Heartbreak Creek (49 page)

“She’s gonna spew!” Joe Bill cried.

Daisies flew. Children fled.

“Holy hell,” Declan muttered, as his wife started to heave. He looked anxiously at Pru, saw her standing there laughing like a loon, and was so shocked he couldn’t move.

Then realization came.

“Does this mean what I think it means?” He looked down just as his beautiful southern wife vomited on his boots, and all he could do was laugh.

Thus, the true courtship of Edwina Ladoux Brodie began.

And in the nick of time.

 

 

C
ursing softly, Lord Ashby—or Ash, as his new London friends had named him—braced his elbows on the limb of the pine he was hiding behind and adjusted the focus on his new binoculars.

Damn newfangled contraption.
He liked his old field glasses better. The offset lenses might have been bulkier, but the image was brighter. This roof prism design darkened everything too much.

He twisted the adjustment again. The figure beside the creek blurred, then came sharply into focus. A woman. Auburn hair. Undressing.

Undressing?
He pulled the glasses down, then quickly raised them again and scanned until he found her. Definitely undressing. In the open. Like a wee highland fairy. This couldna be the woman he’d been tracking across two continents for the last six months. The woman he sought was a gently bred Englishwoman. Much too proper to do such a thing.

But just to be sure, he continued to watch.

Nice form. Long legs. Skin as pale as pink marble, even with these darker lenses. And that hair had the look of the Highlands in it, catching the sun like burnished copper as she lifted her arms to—
Bluidy hell.

Leaning forward as if that might bring the image closer, he peered in disbelief at the silver-dollar-sized birthmark below her right breast.

God bless Scotland.
He’d found her.
Damn her hide
.

Lowering the glasses, he pushed away from the tree, then flinched when something jabbed into the middle of his back. Something hard and round and cold. Like a gun barrel.

“Hands in the air,” a gravelly male voice ordered. “And don’t move, you damn lecher.”

Unclear how he was expected to do both, he hesitated, then raised his hands. “I’m no’ a lecher.”

Another jab in his back almost knocked him off balance. “You were spying on a lady.”

“I wasna spying. And any woman who touts herself about like a Newmarket tart on race day is no—”

“Show some respect!” A sharp crack on the side of his head sent him staggering.

“What the hell?” Lifting a hand to his temple, he felt a knot already forming and let loose several Gaelic curses, adding more from India and a few from Ireland. “What did you do that for, you manky bastard!”

“What’s that? Foreign talk?”

“Bugger off.”

“Damned foreigners. You’re everywhere. Keep your hands up and turn around.”

Hands raised, he turned to find a rifle—a Winchester Model 1866, by the look of it—an inch from his nose. Behind it, a grizzled old man peered up at him out of a face full of whiskers. At least, one eye peered up at him. The other was pointed off to the right somewhere. Concentrating on the one aimed in his direction, he wondered if he should put down the old man now, or wait to see what he wanted. He’d truly like to have that Winchester. His breechloading Snider-Enfield was no match for the newer lever-action repeating rifles.

The gun barrel banged against his nose to get his attention. “Manky. That’s good, right?” When he gave no answer, the barrel banged again.

“Donna do that,” Ash ground out, his temper fraying and his eyes watering from the blows to his nose.

The eye glanced up at his raised hand. “What’s that you’re holding?”

“Field glasses.”

“Hand them over.”

“No.”

“No?” The old fellow was clearly taken aback by the refusal. Then he grinned, showing more gum than teeth. “You’re a big one, ain’t you? But I doubt you’re big enough to win over a bullet. Care to try?”

“What do you want, old man?”

The grin faded. “I want to shoot you, and that’s the truth of it. But she’d hear and get upset and then I’d have to sit through another lecture. No, thank you. So we’ll let her decide what to do with you. Open your coat.” When Ash did, the old man frowned at his sword belt. “No gun?”

Ash shook his head.

“You army?”

“Cavalry. British. Retired.”

“Don’t sound British.”

“That’s because I’m Scottish.”

“I thought you said you were British.”

Ash sighed. “Can I put away my field glasses?” He didn’t want them damaged when he disarmed the old fellow.

“Where’s your sword?” the man asked after Ash stowed the glasses in the
sabretache
case on his sword belt. “And get your hands up.”

Ash raised his hands again. “Ireland.” What was left of it, anyway.

“I thought you were Scottish.”

“I am.”

Now it was the old man who sighed. “British, Scottish, Irish. You foreigners confuse the hell out of me. I’ll let her sort it out.” The rifle waved in front of Ash’s face. “But make no mistake. You’ll show the lady respect or I’ll drop you where you stand. Understand?”

“Aye.”

“I what?”

“Aye—
yes
—I understand. What about my horse?” He rotated an upraised hand to point toward the brush where he’d left Lurch tied. He didn’t mention Tricks, not wanting to involve him unless necessary.

“I’ll get him later. After she decides if I get to kill you or not. March.”

They marched, although it was a far cry from any of the marches that had been drilled into him throughout almost two decades of military service. Following a faint trail, they cut through a forest of scorched stumps and blackened tree trunks, evidence of a fire that had swept through years ago. Already, vine maple and native shrubs were taking over, tangling with their legs and crowding against the shoots of a new forest rising out of the ashes. But once they broke into unburned woods where high limbs blocked the sun and kept undergrowth low, the going became easier.

Ash knew he could take the old man at any time—just slow down enough until the rifle was within reach, then do what he had been trained to do. Whirl, grab, and twist, then kick. But his left side remained weak from his old injury, and after that crack on his temple, quick movements made his head pound, so he marched stoically on. Besides, he was anxious to see the woman up close, still not convinced he’d finally found her.

Blasted headstrong woman
. She’d run him a merry chase, so she had. But he had her now. The idea of that made him smile.

After several minutes tromping through woods and over fallen trees, he asked if he could put his arms down. “My hands are going to sleep.”

“Shut your piehole.”

Taking that as a yes, he lowered his hands. “What’s the woman to you?” he asked as he shook feeling back into his arms. “You seem protective of her. Bodyguard?”

“Maybe we’re courting.”

He stumbled, coming down so hard on his left leg it sent a shock of pain up through his still-sore ribs. “Courting?” he choked out once he caught his breath. “Is that a jest, man?”

“Why would it be a jest?”

“Well, because . . .” He sputtered for a moment, his steps slowing, his mind reeling. “Because she’s already married.”

“Was, maybe. But her husband died. Keep moving.”

“Died how?”

“Soldiering. Veer right.”

Musing over that bit of information, he followed the trail down a steep, sandy slope riddled with round river rocks that made footing treacherous. From below came the sound of rushing water, and as they descended, firs and juniper and spruce gave way to aspens, the faint yellowing of their rustling leaves hinting at the fall to come. He looked around, wondering if the woman was bathing nearby, then realized the old man had taken them in a wide flanking maneuver that put a dense copse of trees between them and where she had been.

“What was he like? Her husband?”

“Foreigner, like you. Deserted her, the bastard.”

“I thought you said he died.”

“Same thing, as far as she’s concerned.”

Rocks shifted beneath Ash’s leather-soled cavalry boots, and he had to grab on to a sapling to keep from sliding down the slope toward the fast-moving creek. “She speak of him much?”

“Not as much as you do. We’ll cross there.”

The air cooled as they climbed down into the shallow water tumbling over the rocky creek bed. He felt the cold against the leather of his oiled boots and wondered how the woman could bathe in such frigid water.

On the other bank, they picked up the trail again. He could smell wood smoke now and heard a dog barking and guessed there was a house nearby. Seemed odd, her living up here. He’d heard the winters in the Colorado Rockies were brutal. Not what he would expect from a woman like her.

Her
. Matty? Millicent? Margaret? He almost felt bad that he couldn’t remember the lass’s name.

“You, Angus! Shut your yap!”

Startled, he looked around, then realized the old man was talking to a dog that came tearing out of the brush, barking and snarling.

Ash glowered down at the wee beast menacing the toes of his boots. It was a pathetic excuse for a dog. More like a ball of hair sprouting improbably large, pointed ears, a tightly curled tail, and four tiny feet. And she’d named it Angus?
Bugger that.

“Best hope she’s in a forgiving mood,” the old man warned as they stepped out of the trees into a clearing.

Instead of a house, he saw an odd-looking wagon parked beside a smoldering fire. Not a canvas-covered buckboard, but more like an ambulance wagon, with hard sides and small glass windows and crates strapped on top. There was even a smokestack rising out of the bowed wooden roof, and a wee proper back door opening onto fold-down steps. A gypsy wagon, by the look of it, with a black tent-like structure attached to one side, and bold lettering above the windows that read “Photographs, Tintypes, and
Cartes de Visite
” in fancy filigreed script. Two mules stopped grazing to watch them, and the woman from the creek stood by the rear step—fully dressed, more’s the pity.

The sight of her sent a shock of recognition through Ash, followed by a flash of anger so intense it made his head pound even worse.

The dog ran toward her, its stub of a tail wagging furiously. He debated whistling for Tricks, just to show her what a real dog looked like, but decided not to further complicate what already promised to be a difficult situation. But with each step his anger built.

“Who do you have there, Mr. Satterwhite?” she called, lifting a hand to shade her eyes from the noon sun.

“A spying—”

“Who do you think, you daft woman?” he cut in, no longer able to hold his fury in check. “Is this any way to greet—”

“I warned you,” the old man muttered behind him.

“What?” He turned, saw the barrel swinging toward him, and ducked too late.

“Good heavens, Mr. Satterwhite!” Maddie Wallace cried, running to where the stranger lay facedown in the grass. “What have you done?”

“He was ogling you. Want me to shoot him?”

“Heavens, no! Oh, dear, he’s bleeding.”

“Barely.”

Maddie sighed in irritation. She really must do something about Mr. Satterwhite. This was the third time he had accosted a complete stranger. Didn’t he understand that she was here to take photographs, not make enemies? Shooing the dog aside, she bent over the still form. “Help me roll him over, Mr. Satterwhite, so I can see if he’s still alive.”

The injured man was quite tall and so sturdily built it took all their strength to get him onto his back. As soon as Maddie saw his face, she jumped back, almost tripping over Angus.

Good heavens!
What was he doing here?

Her heart started beating so hard she felt suddenly light-headed and half nauseated. Then, seeing the blood from the small cut on the man’s temple, she got herself in hand and inched forward again. “Oh, dear, Mr. Satterwhite. Have you killed him?”

The old man nudged the prone figure with the toe of his crusty boot. “Probably not.”

“
Probably?
”

“I think his chest is moving.”

“You
think?
”

Satterwhite reared back, his crooked eyes round beneath his bushy white brows. “Don’t go hysterical on me, missy. The dirty letch was spying on you. He deserved what he got.” The bushy brows lowered. A speculative look came onto his face. “What do you care? You know him?”

Maddie had a hard time catching her breath. Nothing seemed to be working right. Her head felt like it was spinning off her neck. “I th-think so. I think he’s my h-husband.”

“Your husband? The dead one?”

Maddie nodded, unable to take her eyes off the face of the man lying so still at her feet. He looked like her husband. What little she remembered, anyway. The same strong nose and uncompromising chin. Deep-set eyes. She resisted the impulse to pry up a lid to check the color. No one had eyes the same mossy green as her husband’s. But that scar cutting through one dark brow and giving it an upward, almost quizzical slant was new. And instead of glossy sablecolored hair, this man was turning gray, except for the dark brows and lashes and the stubble of beard shadowing his sun-browned face. And yet, that widow’s peak, and those strong hands, and the long line of his neck . . .

Dizziness assailed her. Why was he here? What had possessed him to come looking for her after all this time?
Angus, why?
Her chest tightened. She opened her mouth and gulped in air, but still couldn’t seem to fill her lungs.