The Outlaw Bride (8 page)

“How long does it take burns to heal and disappear?”

“How long? Uh…a while.” How was she supposed to know? But she supposed the real Hannah Stockdale would, having experienced it firsthand.

“How long is
a while?
”

Tarnation! Could the man not leave well enough alone? What did it matter?

“It’s a while. I didn’t exactly mark the days off on a calendar and count them up.”

Katherine swung the hoe in frustration, wishing Connor’s questions would cease. She hated lying. The hoe caught on a root and stuck in the earth. She yanked hard but her grip slid against the smooth wooden handle and sent her stumbling. “Oh!”

A strong hand on the small of her back kept her from landing on her bottom in the dirt, but didn’t stop her momentum. Not until her back hit the solid strength of Connor’s chest. His hand slipped around to the curve of her waist.

“Careful there.” The low tenor of his voice in her ear sent a shiver coursing down to her toes and back up again.

“Thank you.” She wished he would step away. She’d do it herself but her knees felt a bit wobbly and she feared any movement would cause them to buckle.

He stayed put. “You’re welcome.”

One arm reached around her and his fingers slowly encircled her wrist. She didn’t stop him. She knew she should, but she couldn’t. His touch cast a spell over her. His chest warmed her back. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think beyond the pounding of her pulse or the ache beginning low in her belly.

Connor’s hand slipped into hers. The rough texture of his calloused palm sent a shiver up her arm. He turned her wrist over, exposing the underside of her arm, then turned it back the other way, stretching his hand to straighten her fingers.

“Amazing,” he whispered, though he didn’t sound amazed. He sounded skeptical.

She glanced over her shoulder, tilting her head up to catch his expression. Eyebrows arched over sinfully blue eyes. This close she could almost count the shards of black that flecked the irises. “What is?”

“The body’s ability to heal itself. I’ve seen some burn scars in my day. Nasty things. Most don’t heal so well. But you…there’s not a scar in sight.”

Katherine trembled, from his words. From his touch. If she turned a little more, leaned back another inch, their lips would touch. Fear mixed with a complicated need to turn in his arms and nestle herself—

No!
her conscience screamed and Katherine took an abrupt step away, then another for good measure. If her sudden departure had any effect on him, it didn’t show. His arms fell to his sides.

“I—I guess I was lucky. They weren’t too serious.”

Funny, she didn’t feel lucky. In fact, she and luck had parted company more years back than she could count.

“Guess so.”

Connor stared a little longer. She had the sickening feeling he didn’t believe a word out of her mouth. She waited for him to call her on it, but he remained silent. And she remained unnerved.

“I need to go get ready for dinner,” she stammered, backing away from him despite her mutinous body’s need to move back into those arms. She spun on her heel and hurried back to the safety of the house, feeling his gaze on her with every step she took.

The bath had done little to soothe Katherine’s agitated nerves. The warm, shallow water of the tub could not erase the heat of Connor’s touch. It had scorched into her skin, branding her. If she were smart, she’d resurrect his offer to drive her into town tomorrow morning. She’d take the next train out of Fatal Bluff and get far away from this madness.

But she couldn’t. With no money, she was stuck here. Even if she had the money to move on, her promise to Grant tied her to Fatal Bluff until it was kept.

Katherine’s shoulders slumped as she sat on the edge of the bed and looked around the room. It was a good-sized room. One large window framed with pretty, blue floral curtains brought in plenty of light.

Katherine stopped. Floral curtains?

She got up from the bed and walked over to the window, touching the material. The cotton slid through her fingers. Forget-me-nots printed against a white background. Not exactly the choice she expected from a man like Connor. She turned and stared at the rest of the room, studying it more closely for the first time.

A large bed, tall bureau, nightstand, a chest against the far wall. Only one item seemed out of place. Why hadn’t she noticed it before? She had seen it, passed by it, even dusted the top of it, but it had never registered.

Katherine left the window and crossed the room. Her fingers trailed over the smooth mahogany of the vanity’s surface. It was a well-crafted piece of furniture with scrolled edging, but what did a man like Connor need with a vanity?

If it belonged to his dead wife, did it hold such sentimental value that he could not bring himself to part with it, or move it into Jenny’s room where it would be of more use as the girl grew older?

The thought of him having such a strong attachment to another woman caused weeds of jealousy to twist around her heart.

Foolishness! She had no right to feel anything in that regard. She was nothing to Connor. And she could not allow him to be anything to her. Thoughts like that led to nothing but trouble. Best she nip those in the bud and concentrate on what she came here to do.

She shoved the thoughts to the side and stared down at the vanity, her fingers hovering on the top drawer.

Should she look inside?

Trying to pry information from Connor about his family had proven fruitless. Maybe she needed to resort to more drastic measures.

She hesitated, tapping the wooden knob with her short nails. Would it be so wrong?

After all, he had given the room to her. Maybe she just wanted to put some of her things in the drawer. She thought of the few hairpins she hadn’t lost when Walter Figg upended her in the middle of town and realized that was all she had, and those were currently stuck in her hair, trying to hold her mass of curls in place.

“Oh, just do it,” she whispered, and her fingers moved greedily to obey.

She slid the drawer open quietly, glancing nervously at the door. Her compromised conscience feared Connor would break in at any moment and arrest her for…for…she squinted. Was snooping an actual crime? If so, she would definitely have no defense to offer.

Why yes, your Honor, I realize snooping is wrong, but you see, this man I was living with was driving me crazy by refusing to answer my questions and I thought if I could just learn a little more about him, I could rid myself of these traitorous thoughts and get on with the business of keeping my promise.

Sure, Katherine snorted, she’d get off no problem. She peered down into the drawer’s contents. Two bottles of perfume jostled together, making a musical clinking noise.

Her heart pounded in her chest. Perfume? Her fingers touched the smooth glass. She stopped. Sunlight poured in from the window and glinted off silver. Katherine reached beyond the bottles and pulled out a framed photograph. Air locked in her lungs and she couldn’t breathe. Blindly, she groped behind her for the small stool, stumbling until it hit the back of her knees. She sank into it with a thud, unable to take her eyes off the photograph.

Grant Langston.

Her breath came in shallow gasps. His intense gaze stared back at her. Solemn and dark, his mouth pulled into a grim line.

The horror of that day seven months ago rushed back. The screams, the chaos, the acrid scent of blood and gun smoke. And the dying man whose life had been cut short because of her. Because he’d gotten in Rogan’s way and tried to save her. She should have just gone with Rogan. Maybe then nobody would have died. But every life on that stagecoach was forfeited the moment she stepped onto it and he came after her.

Her eyes slid past Grant to the woman seated in front of him. Fat dark curls framed the dainty features on her pretty face. Her rosebud lips were pulled tight, her eyes conveying a sense of…of what? Katherine pulled the photograph closer. The woman looked trapped. Like a cornered animal too frightened to find a means of escape. Grant’s hand rested on her shoulder. Neither of them looked very happy.

Katherine touched the photo gently. A curl slipped over her shoulder and dangled downward, brushing the edge of the frame. This had to be the girl she sought. His wife. Her heart pounded in her chest. Where was she now? And how would she find her?

“Kate!” The door flew open and Katherine froze. “Dammit woman, I thought you’d hurt yourself. I’ve been standing on the other side of this door knocking for at least—” Connor stopped, the rest of what he was going to say lost in the silence of the room. He looked at Katherine, the picture, then the open drawer of the vanity. Anger rolled over his features like a descending storm.

Katherine had no time to react as he stepped forward and snatched the photograph from her hand.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Katherine opened her mouth but nothing came out. What could she say?

“What were you doing going through my things?”

His things? But they weren’t
his
things. She looked again at the curtains and back to the vanity. Her brain whirled and spiraled until she thought she might topple and fall off the stool. It made more sense now. Connor had moved back to Fatal Bluff only six months ago. He’d said so himself. Someone had lived here before then. The woman in the photograph had lived here. With Grant. But then where was she now and when had she left?

“The woman in the photograph…is she—”

Connor tossed the photograph in the drawer and slammed it shut with a flick of his wrist. Katherine jumped as wood slammed into wood. He spun the stool around and planted his hands on either side of her, pushing her spine into the edge of the vanity.

“Let’s get one thing straight, Miss Stockdale. I hired you to clean, to cook and to look after Jenny. I didn’t hire you to snoop through my belongings like you had some right.”

She nodded because it was all she could do. Words had deserted her.

He leaned a little closer. She could smell the scent of fresh air and leather on him.

His gaze tore through and touched every part of her. She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but stare back, lost in him, her chest rising and falling in tandem with his. The sudden urge to grab the front of his shirt and haul him into her until that mouth descended on hers rocked her senses. Katherine squeezed the edge of the stool to keep her hands from betraying her. Something flickered beyond his anger, shoving it out of the way, something equally as frightening.

Desire.

She drew in a breath. He felt it too. She could see it in his eyes.

His gaze dropped to her mouth. For a fleeting instant, she thought he might kiss her. Hoped he would. Anything to end this desperate longing that fired up her insides whenever he came close. Maybe then she could rid herself of it, make it go away.

Her lips parted. Connor’s jaw twitched, his mouth tightened. Then, without warning, the storm passed and he stepped away, turning his back.

Katherine stared at the rigid line of his broad shoulders. His fingers drove through thick sun-kissed waves. “This was a mistake. This whole thing was a mistake,” he muttered.

“I—I’m sorry.” Her voice echoed off the walls, small and ineffectual. “I didn’t mean—”

He cut her off. “Jenny and I will be waiting in the buggy. Get what you need and come on.” He strode to the door then stopped, turning just enough to reveal the strong lines of his profile. “And stay the hell out of my things.”

***

Tension crackled between them on the drive over to the Holkums. Neither said a word. Kate did not even attempt to converse with Jenny, something Connor noted she had begun doing on a regular basis even though the little girl never answered back. He knew he should say something, apologize. He hadn’t meant to blow up, but seeing her holding that photograph, the questions rife in those green eyes, questions he would have to answer…

Connor shook his head. It had set him off. He didn’t want to think about it. And he didn’t want her of all people asking him about the past. Because he’d probably spill his guts if she did. She’d look at him with that expectant expression, stand close enough to make his mind stop working, his carefully constructed defenses would hit the trail and that would be that. She’d have the whole sordid story laid at her feet. He couldn’t think right when she was around. It’d been two weeks and she had him so damn addled he didn’t know if he was coming or going. Hell, mad as he was, he’d still almost kissed her right there in the bedroom.

She had the curiosity of a cat, the way she kept nosing into his business, asking her endless stream of questions and now snooping around in his things. He’d tried to turn the tables, to learn something about her. For some reason what little information Oliver had given him about Kate just didn’t seem to match the woman he lived with. And the vague bits of her past she meted out came stilted and unsure, as if she were making it up as she went along.

But why? What could she be hiding? He wasn’t sure which infuriated him more—that he couldn’t uncover her secrets, or that he cared enough to try.

Either way, erupting in anger when all she did was open a damned drawer was no way to go about finding out. She’d never trust him if he acted like a complete ass. He owed her an apology.

He pulled on the reins as they arrived at Bart and Amelia’s and then set the brake. With a deep breath, he turned to her.

“Kate?”

She sat staring straight ahead, so still he wanted to touch her to see if she was made of stone. Or he just wanted to touch her and was looking for an excuse. He couldn’t tell anymore.

The door opened and Amelia appeared on the step. “Well land sakes, don’t just sit there—get down and come inside.”

Connor looked at Kate once more. She had bent to gather the pies she’d made and handed them down to Amelia, who stepped forward, clearing the doorway for the rest of the family to filter out. He sighed. The apology would have to wait. No way was he about to do it in front of Bart, Amelia, their daughters, their daughters’ husbands and a gaggle of kids. He’d rather strip bare and run through the middle of town.

Once herded inside the children went off to one corner, the men sat at the table, and the women worked their magic in the kitchen. The house quickly filled with laughter and conversation and Connor felt the tension of the day draining out of him. He missed this, he realized, this sense of family and belonging.

His gaze traveled the kitchen where everyone congregated and he tried to see it through Kate’s eyes. To him it was commonplace. Even after being away for so long, he’d slipped back into the rhythm of his old life with the Holkums as if he’d been gone a day and not eight years. There were changes, of course. New children, new spouses. Grant’s absence. Connor pinched the thought off before it got too far. He couldn’t think about that. Hell, he could hardly think about anything with the noise level thirteen people crammed into one room could generate.

Beth and Joyce, Bart’s daughters, had joined them, both bringing their husbands and four children between them. It gave Connor a sense of ease to see Jenny playing quietly with Beth’s two girls. That she hardly spoke didn’t seem to matter. They set their dolls around a makeshift table and held their own pre-dinner tea party.

At the counter, the women worked in companionable collaboration. Every now and again Connor would hear Kate’s laughter trickle up over the voices and his gaze would be drawn to her. She had tied her hair back in a loose knot at the base of her neck. Even subdued it possessed a wild quality, as if it would break out of its moorings at any moment. He kind of wished it would. A part of him longed to see it as it had appeared on that first day, fiery curls flying freely about.

Dammit. He closed his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose.

“You okay, son?”

Bart’s voice cut through the muddle in his brain. Was he okay? No, he realized. He was a hard day’s ride from okay. His brother had been murdered, his own life had been turned upside down, Jenny wouldn’t speak and now he had to contend with Kate and the unwanted emotions she stirred within him.

“I’m fine,” he lied. “Just tired, I guess.” That part was only a half-lie. He was tired. Tired of feeling as if he was swimming to the surface only to be tugged back under by the current. Maybe he should just let go, let it sweep him away.

He opened his eyes and looked at Jenny. No. He couldn’t let that happen. Jenny needed him. It was one thing to fail himself, it was something else entirely to fail Jenny. She’d had enough tragedy in her short life without him adding more to the pile.

“Guess you’ve got a lot on your plate, Con,” Beth’s husband said. Reverend Will Sangster leaned back in his chair. He crossed his arms over his broad chest and the wood creaked beneath his weight. Connor had been friends with Will since they were boys. It seemed strange sometimes to think of him as Reverend, especially after all the scrapes they’d gotten into in their youth.

“I guess,” Connor allowed.

“Could be you need some guidance,” Will mentioned, a sly grin crossing his features. Connor braced himself for what was next. “The kind you might get at, oh, I don’t know, Sunday service perhaps.”

Connor lifted one eyebrow and crossed his own arms over his chest. Here it comes, he thought. The pitch to get him back to church. Hell, he’d only ever gone before because Grant dragged him, and the last time because Emily—