Lucky Penny (10 page)

Though lean and not overly tall, he projected a “big man” aura, his stance not precisely threatening but signaling that he had lived with danger as an almost constant companion and was always on guard. His gold hair, visible beneath the brim of his tan leather hat and only a few shades darker than Daphne’s, hung as straight as a ruler to his broad shoulders. He wore his two-gun belt low on his hips in the manner of a fast draw. Except for the badge, his overall appearance was more suited to her idea of a desperado than a lawman. Tawny trousers, scuffed riding boots, and tarnished spurs completed his outfit. The faint scent of bay rum and the silken gleam of his lower jaw indicated that he’d recently shaved, and his clothing looked clean enough, but he was one of those men who would project a slightly disreputable air even in a fancy suit.

When he loosened one arm from around Daphne to remove his hat, Brianna got a clear look at his sharp blue eyes, which seemed to miss nothing. They were underscored by chiseled features, a square jaw, and a full mouth that might have softened the hard angles of his face if not for its grim set.

Keeping one thin arm locked around his neck, Daphne twisted on his hip to flash Brianna a jubilant smile. “Look, Mama! Papa has finally come to see us!”

The room seemed to tilt. Little black spots danced
before Brianna’s eyes. Her limbs remained frozen, and her mouth felt as dry as sunbaked rawhide. She was imagining things. She had to be. Stuff this horrible didn’t happen, not even to her. She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again. He was still there. For the life of her, she couldn’t think what to do.

“Hello, Brianna,” he said, his deep voice pitched low. “It’s good to see you again.”

Again?
She’d never clapped eyes on this man in her life.

“Isn’t it wonderful, Mama?” Daphne chortled with unbridled delight. “Aren’t you excited? Why don’t you say something?”

Brianna didn’t know what to say, and excitement was way down the list of her emotions, well behind horrified, appalled, and stunned. She felt like a defenseless rabbit caught out in the open by a long-toothed predator, and all she wanted was to bolt for the nearest hidey-hole. Only two things forestalled her: the presence of her child and the forbidding glint in David Paxton’s eyes. It took every shred of self-control she possessed to collect her wits.

Don’t panic,
she cautioned herself.
Calm down.
Because of her letters to a man of the same name in Denver, this fellow was somehow under the impression that Daphne might be his. Just how he thought he’d managed to sire a child with a woman he’d never met could be worked out at another time. Right now, she had to get Daphne out of earshot, and fast, so she could make it clear to
this
David Paxton that he was the wrong man.

Brianna Paxton wasn’t what David had expected. Braced to recognize her, even if only vaguely, he realized that nothing about the woman seemed remotely familiar. As best he could see in this poor light, she had a memorable head of hair, a striking color somewhere between dark brown and fiery red, large, shamrock green eyes, flawless ivory skin, and delicate features. Altogether not a package he’d be likely to forget under normal circumstances. Problem was, he had a hunch the circumstances surrounding their meeting had been a long way from normal.

He’d been taught better manners than to take stock of a
woman’s figure unless he did it on the sly, but in this situation, he found himself staring at her generous breasts, the indentation of her slender waist, and the swell of her hips, hoping against hope that
something
about her might jar his memory. Had he actually gotten so drunk that he’d had intercourse with this woman and could recall nothing about her? Stupid question. He held the proof of his indiscretion in his arms, a beautiful little girl who was undeniably a Paxton. Whether he remembered it or not, he had trifled with this lady.

And she hadn’t missed his less-than-subtle appraisal. The lift of her chin and the light of battle in her eyes told him that. It was a look of insulted dignity, calculated to reduce the victim to shreds. He’d seen his ma do the same.

That mental comparison was another thing about Brianna that bothered David. Looks could be deceiving; as a marshal, he knew that better than most folks. But unless this gal had experienced a come-to-Jesus moment and completely transformed herself from the skin out, she’d never been a sporting woman in Denver or anyplace else. If the collar of her gray dress had reached any higher, it would have covered her chin. She wore her gorgeous, glossy hair done up in a severe chignon. Curls had escaped to frame her face and lie upon her nape, but he had a feeling she would quickly dispense with them if she saw herself in a mirror. She was comely, exceedingly so, the kind of woman who could make her fortune by plying that most ancient of female trades in a rowdy saloon or bawdy house. But there was a haughty stiffness in her posture that told him she’d never lower herself to cavort with foulmouthed, uncouth men, no matter how much money lined their pockets. She had that indefinable quality his ma called breeding.

So where the hell had he met her? At a Denver community social, possibly, or at a cattlemen’s potluck? At shindigs like that, there were always a couple of punch bowls heavily spiked with booze. David could scarcely believe he’d offered a proper young lady alcohol at some forgotten public function. Paxton men didn’t prey on innocents. Ace had started drilling that into David’s head as he entered adolescence. Sadly, back in his early twenties while
visiting Denver, David had been drunk so much of the time that the line between right and wrong had gotten very blurry.

Brianna stood with one slender hand pressed to her waist, as if she had a stomach ache or something. He’d had a lot of different reactions from women in his time, but he’d never before suspected that his mere presence was enough to make a lady sick. Ignoring him, she fixed her gaze on their daughter. “Daphne, darling, can you run along and play for a while? Or better yet, perhaps this is a good time to practice your recitation. We adults need a moment to talk privately, please.”

David gave Daphne a reassuring pat and whispered in her ear, “Remember the candy money? Now would be a good time to buy yourself a peppermint stick.”

David set her on the floor. He straightened the rose-colored ribbon in her hair. The expression in her eyes told him without her saying a word that she was still worried about him leaving. “Do you, by any chance, like sarsaparilla?”

“I
love
it!” the child cried.

“Well, I’m fond of it, too. Later, we’ll go to the restaurant, and I’ll buy us both one.”

Assured by the promise, the little girl bounced across the plank floor. The door crashed shut behind her as she ran outside. David settled a thoughtful gaze on the child’s mother. Damn, but she was pretty. David couldn’t deny that. But the possibility of a fractious disposition still couldn’t be ruled out. Even her speech, refined and laced with an accent he couldn’t quite pinpoint, screamed “proper.”

“My dear sir,” she said shakily, her hand still splayed at her waist. “It appears you have traveled a very long way for absolutely no reason. We’ve obviously never met, and you have no obligations here.”

When she said
sir
, it sounded like
suh
. Southern, maybe? Nope. David had been born in Virginia, and he didn’t detect a drawl. An Easterner, he decided. How he had hooked up with her, he didn’t know, but it didn’t matter. After seeing Daphne, he was convinced beyond any shadow of a doubt that he was her father.

Just then a door at the rear of the shop swung open and a
skinny woman in a scarlet dress emerged, accompanied by a faint smell of vegetable soup. David had seen some fair-skinned people in his day, but this gal looked as if she’d been dipped repeatedly in a bleaching agent, her skin, hair, lashes, and lips so white that the bright color of her gown was startling by contrast. Only her eyes—a dark, beady brown—saved her from being mistaken for an albino. Her mouth curved into an overeager smile as she greeted David.

“My, my, it’s not every day we have a handsome stranger drop in.” She stepped forward, offering him a clawlike hand. “I’m the proprietress,
Miss
Abigail. It will be my great pleasure to assist you in any way I can.”

David shook hands with the woman and resisted the urge to wipe his palm clean on his tan jeans after the contact ended. She was sweating like a horse that had been run too hard for several miles. Thwarted lust, or was she coming down sick? Either way, he wanted no part of it. Deliberately neglecting to introduce himself, David said, “Thank you for your kindness, Miss Abigail, but I’m here to speak with Mrs. Paxton.”

Abigail’s eager smile thinned into a moue of distaste. She directed a glittering, resentful glance at Brianna. “I see.” Her bony shoulders lifted in a shrug. Then she jabbed a rigid finger at her employee. “You’ll not entertain men inside my shop, Mrs. Paxton. You may take your leave until your business with this gentleman is concluded, and I shall dock your wages accordingly for the time missed.”

Brianna shot David an accusing look, then nodded in meek acquiescence to her boss. “I’ll be gone a half hour, no more.”

“
I’ll
keep track of the time you miss, thank you very much,” Abigail flung back. Then, with a sniff, she disappeared and slammed the door behind her.

David shot Brianna a commiserating look. “Well, now, she’s all-over unpleasant. Working for a termagant like her must be a constant trial.”

“Positions of respectable employment for ladies are few and far between in Glory Ridge, Mr. Paxton.”

“I know. You mentioned that in your letters.”

She shot him a wary look over her shoulder before stepping
through the parted curtain to collect her wrap. As she stooped over, the way she moved struck him as odd. There was no curve of her back, no dip of her head, and she bent slightly at the knees to prevent her posterior from protruding. That was a shame. The limp folds of her wash-worn skirt did little to hide her figure, and in his estimation, she had a very fetching backside.

As she returned to the main room, she drew a tattered black shawl around her shoulders. Judging by her complexion, green eyes, and given name, David guessed her to be of Irish descent, and he found himself wondering if she had a temper as fiery as the shimmer of red in her hair.

“Shall we?” she asked.

David noticed faint blue shadows of exhaustion under her lovely eyes, which were the deepest green he’d ever seen. He knew from Daphne’s letters that Brianna turned her hand to any honest toil she could find in order to support their daughter, but judging by her appearance, she spent precious little of her earnings on herself. In addition to being rail thin, she wore a gown that was faded, badly worn, and too snug across the breasts. Her kid boots were old and battered. He had an awful suspicion that she slept little, ate infrequently, and did without other basic necessities. The very thought made him feel like a lowdown skunk. If not for him, she wouldn’t be in such a pickle.

When they exited the dress shop, the breeze had picked up, and it had a sharp bite. Brianna clutched her shawl close and walked ahead of him along the uneven, sagging boardwalk until she reached a break between the buildings, whereupon she vanished into the narrow alley. David followed her into the shadowy chasm, where the weather-beaten structures on either side provided a windbreak. And a sound barrier. No passersby would overhear them, and he suspected that was why she’d chosen this secluded spot, despite her obvious wariness of him.

She turned to face him, her countenance pale, her eyes gleaming with purpose. “You’ve made a huge mistake by coming here, Mr. Paxton. I told you in my last note that Daphne isn’t your daughter.”

David tried to take a mental step back and keep his temper.
He had seen the child in question, and if she wasn’t a Paxton, he’d eat his boots and have his hat for dessert. Still, he needed to hear the woman out. Having him show up unexpectedly had to be unnerving for her. One tryst, a resultant pregnancy, and so many years of separation didn’t make them lovers, close friends, or even acquaintances. He was, to all intents and purposes, a total stranger.

“Look,” he said, trying to inject a gentle note into his voice, “I’m not here to cause you any trouble. I only want to do right by you and the little girl.”

She blinked and, as if her lashes were attached to a drain-plug chain, all the remaining color slipped from her face. “Did you not hear me, Mr. Paxton? This isn’t about your doing the right thing. It’s a case of mistaken identity. You bear my husband’s name, but you are not my husband, and you are
not
Daphne’s father. Can’t you
see
that? You can’t honestly say you’ve ever met me before.”

David bent his head and dug at the dirt with the heel of his boot, a habit of his when he grew angry or tense. It gave him a chance to think before he stuck his foot in his mouth. She looked scared half to death, and he sure as sand didn’t want to end this conversation prematurely by pushing her into a full-blown panic. From her standpoint, this might be a frightening situation. In custody suits, fathers, who had greater earning power, normally prevailed in court. Maybe she feared that he meant to take Daphne away from her. David hadn’t come here to separate the mother from her little girl. The way he saw it, he was as obligated to Brianna as he was to Daphne. Hazel Wright’s appeal seemed dim by comparison to the very real need he saw here. He’d do whatever was necessary to make this right, and if that meant being saddled with a wife he didn’t love, so be it. At least she was easy on the eyes, and under better circumstances, she might even be congenial.

“Like I said, I’m not here to do any harm.”

She squeezed her eyes closed. When she lifted her lashes, David saw the shadows of anxiety and fear that darkened her irises. He regretted that, but what the hell was his alternative? After seeing Daphne, he couldn’t just ride away to spare this woman grief.

“As I told you in my thank-you note, Mr. Paxton, my husband is a miner in Denver, not a marshal in an outlying town.”