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In The Sheriff's Protection
Lauri Robinson
He will protect her…But can the Sheriff resist his forbidden desire?Oak Grove Sheriff Tom Baniff might be hunting Clara Wilson’s criminal husband, but that doesn’t mean he won’t help protect Clara and her young son from the outlaw’s deadly threats. Inviting her to his home town, Tom is determined to keep her safe. But with Clara so close can he resist the allure of the only woman he’s ever wanted?


He will protect her
But can the sheriff resist his forbidden desire?
Oak Grove sheriff Tom Baniff might be hunting Clara Wilson’s criminal husband, but that doesn’t mean he won’t help protect Clara and her young son from the outlaw’s deadly threats. When he invites Clara to his hometown, Tom is determined to keep her safe. But with her so close, can he resist the allure of the only woman he’s ever wanted?
“A delightful, charming and gasp-filled romance.”
—RT Book Reviews on Winning the Mail-Order Bride
“Robinson’s new book is enjoyable and endearing... [A] classic western adventure with strong characters, authentic setting and quick pace.”
—RT Book Reviews on Unwrapping the Rancher’s Secret
A lover of fairy tales and cowboy boots, LAURI ROBINSON can’t imagine a better profession than penning happily-ever-after stories about men—and women—who pull on a pair of boots before riding off into the sunset...or kick them off for other reasons. Lauri and her husband raised three sons in their rural Minnesota home and are now getting their just rewards by spoiling their grandchildren. Visit: laurirobinson.blogspot.com (http://www.laurirobinson.blogspot.com), Facebook.com/lauri.robinson1 (https://Facebook.com/lauri.robinson1) or Twitter.com/LauriR (https://Twitter.com/LauriR).
Also by Lauri Robinson
Saving MarinaWestern Spring WeddingsHer Cheyenne WarriorUnwrapping the Rancher’s SecretThe Cowboy’s Orphan BrideMail-Order Brides of Oak GroveWinning the Mail-Order BrideWestern Christmas BridesMarried to Claim the Rancher’s Heir
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
In the Sheriff’s Protection
Lauri Robinson


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-07361-5
IN THE SHERIFF’S PROTECTION
© 2018 Lauri Robinson
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To my husband, Jess.
Contents
Cover (#udf64d643-e0e0-5e54-985d-afb48545f357)
Back Cover Text (#uc0700c98-4295-5432-b4d9-15a2f704e7d7)
About the Author (#u263bca4d-574d-5742-81e5-526b41a55535)
Booklist (#ufa5cac09-e002-5444-ad4f-3715408f572c)
Title Page (#u444ee399-53ba-5c92-8d0e-c13fd28efdab)
Copyright (#u0c4f8297-3201-5682-8585-2b40206bfc62)
Dedication (#u4fa39ad9-70d0-5e77-813d-36c4a70d5224)
Chapter One (#ufd871a27-a976-5eb0-ac2b-7b1c192cd9be)
Chapter Two (#u11f23054-dbf8-5fb2-8f78-99af157ca51f)
Chapter Three (#u44a6842e-8728-531f-a26d-f9929e44079f)
Chapter Four (#udb4a84f9-f0ef-5e6f-9be3-1c981997bbe0)
Chapter Five (#u557585da-b1ba-571d-aa5e-ca74bd25a5b2)
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)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#u437de0cb-c7ec-5c07-a6bf-738c8b4ca527)
“Ma, a rider’s comin’ up the road!” Billy exclaimed, his legs going the same speed they always were. At a run. “A man on horseback! Maybe it’s Pa, Ma! Maybe he’s come home!”
Clara Wilson squeezed the edge of the table, willing the fire-hot pain in her leg to ease while trying to find the wherewithal to respond to her son. “Shut. The. Door. Billy,” she forced out.
“No, Ma! It’s Pa! It has to be.”
“Shut the door. Now!” A moan followed her command. One she’d tried to keep down but couldn’t stop. The pain was too strong. So was the excitement in Billy’s voice, hoping the rider was his father. Hugh had let her down too many times to show up now, exactly when she needed him.
Billy did as instructed, and rushed to the table where she sat with her left leg propped up on another chair. “Is it your leg, Ma? Is it hurting again? Pa will be able to help you. I know he will. That’s him coming up the road. I just know it.”
And she knew it wasn’t. It would be nice if she could believe differently, if things could be different, but they weren’t and never would be. Her instincts were too strong, her life too true to form for anything to be different. “Yes, it’s my leg. Bolt the door.”
“Why? If it’s Pa—”
“That’s not your father riding in,” she said between clenched teeth.
“You don’t know that. You ain’t even seen the rider.”
She wiped at the sweat rolling down her temples and covering her forehead. Why now of all times did someone have to ride in? She could hope it was Donald Ryan, their closest neighbor, but he’d stopped by last week, along with his wife, Karen, on their way back from Hendersonville, a long journey that they wouldn’t be making again anytime soon.
Pulling up enough fortitude to talk while fighting the pain was hard, but she had to. “Do as I say and bolt the door.” Drawing another shaky breath, she said, “Then bring me the gun out of the drawer.”
“But I ain’t allowed to touch that gun.”
“You can this time.” Talking was stealing her strength, making her dizzy, and the flashes of light and dark spots forming before her eyes made it hard to concentrate.
Billy bolted the door and then ran to the cupboard where she kept the good napkins, folded neatly atop the pistol. “Can I get my gun, too?” he asked while closing the drawer.
“Yes.” She wanted to say more. Tell him to be careful, but needed to reserve enough strength to address whoever was riding in.
Billy laid the gun on the table. She grasped the handle, pulled it across the table and then dropped it onto her lap, covering it with the corner of her apron. Billy had run into his bedroom and was already returning with the old squirrel gun he’d found last year. It was covered with rust and the trigger was broken off, but he carried it like it could take down an elk if need be.
“Look out the window, but stay back,” she instructed.
He did so, peering over the back of the chair. The way his shoulders dropped told her exactly what she’d already known. It wasn’t Hugh.
“It’s not Pa,” Billy said. “This man’s got black hair. He’s giving his horse a drink out of the trough, and he’s taking one, too.” A moment later, he said, “He’s walking toward the house.”
Clara wrapped her hand around the gun handle. “When he knocks, you say your pa’s out checking cattle.” She pressed her hand to her head, fighting the dizziness and the nausea that had her hands trembling. Her entire body trembling.
The knock sounded. Billy spoke. And the world went black.
* * *
Ready for action, for he’d expected some, Tom Baniff had his gun drawn before he heard the familiar sound of a pistol hitting the floor. The young boy, whose thick crop of blond hair looked as if it hadn’t been combed in a month, shot a startled look around the edge of the door that was only opened wide enough for the little guy to fit in the opening.
When the boy had opened the door, he’d instantly claimed his pa was out checking cattle and now, at the sound behind him, boasted he knew how to use the old squirrel gun in his hand.
Pushing the door open wider, Tom said, “Put that gun down before you hurt someone.”
“It’ll be you I’m hurting,” the boy said, holding his stance.
No more than seven, maybe eight, the boy had guts, and that almost made Tom smile. Until he got a good look around the door, at the woman at the table. She wasn’t sitting; she was slumped. No, she was falling off the chair.
Tom shot forward, arriving in time to save her head from banging against the floor. She was warm, and breathing, but out cold. “Who else is in the house?” he asked the boy while glancing toward the open doorways of two side rooms.
“No one.”
“Your pa’s not out checking cattle, either, is he?”
“No, sir,” the boy answered, his voice quivering. “Is Ma all right?”
Never one to lie, not even to a child, Tom replied, “I’ll figure that out in a minute. Get me a pillow for her head.”
The boy was back in a flash. Tom pulled out his handkerchief and used it to wipe away some of the sweat covering her face before lowering her head on the pillow. She was burning with fever. “How long has she been sick?”
The boy shrugged. “Couple days. She cut her leg out in the barn going on a week ago.”
“Which one?” Tom knew which one as soon as he pulled aside the layers of her skirt. Her left leg was swollen twice its size, and a jagged and clearly infected gash marred the side of her calf. “Where’s her bed?”
“This way,” the boy said. “She told me her leg was getting better, just sore.”
“I’m sure she did.” Tom hoisted her off the floor. Out here alone, she wouldn’t want the boy to worry. “Bring the pillow.”
She moaned slightly, but didn’t regain consciousness as he carried her into the room and laid her on the bed. “Where is your pa?” Tom asked the boy while folding back her skirt to examine the gash thoroughly.
“Don’t know,” the boy admitted. “Ain’t seen him in months.” As if realizing he shouldn’t have said that, the boy added, “But he’ll be back. Soon, too.”
“I’m sure he will be,” Tom answered drily. That was the reason he was here. “What’s your name?”
“Billy. What’s yours?”
For half a second he contemplated using an alias, but since this was Wyoming, a place he’d never been before, he doubted anyone had heard of him. However, he did leave the title of Sheriff off because much like the pin he’d taken off his vest and put in his pocket, the title could cause some people to clam up. “Tom Baniff.” Resting a hand on Billy’s shoulder, he added, “I’m going to need your help. Infection has set in your ma’s leg.”
“Is it bad?”
There was worry in the boy’s blue eyes, but Tom still had to be honest. “It’s not good,” he said. “But once we’re done, it’ll be better.”
“What are we going to do?”
From the looks of her leg, lockjaw was a real concern, and there was only one thing he knew to do about that. Tom turned Billy toward the doorway. “To start with, we’re going to need fresh water.”
“Ma already had me haul some in. Just a little bit ago. She set it on the stove to boil.”
Tom nodded. She’d probably been preparing to do just what he was going to do. Lance her leg.
Billy stopped in the doorway leading out of the bedroom. “Her name’s Clara. Clara Wilson. My pa’s name is Hugh. Hugh Wilson. He’s tall, but not as tall as you, and he has brown hair.”
If Tom had needed confirmation that he was in the right spot, he now had it. Hugh Wilson was the man he was after. The man who’d shot and injured one of the mail-order brides on her way to Oak Grove, Kansas. She’d been on the train Hugh and two other men had robbed. The other two had met their demise by bullets from passengers on the train, but Hugh had gotten away on a black-and-white paint horse. The only clue he’d had to go on had paid off.
“Mister?”
Reining in his attention, Tom patted Billy’s shoulder. “Let’s see if that water is boiling.”
The kettle was on the stove, but the fire needed to be stoked. She must have been about to do that, considering two logs lay near the stove door. Tom grabbed the poker to stir up the coals. “What did your ma cut her leg on?”
“The side barn door is broken. Nellie, she’s one of our cows, stumbled and pushed Ma against it, and the hinge cut her leg. Ma said it wasn’t bad. It didn’t even bleed much. She’s been boiling onions to put on it for the past couple of days. I tried to fix the barn door, but couldn’t. I did pound the hinge off and...”
As Billy talked, Tom’s thoughts bounced from Clara’s infected leg to why Hugh Wilson would take to robbery when he had a wife and son and a pretty decent chunk of property. The house was small and needed some work, but it was solid and clean. Clara’s leg wasn’t. She’d have been better off if that hinge had sliced her leg wide open—the bleeding would have cleaned away the bacteria. As it was, the closed wound had given the bacteria the perfect breeding ground, which could lead to lockjaw. His father, a surgeon who’d served in the army, had told him all about lockjaw, gangrene and a plethora of other infections and ailments that had affected men during the war. Enough so that even at a young age, Tom had realized being a doctor was not his calling.
There’d been a time he’d thought being a lawman hadn’t been, either. Until Julia had died and finding her killer and knowing justice would be served—and had been—had somehow eased the pain inside him, and the anger. Now being a lawman was his life. When he’d taken the oath to protect the citizens of Oak Grove, he’d meant it, and wouldn’t let them down. It may have been a coincidence that the shot mail-order bride’s name was the same as his little sister’s, but he considered it more than that. To him, it was proof that he’d chosen the right path. That while the other men in town were head over heels at the idea of getting married, he was right in not having anything to do with the entire Oak Grove Betterment Committee.
“It’s boiling.”
Tom turned about.
“The water,” Billy said. “It’s boiling.”
“That’s good.” Tom walked back to the stove. While his mind had been roaming, so had he. The house was in better condition than his first glance had let on, and fully furnished with store-bought items. Not overly expensive pieces, but considering they were a two-day ride from the closest town, several things had him thinking about how long Hugh Wilson had been in the robbery business.
A knife lay on the top of the cabinet near the stove, as did several neatly folded cotton towels and a tin of cayenne pepper. More evidence Clara had been about to lance her leg herself. His stomach clutched slightly, thinking of how difficult and dangerous that would be for someone. The pain could have caused her to pass out, leaving her to possibly bleed out. Which in hand would have left little Billy out here all alone.
Bitterness coated Tom’s tongue as his thoughts hopped to Hugh Wilson again. How could a man leave a woman and child out here alone for months on end? The same kind of man who didn’t care that his bullet could have killed a woman on her way to getting married.
Tom sucked in the anger that circled his guts and picked up the knife. Lowering the blade into the hot water, he nodded toward the door. “Do you know how to unsaddle a horse?”
“Yes, sir,” Billy answered.
“Unsaddle mine, would you? Put him in the barn and give him some feed if you have any to spare.”
“Sure. We got some. I’ll hurry.”
“No,” Tom said, walking toward the sink to wash his hands. “Take your time. His name is Bullet.”
“You want me to brush him down?”
“That would be good,” Tom answered. It wouldn’t take long to lance the leg, but he wanted Billy away from the house in case his mother woke up screaming.
“Then I’ll help you with Ma,” Billy said, already opening the door.
“I’ll be ready for your help,” Tom answered. “Shut the door.”
Billy did so, and Tom scrubbed his hands a bit longer, watching out the window until Billy led Bullet into the barn. Then he dried his hands with one of the clean towels, gathered the other towels and the knife, and walked into the bedroom.
Chapter Two (#u437de0cb-c7ec-5c07-a6bf-738c8b4ca527)
Struggling through an overwhelmingly thick fog almost wore her out before she’d even opened her eyes, and when she did, the man standing over her, one she’d never seen before, only made Clara close her eyes again. She must be dreaming. Had to be, because even though her leg ached, there wasn’t the intense pain of before.
“You feeling better, Ma?”
Billy’s voice was so clear in her dream it made her smile.
“You’re smiling, so you must be feeling better.”
The idea that she might not be dreaming had her pulling her eyelids open. That took effort because they fought her again. When she won the battle and saw Billy, her first instinct was to smile again. He was such a good boy, and she loved him with all her heart. Without him, she wouldn’t have a reason to live.
“You are feeling better, Ma. I can tell,” he said, grinning. “This here is Tom. Tom Baniff. He cut your leg and put cayenne pepper on it. Then he poured whiskey all over you.”
The stranger appeared again, standing next to Billy. This certainly was a silly dream. Only in a dream would a stranger cut her leg and put cayenne pepper and whiskey on her. Cut her leg... A cold shiver rippled over her entire being.
She forced her eyes to remain open, although she blinked several times to chase away the blurriness. Then, as the room became clearer, she glanced around, giving her mind time to catch up and solidify the fact that she wasn’t dreaming.
The man was tall and broad, with shiny black hair and eyes as brown as coffee. He was smiling, too. A friendly smile. He must be a doctor. The exact thing she’d needed.
“The infection?” she asked.
“Is clearing up nicely.”
His voice was deep but gentle at the same time.
“My leg?”
“Is almost back to being the same size as the other one,” he said. “That was quite the infection you had.”
Her thoughts became clearer with each minute that ticked by. “The cayenne pepper worked,” she said. “My uncle said my grandmother did that to him once. Put cayenne pepper on an infected wound. He said he screamed. That it burned.”
“You didn’t scream,” the man said.
She closed her eyes for a moment, as thankful for the fact that she couldn’t remember the pain as she was that she hadn’t screamed. That would have frightened Billy, which was why she’d been putting off lancing the leg herself. It would have scared the dickens out of Billy, and there had been the chance she may have passed out from the pain. As she lifted a hand to feel her forehead, the pungent scent of whiskey filling her nose made her cringe.
“I had to get your fever down,” the man said. “The alcohol in the whiskey did the trick.”
The sheet was tucked beneath her arms, but she could tell the only things she wore were her shift and bloomers. A heat as hot as her fever had been rushed into her cheeks.
“Nothing to worry about, ma’am,” he said. “Billy’s helped me take care of you the entire time.”
She released a breath, knowing such thoughts of decorum were insignificant. “How did you know I was ill?”
“You fell off the chair when I opened the door,” Billy said. “’Member? I thought it was Pa and you said it wasn’t.”
She balled her hands into fists to hide how they instantly started shaking at the memories coming forth. Thankful it hadn’t been Hugh riding in, she glanced at the window, the east window where the shining sun showed it was still on the rise, making it no later than midmorning. Confused, she asked, “Was that yesterday? I—I was out all night.”
“No,” the man said, “that was four days ago.”
She bolted upright, and the blood rushing to her head had her grasping her forehead.
“Whoa, there,” the man said, gently forcing her to lie back down.
Once her head was on the pillow again, and the room stopped spinning, she said, “Surely not four days. You must be mistaken.”
“I’m not mistaken.”
Covering her eyes with one hand, hoping that would somehow help her to remember, she shook her head. “I couldn’t have slept for four days.”
“You were really sick, ma’am,” he said. “Really sick. Would you like to see your leg?”
She removed the hand from her eyes. “Yes, please.”
He flipped the bottom corner of the sheet aside and mixed emotions filled her. The swelling was considerably less, as was the pain, but the healing that had clearly taken place confirmed what he’d said. She’d been asleep for four days. Billy had been alone with a stranger for four days. Her skin quivered as she glanced toward her son, who was grinning from ear to ear.
“It looks much better than the last time I saw it,” she said.
“Like four days of healing?” the man asked.
She pinched her lips together. There was a hint of teasing in his tone, but also affirmation that he hadn’t been lying when he said how much time had passed. The yellow color of the bruising confirmed it was old, as did the scabs that now covered her first wound as well as the two slashes that had been made to drain the infection. “Yes,” she admitted. “It looks like it’s been healing for a few days already.”
“Healing nicely,” he said. “But now that you’re awake, we need to get some food in you.”
“We have some eggs boiling,” Billy said. “Tom can cook, Ma. Almost as good as you. And we’ve kept the cows milked and skimmed the cream off the top, just like you always do.”
“I’ll make you some tea to go with your eggs,” the man said. “Do you think you can sit up? Slowly this time?”
She nodded, and carefully sat up enough for him to put another pillow behind her. Having a man be so caring was uncomfortable, yet she was grateful. Without him, she may not be here. “Thank you.”
He gave her a nod, and winked one eye that was charming enough it made her heart thud unexpectedly.
“We’ll be back shortly with that tea and an egg,” he said, laying a hand on Billy’s shoulder. “Won’t we, Billy?”
“Yes, sir. We’ll be right back, Ma.”
The heartwarming sensation that washed over her was one she hadn’t experienced in a very long time. So long she couldn’t remember the last time. Years. She was still contemplating that when Billy and the man appeared again, along with a tray that the man set down on her lap.
“I made the tea weak,” he said. “Your stomach might not tolerate much yet.”
She glanced at the tea and the hard-boiled egg that had been peeled and quartered. No one had ever gone to such lengths for her. Ever. A lump formed in her throat that she had to swallow before admitting, “I’m sorry—I don’t remember what Billy said your name is.”
“It’s Tom, ma’am. Tom Baniff.”
“Well, Mr. Baniff, I owe you my deepest gratitude.” The hint of redness that appeared in his cheeks was positively endearing. Once again her heart thudded. “It makes me almost believe in miracles,” she admitted. “How a doctor was traveling through just when one was needed.”
“I’m not a doctor, ma’am.”
A hint of a chill had the hair on her arms rising. “You aren’t?”
“No, I’m...um—traveling. Just traveling through.”
His expression had changed. His eyes had grown so serious the chill rippling her skin increased. As if he knew that, and knew she’d seen it, he turned toward Billy.
Once again setting a hand on Billy’s shoulder, he said, “Let’s let your mother eat in peace.”
A part of her wanted to say that wasn’t necessary, but her throat was swelling. When he’d shifted his stance, the black vest covering his chest had caught in the sunlight shining through the window. The vest was made of leather, and though hardly noticeable, she’d seen two tiny holes. Evenly separated and situated in the exact spot a badge would have been worn. A lawman’s badge.
A lawman out here meant one thing. He was after Hugh.
She waited for them to leave the room before letting the air out of her lungs, but even then it caught, making it impossible to breathe.
Her eyes were watering and her chest burning by the time she found the ability to draw in another breath. Guilt, shame and other emotions she couldn’t name washed over her. Hugh had warned her, more than once, what would happen if she ever went to the law, and she had no doubt he would follow through on those warnings.
Blinking away the moisture in her eyes, she glanced around the room. At the clothes hanging on the hooks, the hand mirror and brush on the dresser, the sewing basket in the corner, the dishes on the tray on her lap. Every item in this house that hadn’t been Uncle Walter’s had been stolen, or bought with stolen money, and she hated that. Hated knowing that, but as Hugh pointed out, she still wore the dresses, used the dishes, ate the food. Therefore, she was as guilty of committing any crime as he was. Had been since the day she met him.
For eight long years she’d wished she’d never met him, but in all that time, she’d never done anything to change the situation. Other than pray for a miracle.
She bit her lips together as they started to tremble. Through the open doorway, she could hear Billy talking.
“I could show ya when we’re done eating,” he said.
Clara held her breath, waiting to hear the man’s answer. Tom Baniff. She’d never heard the name, but lawmen from as far away as Texas were looking for Hugh. There was no way she could know all of their names.
Tom didn’t reply. It was Billy’s voice that sounded again.
“My pa says that’s the most important thing for a man to know. How to be a fast draw. The fastest. You agree, don’t you, Tom?”
The clank of a cup being set down on a saucer sounded before Tom said, “No, Billy, I don’t.”
He was speaking so softly she had to hold her breath in order to hear what he was saying.
“I believe knowing how to use a gun is important, and that a man needs to know how to use it safely. He also needs to know when to use it. But there are lots of other things he needs to know that are more important.”
“Like what?” Billy asked.
“Well, like knowing how to chop wood. You did a fine job with the kindling wood that built the fire in the stove so we were able to cook these eggs to eat. Now, that’s important. A man has to eat or he’d starve to death.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right about that.” After a stilled moment, Billy asked, “What other things are important?”
“Lots of things,” Tom answered quietly. “Things you do every day. Right now, the most important thing is taking care of your ma. Making sure she eats and gets the rest she needs so her leg heals. Now, finish eating so we can head outside and she can rest in quiet.”
“Think she’s done eating?” Billy asked softly, taking a clue from Tom’s quiet tone.
“We’ll find out once we’re done.”
Clara quickly ate the egg and took a gulp of tea, and then had to press a hand to her stomach as it revolted, having been empty for so long. She took a couple smaller sips of tea, hoping that would help her stomach accept the food.
It appeared to. When Billy and Tom appeared in the doorway, she no longer feared the egg would find its way back up her throat.
“How are you feeling?” Tom asked. “The egg wasn’t too much for your stomach, was it?”
“No, no, thank you,” she said. “It was perfect. I’m sorry that—that you’ve been detained here for so long. Now that I’m awake...” She glanced at Billy and the shine in his eyes as he looked up at Tom. “Billy and I will be fine. I’m sure you’ll want to be on your way.”
“Tom can’t leave yet,” Billy said. “Can you? Tom, tell her why.”
Her stomach threatened to erupt again and she pressed a hand to the base of her throat while swallowing hard. She didn’t have the right to pray that he hadn’t told Billy the truth, but sincerely hoped he hadn’t.
“We are in the middle of a project, ma’am,” Tom said. “One that will take at least another day to complete.”
“A project?” Flinching at how fearful she sounded, she pulled up what she hoped looked like a smile, and asked, “Wh-what sort of project?”
Tom’s smile was far more genuine as he ruffled Billy’s hair with one hand. “When Billy showed me where you cut your leg, we discovered the entire door frame on the barn was rotted.”
“Tom used some wood from the corral to fix the door, but first we had to cut down some trees to make poles for the corral,” Billy said excitedly. “And guess what, Ma? We got enough poles to use more wood off the corral to fix the porch. Those boards that are missing. But Tom said we couldn’t start pounding on the roof until you were awake.” As a frown formed, Billy looked up at Tom. “That’s important stuff for a man to know, ain’t it, Tom? How to fix a corral and a house. And a barn and how to cut down trees to make poles, and—”
“Yes, it is, Billy,” Tom replied, with a wink at her son. “Real important stuff. Now that your ma has eaten, let’s go get busy. We have plenty of work to do.”
He stepped up to the side of the bed, and as he reached down to take the tray off her lap, Clara willed the tears to remain at bay. Billy had never been treated so kindly, nor had she.
“Thank you, Mr. Baniff.” Her throat burned too hotly to say much more.
“You’re welcome, ma’am. You have a good boy here. A real good boy.”
She nodded but didn’t look up. Her eyes were once again staring at the two miniature holes in his vest. If only she could... She closed her eyes to stop the thought.
“Do you need anything else?” he asked.
Pulling her eyes open, she nodded, then shook her head. “No, no, thank you. I’ll be fine.”
“Just yell if you do. We’ll be right outside.”
“Yeah, Ma, we’ll be right outside,” Billy said.
Anger welled inside her as they left the room. That was how it should be. How a man should show a boy what was important in life. How to take care of his property and his family. Hugh had never done that. Would never do that. Whenever he was around, the few days a year he stopped long enough to drop off stolen items and money, he barely had the time of day for Billy.
And he was never alone.
Urgency rose up inside her then. Hugh was rarely alone. If he rode in, Tom wouldn’t stand a chance against Hugh and his cohorts.
She pushed aside the sheet and cautiously swung her legs over the edge of the bed. There wasn’t a lot of pain, for which she was thankful, but by the time she’d managed to get dressed, she felt as if she’d just run a mile or more. Exhaustion and weakness were expected after being in bed so long. If it was anyone else, she’d tell them to lie back down. She didn’t have that choice. Hugh could show up at any time and she had to make sure Tom wasn’t here when that happened.
Chapter Three (#u437de0cb-c7ec-5c07-a6bf-738c8b4ca527)
“You shouldn’t have done so much work,” Tom told her quietly. He’d struggled saying anything, seeing that Clara was clearly used to working from sun up to sun down. Despite all the work he’d found to keep him and Billy busy the past few days, she’d taken remarkably good care of the property and animals, and her son. Billy was not only well behaved, he was eager to please. From all he’d learned while she’d been asleep, Hugh Wilson deserved no credit when it came to this homestead or Billy.
“I didn’t,” she said. “I’d canned the venison earlier this year and the vegetables last fall. All I had to do was dump them together and heat it up.” She lifted her head from the back of the rocking chair she was sitting in on the front porch, and looked at him. “You, on the other hand, have been extremely busy. I expected the kitchen to be in shambles when I walked out of the bedroom. You must have had a very strict mother.”
The serene smile that had appeared on her lips made his heart hammer inside his chest. To the point he had to look away. He’d never taken to a woman before and wouldn’t now, but there was something about her that made him want to care. More than he should.
“Or is it a wife I owe the credit to?” she asked.
“No,” he said, keeping his gaze locked on the barn. “It would have been my mother. I was the oldest and had to watch over the younger ones plenty, which included cleaning up after them.” That had been years ago, long before arriving here, and he’d forgotten what it had been like.
“How many?”
“Four. Three boys and a girl.”
“You were lucky.”
“Yes, I was,” he said truthfully. Though Julia’s death had affected all of them, he now appreciated the fact he’d known her. She’d been eleven years younger than him and the apple of everyone’s eye. Including his. From the day Julia had been born, he’d felt a deep sense of responsibility toward her that he’d honored. He’d shifted that responsibility to the law after her death, and that was where it would remain until his dying day.
“Where did you live?”
The sun was setting, so he kept his eyes on how the fading rays lit up the rolling hills. “Alabama,” he said. “Until we moved to Kansas. My father was a surgeon in the war. The side that lost.” That didn’t bother him at all; it was just how his father always said it and it was now habit. He stopped there, avoiding telling her about being a deputy in the small town his folks still lived in before moving to Oak Grove and accepting the position as sheriff there.
“My father fought on the other side, but I still don’t know if there was a winner or loser. Just lots of lost lives.”
He showed his agreement with a nod. Her voice was soft and easy to listen to and that bothered him. Everything about her bothered him in ways he shouldn’t be bothered. Mainly because they weren’t bad ways. Just unusual. He noticed things about her he shouldn’t. Things that shouldn’t be any concern of his. Like the sadness that seemed to surround her when she thought no one was looking.
“A surgeon,” she said. “That explains your doctoring abilities.”
“He’s still a doctor. So is my brother Chet.”
“My father worked in the salt mines in Iowa before the war, but couldn’t afterward.” She sighed and her chair creaked as it rocked back and forth. “Perhaps if the North had had a surgeon like your father, mine might have come home with two arms.”
Not sure why, except he’d never been one to look at the bad side, he said, “At least he came home.”
“You’re right,” she said. “That’s exactly what my mother said. She always said things would work out, too. So when he decided we should move out here, to his brother’s place, we packed up and left Iowa.”
He pushed a foot against the porch floor, keeping his rocker in motion as he turned her way. “That would be Walter?”
She was staring toward the sunset and didn’t look his way, but nodded. “Billy told you this is his place.”
“He did. Said Walter died a while ago.”
“Three years.” She sighed heavily. “I’m not sure Billy really remembers him. He was only four.”
“He remembers Walter went out to round up cattle and fell in a ravine. That he’s buried out there.” The story had come from a seven-year-old, so it could be as off-kilter as a three-wheeled wagon, but Tom sensed even the boy didn’t totally believe the Uncle Walter death tale. A man who’d lived here most of his life didn’t just fall into a ravine.
He should flat out ask her about that. Normally he would. Normally he’d ask where her husband was, too. Or have already left to keep tracking Hugh Wilson. Instead he’d been here for the better part of a week, mending barns, corrals and roofs, doctoring her and looking after Billy. He couldn’t have just ridden on, though, not in good conscience, but now that she was up and showed no signs of the infection returning, he should leave.
Would leave.
“What else did Billy tell you?”
She was do-si-do-ing, wondering if Billy had let it be known that his father was an outlaw. The boy hadn’t. Probably because he didn’t know. He thought his father was out buying or selling cattle. Billy said he wasn’t sure which because his father did both. Tom, on the other hand, figured it was all selling on Hugh’s part, and that if Hugh Wilson had a cow to sell, it was because he’d stolen it first.
He hadn’t questioned Billy about anything. Children shouldn’t be used as informants. He’d never done that before and wouldn’t now. Furthermore, he’d bet the reason Billy didn’t know was because Clara didn’t want him to know. She had to realize she couldn’t keep it a secret forever. Sooner or later, Billy would figure it out. Which wasn’t, or shouldn’t be, his concern.
“Things that are important to little boys,” he said. “Where Walter’s dog is buried. Where he found that old prairie gun of his. How he saw an Indian up on the ridge one time. Which chickens lay brown eggs, white eggs, and the occasional green one. How you make him take a bath and comb his hair whether he wants to or not.” There were a hundred other things Billy had mentioned, but her soft laughter was making him chuckle.
“Oh, dear, I must apologize. He does like to prattle on, and usually has no one but me to talk to.”
“No apologies necessary.” He enjoyed spending time with the boy and didn’t mind her knowing what he thought on that issue. “Billy’s a good boy. Smart and caring. You’ve done a fine job with him and he’ll do you proud.”
She stopped the chair from rocking and had four fingers of one hand lightly pressed to her lips. Her blond hair was still in the long braid as when he’d arrived, but she’d coiled it and pinned it to one side of her head, which was very becoming. So were her eyes. They were as blue as the sky had been earlier, and right now, shimmered in the evening light.
“Thank you, Mr. Baniff,” she said softly. “You may never know how deeply I appreciate what you just said.”
It had been years since he’d felt green around the ears, but did so now. For the life of him, he couldn’t think of anything to say, nor could he pull his eyes off her. He finally managed, and glanced around the yard before looking her way again. “He is a good boy. And this is a nice place. You’ve got a lot to be proud of.”
She flinched. Slightly, but he saw it, and the way she suddenly grew tense. Her gaze flitted around, landing nowhere, especially not on him, while she gnawed on her bottom lip. He waited, half expecting her to make mention of her husband. He was certain that was what had made her so nervous all of a sudden.
“No, I don’t.”
She said that so quietly, so softly, he wasn’t sure if he heard it or thought it. “Excuse me?”
This time, she acted as if she hadn’t heard him and set both hands on her knees. “Speaking of Billy, I best go see that he washed before crawling into bed. He’s been known to skip that part.”
An unexpected bolt of guilt shot across Tom’s stomach. He’d wanted her to say something about her husband. Not necessarily where he was, but maybe that he wasn’t a good father or husband. Which was apparent, but inside, Tom wanted her to say it, mainly to confirm his assumptions. That wasn’t like him, either. He’d never needed his assumptions confirmed. Nor did he now. He was a lawman tracking down an outlaw. Normally, nothing would get in the way of that. Not a run-down homestead, an injured woman, or a little boy eager to please. And it shouldn’t this time. Yet it had. “Let me help you up,” he said, rising to his feet.
“No, thank you,” she said, slowly rising by using the arms of the chair. “Moving around today has helped my leg tremendously. It’s doing well. Better than well. It’s fine. Hardly hurts.”
She’d said most of that with a grimace that belied her words, yet he kept his distance. The smart thing to do on his part. He then stepped aside as she walked to the door, but hurried around her to open it.
“I—I feel bad that you’re sleeping in the barn,” she said, holding on to the door frame. “Billy could sleep with me and you could—”
“No, I’ll sleep in the barn again. It’s fine. More than fine. I’ve slept in far worse places.” He was the one prattling now, and clamped his lips together to stop.
Her eyes were glistening again, and he couldn’t stop staring at them. At her. She was a pretty woman. The prettiest one he’d ever seen. Strong and determined, too. Her life out here wasn’t easy, yet she hadn’t voiced a single complaint.
“All right, then,” she said, stepping inside. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Tom spun about, but two steps later, stopped before stepping off the porch and turned about. He knocked once on the door and then opened it. She stood near the table, and for a moment, he wondered if he saw something he could only describe as hope in her eyes. That confused him. Hope for what?
Collecting his thoughts, most of them at least, he stepped into the house. “I best carry that lamp for you. Don’t want your leg to give out while you’re carrying it.” Before she could protest, he picked the lamp off the table and started for the room Billy slept in. “I’ll put it on the table beside your bed once you’re done seeing to Billy.”
“Thank you. Th-that’s very kind of you.”
“Just don’t want any setbacks with your leg.”
“Nor do I.”
There was an odd undercurrent between them, like the tow of water, something he could feel but not see. That was what his problem was. He’d been doing too much feeling since he got here. He needed to get his focus back on the reason he was here. To see justice was served.
Once she’d checked Billy, who was sleeping soundly, she walked back out of the room. He followed, watching her closely. Though she favored the leg, she wasn’t grimacing or limping. Her stride was actually purposeful and even.
In her room, he set the lamp on the table and turned about.
She’d stopped near the dresser and was unwinding her hair. His blood turned warm as thoughts entered his head. Thoughts that shouldn’t be there.
“Thank you again, Mr. Baniff.”
A portion of the good sense he normally had kicked in. “I...uh... The rest of the repairs will be done by tomorrow afternoon. I’ll head out then.”
She closed her eyes momentarily and then nodded. “I appreciate all you’ve done.”
“Billy did a lot of the work, too, ma’am.” He should have just agreed and left, but sensed there was more she wanted to say, so he stood there, waiting.
Turning so her back was to him, she said, “Aren’t you going to ask me?”
For some unexplainable reason, he didn’t want to be a lawman, didn’t want to be the one to cause her more pain. More grief. She had plenty. And it wasn’t from her leg. Feigning ignorance, he said, “Ask you what?”
Her back was still to him, and her shoulders rose and fell as she took a deep breath. “Ask me where—where Billy’s father is?”
“Billy said he was out buying cattle.”
“And you believe him?”
He could point out that he’d seen signs indicating there hadn’t been any cattle on her spread for several years and that the fences would need work before any new ones were brought in, but chose not to. “Don’t see no reason not to. The boy doesn’t seem like one to make up tales.”
She turned about, and though her eyes never made contact with his, she nodded. “You’re right. He doesn’t. Thank you again, Mr. Baniff. Good night.”
“Night, ma’am,” he said and headed for the door.
On his way to the barn, he stopped at the water trough and gave his face a good splashing of water. With droplets still dripping off his chin, he turned about in a full circle, taking in each and every aspect of the property. What was wrong with Hugh Wilson? He had a wife, a son, both of whom would make any man proud. A solid home, a good barn, and a more than fair chunk of land. Most men could only dream of having all this, yet Wilson would rather rob trains and shoot innocent people. It made no sense. None whatsoever.
Tom made his way into the barn and laid his bedroll out over the mound of straw he’d slept upon the last several nights. He hadn’t lied. There had been plenty of nights he’d slept with no shelter since he’d left Kansas.
The train robbery had happened only ten miles outside of Oak Grove. A black-and-white paint horse had been tied to the train tracks. The engineer had blown the whistle, hoping to scare off the horse, but when it wouldn’t move, he’d stopped the train, knowing hitting it could derail the locomotive. Witnesses said the train wheels hadn’t stopped turning before Hugh and two others had boarded the train. The robbers’ first stop had been the mail compartment, but upon not finding any money, they’d made their way into the passenger car, demanding everyone turn over their cash and valuables.
There they’d found what they’d been after. A man from a Kansas City slaughterhouse with a bag of money on his way to buy cattle from Steve Putnam’s ranch. That man was prepared, though, and had pulled out a gun rather than give over the money.
Stories varied from there. Some said the outlaws fired first, others said it was the slaughterhouse agent. Either way, the slaughterhouse man and two of the outlaws were dead and a young woman was barely alive by the time the train rolled into Oak Grove.
Everyone’s story was remarkably the same when it came to Hugh. He’d had his face covered, but he’d left the train with a bag of money and ridden off on the horse that had been tied to the tracks.
Tom lay down and intertwined his fingers behind his head. The description of the horse had been his only lead when he’d left Oak Grove. Black with white markings, namely one particular mark on its left flank. A long white streak that everyone had described in the same way. Like an arrow.
Not knowing the area well, or maybe he did and was so conceited he wanted to taunt those he stole from, Hugh had ridden right past Steve Putnam’s place. Steve and his wife, Mary, had encountered Hugh on the road, not knowing he’d just robbed the train they were on their way to meet.
Hugh had stopped at several other places on his way north, never knowing sightings of his horse were what gave a solid path to follow.
Unfortunately, that path had come to a dead end in northern Nebraska, until Tom had been lucky enough to run into a down-on-his-luck gambler who heard him asking about Hugh’s horse. The man knew the horse because he was the one Hugh had won the animal off. Or swindled him out of was how the man put it. The gambler also knew Hugh’s name and the general vicinity where Hugh’s wife and son lived.
Tom figured he’d come upon the homestead by pure luck. And right now, staring at the ceiling and listening to Bullet snort and stomp at a fly every now and again, he had to wonder if it was good or bad luck that had brought him to Clara’s side.
She’d needed help, that was a given, but the fact he’d been the one to provide it was eating at his insides. He wasn’t here as some general all-around nice guy who fixed up broken barn doors and repaired leaky roofs. He was a lawman set upon finding her husband and taking him back to Kansas to stand trial for his crimes. When that happened, she’d hate him. Billy would, too, and that was gnawing away at his conscience like a coyote on a fresh kill.
In Tom’s eyes, Hugh wasn’t much of a husband or father, but there had to be a reason Clara stayed here, waiting for him to return. It was called love. The very thing that could tear a person apart like no other. He’d seen it numerous times. And he’d seen people who by rights were completely unlovable, yet there always seemed to be someone else who’d give their life for that same person, all because they loved them.
His hand slid inside his pocket, where it fiddled with the badge he’d taken off before riding into the homestead. His other hand was on his vest, right where the badge had left two tiny and permanent holes. He’d seen Clara’s face today, more than once, gazing fixedly at that spot. She’d never said anything, but the way she wouldn’t look him in the eye after staring at his vest had him believing she’d figured it out. Knew why he was here.
Up until tonight, she hadn’t mentioned her husband, and he hadn’t asked. Billy had said more than enough for him to know he had the right homestead. For some reason, one he couldn’t quite explain, he’d refrained from calling her Mrs. Wilson. Actually, he only called her ma’am. In the full scheme of things, that didn’t mean much, but from the time he’d entered the house and saved her from hitting the floor, he’d felt a draw to her. An uncanny one that just couldn’t be explained. He felt sorry for her, that was a given, but this went beyond sorrow.
His reputation of being a straight-shooting lawman who stuck to the law and didn’t let anything get in the way of that was the reason why the folks of Oak Grove had singled him out and asked him to move to their small town when their acting sheriff was killed during the Indian Wars. He’d been proud of his reputation, proud to serve the town, and hadn’t let a single resident down.
Oak Grove’s mayor, Josiah Melbourne, who, for Tom to keep on the straight and narrow, was probably the most trying man in town, had known about how Julia had been killed during a stagecoach robbery years ago and how, as a newly sworn-in deputy, Tom had brought her murderer in and seen justice was served. That was what Melbourne, and the entire town of Oak Grove, wanted again, and that was what he had to do.
Whether Hugh had a family or not shouldn’t matter. In most cases it wouldn’t, because in most cases he wouldn’t have met them.
Maybe that was what he should do something about. Hendersonville was a two-day ride. He could travel there and get the local sheriff to gather up a posse to stake out the place and arrest Hugh.
No, he had no way of knowing if Hugh would show up here or not. He had to get back out there, find Hugh’s trail. When he found him and arrested him, Clara wouldn’t know it had been him.
But she would eventually find out. And where would that leave her and Billy? She had no income, no way of surviving without the money Hugh dropped off at intervals. That was what it appeared happened. Billy said his father came home every once in a while with lots of presents and money for Clara to give to the neighbors to buy supplies for them whenever they traveled to Hendersonville.
The boy said he’d never been to Hendersonville. Not once. And that Clara hadn’t, either.
In all aspects, if anyone was to ask him, he’d say Hugh Wilson, outlawing aside, should rot in jail for the way he treated his wife and son.
* * *
Although his thoughts had kept him up most of the night, that didn’t prevent Tom from rising early. He’d barely finished his morning routine that included a quick shave before he heard Billy at the well, collecting a pail of water.
“Morning,” he shouted from the open barn door.
“Morning, Tom!” Billy called back. “Ma said if I see ya to say breakfast will be ready shortly! It’s biscuits and gravy! My favorite!”
“Sounds good! I’ll be right there.” Tom turned about to finish packing his gear in his saddlebags. During his sleepless night, he’d determined what he had to do. Leave. He’d told Clara that the work would be done this afternoon, and it would be. In fact, if he got right down to it, it would be done before noon, giving him a good start on getting back to tracking Hugh.
Mind set and gear stored, he headed toward the house, only to stop dead in his tracks at the doorway when he saw Clara.
* * *
The aching in her leg had awoken her early, only because it had been stiff from being used yesterday after lying around for so long. She’d known what would help, and it had. Long before the sun rose, she’d heated water and filled the washtub she used to bathe herself and Billy, and to wash clothes. It wasn’t large enough for her to completely sit in, but it was deep enough for her to soak her leg. Afterward, she’d given herself a thorough scrubbing, and before the water had completely cooled, washed her hair.
It felt good to be clean and to no longer smell like a saloon from the whiskey dousing Tom had used to bring down her fever. She hadn’t taken a bath in a real bathtub since before moving out here, before Billy had been born. It was just one of many things she wanted to do again, but she also knew that most of those things were little more than pipe dreams. This was her life, like it or not.
Tom was the reason she’d even thought about some of those things. Watching him with Billy, talking with him last night, had made her wish harder than ever that there was a small iota of hope that someday things could be different for her and for Billy.
She had put on one of her nicest dresses. A yellow one that she never wore because it would show the dirt too easily, which was silly because there was no one but her and Billy to notice if she got it dirty or not.
Furthermore, she always wore an apron to prevent stains.
Turning, because she’d heard Tom’s footsteps on the porch but had yet to hear him enter the house, she frowned at how he stood in the doorway as if scared to enter.
For a split second she was afraid to have him enter. He must have just gotten done shaving. His face was glistening, as was his hair that still showed the comb marks smoothing it back off his forehead. Even if she hadn’t already witnessed what a good man he was inside, she’d have to admit he was handsome. Maybe that was what took her breath away, knowing he wasn’t just good on the outside, but on the inside where it mattered, yet a person couldn’t see. How different her life would be if she was married to a man like that. Good on the inside. Then she’d have something to be proud of.
Tossing her head slightly to catch her wits, she said, “Good morning, Mr. Baniff. Please sit down. Everything will be ready shortly.”
He stepped forward, twirling his hat with his hands. “It smells good.”
“It’s just biscuits and gravy and some fried potatoes. I’m sorry I don’t have any bacon or ham, but with my injury I haven’t made it over to the Ryan place to pick up a smoked pig lately. I usually do that every few months, and will need to go get one soon. Oh, let me get you a cup of coffee.”
“I can get it,” he said while hanging his hat on the hook by the door.
“No, I’ll get it. You sit down.” Her insides were splattering about like water tossed in hot grease. She was talking as much as Billy usually did, too. It was all because she wasn’t used to a man like Tom. One who didn’t expect to be waited on. One who didn’t bark orders or snarl like a rabid dog just waiting for the chance to bite.
She poured him a cup of coffee and set it on the table. “Sit down. I’ll have your plate ready in a second.”
“What can I do to help? How’s the leg this morning?”
“Nothing, and the leg is fine. You really know a lot about doctoring. I hardly know it had been injured.”
She quickly filled a plate for him and set it on the table, then filled one for Billy, and walked back to the stove. With the coffeepot in one hand, she returned to the table.
“My cup is still full.” Glancing at the table, he frowned at Billy already eating before asking, “Aren’t you going to join us?”
When it was just she and Billy, she did sit at the table, but when Hugh was home, he expected her to be at the stove, ready to bring him a second helping.
“Oh, I’ll wait until you’ve had your fill.”
“This will be more than enough,” he said. “And if I want more, I’m perfectly capable of getting it.” He pushed his chair away from the table. “Actually, you’ve been on that leg long enough already. Sit down while I fix you a plate.”
Taken aback, she found it was a moment before her heart slowed down enough for her brain to function. He was already at the stove, piling food onto a plate. Hurrying toward the stove, she said, “I can do that.”
“So can I,” he said, taking the coffeepot from her hand. “While you sit down.”
He set the pot on the stove and with an expectant look, said, “Go on. Sit down.”
She did so and smiled, though it felt wobbly, at Billy, who was grinning from ear to ear. When a plate was set before her, as well as a cup of coffee, she thanked him, and withheld the need to insist this wasn’t necessary. Although it truly wasn’t. She’d never been waited on and wasn’t sure how to react to it. Or him. Merely looking his way made her stomach fill with butterflies. Lots and lots of precious little butterflies. She’d never felt anything even close to that and had to press a hand against her stomach.
“Where do you usually get the smoked pig?”
Her heart sank. “You don’t like it.” Pushing away from the table, she stood. “I’ll make you something else.”
“No, sit down. This is good. Very good, actually. I was just wondering where you get the pig from.”
“The Ryans are our neighbors,” Billy said. “It’s a long walk, but they have two kids. They’re girls, but still fun to play with.”
“How far is it?”
Clara had sat back down, and noted he was eating the meal as if it tasted good. She sincerely hoped it wasn’t just for show. “They live about ten miles from here.”
“And you walk? Carrying a smoked pig?”
The look of shock on his face almost made her sputter her coffee. Swallowing, and wiping her lips, she shook her head. “Mr. Ryan often gives us a ride home, or if busy, will deliver the pig later.”
“Oh, well, that’s better.” Looking over at Billy’s empty plate, Tom then asked, “You need more?”
Billy nodded.
She pushed away from the table again, but Tom shook his head as he stood. “Bring your plate, Billy. I’ll fill it while filling my own.” He then asked her, “How about you? You need more while I’m up?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.”
“How about coffee?”
“Good there, too.”
She couldn’t pull her eyes away as the two walked to the stove, and couldn’t stop a smile that formed when Tom asked Billy if he wanted one or two biscuits.
“Two,” Billy answered.
“Me, too. They are the best I’ve ever had.”
Her smile gradually slipped away when she realized she only had the supplies to make the biscuits because of money that Hugh had brought last winter, during his last visit. That was going on five months ago, which meant he’d probably be stopping by anytime now. Not ever the best provider by far, since Walter had died, Hugh usually managed to visit three times a year and leave enough money to keep her and Billy fed during his absences.
The irony was that today, that money was feeding a lawman.
Her appetite hadn’t been great before, but now it was completely gone. She pretended to eat while the other two finished their breakfast and spoke about what they’d get done today. Not only did Tom fully engage Billy in the conversation, he asked questions and then offered explanations on how they’d repair the porch roof and what they’d each need to do and in what order.
She’d wondered about him long and hard last night. Actually, since awaking and discovering him in her house yesterday. She understood she was lonely and that any visitor would occupy her thoughts, but he was different. He made her question things that she had no business questioning. Like why he wasn’t married. A woman would be lucky, extremely lucky, to have him as a husband, and a child wouldn’t know a better father. She’d never thought about a man in those terms before, or in the other terms she found herself thinking about. The kind of thoughts that made those butterflies take to dancing.
“Ma’am?”
Snapping her head up, she pinched her lips at the heat flowing into her cheeks. Praying he didn’t guess where her thoughts had been, she said, “Sorry, I was woolgathering.”
“What were you doing?” Billy asked.
“Thinking about how good that new porch roof will look,” Tom said, with a grin that made her heart skip a beat.
She nodded. “Indeed, it will look wonderful. I’m sure.”
“We’ll get started on it, if you don’t need us to do something first?” Tom asked.
“No, nothing I can think of.”
“Well, then, Billy,” Tom said while standing up. “Carry your plate to the counter and we’ll get started. Don’t forget your glass.”
Billy followed the instructions and headed out the door while Tom was still setting his things on the counter. He walked to the door and collected his hat, but then turned around. “What are you doing here? So far away from town? Far away from neighbors?”
Her throat clenched up and her cup rattled as she set it on the table. “It’s our home.”
He glanced out the door Billy had left open before saying, “There are lots of homes out there, ma’am. Lots of homes. Lots of places to live.”
She stood and started to clear the table. “I’m sure there are.”
“It’s an awful lot of work for you and Billy, out here all alone.”
Her hands started to tremble. “I don’t mind the work, and I prefer it that way. Just Billy and I alone.”
“Don’t you get lonely? Scared?”
Keeping the truth deeply hidden, she said, “Billy chatters too much for me to get lonely, and what good is being scared?”
His frown deepened, but then, as if not able to come up with another response, he nodded. “Thank you for breakfast. It was one of the best I’ve ever eaten.”
Clara bit her lip as she nodded. She’d wanted to tell him that she was lonely and scared all the time, and that all those other homes out there were for other people. Not her. She was where she belonged.
Very irrational thoughts started racing across her mind then, at the sound of Billy’s laughter and Tom’s low chuckle. He’d said he’d leave today, after the roof was repaired. She was trying to think of other repairs she could ask him to take care of. Something, anything, to keep him here just a bit longer.
Not for herself of course, but for Billy. Her son needed this. Needed a man to model, to learn from, to grow up to be like. One who was trustworthy and kind and would be there at all hours of the day and night. One a boy could be proud of.
A wife needed that, too. When her husband rode up the road, the wife should be happy to see him. Excited. Thankful he was home.
She’d thought about a man like that before, just hadn’t imagined she’d meet one.
Flustered by her own thoughts, Clara set into cleaning up the breakfast dishes. Then, with Tom and Billy busy on the roof, and needing to have her mind occupied, she set into washing clothes, including the sheets off the beds.
That was where she was, hanging clothes on the line behind the house, when she heard hoofbeats. Dropping the sheet she’d been clipping on the line, she ran around the house, fully expecting the worst.
What she saw made her heart drop out of her chest.
It wasn’t Hugh riding in, but Tom riding out.
She opened her mouth, but seeing the moisture on Billy’s cheeks, she closed her lips and her eyes, trying to ignore the pain in her chest.
Chapter Four (#u437de0cb-c7ec-5c07-a6bf-738c8b4ca527)
The porch roof had been done well before noon, as were all the chores and a few other tasks Tom had decided he needed to complete. When he couldn’t find anything else to justify staying longer, he’d saddled up his horse. Billy had wanted to ride with him, and had been upset when he’d said there wouldn’t be room.
There wouldn’t have been. The pig was a good-sized one. Quartered and wrapped in burlap, it hung off his saddle both in front and behind him.
Guilt at not telling Clara where he was going ate at him, but he hadn’t been completely sure where he was going. It was to the Ryans to see about a pig for her, and he’d told himself, depending upon what he’d learn, he might not be back. Just leaving wasn’t his way, but it might be easier in this instance.
Easier wasn’t his way, either.
How? Why had a woman and young boy gotten under his skin so thoroughly, so intensely that he wasn’t acting like himself? Thinking like himself.
He hadn’t even known them that long. But he did know them, and knew more about them after visiting with Donald and Karen Ryan.
The couple had been Clara’s closest neighbors for five years and had never met Hugh Wilson. Not once. But they’d heard plenty about him from her uncle. Walter hadn’t thought much about the man his niece had married. They didn’t believe that Walter had fallen in a ravine, and didn’t hold back in their opinion that he’d either been pushed, shoved, or shot and then thrown down the ravine. It just so happened that Hugh had been home during Walter’s fatal accident. Supposedly helping the old man round up cattle, which had been driven off the ranch and up to Montana, where they were sold within a week of the uncle’s death.
Walter, it seemed, had plenty of questions when it came to Hugh, and had confided in Donald about them. The old man felt that Hugh had ambushed and killed Clara’s parents while they were on their way west, and then ridden in and rescued her. A scared young girl, distraught after burying both of her parents on the Nebraska prairie. When they’d arrived at his place, Clara was already pregnant, and Donald said Walter rued the day he’d done it, but thinking it was best, he’d forced Hugh to marry Clara.
Hashing over all Donald had said during the ride back to her place stirred a powerful bout of anger inside Tom. One he hadn’t felt since chasing down the outlaw who’d killed Julia.
He’d never expected to feel that way again, and knew he shouldn’t in this instance, but couldn’t stop it. Had no control over it.
Mrs. Ryan had told him something else, that she’d once asked Clara why she stayed out here all by herself and that Clara’s only response had been to say, “And go where?”
If he’d ever considered not going back to her place today, Tom had completely changed his mind. Clara was afraid to leave because Hugh would find her wherever she went. She hadn’t said that, nor had Mrs. Ryan, but his gut said that was the main reason Clara stayed put. She was afraid for herself and afraid for her son. Afraid for what Hugh would do when he discovered they were gone and found them. His gut told him something else. Hugh had done something to make her that afraid. That goaded him like nothing had before. That a man could treat his wife in such a way. Then again, Hugh Wilson wasn’t much of a man. Anyone who robbed, thieved, killed, was a beast, not a man. People like that deserved to be caged up, sent to prison, where they couldn’t hurt anyone else, ever again.
Especially not a woman as gentle and kind as Clara.
The more he thought about that, the more he wanted to know.
Both Clara and Billy were in the front yard when he rode up. He’d watched Billy run from the barn to the house and then saw Clara rush out the door while he was still riding down the hill into the valley where the house sat. He tried to ignore what the sight of that did to him, how it lit up his insides, but in the end, gave in and let the smile that tugged on his lips form as he rode in the yard.
“We thought you’d left,” she said.
There was a hint of accusation in her voice, and though it shouldn’t, for he’d said he’d planned on leaving, it bothered him. He didn’t want to cause her any unjust pain. She was good at pretending. He’d seen how she’d favored the leg, but acted as if it was already healed. She was good at keeping things hidden. A lot of things. So was he.
“I did.” He patted one of the burlap quarters hanging off the saddle. “I went to get that smoked pig you talked about this morning.”
“I hadn’t meant for you to go get one,” she said.
The utter surprise on her face made his smile grow. “I know. But it’ll be a while before that leg’s good enough for you to walk that far.” He stopped Bullet and swung out of the saddle to walk the horse the rest of the way to the house.
She shook her head while fighting to hide a smile that kept creeping forward on her lips. “Well, you left before lunch and it’s nearly supper time. You must be starved.”
“I had two helpings of your amazing biscuits and gravy to tide me over.”
“Two helpings weren’t enough for all day.”
“Want me to help you carry that pig down into the cellar?” Billy asked.
“Can’t do it without you,” Tom replied.
“Can I unsaddle Bullet for you afterward, and feed him, too?” Billy asked.
“He’d like that,” Tom said, watching how Clara’s face shone at her son’s offers.
Catching him watching her, she patted her hair, as if checking that the coil was still pinned to the side of her head. Then, as if embarrassed by her actions, she spun around. “I’ll have supper ready by the time you two are done, so wash up afterward and come inside.”
“Don’t have to tell us twice,” Tom said, rubbing Billy’s patch of wayward hair and watching her step onto the porch. “Does she?”
“No, sir,” Billy replied while making a fist and pumping one arm.
A short time later, when walking into the house, Tom was still grinning at the boy’s antics, and hers, or maybe it was just that he was happy. It had been a long time since someone had been there to greet him upon arrival. Someone happy to see him, anyway. Most folks weren’t smiling when a sheriff rode into their yard.
It was more than that, though. Sitting down at the table, sharing a meal with Clara and Billy, carrying on conversations with them, all of those were things he was looking forward to. He’d shared many meals with families back in Oak Grove, and enjoyed them, but this was different. This was something he wanted. There was something else he wanted, too.
“I hope you like fried chicken, Mr. Baniff. I had a hen that was pecking at the others.”
“I do like fried chicken, but I’m wondering if you’d mind calling me Tom.” He shouldn’t be so forward, but if he was going to convince her to leave, he needed her to consider him a friend. Someone she could trust.
“Boy, it smells good in here, doesn’t it, Tom?” Billy said.
The boy’s timing or comment couldn’t have been more perfect. Tom didn’t say a word, merely lifted a brow that he hoped she read as saying that if Billy could use his first name there was no reason she couldn’t.
Her cheeks turned pink as she bowed her head slightly before turning to the stove. “Sit down, both of you.”
Other than the platter she was piling pieces of fried chicken on, the table was set, so he waited until she’d forked the last piece out of the pan before he lifted the platter, signaling he’d carry it to the table.
She didn’t protest as she wiped her hands on her apron while walking to the table. He appreciated that. A woman should expect a man to assist her in all aspects of life, and a man should want to.
As they ate, Billy talked about all the kindling he’d chopped that afternoon, and about helping Clara pluck the chicken clean, stating it had been a long time since they’d had fried chicken. It had been a long time since Tom had eaten fried chicken, too, and doubted he’d ever had any this tasty.
“That was the best chicken I’ve ever eaten, Clara, thank you,” he said when he couldn’t take another bite. Food, no matter what it was, tasted better when shared with others, but that chicken had been exceptional.
“Me, too, Ma,” Billy said.
“I’m glad you like it,” she answered. “Both of you.”
“We liked it so much, we’re going to do the dishes for you,” Tom said.
“We are?” Billy asked.
“Yes.”
“No.”
He and Clara had spoken at the same time. Him nodding while she shook her head.
“You’ve been on that leg long enough today,” Tom said. “It can’t heal completely without rest, so you just sit there and tell us if we’re doing something wrong.”
“How can you do dishes wrong?” Billy asked.
“I couldn’t just sit here, Mr.—Tom. I’d feel guilty.”
“Then go lie down, or go sit on the porch,” he said before turning to Billy. “Considering we did the dishes the entire time she was ill, I don’t think we’ll get anything wrong, do you?”
“Nope,” Billy said, now more than happy to help. So happy, he stood up and carried his plate to the counter. “I forgot about us doing them while she was sick. That wasn’t so bad, so I reckon it won’t be tonight, either.”
“I reckon you’re right,” Tom said, stacking the empty potato bowl atop the empty platter. Looking at Clara, he stood. “Go sit on the porch if watching us will make you nervous.” He was concerned about her overdoing it after being so ill, mainly because if he could convince her to leave, actually doing so wasn’t going to be easy. She didn’t own a horse and walking all the way to Hendersonville was out of the question. He’d have to ride there, rent a rig and return for her and Billy. Or involve the Ryans. The trouble with that would be how Hugh would react to her and Billy’s absence, which could put the Ryans in danger.
“I’m not nervous.”
He was, but not about doing dishes. “Good. Then you’ll have no worries while you sit out there and watch the sun go down.”
* * *
Another first, sitting on the front porch while someone else cleaned her kitchen. She’d had many firsts since Tom had arrived, and it saddened her to know that she would never experience a man with his qualities again. They had to be few and far between. If-onlys started to form in her head and she purposefully ignored them. There was no sense wishing things were different when they couldn’t be. She’d tried to change things once, and despite the consequences she’d faced, would have tried again if it had only been her. Billy was the only thing about her life she didn’t want to change, would never change, and he was worth whatever she had to do to keep him safe.
She couldn’t help but wonder if Tom could be her savior. Take her and Billy someplace that Hugh would never find her. It was a nice pipe dream, but she couldn’t wager his life just to make hers better. Nor did she believe such a place existed. Why should it? She’d chosen her life and now had to live it.
Still sitting on the porch trying to bury her grief, she glanced toward the door when it opened.
“All done, Ma,” Billy said, barreling out the door as usual. “Tom says I should bury these here bones so the scavengers don’t come sniffing around, so that’s what I’m gonna do. Bury them good and deep.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” she said. “And thank you for doing the dishes. I appreciate that.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, already running down the steps. “Doing dishes ain’t so bad when you got someone doing them with you.”
“That’s how most things are,” Tom said, walking out the door. “Life in general is more fun when you have someone sharing it with you.”
Although her mind screamed to know, Clara waited until he sat down in the chair beside her and set her chair back in motion before asking, “Do you have someone who shares your life?” He’d said there was no wife, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t someone ready to become his wife.
“I have lots of someones,” he said.
Not entirely certain what he meant, she waited for him to say more while trying to hide the disappointment stirring her stomach. Which wasn’t right because she had no reason to be jealous of the people in his life. Except she was. Especially whoever was waiting to become Mrs. Tom Baniff.
Setting his chair in motion with the toe of one boot while staring out at the slowly setting sun, he said, “The town I live in down in Kansas is full of people I share my life with every day.”
More curious than ever, she asked, “Who are these people?”
“Well, let’s see. There’s Chester Chadwick. He’s a really good sort, would give a stranger the shirt off his back without a single thought as to why not to. He and his wife, Joyce, have a boy, Charlie, about Billy’s age, who sneaks off to go fishing every chance he gets. Chester is forever having to collect Charlie from the river and take him back to school. There are weeks where I wonder if Chester spends more time in the school building than Charlie does. And there’s Brett Blackwell, who is about as tall and wide as your barn door, and his heart is almost as big. He has two boys about Billy’s age, too, and Brett’s wife just had a baby girl this past winter. Then there’s Teddy White. He owns the newspaper and—”
“Let me guess,” she interrupted. “He has a boy Billy’s age.”
His grin was as enchanting as it was charming. “Nope. Teddy’s wife just had a baby girl on Christmas Day, but Rollie Austin has two boys around that age. Kade and Wiley. You never know where you’re going to find those two. Not even Rollie does.”
Her gaze had gone to Billy, who was on the far side of the barn digging a hole to bury the chicken bones that had been licked clean. More often than not, she wished Billy had others to play with. “Seems everyone in your town has children.”
“Not everyone,” he said. “Steve and Mary Putnam don’t. Not yet, anyway, but they do have two pet raccoons, and Mary has a twin sister, Maggie. I can’t tell them apart. Maggie’s husband is Jackson Miller. He builds the finest furniture in all of the state.”
He laughed then, and the sound was so delightful it made her giggle. “What’s so funny about that?”
“Jackson also builds coffins, and Angus O’Leary has had him build three for him so far, but none have suited him.”
She covered her mouth to hide a louder giggle. “You mean he’s ordering his own coffin while he’s still alive?”
“Yes, ma’am. Angus is a silver-haired little Irishman who came into some money a few years ago. No one knows exactly how—some sort of inheritance—and because he’s getting up in years, Angus has planned his funeral in advance, including having his casket built. I can’t recall what was wrong with each one of them, but last I heard, Jackson was ordering wood for another one. Angus also wants to go out in style, so he wears a three-piece suit and tall top hat every day. Gets a shave every day, too. The barber, Otis Taylor, opens his shop even on Sundays, just for Angus. Of course, Otis had to get a special permit from the mayor to be open on Sundays.”
Enjoying all he was saying, she said, “Your town sounds like a fun place to live. What’s its name?”
“It is a fun town. A good town, too. Oak Grove. Oak Grove, Kansas. It’s somewhat in the middle of nowhere, but most towns in Kansas are in the middle of nowhere.”
Looking around, at land she’d stared at for years and years, Clara said, “Lots of places are in the middle of nowhere.”
“They are,” he answered with a nod. “But sharing them with others makes them somewhere to call home.”
She called this place home because it was the only place she could live, not because she wanted to or because she shared it with others, yet she nodded. “I suspect you’re right about that.” Still curious, she asked, “Are there any women in Oak Grove? Those who aren’t married?”
“Funny you should ask that.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “Why?”
“Because there weren’t too many women in Oak Grove, so the town decided to do something about it. The Oak Grove Betterment Committee has paid for several mail-order brides to come to town from back east.”
“And have they? Brides come to town?”
“Yes, they have. Steve and Jackson, Brett and Teddy, Rollie and several others have all married women who came in on the train.”
“Really?”
He grinned again and gave a single head nod. “Yep, really.”
“Are there others?”
“Yes. Doc Graham married—”
“I mean other brides waiting to marry someone.”
His gaze was on Billy as the boy carried the shovel back to the barn. “Josiah Melbourne, he’s the mayor, paid for a full dozen.”
Although she truly wanted to ask if one of those dozen mail-order brides was for him, she couldn’t get up the nerve. However, she did say, “If Oak Grove is so wonderful, what are you doing traveling through Wyoming?”
He had his elbow on the arm of the chair and his fist beneath his chin. “Looking for someone.”
His chair stopped and she held her breath, preparing for him to say Hugh’s name. She had no clue what her response would be. There was no loyalty inside her to Hugh, but there was to Billy. And there was shame. Shame that Hugh was her husband.
“Will you look at that?”
Her heart stopped. Afraid to look toward the roadway that was little more than a pathway through grass that was slightly shorter than the rest due to seldom use, she kept her gaze on him, swallowed hard and prayed there wasn’t a rider on the roadway. “What? What is it?”
“The biggest toad I’ve ever seen,” he said, leaping to his feet. “Billy! Come quick!”
What transpired next soon had tears rolling down Clara’s cheeks, and she had to cross her legs to keep from peeing. There wasn’t one but two toads, and watching Billy and Tom run, jump and trip over one another in their attempts to catch the toads had her laughing harder than she’d ever laughed. She giggled and squealed at their antics and gave directions, when she was able to speak, at which way the toad had gone. When they both finally stood, each with a toad in their hands, she clapped at their accomplishments.
After a short bout of comparing the toads, Tom knelt down and let his go, and a moment later, Billy did the same. They then stopped at the water trough and washed their hands. While Billy ran to get the scrap bucket he’d dropped by the barn door, Tom walked to the porch.
With a huff, he sat back down in the rocking chair. “That was fun.”
His grin was still as large and glowing bright as the sun making its way behind the hills.
“It looked fun.”
“You should have joined us,” he said.
Though the pain was more tolerable every hour, her leg was still too sore for such shenanigans. Not wanting him to question her recovery, she said, “I’m too old to chase toads.”
“Too old?” He shook his head. “Chasing toads is like going fishing. And no one’s ever too old to go fishing.”
“Are we going fishing?” Billy asked, running up the steps. “When? Now?”
“No,” Clara replied. They hadn’t gone fishing since Uncle Walter had died and Hugh had sold the horse and wagon. The river was too far away to walk. “You two worked so hard to catch those toads, why did you let them go?”
The look Billy and Tom shared was identical. It was as if they couldn’t believe she’d just asked that.
“Keeping them isn’t any fun,” Tom said. “It’s the catching them that’s fun.”
“Yeah,” Billy said while nodding in agreement. “And I’m gonna go see if I can find some more.”
She was about to tell him to put the pail in the house first when Tom held out a hand.
“I’ll take that inside for you,” he said.
“Thanks!” Billy handed over the pail and was gone in a flash.
Tom set the pail down beside his chair and pushed a foot against the floor to set the rockers in motion. She rocked in her chair, too, as her mind wouldn’t let go of what he’d said.
“Is that how it is with most things? Fun to catch but not fun to keep?”
He shrugged. “I suspect that depends on what you catch.”
“I suspect,” she said, not certain why a statement so simple troubled her mind.
“Take fish, for instance. Keeping them isn’t as fun as catching them, but some are mighty tasty.”
She nodded. “That’s true.”
“Whereas toads, well, no one wants to eat toads.” He turned her way and gave an exaggerated look of shock. “You don’t, do you?”
She tried, but couldn’t suppress a giggle. “No.”
“Well, that’s good,” he said, turning back to watch Billy run around while keeping his chair rocking slow and steady.
She wondered if he liked chasing outlaws, for that was what he did. It was dangerous and hard, but he must like doing it or he wouldn’t do it. He hadn’t told her that, just as he hadn’t told her he was a lawman, but she knew. Was certain of it. He was the good in the good against bad. The lessons he’d already taught Billy proved it. The most intriguing part was that Billy hadn’t even known he was being taught a lesson, yet the things Tom had shown him would stay with him forever.
They sat in silence, listening to nothing but the wind rustling the leaves of the cottonwood tree at the side of the house, a few evening birds and the echoing thuds of Billy’s footsteps as he ran about, searching the ground for toads.
Maybe Tom was listening to a few more things than that. She certainly was. Her inner thoughts were screaming inside her head. Proclaiming things that could never be and denying things that were certain.
Those certainties won out. The barn door was fixed, as were the corral and the porch roof; there was enough wood piled up to make it until this time next year; and he’d brought home a smoked pig. Withholding a heavy sigh that threatened to collapse her chest, Clara rose to her feet and took a step in order to press a hand against one of the rough-hewn beams holding the porch roof overhead. “You’re leaving tomorrow, aren’t you?”
She felt more than heard him rise and step up behind her, and when she turned around, she was unable to look away. His eyes were so dark brown, and so, so full of sincerity. If only...
“That depends on you, Clara.”
Her heart stalled in her chest and she leaned heavier against the post. “On me?”
“You know why I’m here.”
She did, so it shouldn’t be so hard to admit. But it was. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she said, “I don’t know anything. Don’t know where he is or what he did.” When his lips parted, she shook her head. “And I don’t want to know.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “Not knowing—”
Reaching out, she laid a hand on his forearm. “I know not knowing doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t even mean it didn’t happen. But...” She withdrew her hand because she had to pat her chest in order to keep from crying as she forced the words out. “If I don’t know the particulars, someday, when Billy asks why I didn’t tell him, I can honestly say it’s because I didn’t know.” She drew in a breath. “That may sound paltry to you, but it’s not to me. There is very little I can give my son, except love and protection.”
He grasped her elbow. His hold firm, solid, while being kind. Just like him. Which made tears threaten to erupt.
“I can help you with that, Clara. I can take you away from here.”
Another if-only. “To where? There’s nowhere I can go.”
“Yes, there is. There are places you can go. People who will help—”
She pressed a finger to his lips. “I tried that once, Tom, shortly before Walter died.” Removing her fingers to press them against her lips, she swallowed before she was able to continue. “We made it all the way to Denver. Billy and I. I thought it was a big enough town, that we could get lost in the crowd, or move on when...” There were certain things she refused to remember.
“I won’t let anything happen to you or Billy.”
He was sincere and it was easy to believe he thought that, but she knew different. Didn’t want to, but did. “And I don’t want anything to happen to you. But it will.” Touching one of the tiny pinholes on his vest, she said, “Just like lawmen, outlaws band together. Even those who don’t know each other. They have rules they live by, and though they don’t put out wanted posters, they let each other know who they’re looking for and why, and how much they’ll pay to get them back.”
Twisting, she watched as Billy dived to the ground and a toad hopped away, barely missing being captured. “Here we only have one outlaw to worry about. Out there, in the rest of the world, there are hundreds.”
With a gentle touch, Tom laid a hand on her cheek, forcing her to turn back to him. “I’ll find him. Arrest him.”
Her heart was wrenching so hard her entire chest burned. “Oh, Tom, if anyone can, I believe it could be you. Which is one more reason why Billy and I can’t go anywhere with you. I don’t even want Hugh to know you were here.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does to those who know how outlaws think. When someone rats on an outlaw, all the other outlaws hear about it, whether they ran together or not, and if there’s any chance that person knows anything about them, they’ll be on the lookout for that person.”
That was a simplistic way of explaining an integral lifestyle that she’d come to understand thoroughly over the years. One there was no escape from.
Tom’s gaze was thoughtful as he asked, “Do you have any idea where he’s at?”
She shook her head.
“Would you tell me if you did?”
Once again, though it pained her, she shook her head.
Chapter Five (#u437de0cb-c7ec-5c07-a6bf-738c8b4ca527)
Frustration like he’d never known burned inside him, but Tom couldn’t determine if it was because of her commitment to Hugh Wilson, or his desire to pull her into his arms and hold her there until she realized how big he was. How strong and steadfast. How the reputation that preceded him, the one he lived up to every day, said he always got his man. He would this time, too, and he would protect her.
He tried to keep his emotions in check, but the fear and sorrow that had surfaced in her eyes as she talked was eating away at him.
“Hugh didn’t just decide to become an outlaw one day.” Her voice was soft and low and cracked as she spoke. “He was born and bred that way, and his circle of connections spreads far and wide.”
Tom wanted to tell her that his years of being a lawman had already taught him all that she’d said, and more, but instincts said it wouldn’t do any good. Hugh had a hold over her, and it infuriated him to recognize that hold was Billy. She hadn’t said it, but Hugh was holding her son over her head to the point she’d give up any opportunity for a normal life for her son. Instincts also told him she’d fight to the death for her son, too. Most mothers would, but she was beyond most mothers. Beyond most women.
As thoughts twisted inside his head, he started, “What if I—?”
“I’m sorry, Tom. I really am.” She stepped away. “But there’s nothing you can do. Nothing anyone can do.”
“I don’t believe that.”
She closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, her lashes were damp. “Will you believe me when I say I will never leave here? Not willingly? Because I won’t. Not for anyone or anything.”
He had little choice but to believe her. And he didn’t like that. Not at all.
She turned about and shouted, “It’s getting dark, Billy. Time to come in and get ready for bed.” As she turned back around, she said, “I’ll have breakfast ready early, and a bag of food for your travels.”
Without waiting for his reply, she walked into the house.
Tom didn’t follow, telling himself he had to be satisfied with the fact he’d tried.
Billy leaped up onto the porch. “You coming in, Tom?”
“No, I’m heading to the barn.”
Billy nodded, but then bolted forward and, to Tom’s surprise, wrapped both arms around his waist, hugging him with all the strength a seven-year-old had.
“Thanks for catching toads with me, Tom. That was the most fun I’ve had in my whole life.”
His heart took a solid tumble as he patted the boy’s back. “Me, too, Billy. Me, too.”
As quick as the hug had started, it ended, and Billy shot toward the open doorway. “See you tomorrow, Tom.”
“See you,” he replied, catching sight of the tears on Clara’s cheeks as she pushed the door closed behind her son’s entrance.
Though it was no different than any other night that he’d slept out there, the barn was quieter and lonelier, and his thoughts darker. Ultimately, he couldn’t force her to leave, and the longer he stayed here, the colder Hugh’s trail became. If he didn’t want to return to Oak Grove empty-handed, he needed to hit the road.
Empty-handed. Hell, he felt empty all the way to his toes. Clara had made it clear there was nothing he could do, nothing anyone could do, to make her leave here.
Tom considered packing up and heading out, stopping miles away, wherever exhaustion would finally kick in, but then decided he’d be better off getting in a few hours of sleep first.
However, his mind wasn’t up to cooperating. It took him down roads he hadn’t thought of in years. Being a kid. Playing with his brothers. Julia. How much he’d loved her and grieved over her death. His parents, and how even after all these years, a wink from his father still made his mother blush. That made him smile.
It must have also lulled him into slumber because he’d been sound asleep when something startled him so hard he jolted upright. A crack of thunder that rattled the barn had him letting out a sigh of relief. The rain arrived within moments, pelting the side of the barn so hard water flew in between the boards. He moved his bedroll farther away from the wall in order to stay dry as the wind drove the rain through every minor crevice.

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