensed the authority in his voice. Gone was the man of easy gestures, courtly mannerisms and gentle speech. She faced him warily, her back against the heavy planks that made up the door, and watched as he delved within the saddlebag that had taken up residence against the far wall of her kitchen.
With fluid movements, he clasped the gun belt about his hips and took on the guise she had attributed to him weeks earlier. Gunfighter. Warrior, perhaps. Whatever name he wore, his stance in her kitchen proclaimed him ready to do battle, and she acknowledged his ability with silent admiration.
“It’s probably not what you think,” she told him quietly.
“How do you know what I think?” he asked roughly, striding to the window to stand at one side and bend his head to peer through the curtain.
She drew in a shuddering breath. “I don’t, of course. I just think it’s maybe someone trying to scare me.”
His look was piercing. “Who?”
“I don’t know,” she quibbled, and then at his frown, she shook her head. “Could be Evan Gardner, a man from town.”
“Why? You got somethin’ he wants?”
“Yes.” A brief smile flitted across her mouth and vanished beneath the pursing of her lips. “He’s the man who wants my farm. Not to mention the horses—and of course, he’d like me thrown in to boot.” Her words were clipped and harsh, and he felt the anger she suppressed.
“Well, I reckon we’ll just have to let him know you’re not available, won’t we, Katherine?” he asked in a deep drawl that offered a threat to the man who dared to encroach here.
“It might not be him,” she said quickly as he strode to where she stood against the door. “It’s just that no one else ever bothers me.”
“Bothers you! Hell, you haven’t even had a visitor since I’ve been here, lady. If this Evan Gardner comes callin’ with his gun cocked and ready, he’s askin’ for trouble.”
Snatching up his rifle from where it stood against the wall, he motioned her to one side and slid the latch on the wooden door.
“Come on out, Katherine.” The voice was cunning, grating against his hearing. “I know you’re peekin’ out. I heard the latch slidin’, Katherine. Did I get your attention?” Wheedling and tinged with mockery, the man’s words coaxed the unseen woman to expose herself.
“Where is he?” Roan asked quietly, motioning to the window. “Can you see him?”
She slid carefully across the wall, her eyes peering through the white curtain as she sought to see the man who called from outside the house.
“He’s right in front of the door, sitting on his horse,” she said, catching sight of Gardner and then moving fully in front of the window. “He’s put his gun away.”
Roan’s lips curled back in a grimace of pleasure that belied the flare of anger in his dark eyes. “More fool than I thought,” he said with quiet satisfaction.
The door was flung open, and he stepped out on the porch, rifle at the ready, feet apart and braced as he faced the man who waited astride a dark mare. It was worth a bundle, Roan decided quickly, just to see the surprise and then the look of panic that painted Evan Gardner’s features, even as his flesh paled abruptly.
“Who the hell are you?” Gardner croaked defensively, fighting for a semblance of dignity. His wide-brimmed hat rode low over his forehead, but yellow hair cascaded over his collar from beneath the band. Bulky and belligerent, he faced the gunman on the porch, his eyes narrowed as he attempted to focus beyond Roan, as if he hoped to espy his quarry within the house.
“I’m the one holdin’ the gun,” Roan reminded him with a tightening of his grip on the stock. “Maybe you’d like to tell me just who the hell you think you are, comin’ here and shootin’ off that weapon in a threatenin’ manner.”
Evan Gardner attempted a jovial gesture, his grin wide and forced. “Just a joke, mister. Me and Katherine always did tend to fool around. Just playin’ a little, you understand.”
Roan observed him silently, his stance unchanging, his rifle poised before him.
“Hell, I didn’t mean anything by it. Katherine knows that. Why don’t you ask her yourself?” His color had gone from pale to pasty as the heavily built man watched the unmoving figure on the porch.
“Katherine, come out here,” Roan ordered quietly.
She approached the doorway slowly, her nostrils flaring as she sensed the danger emanating from the man who called her name.
“Yes, I’m here,” she said, moving to stand beside him.
The barrel of his gun tilted upward, pointing directly at the head of Evan Gardner. “This man the one who gave you grief before?”
“I ain’t been near this place since March,” whined the intruder.
Roan took one step forward. “Well, if I were you, mister, I wouldn’t plan on comin’ back for at least another year. In fact, you might be wise to keep your distance from the lady from now on.”
Evan Gardner’s lip curled in a sneer, as if he realized the danger he was in had receded somewhat. “And what happens when you’re not here anymore, stranger? What happens when Katherine there needs a helping hand, and I’ve got the only one available?”
Roan’s brow lifted in derision. “Somehow I doubt she’ll ever be that desperate,” he said bluntly.
Evan turned his horse in a half circle and touched his spurs to the animal’s sides. “Can’t never tell, mister. You might not be here then.” The horse responded to another urging touch and within moments had crested the hill and headed toward town.
“He from Tucker Center?” Roan wanted to know.
“Yes,” Katherine answered. “He has a place just outside of town, just a small holding. He’s wanted my pa’s horses since the war. I guess he figures he’ll take me along in the bargain. Least that’s what he’s bandied about town.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Katherine,” Roan told her with a sidelong glance. “You’d be the best part of the bargain. To my way of thinkin’, anyway.”
She felt a flush rise from her throat and sweep over her face with a heated rush. Turning away quickly, lest he see the telltale blush, she cleared her throat and touched one hot cheek with the palm of her hand. “I hardly think he’d make all this fuss for a spinster like me, Roan. If there was another way to take over here, he’d do it. He’d like to marry me, but just so he can have what I own. At least I’d be pretty safe. He’s very much aware that if something happened to me, the whole town would know that he was the first man to suspect.”
She took a deep breath, as if she could blot the whole idea from her mind, push it into oblivion. Her smile was shaky, but she persevered. “Anyway, Mr. Devereaux, he’s not going to ever get his hands on me or the stock my pa left me. Not to mention the farm and the house.”
“How do you plan on holdin’ him off, honey?”
She stopped, her indrawn breath filling her lungs as she repeated the endearment in her mind. Honey. Spoken in a hushed, tender tone, so at variance with his harsh tonguelashing of Evan just minutes ago, the word clutched at her heart. Honey.
“Katherine?” He reached for her, his hands heavy on her shoulders, turning her to face him. “What did I say? What’s wrong?”
She ducked her head, the shining crown almost touching his chest as she sought to shelter from his inquiring gaze. “Nothing’s wrong, Mr. Devereaux,” she mumbled, both her hands pressed firmly against the heated flesh of her face.
One long finger inched between their bodies, brushing against the rough fabric of her dress until he found the rounded chin he sought. He tilted it upward, frowning his bewilderment at her actions. The shadows on the porch did little to hide the tinge of color still remaining, and he smiled in understanding.
“I said something to embarrass you, didn’t I?” he asked gently. “What was it, Katherine? Did I doubt your ability to defend yourself? Was that it?”
She grasped at the straw he offered, and her head nodded, her eyes half-closed against his penetrating gaze. “Yes,” she said quickly. “Yes, I…I’m a good shot. I can take care of myself. You have no reason to doubt me.”
“Look, honey,” he began, and watched openmouthed as she tore away from his grasp.
“Don’t call me that!” she huffed. “I’m not your ‘honey’ or anyone else’s. I’m not the kind of woman for that sort of sweetsy stuff.”
“Sweetsy stuff?” He dropped his hands from her shoulders and gaped. “Is that what you call it when a man uses a plain little old word like honey instead of just callin’ you by name?” He viewed her with suspicion as she clamped her lips together and looked away from him, her eyes intent on the barn.
“Hasn’t anyone ever called you sweetsy names, Katherine?” he asked softly. “Haven’t there ever been any men hangin’ around, tryin’ to court you or just tryin’ to get your attention?”
She spun back to face him and her eyes were bleak. “Take a good look at me, Roan Devereaux! Do I look like the sort of woman men come to court? I’m sure not good-looking, and too old to be having babies much longer, and too plainspoken for most of the men hereabouts. What have I got to offer a man in his right mind?”
She was serious! By damn, she was! Standing there telling him she was too dried up to appeal to a man. And here he’d been feeling like a randy, apple-cheeked boy around here for the better part of a week already. With that slim body hiding beneath those ugly dresses she put on every morning, and that long, dark hair that made his fingers itch to twine themselves in its length. Not good-looking? With color like the pale side of a peach and skin like a newborn babe’s and those dark blue eyes that reached inside and touched a man’s soul…Well, it was too much to be believed.
“Ah, hell, Katherine! You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he said harshly. He allowed his eyes to roam the length of her, from the darkness of her hair, fresh and clean and smelling like the soap she kept by the kitchen sink, to the leather thong that held her dress loosely about her waist.
She blinked at him, shook her head in bewilderment at his words. “I do,” she said, denying him.
His hands came to rest once more on her shoulders, this time holding her firmly, lest she pull from his grasp. “Do not,” he growled. And then he bent forward and claimed the mouth that had begun to form another protest.
She gasped in surprise, aware only of heated breath filling her mouth, warm flesh covering her lips, containing her in a damp, hungry embrace that sent her senses reeling. She drew in air through her nose and stared at him, her eyes unable to focus, only aware of the thick brush of his eyebrows, riding above his heavy-lidded eyes. And then he closed them, those dark, unfathomable orbs that had so easily warmed her with their regard just seconds past.
Her lips attempted to close, but he would not let her bring them together, playing along the edges with the hot sword of his tongue instead. There, just inside her upper lip, where the flesh was tender and sensitive, he brushed his weapon. Back and forth he swept with a slow movement that brought a gasp of surprise from her throat. He swallowed that, too, resuming his exploration of her mouth, his lips closing just a bit, his teeth finding a hold on her lower lip as if he would nip lightly at the delicate skin. Then, catching her unaware, he moved to whisper a series of kisses from one side of her upper lip to the other, his mustache teasing her sensitive flesh. He chuckled softly.
“Roan!” she whispered on a quick gasp of air.
“No more Mr. Devereaux?” he asked with another chuckle.
She was stunned. Speechless and inert, she hung between his hands, only the grip of his fingers holding her erect. And then those warm hands slid the length of her arms and somehow fastened themselves about her waist, finding a home at the small of her back, where he clasped his fingers to hold her captive.
“Never been kissed, Katherine?” he asked gently.
“Of course I…” She stopped. “No…you know I haven’t,” she admitted finally, fastening her eyes on his, afraid to allow them permission to look fully at the mouth that had plundered her own so thoroughly.
“You’ll do better with a little practice,” he told her cheerfully. “But for a beginner, you sure pack a wallop, lady.”
“A wallop?”
“A punch,” he explained, delighted by the color washing over her countenance once more. He looked at her assessingly. How had he thought her plain? The fine lines of her eyebrows cast a perfect frame above the brilliant blue of her eyes. Eyes that were viewing him with a wonderment that pleased him immensely. Her nose was almost too straight, only a small deviation at the tip marring its perfection, almost like a dimple. And then there was her mouth. He looked at it again, soft and swollen a bit, reddened from his caresses. He tugged her closer against him and she gasped, the sound a shocked whisper of his name.
“Roan!” She stiffened against him. Against her body, pressed tightly, with only the layers of clothing they wore separating her from its threat, she felt…Her eyes closed again and her lips tightened.
“Let me go.” It was quiet, but a demand echoed in those words, and he obeyed.
“I’m sorry, Katherine. I didn’t mean to…”
She stepped back once, and then again, until the wooden wall of the house pressed against her back. Her face was pale now. Gone was the becoming flush, the pink cheeks stained by her guileless innocence.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said quietly, allowing her the width of the porch, aware he had invaded unforgivably.
“I’m sure you have things to do in the barn or the pasture…or somewhere,” she managed to say, her voice high and breathless in her ears. Here she’d been worried about Evan Gardner coming around, giving her trouble, causing her grief. Somehow she knew Evan Gardner couldn’t hold a candle to Roan Devereaux when it came to causing problems for her.
In fact, if the sensations washing their way through her body were any indication, Roan Devereaux had already managed to cause more hassle than she was equipped to handle.
“And that’s a fact,” she mumbled beneath her breath as she watched him stride, with only an almost imperceptible limp, across the yard toward the corral.
Chapter Four (#ulink_7f54f766-b085-51a9-8dd2-3163927a1e8e)
“I’ll wash your clothes if you bring them to the house.”
He’d wondered how she would greet him this morning. After the general all-around mess he’d made of last evening, he hadn’t known what to expect. Certainly, Katherine knew what to look for from a man who was all hot and bothered. Or did she? Her total experience with males appeared to have begun and ended with horse breeding. Hell, that ought to have taught her something!
He looked at her finally, aware she’d been fidgeting about with her hands all twisted up in her apron, waiting for an answer to her offer. Her expression was calm, but a telltale tinge of pink stained her cheeks, and together with the knot she was managing to put in the front of her voluminous apron, he knew she’d dreaded this encounter.
“I reckon I’d appreciate havin’ my clothes washed up, Katherine,” he responded gently. “I can scrub them out myself, though, if you leave the water when you’ve finished your own things.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ve done a passel of laundry in my day, keeping my menfolk clean,” she answered crisply. Her eyes met his gaze for a moment and then skittered off to fasten on the low ceiling of the barn, just over his head.
“I’ll bring them up to the house directly. Soon as I finish putting this stall door back together.”
She nodded briefly and turned to make her way from the barn. Roan’s eyes rested on the dark dress that hung so limply from her squared shoulders, and his mouth twisted in a smile of remembrance as he visualized the slim form she hid so well beneath the sturdy fabric. His hands had personal knowledge of her waist. It bore no resemblance to the length of the leather thong she had taken to using for a belt.
If any woman needed rescuing from herself, it surely was Katherine Cassidy, he thought idly, his lips twitching with humor. It’d be no small task for the man brave enough to take it on. And it was certain sure he wouldn’t be around to tend to the job.
“Breakfast is almost ready,” Katherine told him, calling the words over her shoulder as she stepped through the wide doorway into the early morning light. “Leave that door for later.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Obediently, he put aside his hammer, brushing his hands against the denim that covered his thighs. The grin he’d restrained for her benefit split his mouth and remained in place as he gathered up the few pieces of clothing he’d folded and stowed beneath his blankets on the cot—anything for a little padding.
That hayloft was looking better night after night. If it weren’t for the fact he’d be leaving shortly, he’d even consider building a bunk against the wall and stuffing a mattress with fresh straw.
Ah, no sense in getting too comfortable. Before long, his bed would be the bare ground. Maybe a few leaves or a good stand of grass for padding. The country between southern Illinois and River Bend was pretty green for a while yet. Autumn was late in coming to the south, and with a little hustle, he could miss the cold nights that would soon be heading this way.
He sauntered to the house, his dirty clothes tucked beneath one arm. Slowing long enough to drop off his bundle next to the washtub Katherine had dragged from the porch, he hesitated. A fire burned not far from the well, a metal pail hanging over it from a tripod, the water within steaming, catching his eye. Retracing his steps, he picked up his shirt and folded it compactly. Then, with casual ease, he reached for the pail, using the shirt to shield his palm from the hot metal handle. After emptying it into her washtub, he filled the bucket from the well, replacing it over the fire to heat.
“Thank you, Mr. Devereaux,” Katherine called from the doorway where she was watching. “I was about to come out and do that myself.”
“Saved you a few steps,” he answered, washing his hands at the horse trough. He splashed the water over his face and used his wet hands to plaster his hair down, running his fingers through it to groom the dark length into a semblance of order. Katherine tossed him a towel as he mounted the steps, and waited until he had dried his face and hands.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Ma’am?” she asked with a lifting of one eyebrow.
“Matches the ‘Mr. Devereaux’ you’ve been spoutin’ this mornin’,” he reminded her with a rakish smile. “Thought maybe you were tryin’ to put me on my best behavior, Katherine.”
“Not much chance of that, is there?” she asked, crossing to the stove to dish up the oatmeal she’d had simmering on the back corner. A pan of biscuits and a plate of sausage from the warming oven up top completed the meal, and Roan settled down to the business of eating, blithely ignoring her final gibe.
“Tell me,” he said between bites, his fork held upright as if he commanded her attention. “Tell me how you got those yearlings out there with not a mare in sight? They got birthed somehow, but I sure haven’t figured out where, or what you did with their dams.”
She lifted one of her eyebrows in a gesture of triumph, and a dimple showed high on her left cheek as she suppressed a smile. “One of my better deals—actually three of them. My father and I offered his stallion for breeding at three different farms hereabouts and asked for a foal from each of the farmers. They all had mares they wanted bred, more than a dozen between them, and Pa’s stud was the best-looking horse in the area. They jumped at the chance. They ended up with free stud service for their mares, and we got the three foals for nothing, once they were weaned from their mamas.”
Roan eyed her with new respect. “Your idea?” he asked.
She nodded. “One of my better ones. We needed new blood, and we didn’t have much money available. Pa’d sold off everything we’d trained and saddle broke, and he was getting itchy feet again. It was hard for him to stay in one place. I think he bought this farm for my benefit, knowing how sick of roaming the countryside I was. He said it was time to put down roots and find me a husband.”
“I expect you didn’t look very hard, did you? Seems to me you wouldn’t have much trouble finding a man if you put your mind to it.”
She sniffed and turned her head aside. “I’ve seen enough men in my time to know for a fact I don’t need one to warm my bed at night. Never could see much benefit for a woman in marriage anyway.”
“Maybe you looked at the wrong men,” he suggested mildly.
“Men are men,” she stated, as if that were the final word on the subject.
His nod was agreeable and he set to eating, accepting her decree. Katherine watched him with furtive glances as he made his way through the abundance of food before him. The man did appreciate good meals, she thought, her eyes focused on the hands that wielded his fork and spoon with innate grace. Well formed and darkly tanned, those hands held eating utensils with ease, as easily as they used the tools from the shed.
With as much skill as they’d demonstrated touching her body last evening, she thought, remembering the heat of his palms against her waist. Even through the heavy homespun of her dress, she’d felt the warmth of him, the bold touch of his fingers tugging her against his hard body. She shivered suddenly, shifting in her chair as her errant thoughts tread the dangerous ground that lured them. Maybe she’d not have been so dead set against getting married if someone like Roan Devereaux had come along when she was more amenable to the idea.
Roan’s eyes speared her quickly, snagged by the quick lift of her breasts as she gained a deep breath, fastening on the flaring of her nostrils and the dark awareness shining in her eyes. He chewed methodically, his gaze narrowing as he watched her…noting the faint flush painting her throat and creeping upward.
Wiping his mouth with the edge of his hand, he picked up his coffee, eyes never veering from the woman across the table. Damned if she didn’t look flustered to beat all.
Things would be better all the way around if she didn’t keep looking at him the way she was right now. He wasn’t the man she needed. And heaven knew he’d got an awful itching urge to cart her off to her bed…and then she’d be compromised, but good. And he wouldn’t be as good for her as Evan Gardner. At least Evan wanted to marry her.
Hell, he couldn’t sit around here any longer, he decided. She had him going in circles and she hadn’t even touched him. Except with the bluest eyes he’d seen since the day he met Charlie Cassidy.
His chair scraped against the plank floor and he rose hastily. “I’ll just get back to the barn, Katherine,” he muttered, groping with one hand for his hat as he turned toward the door. “Mighty fine meal,” he called back as he strode across the porch, his steps long and hurried.
“Here’s your hat…what’s your hurry?” she said beneath her breath, relieved to have him gone. “He stirs me up, and I don’t like it.” Her mouth pursed as she considered him, glaring at his long legs, which carried him quickly across the yard. He was limping a bit this morning. “Not that I care,” she grumbled. “He can limp all the way to Timbuktu and back, for all it matters to me.”
He managed to stay out of her way for the rest of the week, making his way to the house for meals and tending to his business otherwise. The pasture fence took on a new look, the posts erect once more, the poles firmly attached and anchored in place. He’d hung a new gate, after viewing the old one with a shake of his head. Sagging and swinging from handmade hinges with half the nails missing, it was a wonder she’d been able to handle it at all. The ruts were deep where she’d been dragging it across the ground to lead the yearlings in and out, and he frowned at the thought.
How much more had she put up with on her own? he wondered. He hadn’t even looked around much inside the house, not enough to spot the places that needed repairing, anyway. And sure as the sun rose and set every day, she wouldn’t be asking him to spend any time in her kitchen. Leastways, not any longer than it took to eat a meal and vamoose out the door.
“I’ve given her a good case of leavin’ alone, Charlie,” he said dryly, casting his eyes heavenward. Somehow it seemed likely Charlie’d headed in that direction, he thought, remembering the gray-haired soldier who’d made little fuss over his Bible reading or the quick words he spoke over his meals.
“Wish you were here, old man,” Roan muttered, turning his attention to the bridle he was mending. The sun beat on his back through the dark cotton of his shirt and he relished the heat with a lifting of his shoulders. Tugging at the bit, he assured himself that the leather would hold, then, putting it aside, reached for the halter that awaited his care.
He was about done. The month was up and he’d set his hand to every chore he could find, aside from the house Katherine guarded so closely. He’d ask her politely about it before he left, in case she needed something done that wouldn’t hold over the winter. Fat chance she’d give me space to work inside her sanctuary, he thought with a grin. She guarded it like a smuggler’s cave.
His eye was caught by a flash of color and he looked up to see her quickstepping across the yard in his direction. The apron she wore was yellow, bright against her dark dress, and he wondered for a moment where she’d dug it from. Every other single piece of clothing he’d seen on her looked like they’d been cut from the same cloth…dark and somber.
“New apron, Katherine?” he asked teasingly.
She shook her head impatiently and he straightened abruptly, rising from the stool he’d dragged into the sunshine.
“What’s wrong?” His eyes moved over the yard, up the hill to the small cemetery, and then darted across to the rise just east of the garden. Satisfied that no immediate danger threatened, he turned his attention to her face, puzzled by the expression she wore.
A mixture of panic and embarrassment painted her features and her hands were linked tightly against her waist. “I feel foolish,” she blurted, her teeth biting against her lower lip.
Relief flooded him and he grinned at her admission. “Can’t imagine that, Katherine.”
“I’m not generally easy to fluster,” she told him, her fingers flexing as she relaxed the grip that had fused them so tightly. Lifting one hand to her forehead, she brushed aimlessly at the tendrils of hair blowing about her face.
“Well, I’d say somethin’ disturbed you in a big way,” he allowed, amused at her dithering.
Her mouth pinched tightly and she glared at his teasing grin. “It’s not funny, Roan Devereaux!” she spouted. “There’s a whole family of mice underneath my cupboard!”
His eyes danced with delight. “Is this the same woman who threatened me with a shotgun and came within an inch of runnin’ me off her place?” He shook his head in disbelief. “I didn’t think there was a thing in this world that could put the fear of God in you, Katherine Cassidy. I’m glad to see I was wrong. You’re pret’ near as human as the next one, after all.”
She stiffened and narrowed her eyes. “I’m not afraid,” she denied stoutly. “I just don’t know what to do with them.”
He hooted with laughter. “Well, I doubt they’re big enough to warrant a shotgun blast. Reckon a swat with the shovel would take care of the matter.”
She shuddered visibly. “I couldn’t do that.”
“Well, you could always make pets out of ‘em.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she sniffed. “I should have known better than to expect any help from you.” Her skirts tangled about her legs as she spun around and headed back to the house, her face crimson with embarrassment.
His hand on her shoulder effectively halted her progress and the warmth of his breath next to her ear caused another shiver to cascade through her.
“Aw, come on, Kate,” he coaxed softly. “Don’t take on so. I can handle most any kind of problem around here you can throw at me, so long as you don’t get all huffy and stomp off.”
Her head dipped and she caught a deep breath. “Just let go of me, Roan Devereaux, and go clean out that nest of critters before your dinner burns to a frazzle.” Her voice trembled just a bit and he peeked over her shoulder, bending lower to scan her flushed countenance.
“Well, we sure can’t have that, can we?” he said softly. And he then bent even lower to drop a quick kiss against her cheek. “Consider it done, ma’am.” His hand squeezed gently for a moment before he dropped it from her shoulder.
“I don’t want to know…” she began, calling after him as he climbed the steps to the porch.
“Why don’t you go gather the eggs or somethin’,” he suggested from the doorway, turning to face her. She was worrying her bottom lip again, and he fought the smile twitching at his mouth.
“Yes, I’ll do that.” Relief was alive in her voice as she spun away and headed quickly to the henhouse. He watched till she slipped inside the wire fence, shooing the clucking hens before her, preventing their escape from confinement.
By the time she pushed the henhouse door open minutes later, holding her apron tightly to protect the eggs she carried, he’d disappeared from sight. She hesitated, unsure whether he was still in the house, her eyes scanning the garden and beyond for a glimpse of him.
“Roan?”
“Go rescue your dinner.” He was somewhere near the other side of the house, his voice carrying on the breeze.
“Yes…all right,” she said quickly, intent on putting aside all thought of his solution to the problem.
She picked at her food, waiting for the sly digs to begin, certain he wouldn’t be able to resist at least one reference to her being so softhearted. But she waited in vain. He ate swiftly and well, silently offering his plate for seconds, devouring the chicken and dumplings with obvious enjoyment. He sat back finally, a sigh of satisfaction the first sound to escape his lips since the meal began.
“Had enough?” She looked up, still shifting the carrots around on her plate.
His raised eyebrows saluted the movements of her fork. “Looks like you aren’t much for your own cookin’ today, Katherine.”
She placed the utensil beside her plate and folded her hands in her lap. “I guess I wasn’t in the mood for chicken. I didn’t seem to work up much appetite this morning.”
“Well, you can just heat up the leftovers later on,” he told her. “It’ll save you cookin’ supper after while.”
“I’d have to add a mess of vegetables to the pot and call it soup,” she said with a quick smile in his direction. He wasn’t going to tease her, she realized, and her smile widened.
“A pan of cornbread would go real well with that,” he suggested hopefully. “You sure do make good pone, Kate.”
It was the second time he had shortened her name today. She considered him. Leaning back in his chair, he looked utterly relaxed. It was an illusion, she knew for a fact. Rarely did Roan Devereaux allow himself to be off guard. As if he were aware of every movement within his range of sight and hearing, he kept watch. That he could do so and still maintain a conversation puzzled her.
Another puzzle was his calling her “Kate.”
“My father used to call me that,” she said quietly.
“Kate?”
She nodded. “No one else ever has, just Charlie.”
“I didn’t mean to be too familiar. Sometimes you just look like…like you ought to be Kate.” His eyes were dark, their regard warming, and his mouth was pursed as he studied her.
“I don’t mind,” she said quickly. It was a familiarity that pleased her somehow. And she fought against the pleasure it brought her. He’ll be gone… before you know it, he’ll be gone, she told herself. And you’ll miss him.
That admission was a new one. So hurting was it, she rose and gathered up the plates and forks, carrying them to the sink and depositing them with a clatter in the tin dishpan waiting there. She couldn’t afford to miss him, she thought, blinking away the hot tears burning against her eyelids.
“Katherine?”
She heard his chair scrape against the floor and she blinked furiously, determined to hide any evidence of weakness. Not on your life, Roan Devereaux, she thought furiously. You’ve already known me for a softhearted female once today. I’ll be switched if you see me being foolish again.
“It’s time to be movin’ on,” he mused beneath his breath as he pounded the last nail into place. The stall door hung straight, the latch was in place, and for the life of him, he couldn’t find another thing to do in the barn.
On top of that, Katherine was looking better to him all the time, and he surely didn’t need a woman to complicate his life right now. At least, not on a long-term basis. And Katherine was definitely not a bed-’em-and-leave-’em woman.
He watched her from the barn door. Watched as she took the last of his clothing from the line she’d strung between the cabin and the milk house. His gaze was fixed on the heavy rope of hair that caught the sunlight and gleamed with hidden fire. Prettier than a spotted pony and twice as spunky, he thought with a subdued chuckle. She’d be a prize for the right man. One willing to look beyond her fierce pride and drab demeanor.
“Katherine,” he called, reluctantly heading in her direction. “How about if I take a look inside the house and see what needs tending before I head out of here? Thought I’d see what I can put to rights for you.”
Her head shot up and she put out one hand in an unmistakable gesture. “My house will do fine, thank you. I manage to keep it up to snuff without any trouble at all.”
He lifted one eyebrow in silent question. “If you’re sure about that…” he said, unwilling to push, aware of her fierce possessiveness when it came to her own surroundings.
“Are you heading out?” she asked bluntly.
He sauntered closer, his eyes intent on her fisted hands, clenched at her sides, betraying the tension she sought to conceal. Katherine was not nearly as unconcerned about being here alone as she let on, he decided.
“It’s about time. I’m pret’ near thirty years old and my family hasn’t seen me in ten or twelve years.” His laugh was rusty. “Fact is, they might not be too excited about my comin’ home. But I figure it’s time to let ‘em know I’m still alive and kickin’.”
“They’ll be glad to see you, Roan,” she said quietly, her eyes on his guarded expression. “I’ll bet your mother watches for you every day.”
“Well, you sure don’t have any notion of how Letitia Devereaux carries on, I can see that,” he answered dryly. “About the last thing she’s thinkin’ about is her long-lost son. Matter of fact, I’m probably the biggest disappointment in her life. I doubt she ever got over my fightin’ for the North.”
Katherine regarded him thoughtfully. “I wondered that myself,” she admitted. “Just thought it wasn’t my business to ask questions, though.”
Roan squatted in the shade of the milk house and picked up a handful of small stones from the ground between his knees, one at a time, looking each over carefully. As if he considered his words with equal care, he spoke hesitantly.
“Slavery wasn’t the issue with most Southerners, you know. But it was with me. I had a hard time with the right of one man to own another, no matter what the law said. Still do, for that matter. My father and I had a go-round more than once, after I got to be full grown. He said I had to learn my place in life and it wasn’t workin’ side by side with the slaves and bein’ familiar with them.” He looked up at her with somber eyes. “I couldn’t consider the boys I’d grown up with as less than men,” he said harshly. “And to my father, they were ‘boys,’ fit only to work in the fields.” He shrugged. “We didn’t see eye to eye. So I left.”
“And fought on the side of the North,” she said quietly.
“Yeah, that was sorta strange, I guess. When I wrote to my mother, after the war, I told her. She wrote me back while I was in the hospital in Philadelphia, where they patched my leg up for the last time.”
“I’ll warrant she was worried about you,” Katherine told him.
His laugh was harsh. “Maybe, maybe not. What she was was ashamed of me. That I would fight against my ‘own kind’ was more than she could tolerate, she said.”
“Why do you want to go back?” Katherine asked after a moment.
He stood, brushing his hands together as the stones fell once more to the ground. “Haven’t figured that out yet,” he told her with a grim smile. “Somethin’ just seems to be tuggin’ at me to go home. Maybe I think things will be different, now that the war’s over. Maybe I need to make peace with my daddy before it’s too late to put things right.”
Katherine shaded her eyes from the sun as she looked up at him. “What if they don’t want you back?” The thought that any parent would turn aside his child was abhorrent to her, but the possibility surely existed where Roan Devereaux was concerned.
His grin was crooked as he tilted his hat back with one finger. “They might not. Far as I know, they’ve still got my brother there to handle things. If there’s no place for me, guess I’ll just meander along and head west,” he said with a shrug of his wide shoulders. “I’m not sure I’m cut out for that kind of life, anyway.”
“Seems to me you did pretty well, staying here,” she ventured.
He straightened abruptly and his look was deliberately forbidding. “I was tryin’ to pay a debt and puttin’ in time to pay for that mare in the corral, Katherine. All we need to do is come up with an amount of cash to cover the difference and I’m gonna be on my way.”
She frowned at his words. “What debt are you talking about?”
He shook his head. “Never mind. The important thing right now is the money I owe you.” He pulled a leather purse from his back pocket, soft and well-worn at the folds. “What’s it gonna be, Katherine? How much for the horse?”
Her eyes were narrowed, her mouth tight as she pressed her lips together. “You don’t owe me one damn cent, Roan Devereaux. You can get your gear together, including those clothes I just took off the line, and vamoose anytime you want. Consider the work you did sufficient price for the mare.”
If the man wanted to leave this morning, let him get on his way, she thought, annoyance at his high-and-mighty attitude raising flags of color in her cheeks. She spun on her heel and headed for the house, almost tripping over the wicker clothes basket as she went. She kicked it out of her way and stalked to the porch, pulling her skirts above her ankles to climb the steps.
Roan watched, hands on hips, eyes never leaving her drab form as she entered the house. She sure was in a huff. Probably just as well. “Eliminates havin’ a big song and dance about sayin’ goodbye,” he muttered. “I’ll just leave ten dollars on the porch when I go and pick up supplies in town.”
She stood to one side of the window ten minutes later and watched as he rode across the yard, brushing at the tears that would not be denied. He stepped down from the mare long enough to lay something on the porch, and then, with a last look at the doorway, mounted his horse.
His voice carried easily to where she watched, and her lips tightened as she heard his words.
“I’m much obliged, Katherine. You’re a credit to your pa.”
She swiped furiously at the hot tears, and her muttered words fell unheard in the silence he left behind.
“You hateful man. You’re sure not worth crying over.” She hiccuped loudly and sniffed, wiping at her nose with the back of her hand. “Damn you, Roan Devereaux.”
Chapter Five (#ulink_7203bf9c-22be-5e4d-b189-3d0948499306)
“How’d you ever talk Katherine Cassidy out of a mare?”
Roan eyed the livery stable owner with a tight grin. “I worked it out. She needed some repairs done and I’m kinda handy with tools.”
“Huh!” Thurston Wellman expelled his breath forcefully. “Never thought I’d see the day that gal would let loose of another one of her horses, after she had to sell that stud of her pa’s. She’s tighter’n an old maid’s pucker when it comes to her animals.”
Roan waited patiently for the older man’s nattering to cease. He’d known the sight of him atop the sleek mare would set tongues wagging and he’d been right. Evan Gardner had been in the general store just minutes ago, his eyebrows at half-mast when Roan came through the doorway.
“How’d you get your hands on one of Cassidy’s horses?” the man had blurted out. “Does Katherine know you’re ridin’ her mare?”
Roan had given him a glare to end all and turned to the storekeeper. His list was long, and it took more than a few minutes to name the supplies he’d need for his trip. At least for the first leg of the journey.
In the meantime, Evan had stomped out the door, reentering minutes later. “That’s surer than the dickens one of Cassidy’s horses,” he’d said vengefully. “You got no right to that mare, stranger.”
Roan had turned to face the man. “If you got a problem, I’ll meet you out front. Are you callin’ me a horse thief?” The words were spit with precision, the tone tightly leashed but edging toward anger.
Evan Gardner wisely backed off, his face ruddy, his words sputtering without coherency from his lips. “Never said, uh, didn’t mean…sure didn’t…”
Roan had spun to the storekeeper. “I’ll be back in an hour or so. Can you have it packed and ready for me?”
With the man’s assurance still in the air, Roan had left the store, brushing past Evan Gardner with a look of scorn.
Now he tended to the business at hand. The purchase of a packsaddle was next on his agenda. The stud he’d ridden through Tucker Center just over a month ago would carry his supplies, perhaps trading off with the mare if she needed spelling during the long journey.
“You got a packsaddle I can buy?” he asked Thurston Wellman. He’d loosened the girth on the mare and turned the stallion into the small corral while he’d gone to the dry goods store earlier. Now it was time to do his business and make tracks to the south.
Thurston cleared his throat, loathe to miss a sale of any sort. “I expect I can locate what you need, mister. Might take me an hour or so to come up with it, though. You got anything you need to do? Mebbe you’d like to wet your whistle over at the saloon while I check things out.”
The idea of a long swallow of beer was mighty appealing to Roan. It’d been a long dry spell since he’d left Ohio, heading for Charlie Cassidy’s spread. But drinking and riding a trail didn’t mix well in his book. In fact, he might just bed down at the hotel for the night and make it an early start in the morning.
“Sounds good to me,” he told the livery stable owner. “Maybe I’ll stay overnight and head out early.” He swept his hat from his head and tossed it to rest on a bale of hay. “Show me a stall for my mare and I’ll unsaddle her.”
“Second one on the right,” Thurston said agreeably. “You can stow your tack over yonder. It’ll be two bits for the night, if you leave the stud in the corral. I’ll feed ‘em both.”
Roan nodded. He led the mare to the stall and stripped the saddle from her back. Replacing the bridle with a halter, he rubbed her down, his hands possessive as they swept the glossy length of her. Checking twice to be sure she was securely tied, he left the stall.
“I’ll toss her some hay,” Thurston told him. “There’s some for your stud already in the hay rack outside.”
Roan grunted in reply, snatching his hat on the way out the double doors into the sunlight.
Already it had started, he thought gloomily, catching sight of sidelong glances as he passed small knots of townsfolk. Noting the speculative look on the face of the local lawman as he neared the jail, he slowed his steps.
“Sheriff?” he said, greeting the robust man cordially.
“Yessir, I’m Sheriff Doober.” The man straightened from his post against the wall. “You the feller asked about the whereabouts of the Cassidy place a while back? Heard from Evan Gardner you was stayin’ out there. He was kinda upset, bein’ an admirer of Katherine and all.”
“I was there. Now I’m leavin’. My name’s Roan Devereaux. I’m an old friend of Charlie’s,” he told him, hand outstretched in greeting.
With a degree of reluctance, the lawman met his grip. “Heard tell you got away with one of Charlie’s mares,” he said, his words tinged with admiration.
“Mares aren’t Charlie’s anymore,” Roan corrected him. “They belong to Miss Katherine now, and yes, I made a deal with her for one of them.”
“She’s kinda low on stock, ain’t she? What with sellin’ one to the banker for his daughter pretty soon, she’ll be scrapin’ the bottom of the barrel.”
Roan nodded. “Pretty close. She’s got one more filly she’s workin’ with and the yearlings she’s trainin’.”
“Looks like she’d think twice before she sold off her breeding stock,” Sheriff Doober said.
“Want to ride out there with me and ask her about it?” Roan offered quietly.
The other man shook his head. “No, I don’t reckon I do. Just makin’ conversation.”
Roan nodded and walked on, feeling himself the center of attention. The town probably hadn’t had this much excitement in years, he thought with a suggestion of good humor. It sounded like Katherine had a reputation for being stingy, least when it came to her horses.
He made a quick stop at the dry goods, where Orv Tucker, the owner, agreed to store his purchases in the back room till morning. “Won’t be no trouble at all,” he assured him.
Across the street was the hotel, the tallest building in town, with elegantly carved wooden curlicues and flourishes garnishing its framework. As though expecting his arrival, the clerk met Roan with an ingratiating smile, assigning him a room with much fuss and ado. Extolling the virtues of the establishment, the clerk ushered him up the stairs, unlocking the door with a flourish.
“Yessir, we’ve got the finest rooms for fifty miles,” the young man boasted. “Our dining room’s known all over the area. Why, we get folks come from miles away just to eat dinner here,” he said, beaming with pride.
Roan waited patiently, nodding agreeably, then herded the enthusiastic clerk out the door.
“I’ll send up a pitcher of hot water,” came the final word from the young man as he stood in the hallway.
“You do that,” Roan answered, already stripping off his shirt. He turned the glass knob once more and stuck his head through the open door. “In fact, make that a whole tub of hot water. Might be the last chance I get for a good bath for a while.”
A marked contrast to the short cot and the quiet barn, he found the hotel to be a mixed blessing. The bed was comfortable but the sounds coming through the open window kept him awake half the night.
“Didn’t know the saloon would be open till all hours,” he grumbled to the desk clerk in the morning. “Man can’t get a decent night’s sleep.”
“Should have closed your window, sir,” the clerk ventured mildly, counting the coins Roan had given him.
“Felt like I was in a tomb, with all that velvet hangin’ all over the place,” Roan growled. “Can’t sleep without fresh air.”
Breakfast was plentiful in the hotel dining room. Ignoring the speculation he encountered on several faces, he plowed through the plate full of ham and potatoes he’d ordered. It wasn’t near as good as one of Katherine’s meals, he thought, wiping his mouth with the linen napkin.
He deliberately set his mind to other things, her image too vivid for comfort. “Forget the woman,” he told himself beneath his breath, marching down the wooden sidewalk. “She can take care of herself just fine. You got other fish to fry, Devereaux.”
Thurston Wellman, busy harnessing a mare, nodded to him as he strode into the livery stable. “Got you what you need all right. It’s over there.”
The packsaddle lay across a sawhorse outside his mare’s stall, and Roan noted its age with concern.
“It’s in good shape, Mr. Devereaux,” the man assured him as he hurried over. “I checked it out first thing this morning, and it’s good and sturdy. Only cost you a dollar.”
Roan nodded. “Sounds fair,” he allowed, digging for the coin in his pocket.
“Hear tell Evan Gardner is het up about you gettin’ the mare from Miz Cassidy,” Thurston confided in an undertone.
“None of his damn business,” Roan said with a grunt, lifting the mare’s saddle to her back.
“He’s been tryin’ to make her his business for a while now. He’s a determined son of a gun. I’ll put my bet on Katherine, though. She’s a spunky little gal.”
“Yeah, she can handle that shotgun like a trooper,” Roan agreed. The saddle was cinched and he slid the bit into the mare’s mouth, fastening the bridle in place.
“I’ll bring the stallion in,” Thurston offered. “We’ll have you ready to go in no time at all.”
“Yeah,” Roan said glumly, aware that his early morning enthusiasm was rapidly evaporating.
“I did what I could, Charlie,” he said beneath his breath. “I got her all fixed up and things are up to snuff out there. Hell, I got to get on my way.”
The stallion didn’t take well to his status as a pack animal, nudging against the mare’s flanks and nipping more than once at her hindquarters. Roan cast him a look of sympathy as he jerked on the lead rope.
“You got to behave, boy. You got the better end of the deal, totin’ my gear. Just leave this filly alone. She’s gonna let loose with one of those heels, and you’ll be wearin’ a horseshoe across your nose if you’re not careful.”
He stopped long enough when the sun was overhead to tear a heel from the loaf of fresh bread Orv had given him. After cutting a thick slice of cheese from the chunk in his pack, he stowed the food securely and set out once more. There was no sense in stopping till near nightfall. He might even make it to the river by then.
According to the map he’d carried about for over a year, Tucker Center was just a ways east of the big river, and once he reached the Mississippi, he’d be home free. He’d just follow it south, almost all the way to River Bend. Home. His eyes narrowed as he considered what awaited him there.
“Might be nothin’ left for you, Devereaux,” he grumbled. “They probably won’t thank you for makin’ the trip. The damn horse’ll probably get a warmer welcome than me. Pa was always on the lookout for a good piece of horseflesh. He’ll appreciate Katherine’s mare.”
Katherine. He shouldn’t have spoken the name. A dull ache beneath his breastbone nudged him. A vision of dark hair glimmering in the sunlight and blue eyes sparkling with intelligence filled his mind. He shook his head, willing the memory of her to vanish, but to no avail.
“I did what I could,” he growled, as if her image accused him. “No woman is gonna tie me up in knots. She’s set for the winter, anyway. By spring, she’ll probably…”
The angry face of Evan Gardner sprang before him. “What happens when you’re not here anymore, stranger?” As though he heard the question aloud, Roan swore, biting the words off savagely. “He’s a determined son of a gun,” Thurston Wellman’s voice echoed in his head.
“She can face him down any day of the week,” Roan growled, nudging his mare into an easy lope, the stallion falling in behind. The thought was not the comfort he’d hoped for. Once fresh in his mind, the memories of Katherine would not be dislodged, and he turned over each glimpse of her as it appeared before him.
Her stubborn chin, the creamy look of her skin where her throat met the collar of her dress. The strong, well-formed hands that were equally as capable whether she held a skillet or the lead rope of a yearling foal. His mind dwelt for a moment on the surprising softness of her mouth as it had opened beneath his own, and he tilted his head back to gaze at the cloudless sky.
“Damn woman…I don’t need to be thinkin’ about you,” he snarled impotently His mind’s eye envisioned the bulky form of Evan Gardner, imagining the man’s mouth intruding where Roan’s had been the first to venture.
“Never been kissed, Katherine?” He’d known when he asked, known that he’d been the first to taste the sweetness of her mouth. Damn. Evan Gardner’d better keep his hands to himself. Not to mention his slack-jawed…
He pulled the mare to a halt, his hands tight on the reins. With a grim foretaste of disaster, he sensed Katherine’s vulnerability. The whole damn town was probably waitin’ for Gardner to move in on her, he thought glumly. They probably all thought it was the best thing for her, havin’ somebody to look after things there.
He lifted his eyes once more to the brilliant blue sky, watching as a hawk circled and swooped beyond the next rise in the trail. Damn it all, Charlie. I can’t just ride off and leave her to fend for herself. I reckon I shoulda just ridden south from Ohio and stayed out of this mess.
And never known Charlie’s Sparrowhawk? The thought pierced him with dreadful accuracy and he shook his head.
He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he left her with things so unsettled. He cast another look at the sky, shaking his head glumly. “It’ll be full dark before we get there,” he said to the mare, his hand stroking her neck with a gentle touch. “Guess we’d better make tracks.”
“I know you’re not gonna shoot me, Katherine,” Evan said cajolingly, sidling toward the porch. The setting sun cast his face in shadow beneath the wide brim of his hat, but she knew exactly how he looked. She knew the greedy expression his face wore as he considered her. For too long, she’d known he was only biding his time.
“Should have realized you’d be back here as soon as Roan Devereaux left town,” she taunted him, leveling the barrel of her shotgun in his direction. “Too much of a coward to hang around while a man was staying here, weren’t you?”
“I don’t take kindly to bein’ called a coward. I’m facin’ you down, ain’t I? And you with a gun aimed at my belly.” He reached the foot of the steps and tilted his head back to look up at her. “Let me come in and we’ll just talk, Katherine,” he wheedled softly, a smile turning his expression into a parody of friendly persuasion.
“Get out of here, Evan,” she told him wearily. “I don’t have time to argue with you.” The barrel of the shotgun sagged just a bit, its weight heavy.
He halted and peered at her. “I can wait, Katherine. I’m a patient man.” With little grace and much muttering, he made his way to where he’d tied his horse, mounting and riding from the yard.
It was only a whisper of sound, there outside her bedroom window. Almost asleep, she wakened with a start, her heart pounding with a breathtaking cadence. Framed against the opening, his shoulders already inside, was a shadowed figure. Katherine’s mind was muddled, the edges of sleep making her movements slow as she swung her feet to the floor.
“Who is it?” she whispered into the darkness, aware even as she spoke the query that the familiar bulk belonged to Evan Gardner.
“I told you I was patient,” he said with a chuckle. “I been waitin’ out yonder for better than two hours, Katherine. Thought you’d be asleep by now, though.”
“What do you want?” she said, her voice raspy as she struggled to her feet, dread clutching at her throat. Without a gun as an equalizer, she was no match for Evan’s weight and she knew it. The thought of those thick fingers against her flesh made her shudder, and she feinted to evade his touch. To no avail. He was upon her before she could take a step, his body slamming into her with no regard for her woman’s vulnerabilities.
She lost her breath as he bore her down into the feather tick, his heavy torso solid against her slender form. One hand found its way into her hair and he twisted a handful about his fist, anchoring her against the sheet while he sought to rub his mouth over her face. His lips were open, loose and wet, and she shuddered, reaching with both hands to pound against him.
It was futile. Before she regained her breath, gasping for air to fill her lungs, she knew she was in way over her head. Her gun was beside the bed, too far for her to reach, and the nearest help was down the road, almost a mile away. Tears flooded her eyes. Tears of resentment that because she was a woman, smaller and more easily bested, he could come into her home and wrestle from her what she was unwilling to give.
“Evan, no…” Her voice was muffled beneath his weight. His free hand was busy at the front of her nightgown, tugging at the buttons, his mouth vainly attempting to capture hers as she endured the pain of his fist clenched in her hair.
“You wouldn’t be nice about it, would you,” he snarled against her cheek. “I wanted to do this nice and easy, Katherine, but you wouldn’t let me.” His fingers grew impatient; he tore at the worn fabric of her gown, the material ripping with a ragged sound.
“Please, no. Don’t do this, Evan,” she sobbed, aghast as she felt the helpless tears flood her eyes and overflow.
“Aw, come on, Katherine. I’ll make you happy,” he wheezed, his hand fumbling beneath her bodice, fingers grasping for a hold against her flesh.
She felt the brush of a fingernail across the crest of her breast and gasped for air, only to release it in a scream of sheer terror. And once started, she could not be silenced.
“Listen to me, you stupid woman,” he growled, both hands on her shoulders now as he sought to hold her firmly, aware only of her thrashing body beneath him. “Damn it, Katherine, I’m willing to marry you!”
“Nooo…” It was a cry of anguish, followed by a sobbing, mournful wail that reached the ears of the lone rider who approached over the rise east of the garden patch.
“I’ll show you what a good husband I’ll be, Katherine,” Evan told her loudly, attempting to make himself heard over her muffled cries. He fought for a space between her flailing legs, his hands shifting to grasp wherever he could, ducking her fists, which aimed in his direction, more often than not landing sharp jabs.
She screamed again, the sound shrill in his ear. He straightened over her, his hand open and hurting as it met the side of her face, cracking loudly in the darkness.
“Shut up and listen to me, Katherine,” he shouted angrily. “You’re gonna marry me, one way or another, and I don’t mind takin’ my wedding night a day early.”
“I wouldn’t count on that.” The voice from the window was quiet. The sound of a revolver’s hammer being cocked was unmistakable, and the form of the man who climbed silently through the window was familiar.
Evan rolled from the bed, exposing Katherine’s pale flesh to full view. Her gown was tangled about her thighs, the bodice torn and shredded, one breast exposed in the moonlight.
Roan stood to one side of the window, his eyes searching the darkness beyond her bed, narrowing as he spied movement. A form was edging across the floor, making an attempt to reach the door.
“Gardner, stand up where you are,” Roan snarled. “Don’t make me shoot you in the back.”
“Roan?” Katherine moaned beneath her breath, her hands futile in their efforts to tug her gown into place over her breast.
“I’m here, Kate,” he answered, his attention focusing on her, attuned to her distress.
It was all Evan needed, that moment of distraction Katherine had afforded him. He bolted through the open doorway and across the kitchen to the door of the house, crouching low as he leapt from the porch.
With a snarl of disgust, Roan turned back to the window and was gone, landing on the ground with one leap and moving around the house to the front.
“Gardner!” he shouted, stopping and taking aim at the fleeing figure. “Damn fool knows I won’t shoot him in the back,” he growled. Lowering his aim, he steadied his arm and pressed the trigger. The shot was true. Evan hit the ground, rolling to clutch at his leg and shouting his anger.
“Shoot me in the back, would you?”
Roan covered the ground between them rapidly, his eyes intent on the man who was attempting to struggle to his feet. “If I wanted to shoot you in the back, I’d have aimed higher,” Roan snarled in disgust.
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Carolyn Davidson
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: Roan Devereaux Could Gentle Any Filly With A Look And A Touch – but Kate Cassidy presented a real challenge. With her coltish grace and mile-wide stubborn streak, she was more woman than most men could handle – and exactly what he needed. Men were impulsive critters, Katherine Cassidy swore, and Roan Devereaux had only proved that when he′d up and asked Kate to marry him!It was a crazy idea – but no crazier than the sound of her heart singing «yes» in reply… !