Bandit's Hope (6 page)

He ducked inside but kept to the rug, his anxious gaze on his muddy feet. Spotting Mariah, he whipped off his hat. "Good day, miss." Mischief flared in his roguish green eyes like sparks in a hearth.

Smoothing her skirt, she approached the door, glad she’d donned a dress and swept up her hair. For reasons she had no time to ponder, she wanted this man to see the lady of the manor and not the Indian princess. "May we help you, sir?"

He pointed his hat at Dicey. "I was telling your gal here that I need a room for the night. Nothing fancy, mind you. I’d curl up in the pantry to get out of that rain."

Mariah smiled. "I’m certain we can do better than that. As a matter of fact, you’re in luck. We happen to have a vacancy." No sense admitting he could have his pick of the empty rooms.

Relief washed over his face. "Well, I’m much obliged." He offered his hand. "The name’s McRae. Tiller McRae."

"Mariah Bell, at your service. I own—" Her breath caught at what she’d nearly uttered. "That is, my father is the proprietor of Bell’s Inn." She dipped her head at Miss Vee. "This is Mrs. Ashmore. She helps us run the place."

Miss Vee colored like a blushing girl. "Call me Viola. Or better yet, Miss Vee."

He all but bowed. "Honored to meet you both." Handsome or not, a grin that forced couldn’t be trusted.

"Your accommodations are down the hall, the first door on the left. We serve an informal breakfast in the kitchen, promptly at six. If you’re not seated around the table by then, you stand a fair chance of going without."

He cleared his throat. "Promptly at six. I’ll be there."

Mariah touched Dicey’s arm. "Bring a towel for Mr. McRae then mop up this mess."

His smile waned, and the merry eyes dimmed. "Sorry, ma’am. If you ladies will excuse my sock feet, I’ll shuck these boots and leave them outside the door."

She studied his boyish face, even more striking up close. In the space of a minute, he’d gone from calling her miss to ma’am. He must think her a cranky old matron. Contrite, she relaxed her crinkled forehead and softened her mouth. "Don’t you want to settle your horse first?"

He arched his brows. "I hope you don’t mind. I left him in the barn sharing oats with your paint."

Irritated afresh at his cocky assurance, Mariah spun on her heels and headed for the stairs. "We require full payment up front, Mr. McRae. For the care of your horse, as well. Miss Viola will take your money."

“Yes, ma’am.”

Unwilling to scare off another guest with gold in his purse, she paused halfway up the steps and forced her gritted teeth into a halfhearted smile. "I do hope you’ll enjoy your stay, Mister … McRae, was it?"

The smile tugging the corners of his mouth seemed genuine, but the insufferable twinkle had returned to his eyes. "Miss Bell, I get the feeling I’ll enjoy my stay very much."

FIVE

G
rinning at the thought of Mariah Bell blushing fiery red and flouncing up the stairs, Tiller flopped on the mattress so hard he bounced. After too many days on the road, it felt good to be in the company of a pretty woman—a feisty one, at that—and blasted good to be in a real bed again.

He bunched the quilt beneath him with both hands and sighed. A bed with sheets so clean, the scent of lilac water and sunshine rose in a pleasurable cloud. Turning his nose to the feather pillow, he drew in deep, fairly sure Miss Bell would smell just as sweet.

The trusting, toothless smile of the kindhearted traveler merged in his head with Miss Bell’s fetching face—not a pleasing picture to be sure. He shook his head to clear it, the motion sending the pretty parts to the rafters in a wisp, leaving him to stare vacantly at the scraggly, white-haired man named Otis Gooch. Without a doubt, the poor coot wouldn’t sleep in a clean bed that night—if the gang had left him alive to care.

In all of Tiller’s years in Nathan’s company, he’d watched the ambush of many a hapless prey, putting them out of his mind as fast as he rode away. So why did the thought of this old gentleman, slumped in a heap at the side of the road, tear at his heart like a pickax?

What Nathan said was true. Tiller couldn’t go on ignoring the fate of the folks he charmed into trusting him. He dangled the carrots that lured the poor rabbits into Hade Betts’s perilous snare, so whatever happened next was his fault as much as the men who wielded the guns and struck the blows. Maybe more so.

Along with the realization came the aching truth that he’d never be worthy of a fine, decent woman like Miss Bell. Rolling to his side, Tiller clenched his fists, the admission a searing pain in his gut.

The harsh life of a raiding thief wasn’t the adventure he’d expected as a boy, wasn’t the path he wanted as a man. He’d grown more discontent with each passing year but didn’t know how to escape.

Nathan’s vaunted tales of a bandit’s life along the Trace had once tickled Tiller’s grimy young ears. Somewhere along the way, the dismal truth wore the shine off Nathan’s stories.

After a few months of dodged bullets and empty bellies, Tiller was ready to go home.

Nathan, who took to the drifter’s life like a tick to a hound, dug in his heels and stayed put. In the early days, two things kept Tiller at his side: the misplaced loyalty of youth and the fear of striking out on his own. Lately, he wasn’t sure what held him.

Staring into the past, he sighed, and a stray goose feather shot to the sky. As always, the swirling mists of Scuffletown’s swamps lured him. Memories of his brief stay there throbbed in his heart like a sore tooth. Never sure if Aunt Odie’s cooking was as fine as he recalled or Uncle Silas’s stories as grand, he only knew his longing to return was the closest thing to homesick he’d ever felt.

Tiller jumped at the light knock on the door.

"Mr. McRae?"

He bolted upright, swiping at the tears wetting the hair at his temples. Jogging to the door, he swung it wide, his smile firmly in place. "Yes, ma’am, Miss Viola. What can I do for you, lovely lady?" Gazing at her delighted face, he cringed inside. Remorseful or not, it hadn’t taken him long to return to his practiced charm.

Fanning briskly to cool her cheeks, Mrs. Ashmore blushed to her graying roots.

Tiller’s gaze wandered to her curls, wondering what she used to turn them the bright shade of copper. The reason she might do so confused him even more. If he could find a concoction to turn his hair a less garish color, he’d shell out the money for a crate.

"Mr. McRae, how you do flatter." She winked and shifted a stack of clean linens to her hip. "Your smooth talk could make a girl forget sagging jowls and wrinkled cheeks." Her tinted lashes fluttered down. "Until she passes that blasted looking glass in the hall."

Compassion nudged his heart. "No mirror reflects a woman’s true beauty, Mrs. Ashmore."

Beaming, she touched his arm. "Now, I told you to call me Miss Vee."

"You sure did." He patted her hand. "I won’t forget again."

She tilted her head toward the end of the hall. "I came to say I’d be happy to run out to the kitchen and fix you something to eat, seeing you arrived too late for the noon meal."

Tiller’s growling stomach answered before he had the chance.

She smiled and nodded. "I’ll go put these things away then bring you something light. Don’t want to spoil your supper."

He held up his hand. "You’d be hard pressed to spoil my supper, ma’am. When they handed out appetites, I stood in the line twice."

A tender smile softened her face. "John’s the same. Can’t seem to get the man fed."

"John?"

With a quick breath, she returned from her distant thoughts. "John Coffee, Mariah’s father. Such a lovely family, the Bells." Her sagging eyes widened. "Mariah in particular. Wouldn’t you agree?"

Tiller’s cheeks warmed. "Miss Vee, a man would be blind not to."

Watching him closely, her head slowly bobbed. "I see." A glimmer of something birthed in her eyes, like a scheme beginning to hatch. "How long are you planning to stay with us, Mr. McRae?"

Amused, he lifted his chin and met her calculating stare. "I can’t say exactly, but I’m in no hurry to leave." A fact he wasn’t aware of until he’d said it. "I suppose you’ll have to put up with me until I can’t peel off any more greenbacks."

She brightened. "I hope you’re well off then. We need a strong young man around this place." She nodded firmly. "One we can trust." With a backhanded wave and a promise to return with some grub, Miss Vee rounded the corner, humming a merry tune.

Tiller closed the door, white-hot needles of guilt piercing his sides. A trustworthy man? He hardly qualified.

As for his money running out—Wincing, he patted the scrawny drawstring purse at his side. In precious little time, he’d be busted.

His thoughts jumped to the safe in the parlor where Miss Vee stashed the money he’d paid for a night’s stay. By the meager few dollars he spotted before she closed the door, they needed his cash to hold out for as long as possible.

Odd how he hadn’t remembered the safe until now. Glancing at his reddening face in the mirror, Tiller smiled. For the first time in many years, a pretty woman tempted him more than an easy take.

Mariah slipped down the back stairwell, yearning for a cup of hot tea and a few stolen moments of blessed quiet. Halfway to the kitchen, Miss Vee’s tuneless song drifted up to meet her, which meant time alone to grieve wasn’t to be. Feeling guilty, she paused at the turn in the stairs to ease her frown and pray for pleasing manners.

Miss Vee often lapsed into singing as she went about her chores. Unfortunately, she sang badly and fractured her lyrics, combining two or three songs at once. Today she croaked out a medley of "Bonnie Blue Flag" and "Dixie," doing justice to neither piece.

The squeaky board at the bottom announced Mariah’s arrival.

Miss Vee spun. The corners of her mouth turned down, but her eyes were smiling. "That wasn’t much of a nap, young lady."

"I couldn’t sleep." A kettle steamed on the stove, and Mariah’s tin of favorite tea leaves perched on the counter. She quirked her brow and nodded. "How did you know?"

"That rotted old landing isn’t the only board in this house that squeals. I tracked you crossing your room and halfway down the hall."

Mariah’s heart sank at the reminder. The inn was falling apart around them. "I’m going to have to lay aside enough money to pay a carpenter. Only the Lord knows how much it will cost this time, and that just for urgent repairs."

Miss Vee returned to her task on the counter. "You know what the Bible says. ‘No man putteth a piece of new cloth unto an old garment.’" She shook her head. "I fear you’ll find no end to patching this old place. You need to tear it to the ground and start fresh."

Mariah lifted the lid of the kettle and sprinkled tea over the simmering water. "Well, I don’t have that choice, do I? It’s far too costly." She settled the pot off the fire. "I can’t sit idly by while the walls collapse on our heads."

Miss Vee stepped closer to pat her back. "Of course you can’t, but that won’t happen, will it? Your father won’t allow it." Pulling a knife from the tray under the counter, she slathered butter onto fresh-cut slices of bread. "You bear far too much on your shoulders, honey. Repairs and the like are a man’s concerns. I’m certain your father has a plan in mind, and he’ll tend to this inn the minute he comes home." She beamed over her shoulder. "After all, he’ll be returning right as rain. Healed once and for all, just like you said."

Her cheery words were a blow. Swallowing her pain, Mariah poured the steaming tea while her mind struggled for something to say. "Y-yes. Right as rain."

Miss Vee laid down the knife. "Gracious, what’s wrong? You’ve gone pasty."

The hedge around Mariah’s heart began to slip. She lowered her head and let the tears fall. "I miss him so much."

The comforting arms she expected surrounded her. Miss Vee held her, crooning in her ear. "Go on and cry, honey. I’ve shed many a tear since he’s been gone."

Briefly, Mariah pretended Miss Vee knew the truth. She allowed her heart to grieve her father’s death with another soul who loved him. Only for a moment, and then she got hold of herself.

She pushed Miss Vee to arm’s length and wiped her eyes on a napkin. "Forgive me. I’m acting childish. Go on with what you’re doing. I’m all right now." Her gaze slid to the cold meat sandwich Miss Vee had sliced and arranged on a plate. "Oh my, are you hungry?" She leaned to peer at the hall clock. "Have I rested longer than I thought? Where’s Dicey? She should be peeling potatoes."

Miss Vee smiled sweetly. "This isn’t for me, dear. I fixed it for that nice Mr. McRae. The poor man’s so hungry, his insides begged to be fed."

Pursing her lips, Mariah drizzled honey in her cup and stirred. "I’d be careful of ‘nice Mr. McRae’ if I were you." She tapped the edge of her spoon on the cup so hard the porcelain rang like a gong. "I’m not sure he’s the innocent he seems."

Miss Vee’s brow puckered. "Mariah! If you can’t tell the difference between Tiller McRae and the pack of wild dogs we rousted earlier, then I’ve lost all hope for you." Grinning, she set a glass of lemonade beside the toppling sandwich and hefted the tray. "And if you can’t admit he’s the handsomest catch to cross your path in years, well then, you’re blind, to boot."