Robin Lee Hatcher (23 page)

“Thank you, Mr. Richards.”

“I wish you would call me Vince.”

And I wish you would stop calling me by my given name.
She gave her head a slow shake.

His gaze seemed to harden as he waited for her to speak.

She didn’t oblige.

He smiled, but it was forced. “Let me be frank. I never believed your father should have forced you to marry Chandler after that . . .
unfortunate
incident earlier this summer. I know, whatever the gossips say, that you were completely innocent. Surely everyone knows it cannot be a happy union, coming about as it did. Isn’t that why you are here? With your parents deceased, who is there to make you stay with such a man?”

She stiffened. How dare he presume to say such things to her?

“Bethany, I would be pleased to help in any way possible. I know many excellent lawyers. I’m sure the union could be dissolved quickly and quietly. Divorce needn’t be a stigma if it’s handled properly.”

At last she found her voice. “No one
forced
me to marry Hawk. Not my parents or anyone else. I married him of my own free will. Be assured of that, Mr. Richards. But then, it is really none of your concern.”

“You’re wrong.” He leaned toward her. “I care for you. I am your friend, and one day, I want us to be more than friends.”

She rose from the sofa. “I’m sorry for any misunderstandings, sir, but we shall never be more than acquaintances.” She lifted her chin in defiance. “And I have no need of a lawyer. I will not seek a divorce. Not now. Not ever.”

It felt good to say those words aloud, and she felt stronger because of them. Even a little hopeful.

“I’m afraid you’ve — ”

“I want you to leave.”

He stood. “But I — ”

“Now, Mr. Richards. Please go and don’t return.”

Vince placed his hat on his head. “Good day, Bethany.” He bowed, then turned and strode from the room.

Chloris appeared in the doorway seconds later. “Are you all right, Mrs. Chandler?”

She drew a deep breath. “I’m fine, now that he’s gone.” She sank onto the sofa. “Please inform the rest of the staff never to let that man into this house again. Not to see me, at any rate.”

“Not a chance of that. I didn’t like the look of him. Not one little bit.”

“Neither do I,” Bethany whispered, her gaze returning to the window, her thoughts returning to Montana — to the place and to the man who held her heart.

Vince Richards stood on the sidewalk outside the Worthington mansion, fighting to get his anger under control. For the second time in a matter of days Bethany had rebuffed him. It would not happen again. Hawk Chandler might not be dead now, but that would change. And soon. Perhaps it had even come to pass this very day.

Whatever it took, Bethany would be his. He would not long be denied.

With that thought in mind, he strode away.

Hawk hit the ground and rolled into the brush, drawing his Colt from the holster as he came to rest. He touched his temple with his free hand. Warm blood trickled down the side of his face from the place where the bullet had grazed him.

He didn’t believe the gunman was a poor shot. Either God or dumb luck had saved his life — and he didn’t believe in luck any more. If he hadn’t felt the saddle slip, if he hadn’t leaned forward to check the latigo and cinch, he would be lying dead beside his horse right now.

He drew back into the thicket beside the mountain stream, listening for any sound that didn’t belong, for any hint the gunman approached. Except for the gurgling creek behind him, the forest was silent. No birds sang, no squirrels chattered.

He eyed the mountainside. The shot must have come from the thick grove of trees above him. It would give the gunman an advantage. If he wanted, he could keep Hawk pinned down a long while. But night was coming fast, and then the advantage would be his. He knew this area as well by night as he did by day. It was doubtful his assailant could say the same.

He settled in to wait, watching, wary. When he fingered the wound again, he saw the flow of blood had stopped. Good. It wasn’t serious.

The faint snap of a twig was his only warning. He rolled and fired, instinct rather than sight guiding his aim. The gunman — a stranger — looked at him in surprise, the gun in his hand wavering before falling to the ground. A ragged gasp rattled in the man’s throat before he toppled face down into the stream.

Hawk jumped to his feet and scrambled through the water to pull the man out. He’d wanted to take him alive. He’d wanted answers. Maybe it wasn’t too late.

He dragged the gunman onto the bank and rolled him over. Blank eyes stared up at the sky. Dead. There’d be no answers today.

Bethany rose from the sofa and walked across the sitting room to the window that faced the street. Tall trees shaded the front of the house, creating a leafy canopy. Her gaze moved up the avenue, pausing to study the homes that belonged to the elegant members of society who lived in them.

Once she had belonged here. Once she had been one of them. When her father had taken her away from Philadelphia, she’d been certain she would always long to return. But no more. She belonged in Montana. She belonged with Hawk.

“I want to go home.”

Impetuous, her father had often called her, and it was true. She knew her faults. Impetuous and willful and headstrong and stubborn and a host of other less-than-admirable qualities. But she wasn’t stupid. She needn’t stay where she didn’t want to be. With God’s help, she would go home to Sweetwater and do everything in her power to win the heart of the man she loved.

Of course, she’d thought and said that before in the two months since she and Hawk stood before her father, repeating their vows. But this time, she wouldn’t let anything or anyone get in her way.

She was going home. She would make Hawk love her. It wouldn’t be easy. She would make mistakes. She might stumble over her own pride a time or two. But it would be okay. God would help her right the wrongs. She would trust him, as her father had told her to do.

She turned from the window, wondering how she would tell her cousin she would be leaving soon. As if summoned, Beatrice entered the sitting room.

“There you are. Chloris told me you had a visitor who upset you. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Cousin Beatrice, but there’s something I must tell you.”

“It sounds serious, child.”

“I’ve decided to go home to Montana.”

Instead of the argument Bethany expected, Beatrice said, “I wondered when you would come to your senses. You belong with your husband, and anyone with eyes and ears can tell it’s what you’ve wanted all along.”

Bethany stared at her cousin, not sure what to say in response.

“It’s clear you’ve been mourning more than the loss of your beloved parents.” Beatrice paused and raised her brows. “So tell me. When do we leave?”

Bethany blinked. “We?”

“Of course, we. I would love to see what drew your father west. Virginia always wrote such wonderful letters about the land and about the people. I want to see it for myself. Besides, I can’t allow you to travel alone across the country a second time.” She took hold of Bethany’s hand. “You won’t mind me coming, will you, dear?”

“Of course I don’t mind. I would like your company very much.”

“Then it’s settled. We’ll make plans for our departure at once.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

Hawk sat across from Sheriff Cook, wondering if the man would ever be his old self again. Since losing his wife and son in the epidemic, Chuck Cook had become intimate friends with the whiskey bottle he kept in the bottom right drawer of his desk. It was midmorning, and the sheriff ’s eyes already had a glazed look.

“It’s been two weeks,” Hawk said. “You must have learned something about him by now.”

“Sorry. There’s nothing I can tell you. No one around Sweetwater had seen him before. He wasn’t carrying anything to help us identify him. I’ve been through all the wanted notices too. Nothing.”

“Somebody must have hired him to make trouble at the Circle Blue.” Hawk’s first thought, as always, was that Vince Richards was behind it. Trouble was, the man was careful, always maintaining his veneer of respectability, never letting most folks see the blackness of his heart. Besides, he’d been gone for close to two months now. It wasn’t likely he’d hired a gunman while in Washington.

Hawk could at least be thankful the sheriff hadn’t arrested him. There were a few folks in town — the ones who didn’t care for a man of mixed race living and working among them — who would have been happy to see him accused of murder. But Cook had accepted Hawk’s report of what happened on the day of the shoot-out. Yes, he was thankful, but he still wanted answers.

He stood and put his hat back on his head. “You’ll let me know if you find out anything.”

“Sure, Hawk. I’ll get word to you if anything comes up. But I’m thinkin’ he was just some drifter. Or maybe he was on the run from the law.” The sheriff chuckled. “Maybe he thought you was me and that’s why he fired on you.”

Sheriff Cook had it all wrong. The gunman had meant to kill Hawk. Only divine providence had saved his life.

With a nod in the sheriff ’s direction, he left the office, pausing on the boardwalk to look left, then right. His gaze settled on the white church with its tall steeple. It was sad, remembering how the townsfolk had pitched in to build it. Now it stood empty. The day would come when another preacher would take his place in the pulpit, but he wouldn’t be another Nathaniel Silverton. Couldn’t be.

Hawk wished he’d appreciated the good reverend more when he was alive. He had a lot of questions that it sure would be nice to ask his father-in-law. Like, what did God think of him for killing a man, even if it was in self-defense?

His thoughts shifted to Bethany, and that familiar dull ache returned to his chest. How was she faring in Philadelphia? Had she seen an attorney yet? Was she still his wife or had their marriage been swept away, as if it never happened?

Tugging on the brim of his hat, he stepped off the boardwalk and untied his horse from the hitching post. Time to get back to the Circle Blue. Maybe, if he was lucky, he could go more than an hour or two without picturing Bethany in his mind. Maybe he could get on with the business of living and running a ranch and not wish he could have the last few months to do over again so he could get it right.