Margaret Brownley - [Rocky Creek 02] (35 page)

Cold fury pulsed through Rhett’s veins. “You’d better leave. Now.”

Blackman shifted his weight but stayed in place. “This is a family matter, Marshal.”

Rhett waved his hand, indicating the wedding guests who stood watching with open curiosity. “Which
you
chose to make public.” He placed his hand on his gun. “Now either you leave, or I’ll make you leave.”

“I’m leaving.” Blackman glowered at Barrel. “I can hardly wait to see your father’s face when he hears you married the sister of a harlot.”

Rhett’s arm struck like lightning. Something broke beneath his fist, and Blackman fell to the ground. His hat flew in one direction, his gold-tipped cane in another. A collective gasp rose from the guests, but no one moved.

His knuckles sore, Rhett shook out his hand.

Blackman sat up and rubbed his cheek. An ugly red mark replaced his earlier arrogance—a definite improvement.

Blackman took a moment to pull himself together before he stood and reached down for his hat and cane. Without another word, he turned and walked away.

Mary Lou came rushing over. “That awful man. What he said about Jenny . . . It’s not true.” She looked at Brenda for confirmation, but Brenda was too upset to speak.

Rhett felt sorry for her. For both women. “This is your wedding day. Go back to your guests.”

“But we don’t know where Jenny is,” Mary Lou protested, her face dark with worry.

“I’ll find her,” Rhett said. “And that’s a promise.”

Mary Lou’s eyes filled with tears of gratitude. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Leaving both brides in the care of their new husbands, Rhett ran for his horse and raced back to town, his thoughts outpacing Lincoln’s fast flying hooves. Where was she? Had she left the wedding because of Blackman? And why would the man make such disparaging remarks?

Pressing his legs hard against Lincoln’s side, he galloped toward the hotel.

Scooter sat on the edge of the boardwalk, holding his head. Though he tried to hide it, it was obvious he’d been crying. Rhett leaped off his horse and rushed to the boy in alarm, rein in hand.

“Scooter, what’s wrong?”

Scooter lifted his face, his eyes red. “Miss Jenny’s gone.”

A cold chill shot down his spine. “Did she take the train?” There was a 3:00 p.m. train that left for Dallas.

Scooter shook his head. “Stage.”

Rhett squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “Crying isn’t doing any good. If you want to help bring her back, you best start to pray.”

“It won’t do no good,” Scooter said. “I prayed for Pa, and that didn’t work.”

Rhett bent over and looked him in square in the face. “Son, your prayers
were
answered. Your pa’s not well yet, but he’s getting there.”

Scooter stared at him as if he wasn’t sure whether to believe him.

Rhett confirmed what he said with an emphatic nod. “As soon as I find Jenny, I’ll let you see for yourself.”

“Do . . . do you mean it?” Scooter palmed his wet cheeks. “I can see Pa?”

“You can see him.” Rhett straightened. “Meanwhile, if we want to bring Jenny back, we both got a job to do.” With that he left.

Jenny couldn’t stop crying. Her heart was broken, no . . . shattered. How was it possible to feel such agonizing pain without a visible wound? Even her father’s death hadn’t caused this much suffering. At fifteen, she had been too overwhelmed with responsibility to give her grief full vent.

Now she was alone with nothing to distract her.

She hadn’t wanted to leave Rocky Creek, but that’s what God wanted her to do. He couldn’t have made a sign clearer than Blackman. She still couldn’t believe it. It didn’t seem possible that Kip Barrel could be related to such a man. No wonder he was reluctant to invite his family to the wedding.

Her handkerchief soaked, she reached into her reticule for a dry one.

She was the only passenger, and for this she was grateful. The driver told her to enjoy the luxury because the stage would fill with passengers at the next stop.

She dabbed at her eyes, but the tears kept coming. It wasn’t that she worried about her sisters. They were in good hands. Jeff Trevor and Kip Barrel gave every indication that they would make kind and loving husbands. Still, she would miss them. Already missed them. Missed Mary Lou’s complaints, Brenda’s shy smiles, the late-night hugs. Even the arguments.

The teasing lights in his eyes
.

Overwhelmed with fresh tears, she shook her head hard. She mustn’t think of Rhett. Couldn’t.

Got to do something. Got to keep my mind busy
. It was the only way she could control her thoughts. More out of habit than need, she opened her notebook. The previous pages had been torn out and discarded. Only blank pages remained, and she had no idea what to fill them with. Without a project or plan, she felt lost, bereft. Her future looked as empty as the notebook on her lap.

Exhausted, she eventually dozed off.
He stood in the distance, waiting for her. She ran into his arms and looked up .
. .

She woke with a start. Her notebook flew to the floor, but she didn’t care. With the dream still fresh in her mind, she tried to think what was different this time. Then she remembered. When she looked up in her dream it was Rhett looking down at her. It was Rhett’s face she saw, not Blackman’s. Her chest tightened with pain. It was the first time she realized that a person could be equally tortured by a good dream as by a bad one.

“Whoa,” the driver yelled and the stagecoach rolled to a stop. She moved the leather curtain aside and peered out the window. Flat grassland stretched as far as she could see. In the distance, cattle grazed serenely beneath the wide expanse of clear blue sky. So why did they stop?

A robbery? She dropped the curtain in place and reached for her parasol. Since she’d struck Scooter’s father it no longer opened, but it still made a good weapon. Ears straining, she sat frozen in place, afraid to move.

Without warning, the door ripped open. Startled, she pressed her back against the horsehair seat. She blinked, not sure she could believe her eyes. Was she still dreaming?

“Rhett?”

“Hello, Jenny,” he said.

“What . . . what are you doing here?” Her mind raced. “Is everything all right? Brenda? Mary Lou?”

As an answer, he grabbed her by the hand and pulled her out of the stage. He then reached inside the coach for her ever-present notebook. Drawing a pencil from his shirt pocket, he scribbled something across the page. He held it up for her to read.

Will you marry me?

She raised her eyes and stared at him. “You must be joking,” she whispered.

He tossed the notebook into the coach. Grabbing her by the hand, he led her away from the stage, away from the nosy driver.

He jerked her around to face him. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

No, he did not. “I—” She shook her head. This was a side of Rhett she’d never seen before, a more open, impassioned side.

“I’m no good with words,” he said, his eyes brimming with ardor. “My feelings tend to get all bottled up inside. All I know is that I love you and I want to marry you.”

Hand on her mouth, she choked back a sob. They were the sweetest, most wonderful words anyone had ever said to her. And clearly the most painful.

“I–I can’t,” she whispered. She backed away, but he kept moving toward her.

“At first I thought you pushed me away because of my profession,” he said. “Or because I didn’t have enough money in the bank.”

She shook her head. “It was never about you.”

He arched a brow. “Suppose you tell me what it is about?”

She turned to move away, but he grabbed her arm and held on tight. “Tell me,” he bellowed.

She didn’t want to answer that question, but it was obvious he wouldn’t leave her alone until she did.

“Let go,” she whispered.

He released her but the determined look remained. “Tell me!”

She flung out her arms in despair. “I’m the one who is not worthy,” she shouted. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

He stiffened. “No, that’s not what I wanted to hear.”

“Why not? It’s true!”

“Try again,” he said, advancing toward her.

She backed away, but he kept coming. She hoped and prayed this day would never come. She never meant to tell anyone what she was about to tell him. Even her sisters didn’t know the full story.

She raised a hand in surrender. “All right. I’ll tell you everything.”

He stopped in his tracks and waited.

She took a deep breath, but filling her lungs with air did nothing to alleviate her shame. “My mother died when I was fourteen, and my father died a year later. I didn’t know what to do. I was desperate. We were behind on taxes and mortgage. We had no money, no food, no medical supplies. Nothing.” She told him about the cold winter, the roof blowing off the farm, Brenda’s illness. She told him about the things she wanted to forget, the things she couldn’t.

He stood still as she spoke. Never had she seen him so still, his gaze riveted onto her face. Even nature seemed to hold its breath as if waiting for her to disclose her revelation.

“Haswell was going through hard times,” she continued. “The ranches had been wiped out by Texas fever. I couldn’t sell the farm, though I tried. No one could find work, and I didn’t know what to do. Then I met . . . someone. He offered to help. He gave me money for food and medicine. He paid the mortgage and taxes. In return, he demanded—” She looked away, the rest of the words a knot in her throat.

“Blackman,” he said.

She stared at him, her mouth open. “You . . . you know him?”

“We met,” he said and gave no further explanation. “Is that all?” he asked.

He moved another step closer. “Is that why you keep pushing me away? Because of Blackman?”

“I haven’t told you everything.”

“I don’t care,” he said.

“What he demanded of me—”

He moved closer. “I don’t care.”

She had to make him understand. “It wasn’t just once. I was in his debt for three years.” Three long, horrible years. By the time she was eighteen, the economy had improved, and she was finally able to sell half of her parents’ property. With the money from the sale, she paid Blackman back in full and earned her freedom.

“I don’t care.” He closed the distance between them and put his hands on her waist.

She pulled away. “Are you listening to me? Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

A shadow crossed his face. “We’ve all done things we’re ashamed of. Everyone has reason to feel guilty for something.”

“Not you,” she said. “Not you.”

“Yes, me,” he said roughly. “I killed . . . my best friend.”

For a moment, his words hung between them like an open wound neither wanted to touch.

Shock turned to disbelief. “I don’t believe it,” she said.

“Believe it,” he said. His voice low, he told her how he accidentally shot and killed his childhood friend during the war. “They called it
fratricide
,” he said bitterly. “It was a fitting name, since I felt like I’d killed my brother.”

“What you did . . . it’s not the same,” she protested. “It was an accident. It should never have happened, but it wasn’t your fault.”

“It
was
my fault.” His voice broke. “It was my fault. I was supposed to be front rank, but I was going through a rough patch. I had cannon fever and fell back. Leonard took my place. He wasn’t even supposed to be there.”

“Rhett, you can’t blame yourself.”

“I do blame myself. I’ll probably go to my grave blaming myself,” he said. “But I’m through punishing myself. I’ve seen what guilt has done to others. To Maxwell. And I’m asking you . . . no, begging you . . . to stop punishing yourself for keeping your sisters safe.”

“Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t try to make me sound heroic. I had other options. My grandfather offered to help, but I was too proud to accept his money. I thought I could do it all on my own.”

Eventually, she had gone back to her grandfather, but by then it was too late; upon learning how she had prostituted herself with Blackman, he refused to help her. If she had it to do over, she would have turned to God in those dark days. Maybe then she wouldn’t have felt so overwhelmed and alone.

“Jenny, I—” He hesitated as if struggling to find the right words. “For the first time in years, I’ve actually started to sleep through the night without nightmares. Instead of my friend’s face, I see yours. I’ve resisted any sort of happiness. I didn’t think I deserved it. Reverend Wells told me that my guilt kept me from God.”

“Oh, Rhett . . .”

“And you,” he added. “My guilt was keeping me from you. Whenever you backed away, I told myself it’s what I deserved.”

He could have been describing her life. She gazed at him through a veil of tears. Guilt was more isolating than prison bars, self-punishment the worst possible kind. She avoided making friends, avoided church, avoided even God, and the loneliness had taken a toll. It had been easier to avoid God than to face him. Easier to quell her anger at her father than confront it. Easier to deny her feelings for Rhett than to acknowledge them. She always opted for the easy way out, only to find out that no such way existed.

Guarding her secret shame with her life, she lived by a set of rules found in books. Rules that told her how to dress, what to say, how to act, what to write. It was the only way she knew how to survive. She feared that, if left to her own devices, she would say or do something that would give her terrible secret away.

Today, she needed no such contrivances to tell her what to do. With nothing left to hide, she was free to be herself and listen to her heart. That was something she hadn’t done for a very long time.

“You’re like him, you know,” he said softly.

“What?”

“My friend. He was stubborn, independent, and fiercely loyal. He would have done anything to protect those he loved. That was the quality that first drew me to you from the beginning.”

She blinked away her tears. “I–I thought you were interested in Mary Lou,” she said. “When I asked you which one you’d choose, you said the oldest.”

His eyes flickered with humor. “Unless I’m mistaken, I believe that’s you.”