Bandit's Hope (26 page)

A tiny frown appeared between her brows, but she smiled. "I do trust you, Tiller. Someday you’ll know just how much."

He smoothed the soft skin of her chin with his thumb. "Then there’s the other reason I didn’t bring home supplies …"

"Yes?"

He gave her his best roguish grin. "The thought never entered my mind."

She shoved him away. "Oh, you!"

Laughing, he gathered her close. "The more I think about it, the more I like the idea of waiting for daylight." He winked. "That way I can stare at your pretty profile all the way into Canton."

She lowered her lashes. "I hope you find as much pleasure in staring at my uncle."

Tiller’s brow shot up. "Joe’s coming?"

"I’m afraid so."

He groaned. "Can’t you talk him out of it?"

"I dare not try, or he’ll be suspicious."

"If it’s a chaperone he’s worried about, we’ll take Miss Vee. Or Rainy."

Mariah patted his chest. "I’m sorry, Tiller. He’s coming along, and that’s the end of it. My uncle’s a very stubborn man. Once he gets an idea in his head, you can’t drive it out with your hammer."

Tiller glanced at the tool in question, hefting its weight. "It wouldn’t take a forceful blow. Just enough for an afternoon nap."

"Tiller McRae!"

He grinned. "You know I’m teasing, but the idea is tempting." He softened his eyes. "There are things I’d planned to say to you, but the matter won’t bear your uncle’s prying ears."

Blushing, she nodded. "I’ll admit I looked forward to those hours alone with you to talk about our future."

"’Our future.’ That has a nice ring to it." He gave her a lazy smile. "Hours alone with you sounds even better."

Planting her fingers against his chest, she pushed away. "I’d best get back, or he’ll come looking for me."

Tiller walked with her to the barn door. "I’ll do like you say, honey. I’ll keep our secret as long as it takes." He dropped a soft kiss on her ear then lingered to whisper. "I only hope it won’t be a lengthy wait."

Watching her go, he recalled Otis’s God-words promising that things would turn out good in the end. Maybe his ill-fated life had taken a lucky turn at last. If he had to be patient for a spell, Mariah was worth the wait.

A shadow crossed the floor, and Tiller spun.

Just the wind dipping a branch past the window.

He shook himself and released a shuddering breath. It wasn’t the time for seeing ghosts. He had his hands full enough with the old warhorse setting up camp inside Bell’s Inn.

TWENTY-SEVEN

T
iller tugged the reins and eased Sheki around a miry hole in the Trace, leftover from the relentless summer rains. As long as he avoided the low places, the going was easy. His frequent trips into Canton had reestablished portions of the road, pushing back the heavy overgrowth threatening to reclaim the old trail.

He headed west as soon as he could and followed the trail into town. As Mariah predicted, Uncle Joe’s stern profile, nowhere near as pleasing as hers, glowered beside Tiller on the front seat of the rig.

Mariah made small talk, pointing out the wild herbs and strawberries and commenting on the greening of the hillsides, helped along by the recent downpours.

Joe answered in grunts, meeting Tiller’s few comments with a raised brow and harsh stare. Even when the old coyote nodded off, his head bobbing to his chest, he slept with one ear open, raising his head to glare when Tiller spoke quietly to Mariah.

The miles and hours dragged. Tiller sagged with relief when the tall white spires of Canton’s Grace Episcopal Church came into view over the treetops. He decided to speak his mind whether Uncle Joe liked it or not. "I’ll drop the two of you in the square then take the wagon to have the wheels looked at. The way they’re squealing, the rear axle needs greasing."

"Will you be joining us soon?"

The hopeful lilt in Mariah’s voice spun Uncle Joe around so fast it’s a wonder his neck didn’t squeal.

She ducked her head. "I just meant that it’s very close to lunchtime. I thought we might sit for a meal before we start shopping."

Tiller turned aside to hide his grin. If Mariah wasn’t careful, she’d give up her own secret. He leaped to the ground and handed her down before Uncle Joe had a chance, raising both brows and winking when Joe turned his head. She rewarded him with a blush and a shy smile.

Tiller tipped his hat. "I’ll drop off the rig then meet you in front of the courthouse. There’s a café next door that serves fork-tender roast and fairly respectable rolls." He winked. "Though not as good as yours."

Joe swept around the back of the wagon. "We don’t have time for such dawdling, Mariah. There are many supplies to buy, and it’s a long way home. We’ll find some hardtack and jerky."

Mariah’s bright smile slid away. "Oh, Uncle, please. I’m starving. Our breakfast didn’t have enough substance to stick." She tucked her dainty chin. "It would be such a treat to have someone else do the cooking for a change."

Joe’s resolve wilted under the spell of Mariah’s big eyes. He gazed toward the courthouse. "Where is this place you speak of?"

Grinning, Tiller ducked his head. They had something in common after all. He pointed out the narrow building with the checkered curtains in the windows. "Go on over. I won’t be long."

"Maybe they have coffee fit for a man to drink," Joe mumbled as Mariah took his arm. "The slush John Coffee has Viola trained to make tastes like swamp water."

Shaking his head, Tiller climbed aboard the wagon and turned Sheki toward the smithy. He couldn’t get shed of the horse and rig fast enough. After giving instructions concerning both, he hustled up the boardwalk, eager to belly up to the table. Even the strong coffee Joe mentioned sounded good.

Tiller couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten his fill. His shirts were baggy, his ribs stuck out, and his trousers drooped down past his waist. "The lean times are over," he told himself, loping toward the café. The checkered curtains were just ahead, and his darlin’ waited inside with a pocketful of money. One thing was certain—he wouldn’t leave Canton hungry.

The waitress frowned at the empty basket. "Dreadful sorry, folks." She picked it up. "I thought I just filled this with rolls."

Mariah laughed. "Oh, you did. My friend here enjoyed them very much. Bring us another basket if you don’t mind."

Tiller’s cheeks were too full to speak, but he nodded his agreement.

Uncle Nukowa shot him a contemptuous scowl. "Just like the greedy white man, always taking more than he needs."

Mariah seethed. He spoke in their language, but she answered in English. "Yes, he has quite an appetite, doesn’t he? It’s the hunger of a hardworking man." She let the fire in her eyes say the rest.

Her uncle’s hand swept over the stack of empty dishes and the slice of apple pie in front of Tiller’s plate. "Who pays for all this?"

Mariah wished he’d stuck with Choctaw. Her patience at an end, she decided the time had come to set her uncle straight. "My understanding with Tiller is between us. Please don’t insult him again or dishonor me by questioning our arrangement."

He shrugged. "I was just asking."

Tiller calmly pulled the pie plate toward him and poured a dollop of cream over the top. "It’s all right, Mariah. Your uncle’s looking out for your interests." Leaning over the table with a bold stare, he raised his chin. "Sir, if there’s ever a day when I don’t earn my keep around Bell’s Inn, I hope you’ll invite me to leave." He nodded. "Are we understood?"

Before her uncle could respond, Tiller continued. "I’m not in the habit of allowing a woman to fight my battles, but since Mariah has opened the can, let me stir the worms." He laid down his fork. "On the subject of battles, I’m not sure why you’ve declared war against me. Since you hardly know me, I don’t feel you have just cause."

Uncle Nukowa watched Tiller with guarded eyes.

"That said, if I’ve done anything to rile you, it wasn’t deliberate, and I apologize." Turning on the full force of his charm, Tiller offered his hand. "So I say we shake and start over."

Nibbling at her pie, Mariah held her breath.

The sullen wall Uncle Nukowa had erected crumbled twitch by twitch on his proud face, toppling with a grudging smile. "I suppose we could do that," he said, reaching across the bread basket.

Before their palms met, a light touch at Mariah’s elbow spun her around.

"I thought it was you, dear." The tall, gaunt man behind her smiled warmly. "It’s good to see you, Mariah."

Blackness swirled. Mariah gulped for air to clear the murky fog. Her chest thundered and her tongue forged to the roof of her mouth. She tried to bolt from her chair and flee, but her limbs wouldn’t budge.

"How have you been holding up?" Dr. Moony asked, his eyes a sea of compassion.

She made a strangled sound, followed by a guttural moan, worsened by the bite of spiced apple hung in her throat. Frantic, she silently pleaded with Tiller across the table.

Staring back helplessly, his freckles stood on tiptoe.

TWENTY-EIGHT

M
ariah was choking. Or having some sort of a spell.

Tiller’s gaze jumped to the tall man at her side. Somehow, it was this geezer’s fault.

He half rose from his chair. "Mariah?"

She struggled to swallow as if something had her by the throat and then sucked in a breath of air. "D–Dr. Moony," she finally managed, blinking up at the stranger. "How nice to see you." Pulling her napkin from her lap, she dabbed the corners of her mouth, the starched cloth no whiter than her face.

Relief settled Tiller against his chair.

"I planned to ride out and check on you," the man was saying. "Then I got your letter." He patted her shoulder. "I was sorry to hear that John Coffee was gone."

Mariah shot to her feet, loudly clearing her throat. "Doctor …" She pointed at the door. "May we continue this conversation outside?"

He held up his finger. "In a moment." With a warm smile, he nodded at Joe. "I’m happy to see you’ve come to stay with your niece. I hated to think of her all alone out there."

The pallor of Mariah’s cheeks rose to a fiery mottled red. "Please, sir?"

"The onset of John’s illness was sudden," the doctor continued. "Of course, his leaving us so quickly was no surprise."

"Didn’t surprise me, either." Joe swung his chair around and casually crossed his legs. "It’s just like my brother-in-law to run off and leave his responsibilities on someone else’s shoulders."

Flustered, the doctor stared. "Forgive me, Joe, but it’s not like the poor man had a choice. John was quite ill, you know."

Joe folded his arms over his chest. "Just so he returns stronger than when he left. I have a few things to say to him."

The doctor’s throat bobbed a few times before he nodded. "Of, course. You mean when he"—he twirled his finger in the air and rolled his eyes—
"returns."
He gave a nervous laugh. "I must say, you people have the quaintest customs."

Mariah hooked her arm in his and urged him toward the door. "If you don’t mind, I have something of a delicate nature to discuss. In private."

Nearly pulling the lanky man off balance, Mariah hauled him over the threshold.

Tiller’s puzzled gaze met Joe’s across the table. "What do you suppose that was about?"

Joe shrugged. "The mind of a woman is a deep river. I try not to fish there."

Nodding thoughtfully, Tiller cut the rest of his pie in half and slid a portion onto Joe’s empty plate. "That was Mr. Bell’s doctor?"

Joe pulled the offering in front of him and took a bite. "Yes. For many years."

Tiller nodded. "Do you know what sickness he has?"

Joe shook his head. "I suppose I should’ve asked."

His motives a mite selfish, Tiller posed a thought. "To hear him and Mariah talk, Mr. Bell could be gone a long …
long
time."

"You’re right." Joe craned his neck to stare at the door, the concern Tiller had hoped to rouse creasing his forehead. "Maybe I should go ask him."

"So you see, doctor," Mariah said, "among my people the subject of death is forbidden, so the less said about the departed, the better. Once we’ve completed the mourning ritual, we’re not allowed to utter their names again."