It made no sense, but the annoyance he felt over seeing her with Patrick eclipsed all sense of appreciation. He once again turned, this time in the direction of the saloon and the dead man. Shopping for trinkets, or walking with women, no longer interested him.
Instead, he felt thirsty enough for something a bit stronger than sarsaparilla.
Chapter Seven
“Good heavens!” Kristen pushed the lock of hair dangling before her left eye out of the way with the back of one gloved hand. She gasped, the hammering of her heart making her dizzy.
A spicy scent filled her nostrils when she inhaled, and she knew immediately it wasn’t Jack Sterling who covered her. Blindly, she wiggled a hand up and shoved against the hard form, hoping to get room enough to do more than gasp like a landed fish.
At the sound of the first shot, she had been unceremoniously pushed against the bank’s façade—hard. Her breath left her lungs in a very unladylike
whoosh!
and she had been covered, thrown into virtual darkness by the gray coat pressed against her face. She knew the wall covering her was designed for her protection, but in the precarious seconds when she had felt encased fear mixed with excitement.
Before she had ventured westward, Kristen had never been so close to a man, felt the firm contours of a hard male body pressed against hers. Now it had happened to her not once, but twice.
It wasn’t that a man hadn’t attempted to hold her in an embrace. One man had tried, many times, but Kristen had ducked and dodged his open arms so often that doing so had nearly become a game between them. That option, however, was not at her disposal in this wilderness. Men didn’t give fair notice they planned to move close, the way a certain man had done back in Boston. Here they simply came upon a woman without warning. It seemed that ever since she had stepped off the stagecoach, Kristen had been running—literally—into one man or another nearly every day. And if she took the stagecoach encounter into account…
“Hold on, now. Not so fast. Let’s make sure the shooting’s over before we get too comfortable.” Patrick took a small step backward, but kept his palms on the building on either side of her shoulders. He looked down the street, squinting against the glaring sun. He shook his head, and then stepped further away. “Looks clear.”
“Thank goodness!”
He turned a serious gaze on her. “Are you all right?”
With a nervous laugh, Kristen nodded. “Thanks to you, I’m in one piece.”
She swept a shaky hand over herself, making sure the words were true. There was no pain, but she had never been so near a gunfight before. If she had been hit, how much would it hurt? When her gloves showed no sign of blood and she caught her breath enough to realize she felt fine, she nodded again.
Smiling, she looked up into Patrick’s anxious face. “I am fine. Really, I am.”
“Thank God you’re all right. I had just spotted you, and was about to catch you up to speak with you, when the shooting started.” He glanced at the crowd gathered in front of the saloon. Ruefully he turned back to Kristen and said, “I hate to say it, but I guess things like this are part and parcel of living out here. This kind of life makes good men rough and rough men unconscionable. Grandfather aims to do all he can to calm this town down, but, as you can see, he hasn’t made much headway yet.”
“Change takes time. Any kind of change.” The new preacher’s job was not going to be a simple one. “I’m sure your grandfather will work his good on even the unruliest of townspeople. Just give him time…plenty of time.”
“I hope you’re right. I intend to stay here with him, and although I know he believes the Lord’s got a plan for us I’m not so certain this place—” Patrick looked over his shoulder again, a look of distaste on his face.
Kristen followed his gaze, and saw a man being carried away. She wondered if he was dead, and if so, why the conflagration erupted. Surely, there had to be a better way to solve a difference. Nothing seemed important enough to lose a life over. Nothing.
“Let’s just say I’m not as sure as Grandfather is that Brown’s Point is the right place for us.” Patrick smiled down at her, put his hands on her shoulders and gave her a gentle squeeze. From him, and with her heart still racing, the familiar gesture did not seem bold. “But now that you and I have met, I’m not so sure that God and Grandfather aren’t on the right track.”
There seemed to be no response to the statement so she mustered a small smile.
Patrick went on speaking. “Before this uproar began, I had a mind to ask if you would like to accompany me on a spur-of-the-moment picnic. I know it seems impolite, and perhaps a bit forward, to just foist the idea on you but I have to make the most of what I’ve been given. Namely, the church buckboard.”
She followed his head nod and noticed a pretty Appaloosa horse tethered to the hitching post at the edge of the walk. Behind it a nondescript buckboard, with a towel-covered basket on the seat.
“Grandfather has no need of it this afternoon, so I thought you and I might take a ride down to the creek. I have yet to see it, but I hear there’s actually grass and greenery down that way. I don’t know about you, but I’m awful tired of all this red dust. Some green would do my soul a world of good. What about yours?”
“The same.” What harm could it do? Patrick was, after all, a preacher’s grandson. He had to know—and adhere to—the rules of gentility. Going anywhere with him was probably the safest thing to do in this town. Besides, she had heard that the creek was not far. Within walking distance, actually. “I’d love to see some green, and have lunch with you.”
“Then what are we waiting for?”
Kristen took his arm but she needed no help climbing into the seat. It was considerably closer to the ground than a fancy carriage or coach and she practically leapt into the seat. Patrick raised an eyebrow at her display of agility but kept any comment to himself as he grabbed the horse’s lead. He went around to the driver’s side, climbed onto the seat and, with a word to the horse, they were off.
The ride was very short but provided a drastic change in scenery. Just beyond town’s dirty main street, rutted track gave way to meandering lane. Brushy scrub turned into low, green bushes and eventually into a sparse canopy of older trees. Cottonwoods, their limbs heavy with leaves, leaned over the track and blocked out the sun’s hot rays.
Until the cool shade quieted her galloping pulse, Kristen had not recognized how frayed her nerves had been. The toll of her journey, coupled with her financial fears, had done their work on her without her even knowing it. As the tension ebbed, Kristen leaned closer to Patrick and smiled.
“This is lovely. Thank you for suggesting the ride.” A bird trilled above them, its song like music against the rustling tree leaves and the steady beat of the horse’s hoofs. “I wonder what that is?”
Patrick shot a glance to the branches, and then turned his attention back to Kristen.
“A lark. To be more precise, a horned lark. Did you know they actually prefer barren spots to nest? As soon as foliage, grass or, heaven forbid, people encroach on their nesting area, they look for somewhere more isolated to live. Not a very social bird, but it sure does have a pretty song. We should count ourselves fortunate to hear it. Not many people do.”
It took a special sort of man to turn so quickly from being a human barricade to expert on birdcalls. Kristen wondered idly just what other kind of surprises this soft-spoken, obviously intelligent man kept.
“How is it that you know so much about birds?”
He shrugged. “Just something I picked up somewhere. Grandfather gets around a fair bit, you know. Preaching in different places, ministering wherever he’s needed most, brings the world into focus.”
“Have you always traveled with your grandfather?”
“My parents were killed in an Indian raid shortly after my birth. They must have overlooked me, because when Grandfather returned home he found me, unharmed and, if you believe him, completely unaware of the carnage. He had been off tending to one of his flock that day. If he hadn’t, he would have been killed as well and I’d have been a four-month-old at the mercy of the world.”
“How sad.” Her heart broke for him. The picture of a cooing infant surrounded by death flashed through her mind. “Oh, how could you stand it?”
Nothing in her well-ordered life prepared her for Patrick’s quiet acceptance of his own situation. He seemed unaffected by the unfairness of his life, and satisfied with his lot. It was admirable.
“Easily. Oh, sure, I wish my parents hadn’t been murdered, but wishing for something that cannot be changed doesn’t change it. I have only known life with Grandfather, and it has been a good life, so I feel blessed. I know it must sound strange, and maybe you can’t understand how I feel but honestly, I don’t feel sad over how my life has been.” He paused, and then went on. A small grin lightened the mood considerably. “And, to tell you the God’s honest truth, I’m not in the least unhappy about the turn my day’s taking. I hoped you might agree to this impromptu luncheon. I’m very glad you did, Kristen.”
“I am, too.” It was true. He was good company, and getting out of town, even for a few hours, was lovely.
They rounded a bend in the lane and the creek came into view. While it was not a huge body of water, it looked like an oasis. Water gurgled over river rocks, and a cool breeze wafted off its surface.
Patrick reined the Appaloosa in beneath the canopy of a gnarled cottonwood. He jumped down, unhitched the horse and left it to graze beside the tree before he came around the wagon and reached a hand up to help her down. She hesitated, contented with her high seat and full view. The breeze cooling her cheeks felt heavenly!
Holding her right hand out to Patrick, she quickly grabbed the lunch basket with her other hand, then climbed down. He took the basket from her before they turned and made their way to the shore.
“It’s beautiful. Thank you for bringing me.”
“It’s my pleasure, believe me.” Patrick spread a faded green plaid blanket on the ground. They sat side by side, but not touching, and gazed out over the lazy creek.
The view was peaceful, the company pleasant, and she was grateful for the outing but part of her—a big part—wished Jack nestled beside her instead of Patrick. Remorse over the unkind thought instantly shot through her. How could she be so ungrateful? Heat rushed to her cheeks, and she was glad no one could read her mind.
Make the best of every situation, dear.
Aunt Irene’s beloved voice filled Kristen’s head. How she wished the elderly woman could be here with her now. With Aunt Irene by her side life would have been much simpler, the choices before her much clearer. But her aunt wasn’t with her, and any choices would have to be Kristen’s alone. Right or wrong, good or bad, the responsibility for every decision was all hers.
Hopefully Aunt Irene looked down on her from heaven. If she was extra lucky, her guardian angel might help her with some of the decisions regarding the future. There seemed to be so many, her head spun from considering all of them.
Time for further contemplation, or for heeding Aunt Irene’s advice, was cut short when Patrick turned to her. She felt his probing stare, and turned her head to meet his gaze.
“What?” She smiled at the sight of the big man grinning like a mischievous little boy. “Do I have something on my face?” She brushed a fingertip across the end of her nose. He didn’t answer, so she wrinkled her forehead. “You can’t just stare at a woman without giving her some hint as to why you’re doing it, you know.”
Patrick reached a finger out and tapped her lightly on the chin. Then, he leaned close, held her chin and angled her face so their noses nearly touched. “I didn’t mean to stare,” he said softly. “I just couldn’t help but admire your loveliness, Kristen.”
She saw what he meant to do a scant moment before he made his move. Her heart tripped double-time, the same way it had earlier during the shooting. Again, she felt cornered, with no good way out of the situation.
Kristen swallowed hard, and then used the tactic that worked the best for her. She stumbled to her feet, nearly tripping over the hem of her dress. Patrick began to rise, but she took a step off the blanket before he had a chance to do more than push himself to him knees.
Then, without once looking back, she ran as if all the foulest ghouls in the underworld were after her.
Chapter Eight
Spurs jangled against the wide floorboards as the tall, muscular man uncrossed his ankles and heaved himself upright. A rivulet of perspiration snaked its way down one chiseled cheek. Kristen wondered how long he had been waiting.
“Mr. Brown! I didn’t expect to see you here.” Her hopes of slipping into the boardinghouse undetected were smashed. Getting past him without stopping to chat was unthinkable. Her stomach was tied in knots but she put a smile on her face and stopped beside him.
“I’m afraid I came to see you.” He removed his hat, twisting it in his hands. A wide white scar ran across the back of his left hand, beginning near the thumb and hooking around behind the pinky finger. It was not the type of scar a man got behind a desk. “And it’s Randall, remember?”
“Right. I’m sorry, Randall.”
Kristen recognized regret when she saw it. It was clear in his eyes, the deep set of his mouth and the sag in his shoulders. The man looked like he carried a wagonload of trouble.
He met her gaze, and then looked away. “Not as sorry as I am.”
With every passing moment, Kristen’s stomach knots grew tighter. Maybe not eating the picnic lunch by the creek had a silver lining to it. Thanks to Patrick’s overactive romantic leanings, their luncheon had been spoiled so her belly was empty—and she was very grateful that it was.
“Whatever do you mean?” Fear shot up her spine, its probing fingers like razors against her conscience. The possibility he had found her out and divulged her whereabouts to her family brought her close to being ill.
“I don’t believe you’re going to be pleased to see me when I give you my news.”
Her suspicion of the man, and his business, grew. Still, Kristen remained calm—on the outside.