High Mountain Drifter (6 page)

"Me?" She hopped backward into the foyer, needing a little space, a little air. He felt far too close, the mammoth size of him. Muscles shaped the line of his black duster, testifying to his superior physical power.

"You were the one kidnapped, right?" His gruff voice gentled a bit. "The sheriff told me Craddock is an old beau of yours. So we need to talk. I need information."

"Of course." Her hands shook, making it hard to grip her cane properly. She eased back and bumped into the wall. Since she was there, she leaned against it, dragging her gaze to the open French doors and the parlor beyond where her sisters and friends were busily chatting. "But I'm afraid we have company over."

"I can come back, but if you want me to start right away--"

"I do." If he didn't have a gentle, almost understanding lilt to his voice, this would be easier. If he were the kind of man she'd thought he was when she'd blown up at him in the street today, she wouldn't be blushing. She wouldn't feel so off balance. "We could speak in the library."

"I suppose I could survive that." Dry humor rang in those words as he thumped through the doorway, shrinking the size of the foyer. He closed the door behind him and swept off his hat, rainwater dripping. "This won't take long."

"Good." She gestured toward a set of doors farther down the ornate hallway. "Let's get this over with."

"My sentiments exactly." His boots knelled against the red oak floor. He glanced around, taking in the high coved ceilings, the fancy wallpaper, the gloss of red oak floors. A woman with a strong family resemblance to Verbena stepped into the doorway at the left.

"What's going on?" she wanted to know, big blue eyes focused on him. "Oh, you are the guy from the buckboard."

"The bounty hunter," he told her, aware of Verbena ahead of him, waiting in the hallway. She didn't exactly look at him. The lamplight shone on her, emphasizing her bruises.

"The bounty hunter?" yet another woman asked, coming to stare out at him. This one was a strawberry blond and betrayed a hint of fear when she spotted him.

Not unexpected. He shrugged. Feeling like a giant, he towered above the rest of the women coming up to look at him. Much more than the promised five. He blushed, feeling too rough, too uncivilized. Instinct told him to back up, head outside, get some space but he stood his ground.

"Well, this is good news." Even with fear in her eyes, the strawberry blond gave a little sigh, as if with relief. "We are grateful to have you here, Mr. Reed. The sheriff told me all about you. That you will be able to do what he can't."

"Milo's obligations are to the whole town, every citizen," he said, gripping his rifle, needing to defend his friend. "His duty to them has to come first. I have no such restrictions. When I hunt someone, nothing stands in my way. I don't stop until the job is done."

"Just the man we need, then." Verbena's cane tapped against the floor as she opened one of the closed doors. "Excuse us for a moment. Mr. Reed and I need to talk."

"Leave the door open," the strawberry blond ordered, turned on her heal and retreated back down the hall with a swish of her blue skirts.

Zane stood there, his chest all tangled up with knots, making it hard to breath. He didn't like so many women staring up at him, wide-eyed at his guns, taking in his rough appearance. He couldn’t help how he looked, he was who he was. He'd learned to accept that a long time ago.

Thump, thump, thump
. Verbena's pink dress ruffle swished behind her as she crossed the room. Slender shoulders, tiny waist, slim flare of her skirt. From behind she looked little and vulnerable. His gut clenched at the strip of purple bruise at the back of her slender neck, just above her dress collar. Little strands of reddish brown hair curled at her nape, wisping over the injury. He'd seen those marks before. Someone had gagged her hard or had half-strangled her to control her. His chest squeezed in sympathy, fueled his determination to protect her and her family. He followed her into the room, where it was only the two of them.

"Well, Mr. Reed, come sit." Verbena reached an overstuffed sofa in the center of an airy, impressive library. "Make yourself comfortable."

"This is a nice home you have here." He felt out of place, like a shadow in a room full of light. Walls of bookcases rose from the carpeted floor to the high coved ceiling. Big windows let in lots of gray daylight and views of the rainy landscape. Mountains and hills, valleys and meadows. He leaned his rifle against the wall by the door and eased deeper into the room.

"Thank you. We inherited it. It feels pretty grand for us, but we're managing to adjust." She settled on the pretty sofa and leaned her cane against the nearby end table. In dainty pink calico, she looked soft and kind, contrite. When she raised her jeweled blue eyes to his, remorse shadowed her gaze. "Again, I'm sorry about how I treated you in town. I don't know what came over me. I'm not usually like that. In fact, I'm never like that."

"I ruined your dress." He shrugged, crossed in front of the window, heading toward the comforting heat radiating from that big river rock fireplace. Lively flames crackled and danced, and it felt good since he'd only had time to half-thaw while in the sheriff's office.

"It was only a dress." She hung her head. Wisps of her rich, lustrous hair fell forward, into her eyes, framing her china-doll face. "Dresses can be cleaned, repaired, replaced. They don't matter, not really. I'm truly sorry. I should give your money back."

"Don't bother." He bit the inside of his mouth because he was in danger of losing the harsh grimace he liked to wear. A bounty hunter had to keep his tough reputation. She really was very cute. "I did the crime, so I'll take the consequences."

"I'm trying not to be stressed by all of this, but unfortunately it's not a mind over matter kind of a thing." She heaved out a troubled sigh. The unhappiness twisting across her face said more than her words ever could. She bit her bottom lip, perhaps not knowing what more to say. "This is affecting me more than I'd like."

"Perfectly natural." He held out his hands to the fire, let the heat wash over him, feeling sorry for the girl. "You took quite a beating judging by the bruises all over your face."

"Right." One hand flew to her face, as if she'd tried to forget about them, block them out. Her fingertips brushed at a particularly bad bruise along the line of her sculpted jawbone. The shadows in her eyes deepened. "That was a bad night."

"I've been filled in." He turned around in front of the fireplace, heating up his back. "I know Craddock and a second man attacked the guards around the house at night, left one for dead, but the other escaped and went for help. Craddock broke in and took you and a sister. You wound up in a line shack just up the mountain from here, where they found you just in time."

She squeezed her eyes shut. The hand at her jawbone began to shake and she let it fall to her lap, seemed to pull herself together. She did a good job, she was steady in spite of what she'd gone through. When she opened her eyes, no sign of tears. "Yes, he would have raped and killed me. He said that he'd never go anywhere without me unless he sent me there first."

"Milo was right to bring me in." That much was clear. Craddock had followed the sisters all the way to Montana, he'd hid successfully from intense searches, he'd escaped Milo twice--and Milo was a fine lawman. "I promise you, Miss McPhee, I'll catch this Craddock fellow. I won't let him hurt you again."

"That's a relief." Her throat worked, as if she were wrestling with emotions and trying to hold them back. "I'm very grateful."

"Don't be. I hunt criminals. It's what I do," he said gruffly, with an off-hand shrug, because he didn't want anyone to be beholden to him. And, if he let himself admit it, it was the best way to ward off the twist of something deep in his chest--something that felt strangely like softer feelings. He'd given up on those long ago. "No thanks necessary. I'll get this taken care of for you. I have a few questions--"

"You must be cold," she interrupted, standing abruptly, tears glimmered in her eyes but did not fall. She looked like a woman with complicated emotions, so he didn't dare guess why the tears. He just watched her seize her cane and limp around the couch. Her mouth twisted upwards in the corners, an attempt at a polite smile. "I'll be right back."

"Sure." She needed a minute, and he was good with that. He tried to avoid crying women. Nothing made him more uncomfortable and in truth, feel more inadequate, than a lady's tears. He had no notion what to do, no practice in the fine art of comforting. His life was too rough and harsh to have learned anything like that--and always would be.

While she was gone, he took a minute to glean what he could about the family. He'd never seen so many books, lining those walls of shelving, including dime novels and that made him almost grin. He was prone to reading those, too. Frilly little pillows decorated everything--the chairs, the sofas, the window seats. Spotlessly clean. Everything perfectly in place. The ladies' voices from across the hall rang pleasantly--a merry drone of lilting conversations and occasional laughter. Whatever threat the women felt, they weren't cowering in fear. That said something, too.

"Here, this will help warm you up." Verbena ambled into the room gripping a small tray with her free hand. The china rattled with every step. "I brought you a tin mug, I hope that's okay. My sister Daisy's fiancé isn't much for china. He doesn’t like drinking out of flowery cups."

"I can't argue that." It just wasn't manly. He felt some relief realizing that rattling china cup wasn't for him. He strode across the room to take the tray from her. He breathed in a faint scent of strawberry from her hair and chocolate from the tray. Not only was a cupcake sitting on a little china plate, but there was a plate heaped with food.

"I thought you might be hungry too," she explained, ambling away from him. "You look as if you've already had a long day."

He didn't know what to say, so he nodded. He eased the tray down on the coffee table in front of the sofa. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had brought him a meal he hadn't ordered and paid for. He eased onto the overstuffed chair next to the couch, more than a little surprised by her kindness. She was busy reaching for her china cup full of steaming tea and taking a sip. This wasn't a big deal for her, he realized, she probably did this for everyone.

But it still touched him, deep in places he didn't let anything touch him. His heart was nothing but a cold stone beating inside his chest. But it felt this. Decent folks usually avoided him on the boardwalk, when they opened the door to him they made him stand in the foyer, they looked at him and saw a man as brutal as those he hunted.

He did not know what to think about Verbena McPhee. Few people surprised him.

"I don't know what your fee is, Mr. Reed." She studied him over the rim of her cup. "I don't care what it is. I'll gladly pay, as long as you can keep my sisters safe. Please catch Ernest before he hurts them again."

"You're worried about your sisters," he said quietly, reaching for the mug of tea. "Your sisters."

"Yes." Genuine agony cut across her features. No pretense, just the open fear and concern for someone other than herself. "They have endured so much because of me. Daisy was kidnapped the first time, Magnolia was taken both times. It could have gone differently, he could have killed them. This has all happened because of my choices. I'm responsible."

"Ernest Craddock is responsible." He blew on the steaming tea, studying her through his black lashes.

"I introduced him to them. I brought him into my family, a man who is truly dangerous." She eased back into the sofa cushions with slender grace. Her every movement, little and small, was like a slow waltz, with a beauty and a silent cadence that made you stop and watch. Her bruised face scrunched up with misery. "I love my sisters so much, and they are in danger because I believed his lies. I couldn’t see through to the real man beneath."

"A certain kind of man excels at that. I've seen it firsthand. It's a game to them, hiding their true nature. They've gotten so good at it, you can't see the real man until it's too late."

"Yes, it's exactly like that." Tea sloshed over the rim of her cup as she set it down on the tray. "Ernest came from a wealthy family. He was well thought of in the community, so when he paid me such sincere attention, it felt like a storybook romance coming true."

He had a certain opinion on romance, that it was make believe, but he kept his mouth shut. When she stared down at her hands, at the cuts and abrasions, the bruises at her wrists, her sadness got to him. It wrapped around his ribcage like a cinch and pulled tight.

"He started courting me and it seemed so unbelievable something that wonderful could happen to me." She shrugged once sadly. "I should have known. It was too good to be true."

"Most things are."

"You're a cynic, aren't you?" She tilted her head to get a better look at him.

"A realist. Smart enough to stay out of relationships." He gathered up the roast beef sandwich she'd made him and took a bite.

"That is my new motto. No more relationships." She peered toward one of the large windows at the green forest mantling the sharp rise of the nearby mountain. Snow covered those granite peaks like white frosting. "Relationships are not worth the risk."

"I agree completely." For a rare moment, his guarded gray eyes softened. Inside shone something that looked like hurt or sorrow, but it was hard to tell because it faded away so fast. Vanished, as if it had never been.

But Verbena knew one thing. She wasn't the only one who'd been hurt in this room. Zane Reed was the toughest, strongest man she'd ever seen. He looked as if he could chew on nails and wouldn't feel a thing.

But at heart, we are all the same, aren’t we? Vulnerable, easily broken, often scarred. She pushed off the couch, scrabbled for her cane and headed to the window. It drew her, probably because she felt him out there--Ernest. Somewhere out there in all that green, on that slope of snowy mountain, he was waiting and watching. He would not give up. He was scarred too, but she didn't feel sorry for him. Not anymore. He'd made his choice.