Authors: Jennifer Jakes
“Here.” She swept the quilt from her shoulders and draped it around his, then pushed her warm cup into his hands. “Drink some coffee. It helps.”
“Thank you.” He clutched the cup and moved to the hearth. “I brought your things inside. I hope nothing is ruined.”
Maggie glanced to the soggy pile of leather. “Maybe I should look. I have several sketches in there.”
“What are…sketches?” Little Owl whispered across the room.
“I draw and paint pictures.”
She unbuckled the flap and pulled her satchel from Rafe’s saddlebag. Everything felt dry, but she scurried to the table to check.
“You never said you were an artist.” Rafe ambled to her side.
Maggie tilted her head toward him. “You never asked.” She reached in for her paper. “A nd it didn’t seem impor—” She pulled the stack—a hand written, ink-filled stack—free from the leather.
Her heart stopped, her stomach plummeting to the floor as her artistic dreams vanished.
These weren’t her sketches.
Rafe watched all the color drain from Maggie’s face.
“What’s wrong?” He took the documents from her hand and a sick knot of guilt roiled through his gut.
“These are Michael’s papers. My satchel must be with him.” Her hollow voice faded as she dropped into a chair.
Rafe glanced at the legal papers, then to Maggie. Her blue eyes watered with unshed tears as she stared into the fire.
“I’m so sorry.” Rafe knelt beside her. “When Zeke showed me your room, I took the first leather bag I saw.”
“It doesn’t matter.” She scrubbed her palm across her eyes and sucked a deep, shuddering breath.
Her choked dismissal flooded him with guilt.
“No, Maggie. I really am sorry.” The sketches were the only thing she’d asked for that day. A nd he failed her.
“I’ll buy you some more supplies once we reach the fort.” Somehow. He could sell something if he had to.
“It’s not important.” She sniffled, then escaped to the fireplace. “Let me help you dish up supper, Little Owl.” Rafe moved into her chair and stared at the useless papers. He’d feel a hell of a lot better if she’d unleash that temper of hers on him.
Cecil clapped him on the back on the way to the coffee pot, then sat across from him and shrugged.
“Don’t worry. Maybe she can draw on those.”
“I don’t know.” Rafe thumbed through them.
Ledgers, contracts, and several scribbled notes. “I suppose she can look through them later. Maybe there are some blank sheets.”
He gathered it all into a pile, then stopped and ruffled through the stack again. Something had caught his eye, danced in his mind. Something significant. It had been on one of the notes. He yanked the paper from the rest and scanned the words as a gnawing fear filled his gut.
“Maggie, who is Mr. Bouse?” Rafe feared the answer, but he prayed this was a different man. If not, then everything changed. He couldn’t just put Maggie on a coach.
He’d have to return home. To St. Louis. The last place he wanted to go. The last place he was welcome.
“Phillip Bouse is our family attorney,” she called over her shoulder.
The answer cut through him, the pain like a saber into his lungs. Bouse was also a close friend of his stepfather.
“A nd Bouse negotiated the sale of the shipping company for Michael?” Rafe shuffled the papers. Where was that note?
“Yes. He handles all our business. He always has.
That’s why I have to see him immediately.” She walked to the table, her brows pinched together.
Rafe pulled all the notes with Bouse’s signature and examined each one before passing them to Cecil. Maggie frowned, but Rafe had to be sure of what he’d read before he said anything.
Cecil nodded, then gave a low whistle and pushed all the papers back to Rafe. He took a deep breath and stood.
“You can’t see Mr. Bouse.” Rafe met her frown, ready for her argument.
“Why not?”
“Because he’ll kill you.”
The words swirled in Maggie’s ears until the room started to spin. Weakness buckled her knees, and the spoon slipped from her fingers. The clatter echoed through the room along with Little Owl’s gasp.
“What are you talking about?” Maggie demanded.
Rafe had to be wrong. He had to.
Cecil stood and held the chair for her. “Sit and look at what he’s found.”
Rafe pushed the papers in front of her, in order, according to date. He tapped the first page. “This is addressed to Michael, from Mr. Bouse.”
She took the paper in her hand and read. The hateful words swam before her as tears filled her eyes. This couldn’t be true!
“Tell me.” Little Owl edged beside the table and gripped Maggie’s shoulder.
Maggie cleared her throat, twice, then read, “‘I don’t think you understood my last message. For my continued silence
about
Gerald’s
death,
I
require
more
compensation than our original agreement. I want the shipping yard in San Francisco. Make your travel arrangements. I’m drawing up the contracts. Do not forget I have the receipts from the apothecary—receipts for poison, receipts with your signature, Michael.’”
“Wait. Who was Gerald?” Cecil asked.
“My father,” Maggie whispered.
Rafe pointed to another letter, and Maggie continued,
“‘I don’t care how you dispose of her. But since you can’t explain where the assets have gone, I suggest it happen before you reach California.’”
Maggie felt the whole room tilt. She pressed on her stomach, thankful she hadn’t eaten anything yet. None of this made sense.
“But I’ve known Mr. Bouse my entire life.” Her hands shook until the paper rattled. She slapped both on the table. “A nd Michael. This means…” She choked as realization thundered through her mind. “Maybe it’s a mistake.”
But it wasn’t.
Poisoning Father was no rash decision made in the face of an angry lynch mob. Michael had wanted the money all to himself. No matter whom he had to kill. A heavy lump inched up her throat, no matter how many times she swallowed it down.
“You said Michael admitted to plotting your death in Cougar Creek.” Rafe slid his hand across the table and grasped hers, squeezing in a rhythmic, soothing gesture.
She sniffed, then swiped one escaped tear. “Yes. I know. But I never thought it was something he’d planned for months. I thought it was because of the gambling.
A nd Father, he’d been sick for so long. Why didn’t I realize what happened?” Maybe she was as stupid as Father claimed.
“Then you might have been dead alongside your father,” Rafe insisted.
She laughed, the sound dry and choked, but better than the scream clawing to get out.
“What can I do now? Who will help me once I’m home? Mr. Bouse is a powerful, well-respected attorney.
Who would believe me—who can I trust?” she cried. She tore her hand from Rafe’s and jumped out of the chair.
She couldn’t breathe in this enclosed space. Her life was one lie after another.
Rafe caught her midstride. “I’ll help you. You know you can trust me. I’ve protected you, kept my promise to you.”
He pulled her into his arms, surrounded her with his strength, held her until the fight—and some of the fear—
drained out of her. She gulped huge mouthfuls of air.
She could trust him. He hadn’t lied to her. A t least not yet.
“That’s not her only problem,” Cecil muttered, tapping the table. “By now, her cousin probably realizes she has his satchel. He’s got to have these papers. You know he’ll come after her.”
“By God, he won’t get her.” The steely words rumbled from Rafe’s chest, warm and steady beneath her ear.
“You may never reach Fort Union,” Cecil argued.
“You came here last summer. You’ve never seen the pass this time of year. It might be impossible to get through.” The thought shot a new bolt of fear through her. She had to get home. Her entire future depended on it.
“We’ve got to try!” Maggie pulled from Rafe’s embrace. “If I don’t return, everything will be lost.” Rafe frowned. “Not everything.”
“You don’t understand.” Her hands waved in the air.
“I have some art scheduled to sell. I need enough time to recreate the pieces lost to Michael.”
Rafe caught her arms, his gaze boring into her. “I’ll get you home.”
His quiet words settled, calmed, smothering the panic that threatened to escape.
“A ll right.” Maggie expelled a long, shuddering breath, believing him, because she couldn’t bear the alternative. “But what about Michael?” She needed to know what to expect. “What if he catches us before we reach St. Louis?”
Rafe palmed her shoulders and pulled her close enough his body blocked the view of everything else in the cabin.
“Maggie, I won’t let you be hurt.” His intense words stole her breath. “I’ll see you safely home.” He tucked her hair behind her ear. “I swear.”
“Come and sit. Eat.” Little Owl pulled Maggie from Rafe’s hold. “You need strength. You also, McBride.” Rafe dropped his hands, but the ghost of his touch lingered, burning as though he’d touched bare skin. She shuffled to the table and accepted the chair he held, then watched as he gathered Michael’s papers and stuffed them into the bag.
Cecil dragged a large piece of firewood to the table and sat beside Rafe, turning the conversation to traps and furs. Little Owl offered a consoling smile, then took a seat on the hearth. But Maggie was lost. Their voices buzzed in her ears, but she heard Michael’s voice, Father’s, the doctor pronouncing him dead, Mr. Bouse advising the sale of assets. When was the last time anyone told her the truth?
“Did you hear me?” Rafe covered her hand, jerking her attention to the present.
“What?”
“I asked if you needed to lie down? You’re very pale.”
“I’m fine. Just tired.”
“Then you must rest.” Little Owl cleared the bowls from the table. “It is a long ride to the fort. Come.” She pulled Maggie toward the bed.
“No. Please. I don’t want to take the bed. A pallet on the floor is fine.”
Little Owl frowned. “But—”
“Might as well put her there. She won’t stay if you put her in bed,” Rafe interrupted, then winked, taking the edge from the sarcasm. “Besides, it’s warm here in front of the fire. We’ll be fine.”
We? Maggie darted a look around the room. Yes, we.
Where else could he sleep? With the table pulled away from the hearth, the only other space would be against the door. He would freeze there. Besides, she needed him tonight, needed him to hold her, to chase away her fears.
“Yes. With a couple of blankets,” Maggie swallowed,
“we’ll be fine.”
She curled her arm into a makeshift pillow and stared into the flames, then shifted, trying to escape the cold draft creeping across the floor and Rafe’s elbow poking the center of her back.
“A re you all right?” His voice rumbled over her. “You didn’t say much during supper. Didn’t eat much either.” She peered over her shoulder to find him hovered above her, propped on the offending elbow. “I’m fine,” she lied. Except everything inside her felt raw, like a fresh wound.
Rafe dropped onto his back and heaved out a sigh. “I won’t let Michael kill you,” he whispered. “You don’t have to be afraid.”
His soft words filled her with temporary strength.
She rolled to face him, studying his face as he studied the ceiling. “I just wish it was over. I’m worried about Nettie. What if he gets to St. Louis first and hurts her?”
Rafe shook his head. “He won’t. She poses no threat to him. He has to find you and get the papers.” That made sense. A s long as Michael chased Maggie, the elderly woman was safe.
The wind howled outside the thin walls, a lonesome eerie cry. Maggie shivered beneath her blanket and squeezed her eyes shut, but haunting images of Michael raced through her mind.
“A re you cold?”
Rafe’s question cut through her fear and she opened her eyes. He inched closer until their bodies almost touched, until they were almost nose to nose. Flames danced over his handsome features and in his eyes as he watched her, waiting for an answer.
“No.”
“I could ask Little Owl for another blanket.” His breath skated over her.
Maggie shook her head. “I think this is all they have.
She’ll give me hers if you say anything.” His gaze searched her. “Thank you for being nice to Little Owl. To them both.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
Both dark brows climbed to his hairline, as good as calling her simpleminded.
“I don’t believe in prejudice, Mr. McBride. I believe men—or women—should be judged by deeds, not color.”
“So do I. Guess that’s two.”
“Two what?”
“Things we agree on.” He smiled.
A nother shiver racked Maggie’s body, but this one was caused by his grin and the dimples creasing his cheeks.
“Here.” He moved, tugging his blanket free. “Take mine.”
“Then you’ll be cold.”
“You’re arguing again.” He draped his blanket over hers, then settled on his side.
His deep, even breathing fanned her hair, tickling, teasing. It would be so easy to ask him to embrace her, to make her feel safe, to make her forget—if only for one night.
“Mr. McBride?”
“What?” He leaned over her again, his expression filled with questions.