The Outlaw Bride (13 page)

She should have never come here. Never promised a dying man she’d make things right. It was too hard. It hurt too much.

She couldn’t hide the truth forever. Sooner or later it would come out. If Beesom didn’t talk, or the real Hannah Stockdale didn’t eventually show up, then likely she would trip herself up and Connor would catch her in one of the many lies she had told since she arrived here. And then what? Already she teetered on the edge. He knew she was hiding something, that she had secrets. But oh, the destruction that truth would bring once it was revealed. The pain her secrets would cause.

Tears rushed back and poured over her lashes. Katherine twisted her head and tried to turn away, mortified by the moisture cascading down her face, yet unable to staunch the flow.

She let go of the quilt long enough to swipe the back of her hand over her cheeks, her movement forcing him to drop his hold on her chin. She hadn’t cried since her mama died. Now it seemed she couldn’t stop, as if a dam had burst inside of her.

“Tell me what’s wrong.” Something elemental blazed in the depth of his eyes, creating a light of their own that burned brighter than the moon.

A strangled sob burst from inside, harsh and bitter. She fought to find a reasonable explanation that would satisfy him. “What’s wrong? What could possibly be right? I’m in a strange town, surrounded by people I don’t know. I owe money to a couple who have threatened to haul me before a judge if I don’t pay it back. I don’t have a penny to my name and no one to turn to.”

The muscle in his jaw flinched. He glanced at the door. No doubt he wished he’d left her alone. Yet every inch of her wanted him to stay, to gather her in his arms and tell her everything would be okay. She didn’t care if it was a lie. She just needed to hear the words.

He did none of those things.

“You’re not alone,” he said. “You have…me, and you have Jenny.”

“I work for you, that’s all.”

He didn’t correct her, a silent omission that cut her to the core. “And because of that you’ll have some money in your pocket and be able to pay off Oliver Hewitt.”

“And then what?” The question popped out and lingered in the air between them. Katherine studied him, taking in every detail of his face, the straight nose and steady gaze, the way his hair flipped out slightly at the ends, the stubble that shadowed his jaw.

“What do you want?” he asked.

You
, her pesky heart whispered.
I want you
. But those were words she could never say.

“I want to repay Mr. Hewitt, then I’ll be on my way.”

What other choice did she have? Staying much longer in Fatal Bluff, in this house, could only result in her ruin.

“Where will you go?”

“I don’t know.” Her mind didn’t stretch that far into the future. She’d spent too long living day by day.

An array of emotions traveled across Connor’s features. She couldn’t read any of them, save for a hint of loneliness. That one she recognized. She saw it every time she looked in a mirror. Somehow, having it reflected back at her in this way was far different. A knifing pain cut through her heart. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

He shook his head and stared at her. “Who are you, Kate Stockdale?”

A ripple of dread danced across each nerve in her body. Her heart pounded inside her chest with deafening blows. She couldn’t lie to him. And she couldn’t tell him the truth.

“Nobody,” she whispered.

His grip loosened and she pulled her hand away. The tips of his fingers grazed her flesh, sending tiny pinpricks of sensation shooting up her arm.

He didn’t believe her. She could see it even beneath the mask. The concern he’d shown earlier vanished, replaced by suspicion and mistrust. Tears burned her eyes but she blinked them back.

Connor stood and stared down at her. Moonlight cascaded over his bronzed chest and the lamplight danced shadows across the corded muscles in his shoulders.

“This conversation isn’t over.” He turned and walked to the door. She wanted to call him back. Suddenly the prospect of his leaving made the loneliness and desperation choke her. But she couldn’t. She’d made her bed, now she had to lie in it. Alone. “Get some sleep. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

“There’s nothing more to talk about,” she said.

“I disagree.” She had no chance to protest. The door shut behind him.

For several long moments, Katherine stared at the rudimentary carvings on the oak door until her eyes burned and she closed her lids.

Connor hesitated outside the door to Oliver Hewitt’s office, trying to convince himself he was not out of line. He had the right to know everything he could about the woman who lived under his roof, caring for his niece.

He knew she was lying to him; he just couldn’t get her to admit it. He had tried to raise the subject again this morning, but she became as tight-lipped and evasive as any outlaw he’d come up against. Hell, he had a better chance of cracking Frank Beesom before he got Kate to fess up about why everything about her seemed to contradict what he had been told by Hewitt. And it didn’t help any that Jenny was glued to her side. He didn’t want to have the conversation in front of his niece. He didn’t want to upset her. But he had to know the truth.

With a sense of righteousness wrapped around his conscience, Connor pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Oliver glanced up from the papers scattered about his large mahogany desk. He removed the spectacles perched on the end of his bulbous nose and leaned back, surprised. The leather chair creaked as his ample frame shifted between the armrests.

Despite the oppressive heat outside, Oliver wore a fancy wool suit, fit with all the flashy trimmings of a man trying to remind everyone of his worth. It never made much sense to Connor. A fancy waistcoat or shiny cufflinks couldn’t replace a lack of character, no matter how much money you paid for them. A quick scan around the office with its expensive furnishings and ostentatious design told Connor that was a lesson this businessman had never learned.

Oliver pressed his fingertips together and rested them beneath his layer of chins. “Sheriff Langston, what a nice surprise. What can I do for you this afternoon?”

Connor cleared his throat. Now that he was here, the conscience he had successfully silenced outside the door needled him once again. What did Kate’s past matter? She didn’t plan on staying. She said so herself. She would repay the Hewitts and leave town. But to where?

And why did the idea of her going anywhere leave him with a sick, empty feeling?

He pushed the thought aside. Buried it down deep with all the other things he didn’t like to think about. It barely fit. The space had become rather crowded.

“Sheriff?”

Connor bit down on his emotions. “What do you know about Kate Stockdale?”

Oliver blinked and lowered his hands to his desk, splaying his fingers over the papers. “Kate?”

“I mean Hannah.”

“Stockdale?”

“Yes.”

“The bride?”

Connor’s patience snapped. “Yes, Oliver, the bride! The woman you brought here and tried to foist off on Walter Figg.
That
Hannah Stockdale.”

“Well pardon me, Sheriff, if I seem confused,” Oliver said, puffing his chest out with indignation. “But you called her Kate. I can’t be blamed if you can’t keep your housekeeper’s name straight.”

Connor pulled off his hat and gripped the stiff brim with his fingers to keep from reaching across the desk and doing something similar to Oliver’s fleshy neck. “She said most people call her Kate. From her middle name, Kathleen. Now what do you know about this woman?”

Oliver scrunched his face up. “I know her middle name isn’t Kathleen. It’s Elizabeth. Hannah Elizabeth Stockdale.”

An uncomfortable chill swept over Connor’s bones. He forced himself to remain expressionless. “What else?”

“She’s from Dodge City in Kansas. Only daughter of Maureen and William Stockdale who perished in a fire almost two years past.”

“Maureen?”

“Yes.”

“Not Hannah?”

“No, Hannah is Hannah.” Oliver drummed his fingers again and the sound reverberated through the stillness of the room, thrumming in concert with Connor’s pulse. “Sheriff, have you been drinking?”

“What? No!” One whiskey was hardly enough to addle his brain. One Kate Stockdale, on the other hand—well, that was an entirely different matter. “I’m just trying to get the facts straight.”

“Why all the questions, Sheriff? Perhaps you’re rethinking my offer to marry her, hmm? The discounted commission still stands. A special rate for such a dedicated lawman.” A wolfish smile spread across the man’s face.

Connor gritted his teeth. “No, Oliver. I am merely inquiring after her character.”

Oliver’s smile faded. “Why in heaven’s name would you hire her when you can marry her and get her for free?”

“Save for your commission, of course.”

“Of course,” he answered with an oily grin.

“Just tell me what you know.”

Oliver grumbled and yanked open a side drawer on his desk, fishing around inside until he found a small packet of letters. “Guess you can take these. They were for Mr. Figg, but they’re no use to him now. Man can’t read anyway.”

Connor took the offered letters, three in all, and turned them over in his hand. The faint scent of roses drifted up to tickle his nose. Other than that, the small pink envelopes gave nothing away, save for the feminine scrawl addressed to Walter Figg, care of Oliver Hewitt.

“What are these?” He flapped the letters.

“Letters Miss Stockdale sent. We exchanged correspondence before the lady—” Oliver made a face, clearly indicating he used the term loosely, “—decided to make the trip from Kansas to marry Mr. Figg.”

Connor tucked the letters into the breast pocket of his shirt and settled his hat on his head. The letters burned through the cotton material and he marveled the badge pinned on his chest didn’t melt and ooze down the front of his shirt.

“Obliged.” He nodded.

“You’ll let me know if you change your mind on marrying her, Sheriff?”

Connor ignored the man’s parting comment, shutting the door behind him with more force than necessary and made his way back to the office.

“Where you been? Lunch is here.”

Bart’s words greeted Connor as he walked through the door. He left it open, in the hopes a small breeze might find its way into the room and freshen the stale air polluted by Beesom’s unwashed stench. If he didn’t think the prisoner would make a break for it, he would dunk him in the nearest trough.

“Had to talk to Oliver.”

Bart bit into a piece of succulent roast pork. Amelia made sure the two of them had at least one hearty meal delivered each day, and Connor knew if he didn’t grab his when it arrived, Bart would plow through the two plates in short order. For a small man, he sure ate a lot.

Connor flipped up the gingham cloth covering. One plate still remained.

Bart winked. “Got here just in the nick of time, son.” He sucked the grease off the end of his fingers with a loud smacking noise.

“Why don’t you go on over and see that wife of yours for a spell?” Connor needed time alone to digest what Oliver had told him.

Bart stuffed a last piece of biscuit into his mouth and stared at Connor while he chewed.

“Guess I could do that,” he said. He eased his old bones out of the chair and stretched. “Maybe she’s got some tasty treat for me.” Bart wiggled his bushy brow and chuckled, leading Connor to think it wasn’t food he was hoping to find when he arrived at the boardinghouse.

Bart walked around the desk and fetched his hat from the hook on the wall. “I’ll stop by the post office on my way back,” he said. “Maybe Doby has somethin’ new for us. Ed says Nate Thompson was gonna pay a visit to the stagecoach office in Mercury, see if he couldn’t scare something up on this mystery woman. Maybe he’s sent word.”

“Maybe.” Nate was one of the network of bounty hunters helping him track down the Slade Gang. Connor slid into the empty chair behind his desk and pulled the plate from the basket.

He didn’t hold out much hope. News on the woman had proven scarce and the few eye witness accounts of her remained vague. She’d kept herself covered from head to toe, leaving little to remember. He wondered if she was purposely trying to disguise herself. It made Ed’s theory more plausible. Maybe Slade
had
been after the woman.

It made sense. Stagecoaches weren’t Slade’s style. Banks or trains were more to his liking. About the only thing consistent with Slade’s behavior that day was when he killed everyone in sight.

Everyone except the woman.

A woman his brother had been intent on protecting.

But why? Had she needed protection from Slade? And why had she disappeared?

Connor couldn’t shake the sense there was more to this woman than met the eye. But before he could unravel that conundrum, he had his own mystery woman to deal with.

His stomach rumbled. Connor set aside the letters and dispatched his hunger. For all he knew, he wouldn’t have much of an appetite left once he finished perusing the contents of the pink envelopes.

It took only a few minutes to make short work of the roast pork, cheese and biscuits. Connor pushed the empty plate aside and reached for the letters. A hint of rose still clung to the envelopes. Strange, he didn’t recall Kate ever smelling like roses.

“Letters from your sweetheart, Sheriff? Ain’t that sweet.”

Connor scowled. Frank Beesom had raised his sorry ass off the thin cot and pressed his face through the bars, one hand gripping them on either side.

“Shut up, Beesom. Unless you’ve got something to tell me about Slade, I’m not interested in listening to you yammer on.”

Beesom clucked his tongue. “Now, is that any way to treat a guest?”

“Keep it up and I might just rethink my decision to let Devers take you in dead rather than alive.”

The man chuckled, a cold, derisive sound that scraped over Connor’s nerves like the jagged blade of a rusty knife. “Don’t get too cozy with the idea of me getting planted in the bone orchard. I ain’t dead yet.” He walked back into the cell and leaned against the stone wall. “And I ain’t planning to be any time soon.”

Ed had told him on his first day that there hadn’t been a jail made yet that could hold Beesom. Every time he’d been caught, he managed to escape. The news only fired Connor’s determination that it wouldn’t happen on his watch. He’d hired a few extra deputies to keep an eye on the prisoner through the night and he rarely ventured far from his office when he was in town. If Beesom thought he was going to escape, he’d find himself on the business end of a bullet before he reached the town limits.

With an aggravated growl, Connor slipped the envelopes into the back pocket of his denims. He would read them later, at a time when Frank Beesom wasn’t heckling him from his cell, disturbing his thoughts.

He had plenty of time to unravel the mystery of his new housekeeper. With the money she owed to the Hewitts, she had to stay with him until at least month end. He smiled. For now at least, she wasn’t going anywhere.

***

Katherine set the picnic basket down next to the thick trunk of a cottonwood and handed Jenny one of the fishing poles she’d found in the barn. She needed a break, a diversion that would get her out of the house and away from the confusion whirling like a tempest inside of her. Last night had nearly been her undoing, having Connor in her bedroom half-naked asking his infernal questions while the moonlight glistened off his muscled chest.

Katherine pinched the bridge of her nose, trying desperately to rid her mind of the image. She didn’t want it there. Didn’t want the insufferable ache that invaded her insides every time she thought of it.

“Jenny, have you ever hooked a worm before?” Her forced cheerfulness trilled brightly over the gurgle of the creek flowing down from the bluff. Just on the other side, a steep rock face jutted into the sky, rivaling the redwoods for supremacy. Shards of sunlight cut through the trees and slashed the ground around them. It was a beautiful afternoon. A perfect day to beg off from chores and go fishing.

Jenny’s small fingers dug through the tin of dirt they’d brought with them and scooped up a fat worm. Katherine steeled herself for the job ahead. This was the part she hated.

“Sorry worm, looks like today’s your last day.” She winced as she hooked it, then quickly cast the line into the water and handed the pole to Jenny. She did the same with her own and the two settled down on the shaded grass.

Katherine leaned against the boulder next to her and reached down with one hand to loosen the ties on her boots. Within moments, she had kicked them free and draped her stockings carelessly over the rock. Grass tickled the bottom of her feet, the cool ground wonderfully decadent. Jenny copied her movements and tossed her new boots behind her away from the water.

It didn’t take long before Jenny’s line tugged and the girl’s eyes widened. The threat of a smile dimpled the corners of her mouth. Katherine shimmied over next to her and helped pull the first trout out of the creek. Several more followed, and by midday the covered basket submerged at the creek’s edge held four trout.

“We’ve managed to catch our supper, Jenny. Isn’t that something? I’ll bet your uncle will be surprised.” Drat. She hadn’t meant to think about him this afternoon. She gritted her teeth and stood. “Hungry?”

Jenny looked up and nodded.

It pleased Katherine to no end that the little girl was becoming more responsive with each passing day. Gone were the blank stares and that dead-eyed sorrowful look that sliced through Katherine’s heart like a hundred tiny daggers.

“That’s good. Because I packed a big lunch. Ham, biscuits, apple pie, some of those pickled beets you like.” Katherine laid an old quilt on the ground and set the picnic basket on top. All around them tufts of wildflowers grew in colorful bunches and filled the air with their sweet scent. If there was a prettier place in the entire world, Katherine couldn’t think where it might be. Jenny had picked the perfect spot.

They enjoyed their picnic, making short work of their provisions. By the end of it, Jenny’s face and hands were stained with beet juice.

“I think you need a bath, sweetie.” Along with lunch, Katherine had packed a cake of lavender soap and towels. The creek had much more elbow room than the hip bath. Not to mention less chance of Connor wandering in unexpectedly while she tried to bathe. No doubt he was in town, questioning Frank Beesom. Her stomach churned at the thought. The only comfort she found was in the fact that Beesom could not reveal who she was without linking himself to Slade, something he would never do. People who gave up information on her husband had a nasty way of turning up dead. And Beesom had always had a predilection toward self-preservation. That alone might be the only thing that saved her while they held him in that jail cell.