The Outlaw Bride (16 page)

Connor broke the kiss and staggered back. Anger bled across his features and he pinned her with a fierce glare.

“I can’t do this. I can’t let you in.”

His words bruised her heart.

“You and I—” He shook his head. She waited for him to finish but whatever he had been about to say was shoved behind an impenetrable mask. “I need some air,” he said.

Seconds later, the kitchen door shut with a bang. Finally, Katherine gave in and sank to the floor. What had she done?

Bart stuck a cheroot between his teeth and propped his feet on the front of Connor’s desk. “Seems to me you oughta just leave it alone.”

Connor gave the fire in the pot-bellied stove another jab. “Leave it alone?”

Warmth began to permeate the office, beating back the early October chill. The unpredictable heat of Indian summer had come to an abrupt end.

“That’s what I said.” A match struck behind him and the acrid smell of smoke filled the small space around them. “What difference does it make what her name is, who her brother was, or what she calls her mama? You got yerself a good woman there. She takes care of Jenny right and proper. Hell, you said so yourself that lil’ Jenny smiled and laughed yesterday.”

Connor touched a hand to the dented coffee pot and pulled it away quickly, the heat singeing his skin.

“Ouch!” He winced and shook his hand, glaring at the offending pot before answering Bart. “Yeah, but—”

“Ain’t no buts to be had, son. She’s a good woman. She’s good to you and she’s good to Jenny. Stop looking for things to be wrong. You cain’t go judging every single female by Emily’s behavior. Kate ain’t Emily.”

“It’s got nothing to do with that,” Connor said. But he knew it wasn’t true. He had been looking for cracks in Kate’s personality since the minute she staggered into his arms at the train depot. He’d tried to push her away, find a reason not to trust her, keep her at arm’s length. He’d been doing that to everyone for the past eight years. It had been easy enough to accomplish. Until now.

But none of that changed the truth. He hadn’t fabricated what he’d read in the letters. Sure he may have gone looking for lies, but Kate was the one that told them. He didn’t know what hurt worse, that he had been right or that he wished to hell he wasn’t.

He’d intended to pry the truth out of her last night, but dammit if he hadn’t messed it up but good. When she tried to evade his questions, he’d followed her, cornered her against the table so she couldn’t escape. That had been his first mistake, standing in such close proximity. Her soft skin begged to be touched. Long strawberry curls dangled down her back, tied loosely by a scrap of ribbon. The fresh scent of lavender filled the air around her. That close, he could count the freckles that dotted the bridge of her nose. God, even now he could still taste her sweetness, feel the imprint her body left on his.

Connor gripped the handle of the coffee pot and tried to regain control over his wayward thoughts. He emptied the contents of the pot into his cup before returning to his chair behind the desk.

“I don’t know who she is.” Connor pulled the letters out of his shirt pocket and set the wrinkled pink envelopes onto the desk between them.

Bart dropped his feet to the floor and scuttled closer to the desk. The sound of the chair scraping and his boots shuffling caused Beesom’s snore to halt. The prisoner shifted position and flipped over onto his side, the moth-eaten wool blanket twisting around his long legs. Connor waited until the snoring resumed before he spoke again, lowering his voice.

“Nothing in these letters matches what she told me.” He jabbed the short pile with his forefinger and pinned them to the desk.

Bart slipped one of the letters out from beneath Connor’s finger and held it up. “And she writes it on pink paper. Well, ain’t that the thing.” He put the letter up to his nose and sniffed. “Smells like roses…and mud.”

“And she doesn’t.”

Bart lifted a bushy eyebrow. “Beg pardon?”

Connor pointed at the letter in his deputy’s hand. “She doesn’t smell like roses. She smells like lavender. Sometimes vanilla if she’s been cooking, but definitely not—”

Bart raised the other eyebrow, a knowing expression enlivening his features. Connor clamped his mouth shut and tried to ignore the sudden heat rising up his neck.

“You seem pretty knowledgeable ’bout what the young lady smells like, Con.” Beneath the beard, Connor could see the older man’s lips twitching.

“I’m just saying,” he mumbled, snatching the letter back. “She’s lying through her teeth and I can’t get her to tell me the truth.”

Bart shrugged. “Maybe she was lookin’ to start a new life, with a new name. Put all her past behind her. A whole lotta people come west, hopin’ to do just that.”

“Then why not just tell me that?” he asked, taking a gulp of coffee. The mug hit the desk with a loud bang as he gagged. With nowhere to spit the foul liquid out, he forced it down. “How long has that been sitting there?”

Bart chuckled. “Oh, since about the time young Crofter took over last night.”

“And you couldn’t have told me that before I drank it?”

“Could have,” Bart said, taking another drag of the cheroot. “But you been right ornery since you walked through that door this morning, so’s I figured you’d just bark at me if I tried to stop you.”

“I am not ornery.” Connor shoved the coffee aside and scowled.

“The hell you ain’t. You’ve got your britches all in a twist over this girl. My guess is you haven’t been able to think about much else since she arrived in town.”

Connor glowered at Bart. He hated being so transparent. “I don’t need any more complications in my life. I just want things to go back to the way they were before.”

“Cain’t change time, Connor. It don’t know how to march backward. Best you can do is just accept that and try to keep up. Now I’m guessin’ you gave that poor woman a real hard time over this—” he waved a hand at the letters, “—and she’s sittin’ back home worryin’ whether or not she still has a job.”

Guilt forced Connor’s gaze to drop to his desk. If Bart only knew just what he’d done to Kate the night before, he’d probably hog-tie him to the back of his horse and drag him through town.

Bart squinted and shifted the cheroot over to the other side of his mouth with a flick of his tongue. “I think maybe you oughta apologize.”

“Apologize?” Connor straightened in his chair. He’d done nothing wrong, for crying out loud.

“Yeah, apologize. You need her, or had you forgotten that little tidbit of information while you were busy digging up the rest of it.”

He had forgotten it. Not because he worried she might quit on him, he realized, but because he had stopped thinking of her as an employee. Dammit, when had that happened?

Bart stood and stretched his reed-thin body, making small grunting noises. “Now, I’m gonna take these old bones down the street and see if I cain’t convince that woman of mine to rustle us up some real coffee and a plateful of grits.”

Bart sauntered across the room, lifting his hat off the wall peg. He settled the dusty felt hat onto his head and opened the door. Ed Devers stood on the other side, a wide grin splitting his face in half. He held up a pair of iron shackles and gave them a shake. “Mornin’, Bart. I’m here to take a man to his hangin’.”

“Well, son, you came to the right place.” Bart stepped back inside and made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “Seems we got a man just ripe for a noose.”

Ed sauntered into the room, his spurs jangling. “Get up, Beesom!” His deep voice ricocheted off the walls. Connor suspected anyone still sleeping within a one mile radius had just been knocked out of their beds.

Beesom kicked the blanket off and glared from his prone position on the cot. “Rather you just git some pretty girl to whisper sweet in my ear, Devers.”

“Ain’t taking last requests today. Put your arms out, and don’t try anything stupid. My guess is the sheriff here is just lookin’ for a reason to shoot you between the eyes and save the nice folks in Bakers the spectacle of a hangin’.”

Beesom scowled and rose from the cot. “You can threaten me all you want, bounty hunter. I ain’t dyin’ in Bakers.”

Ed clamped a thick cuff around Beesom’s wrist and grinned at the condemned man. “Everybody dies eventually, Beesom. But I’m still bettin’ my money that your time is comin’ sooner rather than later. Ain’t that right, Con?”

A cynical smile pushed at the corners of Connor’s mouth. He eyed the outlaw with bitter frustration. Whatever the man knew about Rogan Slade would die with him. And there wasn’t a damn thing Connor could do about it. He’d tried, but Beesom had kept mum.

Connor pushed away from his desk and crossed the room, sticking the key in the lock and giving it a hard twist. He stepped back, letting the door swing open. Ed led Beesom out, tugging at the shackles to keep the man off balance.

Beesom smirked at Connor. “You take care of that pretty lil’ housekeeper now, Sheriff. Maybe I’ll come back one of these days and pay her a visit.”

The man’s laughter was cut short by a swift cuff to the head courtesy of Ed. He shoved the prisoner out the door toward the awaiting horses.

“Say good riddance to the bad garbage, Con.”

Connor didn’t bother issuing a good-bye. He’d save his energy for praying the man didn’t escape yet again before his hanging came due.

***

Katherine kneaded the dough for biscuits, then pinched off sections and placed them into a greased skillet. She spread the remaining bacon grease on top of the biscuits before placing them in the stove to bake. Moving to the pantry, she retrieved several large potatoes out of the wooden storage box. Her supper preparations had already become second nature to her. She didn’t spare them a thought.

She wished they did occupy her mind. Then, at least, it wouldn’t be filled with the events of the previous evening, the feel of Connor’s mouth on hers, gentle hands cupping her face, the desire that rushed through at the mere remembrance of his touch.

The kiss had been a mistake. He didn’t trust her. And why should he? She’d avoided him this morning, busying herself in the garden while he ate breakfast. His voice filtered through the open kitchen window as he spoke with Jenny, but when he left to retrieve his horse, he didn’t spare her more than a passing glance.

She wouldn’t be surprised if he asked her to pack her things and leave when he returned at the end of the day.

As if her thoughts had conjured him up, Connor’s voice filtered through the open door.

“How’s my girl?”

Startled, the potato she held dropped from her hand and rolled lazily across the counter. Katherine grabbed it just before it fell off the edge and plunked it back into the bowl. She peeked out through the window. Connor crouched next to Jenny. She had spent most of the afternoon outside running around with Rudy until the big dog rolled over onto the grass in defeat, too tuckered to do anything but pant. After that, Jenny contented herself with picking wildflowers. Half were put in a vase and sat atop the kitchen table; the other half were braided together and looped around the dog’s neck.

Katherine leaned away from the window and brushed her cheeks with the back of her hands, swiping at the dusting of flour she felt on her skin. She patted her hair and tried to poke a few stray strands back into the knot at her nape before she realized what she was doing.

“Don’t be so foolish,” she chastised herself, dropping her hands. The man didn’t want her. Likely had returned home early to demand she leave.

Determined to ignore the burning sensation welling within her, she set her mind to preparing dinner. Dipping her hand into the pot, she retrieved the half-peeled potato and slashed at it with a fury.

“Something smells good.”

Katherine’s nerves jumped, nearly sending the peeling knife out of her hand. She dropped the last potato into the pot and moved to the stove.

“Thank you.” She hadn’t been expecting such an innocuous greeting, not after what had transpired the last time they were together. She wasn’t sure what to make of it. Mustering her courage, she turned around. His expression gave nothing away.

Nervous hands flitted to the apron tied around her middle. “I made apple cobbler for dessert.” Her fingers twisted into the white cotton. “I hope that’s okay?”

Connor stepped further into the kitchen, taking off his hat and hooking it onto a peg by the door. His fingers ruffled through thick golden waves.

“Cobbler sounds fine.”

Should she say something? Bring up the kiss? Pretend it never happened? Flustered, she occupied her hands and mind. Dishes clanged against each other as she piled the dirty crockery next to the basin.

Connor walked over and leaned against the counter, his nearness doing nothing to squelch her growing nervousness. “I was talkin’ to Bart about last night—”

Her hand flew to her mouth on a gasp. Words tumbled between her fingers. “You told him about the kiss?”

“No!” A crimson stain flushed across Connor’s cheekbones making him appear younger than his thirty years. He shifted and crossed his arms over his chest. “I told him about the letters.”

Katherine shook her head, confused. “What letters?”

“The ones Oliver gave me that Hannah Stockdale had written. That’s how I knew about your brother—her brother—and the rest of it.”

“Oh.” All day she had wondered how he’d come by the information. Of course, Mr. Hewitt would have known. Why hadn’t she thought of that in the beginning? Her shoulders slumped. Her ineptitude at deception was reaching epic proportions.

“Bart thinks I should just leave things be.”

Hope burst in her heart. “He does? And what do you think?”

Connor gazed at her silently. “I disagreed.”

“Oh.” The burgeoning hope fizzled in her belly.

Connor sighed and pushed away from the counter, turning toward her. Fine lines fanned out from the corners of his eyes, a testament to years spent outdoors in the elements. It only added to his rugged appeal.

“You lied to me, plain and simple. Even now you keep your secrets to yourself.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Something. Anything. A small piece of your past that isn’t wrapped in a lie.”

Katherine looked up at him. Her heart cracked. The desperate longing to give a part of herself, to put his mind at ease, tore through her. She wanted so badly to give in, to give him what he wanted. What he needed.

“After Pa died, Mama and I fell on hard times,” she said, picking her way through her past, finding pieces she could give him. “Mama did what she needed to get by. Most people judged her harsh for it. Of course none of those judging ever held out a hand to help.” She couldn’t stop the resentment that turned her tone bitter.