Robin Lee Hatcher (30 page)

“It was just a bad dream. Nothing’s happened to me.”

She began to sob.

Never in his life had he felt as helpless as he did then. He didn’t know what to say to reassure her, other than repeating the same words over and over again. “Nothing’s happened to me, Bethany. I’m fine. Don’t be afraid. Shh. It’s okay.”

But it wasn’t okay. The nightmares continued. Not every night, but often enough. And those bad dreams spilled into the days, changing her, slowly but surely. When she smiled or laughed, uncertainty remained in her eyes. She didn’t have the same vibrancy, the same spunk that he had come to love about her. She was quiet, too quiet.

Oh, she pretended that nothing was wrong. She told him not to worry about her. But he wasn’t fooled. Something
was
wrong. And when he realized how thin she’d grown, he decided to do something about it. If she wouldn’t talk to him, he’d get her to talk to someone else.

“We’re going to town,” he announced at the breakfast table one morning. “I need to pick up supplies.” He stood. “You get ready while I hitch the horses to the sleigh. Bundle up good.”

He followed his own advice, donning coat, hat, and gloves before heading outside. Even so, the cold bit into him as he made his way to the barn. He almost welcomed it, hoping it would clear his head.

“Lord, something’s eating her up inside, and I’m feeling helpless.” He stopped and looked heavenward. “And if you could help me find a way to get her to see Doc Wilton without her getting angry at me, I’d be thankful for it.”

Vince sized up the man who stood across the desk from him, hat in hand. He was young, early twenties more than likely, with the look of someone eager to prove his prowess with a gun. McDermott, the Bar V foreman and Vince’s trusted ally, seemed to think Rick Saunders could do the job. He’d better be right. Vince was tired of waiting. Tired of failed attempts. He wanted Chandler out of the picture soon.

He rose from his chair and offered Saunders his hand. “It’s agreed then. You get rid of Hawk Chandler, and you’ll be paid five hundred dollars for your trouble. And until the job’s done, you stay clear of the Bar V and any of my men. I want no connection to you in any way. Get yourself hired on at one of the other ranches. Better yet, get hired on at the Circle Blue, if you can. Blend in until you get your chance. But once Chandler’s dead and you’ve got your money, I want you gone from Montana. Understood?”

“Understood.” There was a hard glint in the cowboy’s eyes as he shook Vince’s hand. “I’ve got no reason to stay.”

Vince held the man’s hand a moment longer. “Do the job right.”

Saunders nodded.

A movement beyond the study caught Vince’s eye. He looked and saw Hutchens hurrying away from the open door. Had he overheard? He must have. Vince swore beneath his breath as he led Saunders to the back door where McDermott waited with Saunders’ horse.

“See him off the Bar V, and don’t let any of our men see you with him.”

McDermott nodded.

Vince closed the door and immediately went in search of Hutchens. He found him in the butler’s pantry, polishing silverware.

“I don’t like servants listening at doorways, Hutchens. You’ve been with me long enough to know that.”

“I wasn’t listening, sir,” Hutchens protested — but his eyes said something different.

“Just know this. The same thing could happen to you that is going to happen to Chandler. You wouldn’t even be missed.”

Hutchens blanched.

Good. Message delivered and understood.

Bethany was surprised to find her spirits lifting as the sleigh skimmed over the snow, bells jingling on the harness. She’d allowed fear to hold her captive for so long that she’d begun to think it would always be so. It was awful to be afraid of the unknown, of the future. She wasn’t a fearful sort of person by nature — or at least she hadn’t been.

But maybe her nightmares weren’t premonitions of bad things to come. Perhaps they were nothing more than indigestion. She’d had plenty of that lately.

She slipped her arm through Hawk’s. “If the weather holds, could we pay a visit to Ingrid in the next day or two?”

He leaned his head close to hers. “Of course we can, if it would please you.”

“It would.” She returned his smile. “It feels good to be out.

Thank you for bringing me along.”

When they arrived in Sweetwater, Hawk stopped the horse in front of the bakery. “Let’s sample Mr. Grant’s fare, shall we?”

“If you like.” She wasn’t hungry, but it wouldn’t hurt to see how the baker was getting along since her cousin left town.

The air inside the shop, warmed by heat from the ovens, felt wonderful. It wrapped around Bethany like a blanket.

Myrtle, the girl Beatrice had trained as her replacement, greeted them, then said, “Mr. Grant was saying just yesterday that we might not see you again until spring.”

“I’ve thought that a time or two myself,” Bethany answered. “But we’re here now. Is Mr. Grant in the kitchen?”

“Yes, ma’am. Do you want me to get him?”

“No. I’ll go on back.” She motioned toward Hawk. “You can help Mr. Chandler decide what he wants to eat.”

She unbuttoned her coat as she moved toward the swinging door that led into the kitchen. When she pushed it open, she found the baker rolling piecrust on the large flour-covered worktable.

“Hello, Mr. Grant.”

He looked up, grunted, and returned to his work.

“I trust you are well.”

“Well enough.”

Mr. Grant — who didn’t seem to have a first name, at least not one he’d shared with her — was a big man, both in height and weight, with a ruddy complexion and a thin mustache that looked as if it had been drawn on his face. His manner was prickly at the best of times, but he was a master at his craft. Even now, Bethany found it hard to believe he’d been enticed to come to Sweetwater.

“Have you given any more thought to my offer to sell you the bakery?”

“I have at that.”

“And?”

He set aside the rolling pin and straightened. “I like Sweetwater, Mrs. Chandler, and I think the bakery will do well here. But I’m not sure I can raise the capital I would need to buy you out. Not anytime soon.”

“Have the receipts been good? It’s been weeks since I last spoke with you.”

“They’ve been good.”

“Because of you.”

He shrugged.

“And Myrtle is working out well?”

“She’s a good girl. A hard worker.”

“Cousin Beatrice will be pleased to hear so.”

Mr. Grant scowled. “Will she now?”

“Yes, she will.”

With another grunt, he returned his attention to the piecrust.

He wanted to buy the bakery, and she wanted to sell it to him. There must be some way they could find a satisfactory arrangement. But right now she couldn’t think what it might be. She was feeling overheated, standing in the kitchen in her warm winter coat.

“I’ll leave you to your work, Mr. Grant. Good day to you.”

“And you.”

Perspiration beaded her forehead as she left the kitchen. Queasiness churned in her stomach. She looked in Hawk’s direction — he was still trying to decide on a sweet from the display — and motioned toward the door. “I need a little air,” she said, hoping she wasn’t about to lose her breakfast in public.

Hawk caught up with her before she reached the sidewalk. “What’s wrong?”

“The kitchen was hot. I should have removed my coat. It made me feel a little woozy.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “I think those supplies I wanted to buy can wait a while. Let’s you and me go see Doc Wilton.”

“I don’t need a doctor. I only need to cool off.”

“Remember the last time you said you didn’t need a doctor? You’d passed out in the road.”

“And all that was wrong with me was a little bump on the head. Doc Wilton didn’t do anything for me except tell me to rest and charge us for the visit.”

Hawk put an arm around her back and propelled her forward with gentle strength. “No harm in having him tell us that you’re all right once again.”

Hawk stood the instant Doc Wilton stepped out of the examination room. “How is she?”

“She’s fine, Hawk.”

“What about her nightmares and her lack of appetite? Like I told you, she hasn’t been herself for weeks now. You should have seen her over at the bakery. Pale as death, all of a sudden.”

The doctor motioned to the chairs in the waiting room and took a seat on one of them, saying nothing until Hawk sat on the other. “I should imagine she will regain her appetite in a few more weeks.”

Wasn’t the doctor taking Bethany’s symptoms too lightly? It sure seemed so to Hawk, and he wasn’t happy about it. Something was wrong with his wife. He wanted answers.

“Many women in her condition experience similar things.”

Her condition? What did he mean, her condition? That didn’t tell him anything. What was wrong with her? Why didn’t —

His eyes widened as understanding dawned.

Doc Wilton nodded, then tipped his head toward the closed door. “She’s waiting for you now.”

He was out of the chair in a flash. When he entered the examination room, Bethany was standing near the table, her hands folded before her waist. A slow smile curved her mouth as he drew near.

“Doc told you?” she asked softly.

“A baby?”

Her eyes glittered with happy tears. “Yes.”

“When?”

“In late June, more than likely.”

He gathered her into his arms. “And everything’s all right?”

“Yes.” The word came out on a laugh. “Everything’s perfect.”

THIRTY-SEVEN

Bethany’s nightmares didn’t go away, but they occurred with less frequency. And in the light of day, it was easier to push aside the fear the dreams stirred in her heart. Instead, she thought of the baby. Hawk’s baby. She wanted winter to speed by. She longed for June to arrive, for the day she would hold the baby in her arms and see what their love had created.

But winter hadn’t any notion of going away just because she wished it so. It held Montana in its white, frigid grip for weeks on end.

Rusty Andrews — a tall, lanky man with shaggy hair and leathered skin — stood just inside the front door of the cabin, his hat in hand. He acknowledged Bethany with a polite nod, then spoke to Hawk. “We found another fresh kill yesterday morning. That’s the fifth one in about a week. And the Circle Blue’s not the only one.”