Robin Lee Hatcher (6 page)

“Sit down, Anna.”

He listened to her footsteps as she crossed the spacious room and settled onto a chair opposite his desk. He waited, allowing the moments to stretch one into another, knowing she would grow more anxious with each passing heartbeat.

At last he turned.

Anna’s
face was pale, her gaze uncertain. At forty-five, she was still a handsome woman. Gray had yet to overtake her golden hair. Her skin was smooth, with only a hint of lines around her eyes. She’d even maintained her youthful figure.

“Have I done something to displease you, Northrop?”

“Now, what makes you think that, my dear?” He returned to his desk but remained standing.

Her face grew even more pale.

Northrop took perverse pleasure in watching his wife squirm. In twenty-eight years of marriage, they had played out similar scenes many times, and he never ceased to enjoy himself. He married Anna for the generous settlement her father bestowed upon the newlyweds and because her family’s social standing was equal to his own. Anna had married him for love. Her one wish through all their years of marriage was to please him.

She seldom did.

Northrop picked up the folded paper on his desk. He knew the moment she recognized it. Her gaze fell to the floor.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this, Anna?” He spoke softly, without a trace of the anger he felt.

“I . . . I was going to, Northrop, but—”

“But what? What possible reason could you have to keep this a secret from me? Olivia wrote it almost a year ago.”

Anna spoke in a near whisper. “It was addressed to me, Northrop, and there was nothing in it that revealed her whereabouts. I didn’t think—”

“You never think!” he bellowed as he leaned his knuckles on the desk.

“Northrop . . .” Tears pooled in her pale blue eyes.

He crumpled the paper into a ball. “Get out!”

“But—”

“I said get out.”

She rose from her chair, then held out her hand toward him. “May I have my letter, please?”

He threw the wadded paper into the fireplace.

Anna stared at the flames, her eyes glistening, her chin quivering. She watched until only ashes remained of her precious letter, then she turned without another word and left his study.

The moment the door closed, Northrop sat down at his desk, swiveling the chair to stare at the fire. He thought of Olivia, the daughter whose beauty had promised to strengthen the kingdom of wealth and power he’d worked all his life to build, the daughter who betrayed him.

But he would find her. From the moment she ran away, he’d pursued her. Northrop had hired the best detectives his money could buy. He didn’t care how long it took or how much it cost him. She would come home. She would obey him. She would bend to her father’s will or be broken.

Northrop Vanderhoff never quit. He never admitted defeat. And Olivia knew it. Wherever she was, she knew her father was still looking for her. She knew he was searching, and she was afraid.

He grinned and lit his cigar.

Five

LEANING ON HIS CRUTCH, REMINGTON made his way outside. He paused just beyond the doorway to catch his breath.

The quick fatigue irritated him. By nature a man of action, he was impatient with his slow recovery. He wanted to
do
something.

To make matters worse, Libby had avoided him for the past two days. She sent Sawyer in with the water, salve, and bandages when it was time to dress Remington’s wounds. Without the diversion of studying Libby, trying to ascertain her secrets, the hours dragged by.

Yesterday he listened through his open door as Libby and Sawyer held a Sunday worship service in the parlor. No preacher. No church building. Just the two of them, woman and boy, reading aloud from a Bible, then singing a couple of hymns, and ending with prayer.

There was a time in Remington’s life when he would have joined them. There was a time when he loved and trusted God, as had his father and mother, as had his grandparents and his great-grandparents. But like his family’s home in Virginia and his father’s business concerns, another man’s greed stole Remington’s faith as well.

The sounds of hammering had drawn him outside. For the better part of an hour, he’d listened to the racket coming from the far side of the barn and wondered what Libby was building. He’d considered having a look, but then he caught sight of Sundown in the corral.

The gelding whickered a greeting as Remington limped toward him. Sundown thrust his head over the top rail and stomped in the dust, as if he too was impatient with his master’s slow progress. Remington noted the horse’s well-groomed appearance. Sawyer had been caring for Sundown as promised.

When Remington reached the corral, he stroked the gelding’s muzzle. “Bored, fella?”

Sundown bobbed his head.

“Yeah. Me too.” He glanced around.

The burnt-red barn was large and in good condition, the corral posts and rails sturdy, the yard swept clean. In the paddock, a small flock of ewes and lambs grazed, surrounded by a whitewashed fence. Blue Springs Ranch appeared to be a well-run enterprise.

He looked at the house. Although crude by eastern standards, it was roomy and solid. The inhabitants would stay warm in the winter and cool in the summer, something of prime importance in this country. The interior had been furnished to satisfy an eclectic taste. A Monet landscape hung in the parlor, looking out of place beside items that had undoubtedly been ordered from Sears & Roebuck or Montgomery Ward catalogs.

This ranch seemed an odd place for the daughter of Northrop Vanderhoff to have settled. What had brought her here? Why had she assumed another identity? Whom was she hiding from? Her father? Or someone else?

Remington gave his head a shake. He didn’t care. He’d found her. That was the only thing that mattered. As soon as he could travel, he’d send his telegram, and once he collected his fee, he would return to New York. He had a promise to keep.

“Mr. Walker.”

He turned at the sound of Libby’s voice.

She stood near the corner of the barn. Her hair was swept back and captured in the thick braid that fell over her shoulder. She wore a man’s work shirt, denim britches, and boots. A battered hat hung against her back from a leather tie around her throat.

“You shouldn’t overdo,” she reminded him.

“I won’t.”

She moved toward him with a natural grace, and it wasn’t difficult for Remington to imagine what she must look like in satin and lace, her hair dressed with jewels.

“I’m surprised you made it this far. Are you certain you’re not putting too much weight on that leg?” Her gaze moved down and then back again.

He rather liked her concern. “I’m certain.” He motioned with his head toward the barn. “What are you building out there?”

“A new chicken coop. We had a coyote get into the old one a few weeks ago. He made off with one of our best layers.”

Again Remington was struck by the incongruity of the situation. The daughter of one of the wealthiest men in America, wearing trousers, swinging a hammer, fighting coyotes, and shooting trespassers.

“I made lemonade this morning,” she said. “Would you like some?”

“Lemonade?”

Libby nodded. “I bought some lemons last time I picked up supplies. You’d think they were pure gold for what they cost, but sometimes . . .” She shrugged off the remainder of her sentence.

“I’d love some. Thanks.”

“Go sit in the shade under the tree there.” She pointed toward the corner of the house. “I’ll bring you a glass.”

He watched her walk away. Her society friends back east would be scandalized by her inappropriate apparel, but he
thought he could grow to like the fashion, should it ever take hold.

With slow steps, Remington made his way toward a bench that rested against the trunk of a tall willow. He sat, his leg throbbing. Libby soon came out of the house, carrying a tray with three glasses and a pitcher.

As she handed him one of the glasses, she asked, “What sort of business is it you do, Mr. Walker? What took you to Boise?”

“I raise horses.” It wasn’t a lie. He made his living as a private detective, but he still owned several mares and stallions whose bloodlines could be traced back to Sunnyvale, his childhood home. “My father once raised the finest Arabians in all of Virginia.”

“I should have guessed.” She glanced toward the corral. “Your gelding isn’t the type of saddle horse we usually see around here.” She brought her gaze back to meet his. “But you said ‘once.’ Is your father no longer living?”

Remington cursed the careless slip of his tongue. The less he said about himself, the better. Still, he answered, “He died fifteen years ago.”

Fifteen years, but it might as well have happened yesterday. Fifteen years since his father—stripped of the JW Railroad, of Sunnyvale Plantation and its breeding stock, of everything Jefferson Walker had worked a lifetime to achieve—closed himself in his study, placed a gun in his mouth, and pulled the trigger.

All because of Northrop Vanderhoff.

Libby wanted to look away from Remington, but she couldn’t. He appeared angry. Angry at himself. Angry at her. Yet she wasn’t afraid. She wanted to comfort him, to offer him peace for whatever troubled his soul. Alarmed by her thoughts, Libby took a sudden step back, breaking the invisible hold he had on her. Lemonade sloshed over the rim of the glasses and onto the tray. “I . . . I’d better take Sawyer his drink. He’s got to be wondering if I’ve forgotten him.” She turned away.

“Maybe I could be of help, Miss Blue.”

She glanced over her shoulder.

Remington rose from the bench. “I built a chicken coop myself when I was a boy.”

Trust no strangers. She shouldn’t forget that, no matter how much time had passed.

“Please,” he said with a slight shrug. “Allow me to help.” His gradual smile erased the effects of his frown.

Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some
have entertained angels unawares.

The words from the book of Hebrews echoed in her mind, but in her heart, she knew Remington Walker was no angel. In truth, she feared he posed a more serious danger to her than any she’d faced before: a danger to her heart.

“Miss Blue, I need something to do. Let me help.”

Hadn’t God protected her since the day she fled her father’s house and a life of compromise? Couldn’t she trust Him to continue to protect her?

“It’s only my leg and side that’s hurt, you know. I can still swing a hammer.”

A sudden vision of Remington holding her in his arms overcame Libby. She saw his head lowering toward hers until their mouths could touch. She felt it, as clearly as if it were happening, and she wondered if she wanted God to protect her from this man after all.

“All right, Mr. Walker. You may help if you wish. But it’s your own fault if you hurt yourself again.”

Sawyer reckoned Mr. Walker might be of some real help around the ranch once he was good and healed, but from the useless way he swung at—and missed again—that nail, that time hadn’t come yet. The thought had no more drifted into Sawyer’s head than Mr. Walker smashed his thumb with the hammer. Muttered curses followed.

“Better not let Libby hear you talkin’ like that, Mr. Walker. She’ll wash your mouth out with soap.”

Gripping his left thumb with his right hand, the man leaned his back against the side of the barn. “I’ll remember that.”

“You better. That soap tastes mighty bad.”

Mr. Walker glanced in the direction of the house, as if watching for Libby’s return. “How old are you, Sawyer?”

“Turned ten last month.” He set a nail atop a board and began pounding it in.

“Have you lived here all your life?” Mr. Walker asked above the noise.

The nail in place, Sawyer sat back on his haunches. “Long as I can remember anyhow.”

“Libby takes good care of you, doesn’t she? You like her a lot.”

“I reckon we take care of each other best we can, and God takes care of us both.” He squinted at Mr. Walker. “You like her too. I can tell.”

“What makes you say that?”

Sawyer shrugged. “I seen the way you watch her when she ain’t lookin’.”

Mr. Walker frowned as he reached for his crutch. “I think it’s time for me to get off this leg. Sorry I couldn’t do more, kid.”