Love Inspired Historical June 2014 Bundle: Lone Star Heiress\The Lawman's Oklahoma Sweetheart\The Gentleman's Bride Search\Family on the Range (26 page)

“I think it comforted Clint to be able to save your life. He's lost his good friend as much as you've lost a brother. The whole town will feel the loss, but you two most especially.” Alice packed up her medical kit, nodding toward the kettle on the stove in a silent invitation to have more tea.

“Yes,” Katrine agreed, but for different reasons than Alice meant.

“Our good sheriff,” Alice said, a sigh in her voice. She brought two cups to the table and returned to her seat opposite Katrine. “Clint is a fine man. Oh, he can be a bit surly, and not a little bit lost, but he's as loyal as the day is long.” Alice raised an eyebrow. “And not so bad to look at, hmm?” Katrine saw Alice's thumb run across the shiny gold band of her new wedding ring. “It's good to have a loyal man in your life. Especially one who saved your life.”

“I'm grateful to him. Really I am.” Katrine would have to be blind to miss the glow in Alice's eyes. The new bride was so happy.

“Just grateful? Nothing else?”

Sheriff Thornton was a fine man to look at, but he seemed hard and dark and some days he seemed far beyond the ten years older she knew him to be. Every once in a while, at town gatherings or the many meals he had shared with Lars and her, she would catch a glimpse of something warm behind his eyes. A long look, a detail noticed, a fragment of something beyond friendship. Even Lars had said something once, but with such an air of dismissal Katrine could easily guess Lars would never approve should the sheriff display open interest of that sort.

No, Sheriff Thornton's regard for her seemed far closer to bafflement than anything more familiar. In truth, Katrine felt as if Sheriff Thornton had a long list of ideas of how the world should be and couldn't decide where she fit on that list. More than once, the tenor of his regard had made her wonder if he'd somehow learned her secret. That wasn't possible, of course, but he was a lawman, and maybe they had ways of finding things out she didn't understand.

It was true—Katrine was lots of things besides grateful, but none of those could be put into words. Certainly not this morning. Today words felt like her enemy—at least every word that wasn't from Sheriff Thornton about Lars. Katrine was grateful a knock on the front door kept her from having to continue this conversation.

Alice raised an eyebrow, silently asking if Katrine was ready to accept visitors. She hadn't faced a single one yet.

“No.” Katrine shook her head, left the tea in its cup and fled to the bedroom. It was easy to convince Alice that she was too upset to receive condolence calls.
Father God, help me. I don't know how I'll lie to all these good, grieving people.
The whole thing tangled her stomach up in such knots that it wasn't much of a fib to say she was feeling poorly.

As she heard Alice talk with someone about what a fine fellow Lars was, Katrine sat on the bed and remembered what it felt like to be pulled from death's smoky clutches. Her throat seemed to tighten at the mere memory of that awful, acrid smell. She'd bathed again this morning and still felt as if she couldn't wash the scent from her skin.
I will choose to be thankful. For my life. For Lars's life. For Sheriff Thornton's bravery and for trust in his wisdom. You have made this way, have given us a chance to protect Lars's life, and I will do it. But You must know how hard this is for me
.

“I agree,” she heard Alice say. “He was a hero indeed. I am glad he is sheriff, too. These are perfect and much needed, thank you.” And then, in a lighter tone of voice, “Why yes, we're very happy. Thank you for your good wishes. I'll be sure to let her know you came by.”

Katrine could barely rise up off the bed when Alice opened the door. “Everyone has such kind words for you, and such fond memories of Lars.” She lifted up one skirt from the armful she held. “Deborah Kincaid is much closer to your size. These will fit you so much better than my clothes until we can get new ones.”

So much generosity and compassion. Brave Rock was going to be a wonderful place to call home.

But home was gone now, wasn't it? No, she would try not to think of it like that. Just the cabin was gone. The cabin with those blessed, blessed loose logs she'd complained about so often.

“Alice, I'm not sure I can go.”

“Where?”

“This afternoon. Sheriff Thornton said he'd bring me back to the cabin to see what was left, but I don't think I am ready.” She used her good hand to wipe away the tears, which seemed to come so easily. “We only had a few things from Mama and Papa to remember them by, and they will be gone.”

Alice put a gentle hand over Katrine's. “They may, but they may not. Wouldn't it be better to know?”

“I don't want to see our home in ashes.” Katrine felt the words burn her throat all over again. “I don't want to see what those men did to Lars. To me.”

“Elijah and I will go with you and Clint, if you'd like. You'll have to go over there sometime. Perhaps it's best to get it over with right away.”

Katrine shook her head. If Elijah and Alice were with her, Thornton could not talk of Lars. Nor could they talk freely here. No, if she wanted to hear of Lars, she had to go see the cabin. What a gruesome bargain that was. “If twelve people were to come with me it will not help. I must find a way to be brave,
ja?
”

Alice straightened her shoulders and took Katrine's hands. “You are brave. And strong. And God is braver and stronger still. Hold on to that. Can you do that?”

Without Lars beside her? It seemed impossible. “Alone? I don't know.”

“That's just the thing, Katrine, you're not alone. Not even close.”

Chapter Three

“W
ell now, look what the wind dragged over the prairie!” Sam McGraw scraped a match across the bottom of his boot and lit the thin cigarette that hung from his lips. Most frontier men rolled their own tobacco, but somehow McGraw and his partners in the Security Patrol always managed to have fine store-bought cigarettes. Clint had wondered more than once how men of a lowly private rank came by such luxuries, but he'd seen enough of how government worked to know sometimes hard jobs came with special privileges. And Clint was no stranger to just how hard it was to keep folks in line before and during the Land Rush.

The fact that he felt McGraw had done a mighty poor job of it, well, he'd just have to keep that to himself a while longer. A uniform didn't automatically earn a man respect in Clint's view, but it was clear that's how McGraw saw the world.

The private tipped his navy blue cavalry hat farther back on his head and squinted up at Clint in the late-morning sunshine. “I was laying odds we wouldn't see you again.”

“Funny,” Clint said as he swung down from his saddle. “I had the same notion about you.” He slapped the dust off his hat. The ride down the riverbank from Brave Rock wasn't that far, but it had been hot and dry. “I couldn't rightly say I wouldn't have just kept on riding after that fire. Or worse yet, if you were simply going to circle back around and shoot me where I stood. Loose ends are bad for business.”

McGraw laughed. “Well, some loose ends do indeed require a snip.” He raised an eyebrow at Clint. “Others are useful enough to leave hanging.”

“Hanging? Or swinging from a gallows?” McGraw looked to Clint like the kind of man who wouldn't think twice if a lynching served his purpose.

McGraw waved the match out and flung it to the ground. “You are a funny one, Thornton. Sending men to the gallows is your job, not mine.”

Actually, law and order decreed it was the county judge who condemned men to hang, but Clint didn't really feel like arguing the point with the likes of this man. Clint had seen enough in life that very few things repulsed him, but everything about Samuel McGraw set Clint's gut to churning. McGraw gave him that slanted smile of his, and all Clint could see was the loathsome grin the private had given him as he rode off last night. As if the whole world tilted around the Black Four and his every whim. Every second Clint spent in these men's company felt ten seconds too long.

Get on with it, Thornton. Finish the job you and Lars started
. “Thought you ought to know, he's dead.”

McGraw took a long pull on the cigarette. “The foreigner?” He spat the word out like an insult, in the tone Clint's childhood guardian, Cousin Obadiah, had used for varmints and beggars.

“Brinkerhoff's dead and gone.” Clint didn't like putting such a casual air into his voice when discussing murder. “The cabin went up like straw and him in it. No body to bury, even.” He pulled a canteen from his saddlebag and took a long drink, then sat down on the rock beside McGraw. He kept his eyes on his boots as he stretched his long legs out. It was easier to fool a man when you weren't looking him in the eye. “Nothin' left to save by the time anyone could have gotten there to try. No one'd seen you, neither. I asked around just to be sure.”

McGraw settled his hat back down and made a self-important show of inspecting his cigarette. “Bein' all friendly-like with the sheriff does have its benefits.”

“I done you four a mighty big favor.” Clint leaned back, the heat of the rock feeling much better than the cool, oily sensation talking to Sam McGraw always gave him.

“A fact which does not escape my notice, Thornton.” McGraw inhaled with a dramatic flourish. “Go on.”

“And where I come from—where we
both
come from—debts get paid. Alliances can be highly useful. A man of your position can appreciate the value of a well-placed partnership.” Clint made sure to give McGraw's position an air of admiration he didn't truly feel.

“Indeed.” McGraw blew a series of complicated smoke rings that hung in the hot air like targets.

Clint leaned in. “Let's not beat around the bush, McGraw. I've a notion of what you're up to. Seems to me certain claims are falling into certain hands in a very convenient fashion. Might just be poor luck on the part of folks who aren't suited for life out here, or it could very well be something a bit more...deliberate. Four black somethings—or someones—to be exact. Makes me think it could serve a man well to be on your side of things.”

“Deliberate? What exactly are you implying?” There was no defensiveness in McGraw's tone. In fact, he sounded more like he was playing a game of cat and mouse that he very much enjoyed.

“I've found it pays not to put any stake in coincidence in my line of work.” Clint then offered a short list of the properties that had met with Black Four “mishaps” to scare their original owners into defaulting or selling. “It don't take much to see where things are headed. Stakes go for cheap when the owners get scared. Stakes that might not go for that low price if things had gone well for those same owners. You might say a man of opportunity could turn a tidy profit by being the right buyer comin' along at the right time.”

“You might say that.” McGraw looked out over the horizon, blowing out a long thin stream of smoke.

“I've seen enough to know that you might be that man. That, and I just got a whiff of how you treat your enemies.”

McGraw laughed out loud at that. “Well now, we don't charbroil everyone who stands in our way. Some of 'em just up and get shot.” He gave Clint a sideways glance that belonged on a rattlesnake, not a government soldier. “Fences fall. Animals die. Wells sour.”

“Accidents happen.”

“Yes indeedy. It's a cryin' shame how accidents do happen.”

“That's how folks view what happened to Brinkerhoff. A stray ember on a dusty night—it ain't too hard to explain away. You're the peacekeepers here, after all. But folks aren't all that dumb. Unless you're careful, someone might catch on. See something. Best to have someone pointing suspicions away from you. Someone folks are ready to believe.”

“And that'd be you now, wouldn't it? The good sheriff at our disposal.”

“The well-paid sheriff as your inside man,” Clint corrected.

McGraw pinched the edge of his considerable mustache. He played to character with such a sense of drama that Clint couldn't help but wonder at how much McGraw relished it all. Power did that to some men. Clint had seen it dozens of times in the war. It turned men cruel, brought out the predatory animal hiding under civilized uniforms. “What sort of arrangement do you have in mind, Sheriff?”

“Nothing you can't afford—if my suspicions are correct. And I'm hardly ever wrong.”

McGraw gave a dark chuckle and stubbed out the last of his cigarette on the rock between them. “I like your confidence. Okay, Thornton, you're in. By the way, what about the other one? The foreigner's pretty little sister—Katie-something, isn't it? She go down with her brother?”

Clint now tasted the bile rising in his throat, and fisted the hand McGraw couldn't see. “What do you care what happened to Katrine?”

“I found her rather fetchin', that's all. Be a shame if the world lost a pretty face just because it was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I'd be sort of sorry.”

He'd be nothing close to sorry. “She wasn't there. She and Lars had a falling out the other week and she was up in Brave Rock staying with a friend for a few days.”

“How fortunate for her.” McGraw drew the word
fortunate
out in a way that made Clint's stomach churn. “I'd hate to have her meet with any kind of accident on account of her knowing...unfortunate facts.”

A protective resolve settled around Clint's spine, cold and hard and straight as north. He would draw his last breath keeping this snake away from Katrine Brinkerhoff. “She's of no consequence, McGraw. She doesn't know what Lars saw and she'll be no trouble to you.” While it bothered him to do so, he added, “She's not too bright and her English is worse than Lars's was anyways.”

“Land sakes,” McGraw snickered, bumping his shoulder to Clint's like they were barroom buddies. “It weren't
conversation
I was looking for anyhow.”

* * *

It smelled like death.

There wasn't another way to put it. To Katrine, campfires had always smelled of home and cooking and good people gathered against the night. Today the wind blew sour, acrid scents against Katrine's face as she stood looking at what remained of the home she'd shared with Lars.
“Tak Gud,”
she whispered, forcing herself to remember no one had died here.

“Pardon?” Sheriff Thornton stood squinting into the wind, his jaw set with a kind of anger she knew he reserved for criminals. Lars had often said, “I'd never want to be an enemy of Sheriff Thornton's,” and today she could see why. He would stop at nothing to see justice done. She prayed such determination would be enough to keep Lars safe.

Katrine felt her cheeks flush. “I was thanking God for our lives.” As she said the words, they struck her anew. Clint Thornton had reason to be thankful for his life today, too. He had risked his life to save hers. She believed that to be an enormous thing even if he didn't seem to recognize it. “For
all
our lives.” That truth—coupled with the secret they now shared—seemed to bind her to the sheriff in unsettling ways.

She walked a mournful circle around the pile of rubble, feeling as though coming here solved nothing. Half of her wanted to run, to look away and never remember the home that had stood here. Another half, equally strong, wanted to claw through the wet, black timbers to find something—anything—worth saving. A wave of fear washed over her as she came across what was left of their front door. Their
barred
front door.

She gave a small, whispered yelp at the sight, and in seconds Sheriff Thornton dashed over to stand next to her. She heard him swallow hard. “Don't think about it.”

How was that possible? Threats of harm were an old, evil menace for her, a tie back to a time in her life she tried hard to forget. It seemed unfair that in one single night all the peace she'd fought so hard for had been taken away.

The sheriff reached down and lifted up a curved piece of metal. Katrine recognized it as the decorative iron latch that had been on their door—one of the things Lars had brought from home. It was covered in soot, wet and bent out of shape.

He'd meant it as a hopeful gesture, but it made Katrine recall the terrible moment when she'd realized the door wouldn't open. The remembered feel of the door refusing to give way sent ice down her spine even now.

He saw her response. “Okay, then talk about it. Don't swallow it. It won't help.”

Katrine didn't want to talk about it, but when he took a bandana out of his pocket, wiped down the latch and handed it to her, it was as if the words burst out. “There is an old Danish superstition that you must leave a window open when someone dies. To give the soul a chance to fly to Heaven. I know faith is stronger than such things, but I thought about it when I knew they had nailed the door shut. I thought,
how will my soul fly to Heaven?
We had no windows.” The tears, never far from the surface all day, brimmed her eyes again.

“No one died.”

“I keep telling myself that but it is not working.”

“Then keep repeating it. Out loud when you can, in your head when you can't.” He nodded at her, cueing her words.

“No one is dead.” Her words were wobbly and insufficient.

“No one is dead,” he repeated for her. Katrine found herself stunned by the compassion in his eyes. There were wounds behind those eyes. She could see their shadows before he broke the gaze and turned away.

There was a moment of raw silence until he caught sight of something and walked toward it. “Try thinking of last night this way—you made your own window.”

She wiped her wet lashes to watch him turn over a log with his boot, the recognition hitting her as fierce as the wind: the corner log. He must have tossed it far enough from the cabin when he pulled it out of the wall, for it hadn't fully burned. When he bent to another, she knew that both logs of her “drafty corner” had somehow survived the fire.

Sheriff Thornton squatted down and inspected the logs. “You should save these,” he said, turning to her as she walked closer. “Build them into your new home.”

Katrine recoiled at the thought. “Why?”

“Lije says the strongest people make peace with their scars. You were brave to fight your way out last night, and you're being mighty brave to do this now. It'd be good to remember.”

Remember. Was it worth it to remember when all the ashen pieces of home were blowing away in the wind? A black flake of charred wood settled on her hand and she flinched as if it still burned. “I think I might rather forget. Or not. I just do not know.” The tears threatened again.

To her surprise, the sheriff rose and carefully settled the logs on one end, like an odd little row of order in all the destruction. He extended a hand. “Maybe you don't have to know yet. Lars would want you to see what else can be saved. Maybe it's more than you think.”

She let him pull her closer to the blackened pile, still smoking in some places. With a tenuous smile, he pulled a pair of gloves from his pocket and began picking through the debris. She watched him for a moment, then began walking around the collapsed house, trying to feel Lars's encouragement but failing miserably. She spied half a blackened bowl and swallowed hard. The two new bowls brought by neighbors couldn't really replace it. New wasn't always better, was it?

“Well now, look here!” Katrine raised her gaze to see Sheriff Thornton holding Lars's favorite tin coffee mug, the blue enamel still visible under spots of black soot and a considerable dent. He used his glove to wipe away some of the soot. “He'll want this back, I reckon.”