Secondhand Bride (20 page)

“I
don’t want Jeb to know about this,” Chloe told Sam Fee, as he sat beside her on the cottage steps. She’d leaned Walter’s rifle against the wall when she got back, knowing he’d come to reclaim it.

Sam, having absorbed her account of the incident in the churchyard in somber silence, along with her theory that Jack Barrett had been the one to shoot Jeb, sighed and thrust himself to his feet.

“Why would this feller want to do a thing like that?” he asked. “Shoot a man right out of the saddle, I mean?”

Chloe bit her lower lip. This was the part she wished she didn’t have to tell. “Because he and I were married once,” she said miserably. “Now, I’m Jeb’s wife, even if we are getting divorced, and Jack hates him for it.” She remembered the way her one-day husband had pushed back his coat, in order to put his .44 within easy reach, and shuddered. “He hates me, too.”

Sam surveyed the darkened landscape, as though he could see for miles. “Where do you figure this no-gooder was headed, when he left here?”

She shook her head, holding her middle with both arms. “I thought he was in Tombstone,” she murmured. “All this time,
I thought he was in Tombstone
.”

“You figure he might have been the one to rob the stage, too? Murder that driver and the woman?”

“Yes. He’s a professional gunslinger,” Chloe said wretchedly. Her temples were throbbing, as if attempting to meet in the middle of her brain and form a single pulse there. “He said he had money. And those two people on the Circle C, the man and the boy, he probably killed them, too.”

Sam laid a hand on her shoulder. They were not well acquainted, but she knew this was an unprecedented gesture for him. He was a taciturn sort of man and had never shown sentiment in her presence. “I can’t promise Jeb won’t find out about this,” he said gravely. “He’ll be mad as hell, I reckon.”

A single tear slipped down Chloe’s cheek, and she raised her eyes to Sam’s face, entreating. “He’ll go after him if you say anything,” she said. “And he’ll be gunned down—you know it as well as I do, Sam. Jack has killed a lot of men. Jeb won’t have a chance, with his arm the way it is.”

Sam was still for a long time, but then he gave one abrupt nod. “I reckon that’s exactly what he’d do, go right after the feller. Trouble is, much as I’d like to think I could round this outlaw up on my own, I’m going to need help, and that means going to the McKettricks. It would be a poor posse without them.”

Chloe swallowed. Nodded. “I know,” she said, as Walter came around the corner of the schoolhouse, bent, most likely, on recovering his father’s rifle. “Just make sure you don’t talk to them in Jeb’s presence. They’ll tell you the same thing, Sam—Angus, Kade, Rafe—all of them—that he mustn’t know about this until it’s over.”

“Most likely, you’re right about that,” he said thoughtfully. “I’ll ride out to the Triple M and speak to Angus in the morning.”

“Thank you,” Chloe said.

Sam answered with a nod and took his leave. He ruffled Walter’s hair as the two of them passed each other.

“I’ll need that rifle, Teacher,” Walter said, facing her.

She reached for the hateful thing, handed it over carefully. “I’ve got a favor to ask of you,” she told him, when he would have turned away without another word. “There’s something else I need to say first, though. You probably saved my life tonight, Walter, and I’m grateful. You were very brave.”

His small, dirty face was expressionless, and he said nothing.

“What were you doing out there in the cemetery, anyhow?” she asked. “I should have thought you’d stay in the wagon with Ellen, eating Mrs. Fairmont’s fried chicken.”

“I get feelin’s sometimes,” he said. “A sort of pinch in the bottom of my belly. Always means trouble, when that happens.” That, plainly, was all the explanation she was going to get, since he fell into a ponderous silence as soon as the words were out of his mouth. He was waiting, she knew, to hear the favor she’d mentioned.

“It’s really important,” she said evenly, “that you and I don’t talk to other people about tonight. Not right away.”

He crooked an eyebrow. “You told the marshal,” he reasoned.

She nodded. “Yes. I had to do that. But there’s a man— if he hears about it, this man, I mean, he might go right out and get himself killed.”

“Damn fool thing to do,” Walter observed stalwartly.

Chloe’s smile felt wobbly on her mouth, perhaps because its roots didn’t reach into her heart. “I absolutely agree,” she said. “But since we’re
dealing
with a damn fool, we have to be careful.”

Walter shrugged, holding the heavy rifle easily in one hand, as though it were a stick he’d picked up off the ground, to play with, or a fishing pole, instead of a deadly weapon that weighed nearly as much as he did.

“All right, then,” he agreed, and turned to go. He paused, looked back at her over one shoulder. “Obliged for that fried chicken,” he said brusquely. “We got plenty of beans, but Ellen favors a drumstick somethin’ fierce.”

If he’d been closer, and not looking as though he wanted to bolt like a deer catching a hunter’s scent on the wind, Chloe might have touched his face, or even embraced him.

“I’ll pass the word on to Mrs. Fairmont,” she said. “She’ll be glad you enjoyed it.”

Walter nodded. “See you in the mornin’, Teacher.”

Chloe smiled, and this time, it wasn’t a strain. “Good night, Walter.”

L
izzie peered into the cradle at the baby, there in the cozy kitchen at the Triple M, and decided she’d gotten a little better looking since the last viewing. Her face wasn’t so red, or so crinkly, and her dark hair didn’t stick out around her head the way it had the first couple of times she’d seen her. It looked as if somebody had spit on their fingertips, the way her mother used to do with her, and smoothed it down.

Concepcion laid a hand on Lizzie’s shoulder. Over their heads, above the sturdy roof, above the clouds, the sky rumbled. “Would you like to hold her?”

Lizzie looked up at her grandfather’s wife in amazement. “You’d let me do that?”

“Of course I would,” Concepcion said, in a whispery voice. “As soon as she wakes up from her nap.”

“Thunderation,” Lizzie marveled. “Nobody ever let me hold a baby before.”

Concepcion smiled. Her eyes were a warm shade of brown, like strong coffee, but sparkling, and her dark hair gleamed, neatly braided and wound into a coronet at the back of her head. She was like an angel, Lizzie thought, smelling of cinnamon and lemon and talcum powder, Concepcion was, and being around her, she didn’t miss her mama quite so much. “Come and sit close to the stove, and I will make us both a cup of hot chocolate.”

The men, including her papa, were closed away in the big study at the other end of the house, talking with Sam Fee, the marshal, so Lizzie and Concepcion had the kitchen to themselves, except for the baby, of course, and she didn’t make much of a difference unless she was crying. When she got to squalling, though, there was no ignoring her.

“Is Katie my cousin?” she asked. It was a question she’d been trying to work out since the baby’s arrival, and one she hadn’t quite dared to bring up with her papa.

Concepcion set a pan on the stove, humming. She seemed happy most of the time, and even when she was frowning at one of the men, her eyes went right on smiling. “Katie,” she said, “is your aunt.”

Lizzie thought hard, picturing her aunt Geneva. “But Katie’s
little
,” she countered. “And I’m big. How can she be my aunt?”

“You certainly are big,” Concepcion agreed, slicing a chunk of dark, bitter chocolate into the pan on the stove and reaching for the sugar bowl. “Katie is your papa’s sister, though, and that means she’s your aunt.”

“That beats all,” Lizzie said. She wasn’t sure she liked the idea of having an aunt who was only a baby. Did that mean she’d have to let Katie boss her around, when she got so she could talk?

Concepcion laughed. “Sí,” she said. Then, “Yes.” As if Lizzie wouldn’t know what “
sí
” meant, growing up in San Antonio the way she had.

She didn’t take offense, though. She settled herself in the rocking chair, close to the stove and stiffened when lightning lit the glass in the window. “Is my uncle Jeb coming home soon?” she ventured to ask. This, too, was a question she hadn’t wanted to put to her papa. Even though he came to the Triple M willingly enough, like he had today, he always set his jaw when she said the name “McKettrick.” He was still put out, she supposed, over being left behind in Texas when he was no bigger than a puppy.

Concepcion stopped making hot chocolate and leaned down to kiss the top of Lizzie’s head. “Yes, little one. He will be back soon.”

“Somebody shot him.” In her mind, Lizzie saw her aunt Geneva fall down, bleeding. Saw the stage driver fold to the ground with a terrible grace. Back of it all loomed the wicked man, with the bandanna over his face.

She shivered.

“Your uncle is very strong. He will be fine.” She went back to the stove and stirred the mixture of sugar and chocolate with a wooden spoon, adding a chunk of yellow butter.

“My aunt Geneva was strong, too,” Lizzie said. “And she died. Papa says she’s buried in town, and he’ll take me to her grave when I’ve had some time to heal up.” She frowned, puzzled. “I
told
him I didn’t get hurt.”

There were tears in Concepcion’s eyes, though she tried to hide them by turning her head. When that failed, she crossed herself with a hasty motion of one hand, then dabbed at her face with the corner of her apron. “There are many kinds of wounds, Lizzie,” she said, with a sniffle. “You should not have to bear such a memory.”

“I do cry sometimes, when I know Papa won’t see.”

Concepcion sniffled again. “You have had too much sadness in your life,” she said, though she wasn’t looking at Lizzie, but staring through the window over the sink, and stirring away. “It is not right, for a child to endure so much tragedy.”

“Papa says things will get better.”

A shoulder-moving sigh, another faltering smile. “Your papa is right.”

The door leading into the corridor swung open. “Now there’s a rare idea,” Holt said, grinning a little, though he looked sad around the eyes and a little angry, too. “I’m right about something?”

Concepcion blinked, in the way of someone waking up from a daydream. “Where is your father?” she asked Holt.

“I wasn’t aware that I had one.”

She gave him one of those looks and tightened her mouth. Lizzie watched with interest as Concepcion’s stare found its mark. She wondered if that trick would work for her, too. Her papa needed a great deal of managing, to her way of thinking, and he was a stubborn case.

He sighed. “He’s out front, seeing Sam off.”

“And your brothers?”

Holt lowered his eyebrows. This time, he was the one doing the staring.

“Kade and Rafe,” Concepcion said, saying the names slowly, as if he might not have heard them before. “Are they still here?”

Concepcion was worried about something, Lizzie decided, and it concerned her uncles, whom she liked very much. Which meant that Lizzie was worried, too.

“Gone to the barn,” Holt said. “To saddle their horses.”

Concepcion flinched. “They did not come through the kitchen,” she reflected, and whatever that meant, she didn’t seem pleased about it.

Holt gripped the back of Lizzie’s chair and set it to a gentle rocking. “Smarter than they look,” he observed.

Lizzie wished grown-ups would talk plain English. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know they were hiding something from her.

“I’m getting a teacher,” she said, because she was scared all of a sudden, because she could feel the thunder, no longer just a faraway rumble, high in the clouds, settle in the center of her chest. She needed to talk about something cheerful. “It’s Miss Wakefield, from the school in town. She’s going to stay at our house from Friday to Sunday, every week.”

Concepcion’s gaze ricocheted past her, to land on Holt. “Does Chloe know Jeb is going to be staying there, too?”

Lizzie glanced up just in time to see a smile spread across her father’s handsome face.

“It’s the surprises,” he said, “that make life interesting.”

F
or Chloe, the rest of that week went by with all the speedy dispatch of a centipede slogging through a puddle of molasses. During the day, she taught classes. After school, she visited Jeb, weighted with her necessary but unwieldy secret and the guilt it caused her. During those times, they either argued, played checkers, or both, but there was no more mention of the missing divorce papers. She had that to be grateful for, at least.

At night, she tossed and turned, starting at every sound, afraid to close her eyes lest she open them to see Jack leaning over her. She kept the derringer close at hand, either in the pocket of her skirt or on the table beside her bed.

When Friday afternoon finally arrived, and Holt came personally to collect her, she was looking forward to a change of scene. He took her box of supplies under one arm and grasped the handle of her reticule in the opposite hand. He seemed subdued, and when they rounded the schoolhouse and Chloe saw the wagon waiting in the road, with its sole passenger, she knew why.

Jeb sat, grim and pale, in the seat.

Chloe stopped in her tracks, shot a sidelong glance at Holt. “I do not,” she said, “intend to ride with Jeb McKettrick.”

“Why not? According to Becky, you’ve been playing checkers with him all week.”

“Where are you taking him?”

“Back to the Circle C. He works for me.”

“You mean he and I are going to be under the same roof?
Overnight
?”

Holt smiled slightly. “A deal’s a deal, Miss Wakefield,” he said.

“But you didn’t say—”

“Lizzie’s waiting. She’s real eager to get an education.”

Chloe set her jaw. “That’s dirty dealing, dragging Lizzie into this!”

“Lizzie’s the whole reason you’re coming,” Holt said reasonably. “Unless, of course, you were serious when you told Jeb you and I were considering marriage.”

A hot blush surged into Chloe’s face. “You are enjoying this!”

“Yes,” Holt said, giving her a nudge toward the wagon. “I am.”

She went, but only because of Lizzie.

Jeb looked every bit as confounded as Chloe felt, and he frowned when Holt helped her up into the seat. She would be in the middle, squished between the two of them. She squirmed a little and fixed her gaze straight ahead while trying to collect her thoughts.

Out of the side of her eye, she saw Jeb tug at the brim of his hat, noted the look of wry irritation on his face. “Afternoon, Miss Wakefield,” he said, though he was watching Holt now. “I certainly didn’t expect to run into you. Since you
said
you’d be busy making lesson plans all weekend.”

Chloe lifted her chin, turned her head in Jeb’s direction. “And you
didn’t
say that you were planning to do any traveling.”

With a low word to the horses, Holt slapped down the reins and set the wagon in sudden motion. When Chloe glanced at him, she caught him with another grin on his face.

“Have you ever told the truth about anything in your life?” Jeb demanded, plainly addressing her.

Color boiled up Chloe’s neck, and she straightened her spine. If Jeb still thought she was a liar, even after she’d told him about her marriage to Jack, what would he say when he learned that she’d known who shot him and kept the knowledge from him?

“Have you?” she countered.

The ride to the Circle C seemed even longer than the week just past.

By the time they arrived, it was nearly dark. Lizzie ran out to meet them, followed by Mandy McKettrick, who had apparently been recruited to look after her while Holt was gone.

“Uncle Jeb!” the little girl crowed, face alight.

“Hey, kid,” Jeb answered. He’s been disagreeable all the way from town, but now, all of a sudden, he was his old, charming self. Had the recipient of that smile been anyone but Lizzie, Chloe would have been furious.

She’d felt Holt stiffen beside her, at the child’s exuberant greeting, though he recovered quickly, setting the brake lever and getting down from the wagon box.

Mandy smiled up at Chloe, making her feel welcome just that easily. “Lizzie’s been waiting for you,” she said, ignoring the men. “We’ve got your room all ready, and supper’s cooking, too.”

Chloe gave the other woman a grateful look.

Meanwhile, Jeb left the wagon on his own; nobody would have dared try to help him. He held up his left hand to Chloe, his eyes challenging her to spurn the grudging gesture.

She hesitated, then relented, seeing no graceful way to refuse, and stepped down with all the dignity she could manage.

Lizzie beamed up at her. “I can already read pretty well,” she announced.

Chloe laughed and leaned over to look directly into Lizzie’s eyes. “Wonderful,” she said. “Then perhaps
you
can teach
me
a thing or two.”

“You might start with something biblical,” Jeb suggested, from beside her. “ ‘God hates a liar’ would be appropriate.”

Chloe turned a scathing gaze on him. “Or,” she suggested, in a purposely sweet voice, “ ‘Judge not that ye be not judged.’ Or, perhaps, ‘Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.’ ”

He scowled, but before he could reply, Mandy stepped forward and linked her arm with his. “Come inside,” she said, with cheerful determination, her tone indicating that she’d drag him if he didn’t go peacefully. “You could do with some supper. Might improve your disposition.”

“I didn’t know you could cook,” Jeb said, momentarily distracted.

Mandy fluttered her lashes. “There are a great many things you don’t know,” she replied. “But you’re not entirely hopeless.” With that, she pulled him up the porch steps.

Holt carried in Chloe’s things, asked Lizzie to show her to her room, and went out again, probably to put away the team and wagon.

Chloe’s quarters were upstairs, and comfortable, for a remote ranch house. The ceiling slanted, and there was only one window, but a needlepoint rug graced the floor, and the bedspread, though worn, was pretty. Someone, probably Mandy, had left a cracked jug on the nightstand, its narrow opening jammed with pretty grasses.

“Papa’s got a lot of books,” Lizzie said, sitting on the bed with a little bounce. “So if you didn’t bring any, that’s all right.”

“I did bring some, though,” Chloe assured her. She went to the bureau, poured fresh water from a china pitcher into a mismatched bowl. She splashed her face, dried it with a flour-sack towel, then washed her hands with lavender soap. “Does your papa read a great deal?”

Lizzie shrugged. “I haven’t seen him do it, ’cause he’s real busy with the ranch,” she said, “but he must, because he knows a lot.”

Yes,
Chloe thought, a little sourly,
he knows plenty. For instance, he knew Jeb was coming here, but he didn’t trouble himself to mention it to me.

She unpinned her hat, set it aside, and took off her fitted jacket. She would speak to Mr. Holt Cavanagh later, she promised herself. In the meantime, she would occupy herself with Lizzie, and with supper, and the formidable task of ignoring Jeb.