Secondhand Bride (9 page)

C
hloe was drawn to the schoolhouse, against her better judgment, and made her way there soon after little Lizzie Cavanagh, attended by Becky and Emmeline, had been fed, soothed, and tucked into bed at the Arizona Hotel. Had she stayed, Chloe feared she would have been sucked into a whirlpool of caring, and that was an indulgence she couldn’t afford. Whatever the words on her marriage license, she was
not
a McKettrick, and could have no real part in the drama.

The school was small, a one-room affair, perhaps twenty-by-twenty, with log walls and a sturdy shingle roof. The windows were new, and there were two swings affixed to the limbs of a giant oak tree in the grassy yard. The fence was picketed, and freshly whitewashed.

Chloe walked around the perimeter once, noting the raw-lumber privy and the small shed where horses could be stabled during the schoolday. There was also a tiny cottage, covered in white clapboard, and someone had planted rosebushes on either side of the small porch. A few valiant, bright red blooms still clung to the stems.

Leave Indian Rock,
Chloe warned herself.
Go back to Sacramento.

But she couldn’t do it.

She tried the cottage door and found it unlatched. Inside were a gleaming brass bedstead, a potbellied stove with a supply of mesquite wood laid in beside it, a wash-stand, boasting a pretty pitcher and bowl and damask towels. There was a bookshelf, too, bare and waiting, it seemed, for her treasured volumes, and a hooked rug graced the floor. The furnishings were completed by a sturdy table, so new that it still smelled of pine sap.

The people of Indian Rock might not have snared themselves a teacher, just yet, but they obviously intended to do so, and they expected to make him or her welcome.

Chloe ached to live there, to unpack her treasures and settle in. She glanced at the bed, imagined herself there, with Jeb, and looked away quickly.

Fool,
she thought.
He doesn’t trust you. He doesn’t want you. Put him out of your mind, or you’ll go insane.

She let herself out of the cottage, closing the door almost reverently, and proceeded across the yard to the front of the schoolhouse itself. Since she’d already trespassed, she might as well go the whole way.

The main building, like the cottage, was open to anyone who might choose to step inside, and Chloe’s heart raced when she saw the interior. There were two blackboards, three long tables with benches for the students, a whole stack of textbooks, unused, their spines gleaming with newness. A globe stood beside the teacher’s desk, promising worlds to explore, and the supply cabinet was stocked with drawing paper, pencils, bottles of India ink and nibbed pens, chalk and slates. If Chloe had been enamored of the cottage, she was transported now.

She sat down in the chair behind the desk, reached out to give the globe a spin.
Don’t get your hopes up,
insisted a voice in her head, even as she dreamed of conducting lively classes in this cozy space, opening little minds to the vast vistas of the written word, of mathematics and science. Perhaps she might send to Sacramento for her telescope, gathering dust in the attic of her stepfather’s home.

Her doubts brought her up short.
You were involved in a scandal. Besides, this is McKettrick territory. If there are sides to be taken, and there always are, the townspeople will line up behind Jeb.

With a sigh, Chloe stood and smoothed her skirts. Maybe she would be hired, and maybe she wouldn’t. All she could do was try, and keep her expectations as modest as possible.

She went to the door, stepped out onto the porch, and came face-to-face with a small, red-haired boy in clean but ragged clothes. He sported a constellation of freckles and an eager smile.

“Are you the new teacher?” he asked, almost breathless with suspense.

Chloe couldn’t be sure what he hoped her answer would be. “No,” she said honestly, putting out a hand. There was no sense in putting the cart before the horse. “My name is Chloe Wakefield. What’s yours?”

The boy’s exuberant expression collapsed into disappointment, but he took her hand in his grubby one and gave it a shake. “Harry Sussex,” he said, in a deflated tone. “You
sure
you’re not the teacher?”

“Fairly certain, yes,” Chloe said, wanting to ruffle his thick hair and forbearing to do so. She sat down on the front step, and Harry took a place beside her.

“That’s a shame,” Harry sighed companionably. “The way things are going around here, it’ll be a wonder if I ever learn anything.”

Chloe suppressed a smile. “You are an unusual boy, Harry Sussex,” she said. “I should think you’d rather be fishing or catching frogs or playing kickball than ciphering and reading lessons.”

His thin shoulders were stooped with discouragement. “I want to be like Kade McKettrick when I grow up,” he said disconsolately. “He’s real smart. He reads books, and he can add up all kinds of numbers in his head. He knows the names of all the stars, too. Says there are probably people out there, living on other worlds, some of them just like ours.”

“He must be quite a Renaissance man,” Chloe observed. She’d had very little time to form an impression of Jeb’s older brother, but Harry’s description had raised her estimation of him by several notches. Where Jeb’s whole credo seemed to be a resounding
Yippee!,
Kade obviously lived from his intellect.

Harry screwed up his face, puzzled. “
What
kind of man?”

“A smart one,” Chloe clarified.

“I already said that,” Harry pointed out, quite justly. His attention was deflected by a movement at the schoolyard gate, and his smile was instantaneous.

Following his gaze, Chloe saw a middle-aged man with a crop of messy hair, wearing a rumpled suit and carrying a battered medical kit in one hand.

The doctor opened the gate, smiling, and came toward them.

“This is Doc Boylen,” Harry told Chloe. She recognized the name immediately, from the advertisement for a teacher in the
Epitaph.
“Doc, this here’s Miss Chloe Wakefield, but she says she ain’t the schoolmarm.”

Doc favored Chloe with a cordial nod and a discerning once-over. “I received a letter from you,” he said mildly. She wondered if he’d contacted the school in Tombstone, or heard about her disputed marriage to Jeb.

Chloe wanted to sigh, but she didn’t. “I’m a good teacher,” she said; she had confidence in that much, at least. “But I’ve got a history.”

Doc chuckled. “Don’t we all?” he said.

Chloe glanced uncomfortably at Harry; she didn’t want to go into details about her past in front of him. “The school is certainly wonderful,” she said carefully. “And so is the cottage.”

“Then I don’t see the problem,” Doc said easily. “As the head of the school board, I have the authority to offer you the position, here and now. The pay is downright pitiful—thirty dollars a month and meals. I’m afraid we spent most of our money on the buildings and the books.”

Chloe’s heart started beating its wings, wanting her to say yes, to run the risk, and devil take the consequences. “You might change your mind when you know the whole truth,” she said carefully, trying hard not to care too much and failing miserably. She was filled with yearning.

Doc’s smile remained steady. “Harry, why don’t you run on home and ask your mother what’s for supper?” he said, without looking away from Chloe’s face.

Reluctantly, Harry rose to obey. He’d clearly taken in every word of the conversation up until then, and his eagerness to secure an education, and thus become more like Kade, had been mounting visibly the whole while. “It’ll probably be beans again,” he warned, with a note of stalwart pragmatism.

“I certainly hope not,” Doc replied smoothly. “I’m in the mood for corned beef hash.” He took a few coins from his pocket and gave them to the boy. “Stop by the mercantile on the way and see if they’ve got any canned meat. There ought to be enough for a piece of penny candy, too.”

His enthusiasm renewed, Harry leaped off the porch and raced to the gate, pausing there to look back at Chloe, all bright countenance and good cheer. “You won’t go anywhere, will you, Miss Wakefield? Before I learn the names of some stars, I mean, and how to add numbers in my head?”

Chloe couldn’t bring herself to answer; a lump of longing had risen in her throat. Her gaze shifted back to Doc Boylen’s kindly face, and Harry went on about his business.

“I’m married,” she said straightforwardly, “and not for the first time.” Most female teachers were single; working wives were frowned upon. Any hint of scandal was cause for prompt dismissal. “My references may be less than glowing, as well.”

Doc Boylen set one foot on the step Harry had vacated and rested a forearm on his knee. “Are you a good teacher, Chloe Wakefield?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “I certainly am.”

A mischievous light danced in his eyes. “Just how many husbands do you have?”

She smiled, albeit sadly. “I’ve had two. I divorced the first one when I found out he was a paid gunslinger, and the second one isn’t too sure he wants to claim me.”

“Why’s that?”

She sighed. “He didn’t know about the first one.”

“Ah,” said Doc, with a sage nod of his head. “I see. And where is this confused fellow now?”

“Down at the Arizona Hotel, last time I looked,” she answered. “Jeb McKettrick and I are—separated.”

“I see,” Doc said, taking a few moments to consider. Then he smiled and shook his head at some amusing thought. “So you’re the wife he kept bragging about. Most of us didn’t believe you existed—Jeb’s been known to play fast and loose with the truth on occasion.”

Chloe spread her hands. “Here I am,” she said, somewhat ruefully. “In the flesh.”

Doc mused a while. “He’s likely to carry you off to that ranch sooner or later,” he went on presently. “Probably sooner, if he’s anything like Rafe and Kade, and obviously, he is.”

Chloe straightened her spine, vertebra by vertebra. “I don’t think there’s any danger of that,” she said. “We’ve got some serious differences.”

“I won’t ask what those differences are, but I daresay the two of you must have agreed on something, if you tied the knot in the first place. Just the same, if you can promise me a full year of service, I’ll hire you right now.”

Chloe tried to speak, failed, and tried again. “Thank you,” she managed.

Doc took out his pocket watch, flipped open the case, and frowned at what he saw there. “Thirty dollars a month, the cottage, and meals. You agree to that, Mrs. McKettrick?”

“Yes,” Chloe said, praying she would not come to regret the decision. “My answer is yes.”

H
olt had known, the moment he looked at Lizzie, lying there sleeping, with her dark hair spilling over Becky’s linen pillowcase, that she was his. He saw himself in her and, more importantly, he saw Olivia. It had been all he could do not to awaken the child and demand to know where her mother was, but compassion had stayed his hand. She was a fragile little thing, and even though he had yet to learn the details, he knew she’d been through hell.

There would be time enough to question her later, when she’d awakened, and the two of them had been properly introduced.

Now, he stood on the back stoop of the Arizona Hotel, his hands gripping the rail, white-knuckled, his stomach churning, his mind spinning. He stiffened when he heard the door creak open behind him, knew before a word was spoken that if he turned, he’d see Angus standing there.

“You all right?” the old man asked.

Holt gave a bitter laugh. “Nope,” he said, without turning around.

Angus stepped up beside him, moved to lay a hand on his shoulder, then evidently thought better of the idea and let it fall back to his side. This was a relief to Holt; he didn’t think he could have borne to be touched—at present, his nerves were all on the outside of his skin. “I take it you didn’t know about this child,” Angus said.

Holt shook his head. “I had no idea,” he admitted. He spared his father a brief, sidelong glance. “If I had, I sure as hell wouldn’t have left Texas without a backward look.” It was a gibe, and Angus grimaced as it struck its mark.

“That’s what you think I did, I reckon,” Angus said, with a sigh.

“That’s what I
know
you did, old man,” Holt replied.

“I thought you were better off with your mother’s folks. What would I have done with a babe in arms? Hell, you couldn’t even talk, let alone ride.”

Holt thrust out a hard breath. “I watched the road for you,” he said, without intending to reveal that much.

“I wish I’d gone back,” Angus allowed. “But I had a ranch, and a new wife, and sons. There was no money back then, and no time. I had my back to the wall for years.”

“I didn’t care about money,” Holt replied, consciously releasing his grasp on the porch rail, lest he snap it in two. “I wanted a father. Not an uncle who wished I’d never landed on his doorstep.”

“Dill was hard on you, I reckon.” To his credit, Angus sounded sincerely regretful. Trouble was, it was too little, too late. “I guess he and the missus never had any children of their own.”

“I was curse enough,” Holt answered.

“I’m sorry,” Angus said.

“Your remorse doesn’t amount to a pitcher of warm spit, old man, and there’s no sense talking about it now anyway. Too much water under the bridge.”

Angus shifted beside him, turned to lean against the rail with his arms folded. “I might believe that, except for one thing. You had an outfit of your own, down in Texas. Becky told me all about it, said the two of you were acquainted back in Kansas City. You could be any of a hundred places, but the fact is, you’re right here in the Arizona Territory. That tells me there are things you want settled.”

“I wanted a look at you,” he said. “You and those boys you cared enough about to raise up under your own roof.”

“You’re mighty jealous of your brothers, aren’t you?”

Holt tensed. “No,” he said. “I’d just as soon forget all of you.”

“Well, I reckon that’s going to be difficult. Important thing is, what are you going to do now? You’ve got that little daughter in there, and she’s most likely alone in the world, but for you. She wouldn’t be here if she had other folks willing to take her in.”

“I don’t know what I mean to do about Lizzie,” Holt confessed. “Maybe I’ll put her in boarding school.”

Angus turned his head and spat, a clear indication of his thoughts in that regard. “Well, hell, don’t do her any favors. If you aren’t willing to give that little girl a proper home, Concepcion and I would be happy to take her in.”

“She’s none of your concern.”

“By God, she’s my granddaughter, flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone. That
makes
her my concern. I won’t see her handed over to strangers.”

Holt’s breath scraped at his throat, and his blood ran as hot and poisonous as venom. “If you think you’re going to raise my daughter, you’re full of sheep dip.”

That statement seemed to please the old man, though it surely wasn’t meant to. He gave a raspy laugh. “That’s more like it,” he said.

“I’m glad you approve,” Holt scoffed.

“You go ahead and hate me all you want, boy,” Angus went on. “I can take it, and I’ve gotten pretty well accustomed to it over the last year. But you mark my words: If you try to send that child off to some school, to be fetched up by strangers, I’ll go there and bring her straight home to the Triple M.” He paused. “I made one mistake with you. I don’t intend to make another with her.”

Holt turned to look into his father’s face. “Why is she so important to you?”

Angus thrust himself away from the rail and let his arms fall to his sides. “Because she’s yours,” he said. And with that, he went back inside, leaving Holt to his own thoughts.

After five minutes or so, Holt left the back porch, getting only as far as the hotel kitchen before he ran smack into Jeb.

“What happened out there? On the trail, I mean?” Holt demanded. He knew Jeb and Sam had found the girl in a broken-down stagecoach, knew her name was Lizzie, but that was a mile shy of enough.

Jeb, sipping coffee from a mug, met his gaze squarely. “Somebody robbed the stage, shot the driver and Lizzie’s aunt like squirrels. Lizzie said the woman’s name was Geneva.” He shook his head. “It was bad, Holt. Real bad. The kid will be a while getting over it, if she ever does.”

Holt felt sick, because of the memories etched in Lizzie’s mind, and because Geneva hadn’t deserved to die like that. He was relieved, too, because it hadn’t been Olivia found beside that stage. “Did Lizzie mention Olivia, her mama?”

He saw pity in Jeb’s eyes and braced himself for what he knew was coming. “Not by name,” Jeb said, with a shake of his head. His voice was hoarse. “She did say her mother had died in San Antonio, of a fever. Her aunt was bringing her here, as far as I can figure, to meet up with you.”

Holt reeled inwardly. Olivia, dead. He couldn’t imagine it; she’d been vibrant with life the last time he’d seen her, full of radiance and passion and spirit. Why hadn’t she written him, at some point during the decade that had passed since their final parting, and told him they had a child?

The answer was pride, he supposed. She’d wanted to get married, he’d said he wasn’t ready, and lit out with the Rangers. When he got back to Austin, six months later, she’d long since packed up and vanished. He’d visited her friends and Geneva, too, but they’d been tight-lipped, and said if she had anything to say to him, she’d find a way to do it on her own. He’d looked for her in every town he passed through, for years, before finally giving up.

He’d never dreamed, never imagined even once, in all his many speculations, that they might have conceived a baby. He’d simply decided that she’d married someone else, mourned his foolishness, and gone on with her life.

Jeb laid a hand on Holt’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Holt shook off the past. It was gone, and he had to think about the present and his daughter’s future. “Thanks,” he said, with some difficulty. “For looking after Lizzie, I mean.”

Jeb shrugged, withdrew his hand. “I wasn’t about to leave her out there,” he answered. He smiled slightly. “She’s a tough little kid. When we found her, she was holding a .45. Said she’d shoot us if we made a wrong move, and I believe she meant it, too.”

Holt chuckled. “Damn,” he marveled. “You’d think she was related to Angus McKettrick.”

“Or you,” Jeb said.

Holt nodded. “Or me,” he agreed.