In a Cowboy’s Arms (22 page)

“That’s it,” he said. “Just muscle spasms?”

“Yes,” she said. “I’m fine now.”

Or she would be once she pushed those memories from her mind again. Talking about that dark day in her past would serve no purpose other than to satisfy Dade’s curiosity.

He was silent for too long, and she worried that he’d press her for details. Details he deserved to know.

“Get some sleep,” he said at last.

She tried to, but the night crawled by. Guilt over using Dade seemed to grow with each passing minute.

She was very much aware of each breath Dade took. If she called out to him, she knew he’d come to her.

Before she did, she had to tell him why she’d run away. He had to know that just by helping her escape, he’d made enemies of two powerful men.

She had to give him the choice to get out while he could, or fall deeper into her nightmare with her.

Sometime after she’d finally dozed off, a muffled thump outside brought her wide-awake again. She lay still as death, listening. It came again, louder. Closer.

The door shook but held.

She bolted upright and lunged from the bunk, desperate to run. To hide. Someone was trying to get in. The bounty hunter?

With only one door leading into the shack, they were trapped. She backed toward the corner, her gaze locked before the door where Dade had spread his bedroll. The old fears bubbled up in her until she was shaking.

“Shh,” Dade said, slipping an arm around her waist and pulling her back against his chest so he could whisper in her ear. “Get behind the door and don’t make a sound.”

She shook her head, not wanting to venture that close to the unknown. But Dade carried her there anyway and set her down.

He pressed a kiss to her cheek, and she wanted to cry at the tenderness in that brief gesture. Then he stepped into the shadows again, and she pressed her back to the wall and hugged herself.

The door to her right rattled again, and she bit back a startled cry.

“State your business,” Dade said, his voice crackling like a whip in the darkness.

The rattling stopped. “My business? Hell’s bells, you’re in my cabin, and I want you to get out of it.”

Dade chewed out a low curse and strode to the door. Surely he didn’t believe this man who sounded older than time. It could be the bounty hunter tossing out a lie just to get them to open the door.

And Dade was about to do just that.

She stepped in front of him and pushed his hand from the catch. “Don’t. It might be a trap.”

“More likely it’s the truth.” He pushed her hand aside and lifted the catch.

Maggie held her breath as the door swung open. A swath of light stretched across the shack’s floor. It didn’t seem possible that dawn was breaking already.

She heard a shuffle at the door, but she couldn’t see anything more than Dade’s back through the crack in the door.

“You alone?” a man asked, his voice sounding scratchier this close.

“Nope,” Dade said. “You?”

The old man snorted. “I’ve been alone for nigh on ten years now. That coffee I smell?”

“Not much more than dregs now,” Dade said.

“That’s more than I’ve had the past week. You gonna let me in my shack?”

To her surprise, Dade stepped back and granted the man silent admittance. The old man hobbled straight to the stove and the promise of coffee, reeking of sweat and a musty odor that was similar to the one she’d first smelled when she entered this shack.

That alone convinced her that the old man called this hovel home. She took in the place in a whole new light. The bunk she’d thought hard and dirty was all he had to rest his tired bones on. The makeshift stool served as his only chair. And his mattress... Her gaze lowered to the heap of cloth and stuffing that Dade had tossed aside so she wouldn’t have to sit on it.

She stepped out from behind the door just as Dade unhooked the shutter and flipped it open. More light filtered through the grimy window, enough to see details now.

The old man was about her height, but the sack coat and baggy trousers he wore kept her from telling if he was fat or lean. His slouch hat had seen better days too.

He set the coffeepot down and faced them. “She your missus?”

“Sister,” Dade said.

The old man nodded and took a sip of coffee. “Figured as much since you ain’t sleeping with her.”

So the old man was more observant than she’d thought. What other attributes could he be hiding?

He bore watching, and judging from Dade’s rigid stance he was doing just that. “You put your horse in the pen?”

The old man shook his head. “Ain’t got one.”

“How’d you get here then?”

“Rode shank’s mare,” the old man said, and slapped a hand on his thigh and laughed.

He walked here? From where?

“You been in Walsenburg?” Dade asked.

“Pueblo.” The old man finished off the coffee and set the cup down, his gaze flicking from her to Dade. “I head up there once a month or so to see a friend, if you know what I mean.”

Dade coughed, or was that a muffled laugh? “You lived around here long?”

“Since they laid the tracks from Atchison to Santa Fe,” the old man said.

“Were you a railroad roustabout?” Dade asked.

“Nope, a bridge monkey before I fell and hurt my leg,” the old man said. “Railroad ain’t got any jobs for a cripple.”

She watched him hobble to the lone stool with renewed empathy and wished there was something she could do to ease his affliction now. But she had hoped for the same for Caroline and learned at a young age that nothing could be done to stop the ill effects of arthritis or similar pain born from injury.

“How’s your memory of the race to lay rails west across Kansas?” Dade asked.

The old man smiled, revealing gaps in his teeth. “Like it was yesterday. Hell, I worked on every damn bridge on that line.”

“You recollect any cattle pens built along the Kansas Central that were similar to what they had in Abilene?” Dade asked, and she realized he was trying to narrow their search for the place where Daisy had been taken off the train.

The old man scratched his nape. “Nothing near that big, though I recollect there were several good-sized ones here and there.”

Dade turned to her. “Tell him what you recall of the place where you last saw your friend. See if he recalls it.”

She did, going into as much detail as she could remember. But there simply hadn’t been much there besides the cattle pens, cows, a trading post, and the big white house.

“I know this place wasn’t a town,” she said. “The house sat on a hill and a wide lane crossed the tracks right in front of it.” At least it had looked big to an eight-year-old girl.

“You remember it?” Dade asked the old man.

“Remember it!” The old man slapped his game leg and laughed. “I tell you, boy, men from six counties around here saved up their money so they could visit the Crossroads.”

“Why?” she asked, earning a frown from Dade.

The old man shuffled his feet, looking uncomfortable. “It was a sporting house, ma’am, and a mighty highfalutin one at that.”

He didn’t have to explain more. But knowing what it was filled her with dread.

That explained why Maggie had always felt they’d stopped in the middle of nowhere, because in reality they had. Nothing but cattle pens and a brothel.

She’d seen the man who’d taken Daisy go up to his house. Why would the gentleman who’d adopted Daisy take her to a brothel?

The worry in Dade’s eyes told her the same question had crossed his mind. “This brothel still there?”

“Don’t know,” the old man said. “Ain’t heard of anyone who’s visited Miss Jennean’s in many a year.”

“How far is this place from here?”

The old man gave that some thought. “Reckon a good two days’ ride if you angle northeast out of La Junta.”

Maggie didn’t have to ask if they’d be heading that way today. The determined glint in Dade’s eyes confirmed it.

The old man turned to her. “You fixing to put breakfast on directly, ma’am?”

All she knew how to make was flapjacks, if she had a stove and griddle and the proper ingredients. “I-I can’t.”

“If that don’t beat all,” the old man mumbled.

She refused to look at Dade. Mercy, she’d never felt so inadequate as a woman.

“I’ve got salt pork and spuds to fry,” Dade said, and the old man rubbed his hands together and smiled.

She envied Dade the ability to put food on the table–even poor fare. Why, all she was really adept at was making herself a cup of tea.

Her culinary experience ended shortly after it had begun. Mrs. Nowell had caught Maggie in the kitchen, making flapjacks for herself and Caroline, with the cook’s supervision.

The lady had ordered both girls to their room, then threatened to fire any member of the staff who dared to allow such a thing to happen again.

After that, those few trips Maggie made to the kitchen were to fetch or filch something that Caroline or she desired, like a tart, fruit, or a cookie. She never even made her own tea.

So here she was, twenty-seven years old and having no clue how to take care of herself, much less a family. But even in her exhausted state last night, she’d been fascinated by the ease with which Dade had built a fire and prepared coffee.

He’d done the same just now, passing her a cup of coffee that was as strong and bracing as he was. She took it, not having the heart to tell him she rarely drank coffee, and when she did, she preferred cream and sugar in it.

Those commodities weren’t on hand, and while the coffee wasn’t to her liking, it would surely give her a jolt of energy. God knew she’d need stamina today to endure another long hard ride in the saddle.

So she forced down her coffee and watched Dade. The old man had offered the use of his big skillet and now seemed equally as interested in every move he made–or rather in the fact that a meal would be forthcoming.

Yes, she wouldn’t have had any idea where to start to prepare breakfast. But she intended to learn. A good part of her fight for independence depended on her being able to take care of herself.

Surely in the weeks she’d be in Dade’s company she could learn a lot from him. She wouldn’t be so helpless.

The enticing aroma of sizzling bacon woke her appetite. Her gaze strayed to Dade again. She hadn’t thought that something as simple as peeling a potato and slicing it into a skillet would test his muscles. But his shirt strained across his back with each metered movement.

Maggie smoothed her hands down her skirt, well remembering the feel of those hard muscles shifting beneath her palms. He was strong and unpretentious.

He was nothing like Whit. Nothing at all.

That had to be why she hadn’t shied away when he’d stolen a kiss. When he touched her, even doing something as simple as helping her on her horse, she didn’t feel fear. She felt desire.

Dade passed a tin plate and fork into her hands. “It’s not much but it’ll fill the void.”

“Looks damned good to me,” the old man said, helping himself to a generous portion of fried potatoes and bacon.

She took a bite and sighed her pleasure. “This is delicious.”

He flicked her another of those questioning looks, but clearly didn’t feel like sharing his thoughts. In short order, he filled his own plate and then dropped down on the bunk beside her to eat.

Maggie forced her mind back on the food before her instead of the man sitting far too close. It wasn’t easy, but she had begun to learn how to hide the turmoil that went on within her whenever he was near.

She credited that ability to her having learned to hide her revulsion for Whit, as well as her plan to flee him.

With Dade she had to be more careful. While folks in Placid would expect a certain hesitancy between the estranged siblings, strangers that they’d meet on their journey would question those odd looks and telling flinches when they ventured too close or touched each other. That’s one thing they wanted to avoid, for that wouldgenerate talk. The bounty hunter would be sure to pick up on that oddity.

They had to blend in as brother and sister, not draw attention. That meant she had to control this awareness that arced through her whenever Dade was close.

But mercy did it have to seem as insurmountable as holding back a flood?

Dade finished first and set about stowing their provisions. She took another bite of potato, but simply couldn’t force down the rest. Her appetite was gone, replaced by a wad of nerves over longing and cold hard reality.

She simply couldn’t afford to be a free woman right now.

“It was delicious, but I’ve had enough.” Instead of dumping the food, she offered the old man her plate.

He took her leftovers without hesitation and scraped them into what little remained in the skillet. She was certain he intended to enjoy it later.

Though she hadn’t realized it before, she did now. Dade had prepared far too much food. On purpose? She’d bet on it.

“No sense in wasting good victuals,” the old man said.

He passed the empty plate back to her. The action caught her by surprise, for nobody had ever handed her an empty plate before. But this was Dade’s tin plate. The old man was likely many things, but he wasn’t a thief.

She flicked a glance at Dade, but he’d already carried their saddles outside. All that remained was the straw pannier holding their provisions.

Her dirty plate and the rag he’d used to clean up were the only things of his not packed. She grabbed the rag and wiped the plate, surprised how quickly the food had adhered to it.

That small thing reminded her of the trays loaded with plates and bowls that the servants had brought to Caro-line’s room. How the two of them had picked and fussed and wasted far too much of the fare.

Whoever was in charge of cleaning the utensils and dishes–and it embarrassed her now that she had never bothered to know their names–had scrubbed the remains of their meals off time after time.

She applied rag to plate and scrubbed and wiped until it was clean. Until she’d be willing to eat off it again. Only then did she rise with intention of packing it in the pannier.