Love on the Mend (12 page)

“No, ma’am.”

“Good. Now, watch John for me while I fetch Lily.”

After giving John a quick hug against her skirt, Charlotte yanked on the hem of the snug-fitting traveling jacket that fell to her hips and ran a hand over her hair to check for stray strands. Not finding any, she inhaled a cleansing breath and straightened her shoulders. Once again in command of the situation, she swept across the hall and entered the girls’ room.

Unlike the boys, Lily had fallen asleep. Charlotte gently pulled the blanket down and helped Lily sit up. “It’s time to go, sweetheart.” The child let out a small, disgruntled moan. “Quiet now,” Charlotte murmured around the smile tweaking her lips. “We mustn’t wake the others.”

Lily rubbed her eyes with a fist, then dutifully got to her feet. “Are we going to our new home, Miss Lottie?” she asked behind a yawn.

“Yes.” Charlotte helped the girl push her arms through her coat sleeves. “Did you pack your things?”

“Mmm-hmm. Under the bed.”

Charlotte retrieved the satchel that had once been Lily’s mother’s. The initials
R.D.
had been stamped into the leather strap above the buckle. She couldn’t see them in the dark, but her fingers traced over the indention.
I’ll take good
care of her, Rebekah. I promise.

“I remembered to get dressed after the others went to sleep, Miss Lottie. Even my shoes.”

“Excellent.” Charlotte did up the coat buttons, then began straightening the child’s bed. “You did everything I asked.”

“I promised Mama I’d be a good girl for you.”

Charlotte stilled, Lily’s bed only half made. “And I promised her that I’d take care of you.” The itch of emotion gathering at the back of her throat sent Charlotte back into motion. She finished making the bed and even went so far as to tuck the blanket edges under the mattress.

Rebekah had been gone only a week. Charlotte wasn’t so selfish as to wish her back, for her friend had suffered mightily in the last months of her illness, but she couldn’t help worrying on Lily’s behalf. She’d taught children of all ages, but Dr. Sullivan had been right about one thing—Charlotte wasn’t a mother.

As if Lily could sense her distress, she placed her hand in Charlotte’s palm and squeezed. “Mama said you were the finest woman she’d
ever known and told me to stay with you no matter what. It’ll all work out, Miss Lottie. You’ll see. We can miss her together.”

Charlotte squeezed Lily’s hand in return. “Yes. I suppose we can.”

They exited into the hall, collected the boys, then crept down the stairs. Charlotte steered them back toward her room so she could gather her bags, but the luggage was nowhere to be seen.

“I got yer stuff loaded in the wagon already.” The gravelly voice seemed to emanate from the very walls. Charlotte jumped, then caught her breath when the school’s caretaker materialized from within the doorway that led to the academy’s administrative office.

“Good heavens, Mr. Dobson. You gave me a fright.” Charlotte reached for the cameo at her throat and fiddled with the pin until she was sure her fingers had ceased their trembling.

“Sorry, Miss Atherton. Just thought we better hurry this party along.” The fellow was a strange little creature, sporting more gray hair on his chin than his head, and he never seemed to look her straight in the eye. Yet he was diligent in his work and good to the children. Best of all, he asked no questions. Earlier today, she’d offered him a position as overseer of the property where she’d be taking the children since the academy would be closing, and he’d accepted without once inquiring about salary. Nor had he questioned her desire to depart in the middle of the night. It was as if he understood her urgency. Perhaps he did. It wouldn’t surprise her to learn that he knew exactly what precipitated the school’s closing and what threatened Lily.

She offered him a smile. “Lead the way, sir.”

The man had laid a straw tick in the wagon bed and piled a mound of quilts along the edge.

Charlotte nodded approvingly. “You’ve thought of everything, Mr. Dobson.”

He failed to look at her as he helped Lily into the back of the wagon. “Didn’t want the young’uns to catch a chill. There’s still a nip in the air.”

Indeed there was. Charlotte shivered within her coat. Despite the spring-like temperatures during the day, nighttime felt like winter. “Bundle up tightly, children, and lay close together to keep warm.”

After the three were settled, Charlotte allowed Dobson to hand her up onto the bench. A lap robe and hot brick waited for her. She turned to thank him, but he held up a hand and walked away before
she could form the words. He circled around behind the wagon and then climbed up beside her. He released the brake and set the horses into motion.

Charlotte held her tongue, realizing her thanks would not be welcome. She glanced over her shoulder at the children, then turned to face ahead. Toward her future. This ragtag bunch was her family now, and she’d let no man take them from her.

Chapter One

A
PRIL
1891
M
ADISONVILLE
, T
EXAS

“Whoa.” Stone Hammond tugged once on the reins, and his black immediately stopped. “I better climb the rest of the way alone, Goliath.” He slid from the saddle, pushing the long length of his duster aside as he swung his leg over the horse’s rump. “A behemoth like you is likely to block out the sun this time of day if you crest the hill, and after eight weeks of huntin’, I ain’t about to let you scare off my quarry.”

The black turned his head and gave Stone a look that seemed to imply he wasn’t exactly a dainty specimen himself, then turned his attention to sampling the local prairie grass. Stone snorted. Crazy beast. Always so uppity. But he wouldn’t trade him for the biggest bounty on the federal marshal’s wall. No, the two of them had been through too many adventures to ever call it quits. They’d battled outlaws, renegades—shoot, even a pair of thievin’ circus performers who’d turned out to be devilishly good with knives. He and Goliath bore the scars and carried the years of hard living upon their bodies, but their hearts beat as true today as they had when they’d started a decade ago.

They were retrievers. The best in the state. It was the one thing in life Stone was good at. Never once had he failed to bring in what he was sent after. And with what this job was paying him, he’d finally be able to buy himself that little place he’d had his eye on, the one far enough away from people and their problems that he and Goliath could retire in peace.

A place not too different from the log cabin he’d spied on the other side of this rise.

Pulling a pair of field glasses out of his saddlebag, he patted Goliath’s neck, then set out for the top of the hill. Knowing his six-foot-three-inch frame would block out the sun just as well as Goliath’s, Stone hunkered over as he climbed, going down to his belly for the last few yards. Bracing his weight on his elbows, he sighted
the house, then held the field glasses up to his eyes and focused in on the details that would tell him how best to approach.

His target had proven unusually cagey. And careful. No witnesses. No discernable trail. No demand for ransom. He’d been forced to do his tracking through society drawing rooms and county registries. Not exactly his area of expertise. Folks tended to either cower or look down their noses at him in those kinds of places. But enduring the disdainful sniffs of a passel of pinkie pointin’, tea sippin’ ladies had eventually paid off, leading him to a bit of old gossip that had given him his first solid lead. And if he was right, he’d have his quarry rustled up before nightfall.

Stone rolled onto his back and pulled out the photograph he’d taken from the school wall. Three women and a man stood behind a group of two dozen kids spit-shined and dressed for the camera. Two black ink circles blazed up at him. One around a young girl sitting in the front row. Another around a tall woman standing ramrod straight on the far right.

Was the girl dead? Sold? The child was a pretty little thing. Blonde hair, bright eyes. A gal like that would fetch a hefty price down in Mexico. Her grandfather didn’t seem to believe any serious harm had befallen the girl. He’d simply hired Stone to find her and retrieve her. But what did a pampered rich man know about the seedy side of the world?

Stone had seen evil up close, had trailed outlaws who’d slit a man’s throat without a second thought, who’d rape a woman and then trod on her face for the perverse pleasure of having her beneath his boot. But those who hurt children? Those were the worst of the lot. He prayed the old man was right. He’d never laid a hand on a woman, but God help him, if this Charlotte Atherton person had hurt the child or sold her into the hands of one who would, he didn’t think he’d be able to stop himself.

Rolling back onto his stomach, he squinted through the field glasses and ordered his heart rate to calm. No use imagining the worst. Everyone he’d interviewed had given Miss Atherton glowing character references. Active in her church, charitable even on her small salary, dedicated to her students. Yet why would such a paragon steal a child? There must be something darker lurking beneath the surface. Something cunning and sly and perhaps a bit demented.

A high-pitched scream pierced the quiet afternoon air. A child’s cry. Stone tensed. The toes of his boots dug into the earth, ready to spring him forward. He’d not stand by and do nothing while a child—

A tow-headed girl ran out of the cabin. Stone raised off his belly enough to grab the six-shooter from his right holster. The Colt wasn’t the best for long-range shooting, but the sound would draw attention away from the girl. He held the field glasses steady, his gaze glued to the girl as he cocked the hammer.

She screamed again, then turned to glance over her shoulder. Stone froze. The girl’s face was aglow with . . . laughter. She wasn’t screaming. She was squealing. A boy, probably a couple years older than the girl, ran into the viewing area, a long-armed contraption of some sort in his hand. A loud pop echoed an instant before a rope shot out from the thing. The girl squealed again and dodged to the left. The rope flopped onto the ground. Admirably close to its target, though. If the boy rigged the rope with a barbed end, he’d have himself a harpoon. Rather impressive.

“You missed!” the girl crowed. She said something more, but her return to normal volume kept the words from carrying to Stone.

Exhaling a slow breath, Stone holstered his revolver and settled back in to observe. He tossed a quick prayer heavenward, thanking God that Lily Dorchester was alive and unharmed. For the girl
was
Lily. He’d recognized her features when she’d turned. She was dancing around the boy, as carefree as a tawny-haired kitten playing with a piece of string—a string the boy was wrapping up and reloading for another round of target practice.

The dancing halted with a skid. Lily ran up to the boy and cupped her hand between her mouth and his ear, then pointed back toward the house. Stone scanned the yard in the direction she’d pointed. A statuesque woman with a laundry basket propped against one hip glided toward a line draped with sheets, towels, and a pair of aprons. Her back was to him, so he couldn’t make out her features, but she moved with the refined grace of a society lady. No hurry to her step. Back straight as a board. Hair miraculously unaffected by the wind. At least she wore sensible clothes. Not exactly prairie calico, but her blue skirt was free of frills and she’d rolled the sleeves of her white shirtwaist to her elbows. Add a tailored jacket, and she’d look just like the woman in the picture. Charlotte Atherton.

His pulse sped up a notch at the sight of his quarry.

But he wasn’t the only hunter about. Another had her in his sights as well. One with a giggly assistant who couldn’t seem to stand still in her excitement. The boy crept closer to his target, took careful aim, and waited. Waited for her to drop the laundry basket and reach for the first sheet. Waited for her to fold. Waited until the precise moment she leaned over to lay the clean linen in the bottom of the basket.

A
pop
sounded, followed by a less-than-dignified screech as the rope’s end slapped against Miss Atherton’s . . . end. The woman jerked upright, one hand moving to cover the offended area as she spun.

Now the truth would show itself. Stone waited for the explosion.

“Stephen Farley!”

And there it was. Would she fetch a switch? Perhaps a strop? These tight-laced teacher types always had something around for maintaining discipline. Never a drop of humor in them, and blessed little compassion.

The two pranksters darted out of his vision, but Stone didn’t move the glasses to follow them. His attention was locked on the face that had just turned his way.

The photograph hadn’t done her justice. Stone’s breath leaked out of him in a silent whistle. Hair the color of sunlight shining through honey. Sun-kissed cheeks and snapping, blue-green eyes. Why, if she softened that stern expression of hers, she’d be downright pretty.

“That’s quite a clever contraption you’ve put together, Stephen,” she called after the fleeing children. “But if you ever administer it in that fashion again, you’ll be writing me an essay on the role of gentlemanly behavior in the advancement of civilization.” She shouted the last, ensuring the boy heard her dire threat. If one could call that bit of pudding a threat. An essay? Really? That’s what she used to keep the children in line?

Taskmasters the world over were hanging in their heads in shame. Wouldn’t a kidnapper have to enlist bigger guns than that to keep her charges from escaping? Locked doors, perhaps. Chains. At least a few threats of bodily harm. A coil of unease tightened in his gut. Something about this situation didn’t sit right.

Stone pushed up on his elbows and started to drop the field glasses, but Miss Atherton did something at just that moment that halted him. She smiled. Small and sweet and oh-so-secret as she slowly turned back toward her laundry. A fondness for the troublesome
boy glowed from within its depths. Not the smile of a madwoman or an abductress tasting future payments, but the smile of a mother.