Texas Brides Collection (68 page)

But what if she’s hurt? What if she’s hiding from someone looking to do her harm?
Despite what Ed said about Dime Box’s low crime rate, plenty of bad guys were lurking out there, and they could just as likely be hiding here as anywhere.

Caleb ought to know. He used to be the worst of the worst, and his favorite hiding places were where the decent folk went. That’s how he’d learned to pass himself off as a gentleman.

Some days he felt like he was still playing that game: an outlaw pretending to be a man of character. Then the good Lord would give him some reminder He had settled the score and wiped away the past.

Caleb waited a moment longer, then made his decision. “Nothing like spending the night before I go to jail doing a good deed.”

Shoving his feet into his boots, Caleb headed outside. He might not be able to do much with his immediate future, but the least he could do was help a woman who was obviously in some kind of distress.

L
ydia’s breath came in gasps, and her eyes stung from the tears she’d held back all day. So much for making the best of the situation. The moment May fell asleep, the strong facade Lydia had kept all week crumbled.

Try as she might, she hadn’t managed to believe the Lord intended her to be here.

In this place.

Doing what her mother insisted she must do.

A sob tore from her throat, and Lydia silenced it by taking a deep breath. The spot she’d chosen was private enough, with only one darkened room having a view; still she worried someone might happen upon her.

Funny how she had no trouble making a spectacle of herself to get sent home from all the finishing schools she’d attended over the years, yet she couldn’t shed a single tear in front of a witness.

She dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. Always she had found a way out of her predicament, a way to get back home. This time, however, her situation seemed a bit more…dare she even think it?

Permanent
.

Tears sprang afresh, and this time she gave them free rein to flow down her cheeks and soak her frock. To think Papa knew of this and still—

“Anything wrong, ma’am?”

Lydia scrambled to her feet, then reeled backward and thudded against the wall. Her head banged against the rough stones, and she cried out. A pair of strong arms lifted her off her feet.

“What are you doing? Put. Me. Down.”

As if he hadn’t heard her, the stranger whirled around with her in his arms and headed for the boardinghouse.

“Put. Me. Down!”

The man froze. A slice of moonlight cut across chiseled features she might have thought handsome had the oaf not just hauled her around like a sack of potatoes.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.

He cocked his hat back, revealing more of the face she knew must have caused more than a few women to take notice. “I thought I was helping a lady in distress.”

“The only distress I’m feeling is because I’m being tossed about by a complete stranger. Put me down before I call for the sheriff.”

This time he complied, setting her feet on the rocky ground, then taking a step backward. “Go ahead.”

Lydia gave him a look. “I mean it. I will.”

The cowboy leaned against the side of the rooming house and crossed his arms over his chest. “Like I said. Go ahead. There’s just one problem.”

“What’s that?”

He shrugged. “Far as I know, there’s not a sheriff in Dime Box. Leastwise there wasn’t one this afternoon.”

No sheriff? This was interesting. Dare she hope?

“Since when is there not a sheriff?”

Another voice spoke up. “Ed says the sheriff is going to be sworn in tomorrow morning.” The Widow Sykes turned the corner. “You ought to know that, Cal.” She turned to Lydia. “Everything all right out here, Miss Bertrand? I was takin’ a pie out of the oven and thought I heard some commotion.”

She gave the stranger a look, then turned her attention to the innkeeper. “Yes, I’m fine. Will you excuse me? I’d like to return to my room.”

“Let me go with you.” The landlady gave the man named Cal a nod, then reached for Lydia’s arm. “What say I walk with you just to be sure you’re all right?”

“That’s not necessary, really.” A light breeze blew past, bringing the scent of something delicious in its wake. “What sort of pie is that? It smells wonderful.”

“It’s my mama’s recipe. She called it a Jeff Davis pie. She was from Savannah, you know.”

“Might I have the recipe?”

The older woman stopped short. “You like to cook, do you?”

“Very much,” Lydia said, “although I haven’t had the chance to do so in far too long.”

“Now isn’t that interesting? I was just asking the Lord for some kitchen help this mornin’. I can pay in wages or free rent. You interested?”

The dark-haired gal reminded Caleb of his mama’s banty rooster, and he would’ve told her so except he intended to leave there in one piece. He watched the Widow Sykes usher her out of sight, then lifted his gaze to the heavens. The stars shone bright.

Somewhere beyond them was his real home. Knowing this made what he faced tomorrow seem a little less awful.

It occurred to him that in all their time together Ed hadn’t mentioned anything about the charges against him. Of course he hadn’t asked, either, but then neither he nor Ed cared much for idle chatter. They’d worked most days in silence.

By the time Caleb climbed under the threadbare blanket and laid his head on the pillow, he’d come up with a sizable list of possible crimes he’d committed. Some he’d already confessed to, and a few others he might have forgotten.

Still others might have been blamed on the Wilson boys but committed by others. That happened occasionally.

A spark of hope rose.
What if I can prove I’m innocent? What if Ed’s mistaken?

He winced when he thought of the man he was. The Good Book said the Lord could wash a man clean and turn his scarlet sins to pure white.

If the Lord said it, Caleb believed it. Understanding it—now that was another matter.

But then, come tomorrow he’d have plenty of time to study on the idea.

That night he slept in short doses and met the Lord in His Word well before sunrise. Dressed and ready before six, Caleb wandered downstairs with the intention of taking one last walk around Dime Box before meeting Ed.

Passing the dining room, he turned down good coffee, then thought better of it and sat down to let the widow pour him a cup. One cup turned into two, and before he knew it, he had a plate of eggs and bacon sitting before him.

He stabbed a fork into his eggs and took a hefty bite, then washed it down with black coffee. Before his mug could hit the table, Widow Sykes wandered in from the kitchen and set a pan of biscuits on the table, then disappeared with a promise to bring more butter and some honey.

He grabbed three biscuits, then set one back on the plate. No sense being greedy, even though he sat alone in the dining room. Two more bites of eggs and he was ready for that butter and honey.

Once the bacon was gone, Caleb began to wonder if she’d forgotten. The biscuits smelled too good to ignore, so he decided to taste one plain. It was so good he had another.

Caleb winked. “They’d be even better with butter and some honey.”

He thought to call his landlady’s name just to see if she was heading this way, then decided he’d amble into the kitchen and help her find that butter and honey. One push on the door and he found it stuck. On the second try, it almost felt as if the door pushed back.

He gave it a good shove, and the door cooperated, swinging open to reveal the Widow Sykes standing at the black cookstove.

The door slammed against the wall, and a woman screamed. Caleb took a step forward, then tripped.

About the time he landed on his posterior, he found the source of the roadblock—and presumably the caterwauling. There in all her honey- and butter-covered glory was the dark-haired gal from last night.

C
aleb tried to right himself under the glare of the sputtering woman but found nothing but slick floor boards beneath him. He tried rolling onto his stomach to push up from the floor but landed on his face.

A few more maneuvers, and he managed a sitting position. The pretty gal looked as if she wanted to wring his neck, and he fully expected the first words out of her mouth to be directed at him.

Instead, she surprised Caleb by looking past him. “Might I trouble you for a length of toweling, Mrs. Sykes?”

A length of toweling? She certainly wasn’t from these parts.

She met his gaze, and her eyes narrowed. At that moment Caleb felt about as welcome as a wet dog at a church picnic.

“What are
you
doing here?”

It was more of a demand than a question, really, and with her glaring like that, Caleb had to think hard to remember how to respond. “I came to fetch the butter and honey,” he finally managed.

She seemed less than impressed with his answer. Of course, with honey smeared across the front of her dress and a streak of butter running from the corner of her mouth to her nose, she probably wasn’t paying much attention.

“I thought I was helping,” he decided to add. “Best batch of biscuits that ever come out of the cookstove, ma’am,” he said to the widow.

Widow Sykes looked like she was about to double over laughing. “I appreciate that, Cal, but I’m not the one who mixed up that batch.” She gestured to the dark-haired gal. “You’ve got Miss Bertrand to thank for that.”

Caleb dared a sideways glance at Miss Bertrand. “Them’s prize-winning biscuits, ma’am.”

She lifted the corner of her apron to swipe at her cheek, smearing the butter in the process. “Glad you liked them,” she said without much enthusiasm.

“Miss Bertrand’s gonna be cooking for us. Least until she says her ‘I-dos,’ that is.”

“Is that right?” When she didn’t respond, he tried again. “So when’s the hitchin’?”

“Hitchin’?”

“Your wedding. When’s the wedding?” He reached for his hanky, clean as of this morning, and handed it to Miss Bertrand.

She dabbed at the butter, then handed it back. For a moment her expression softened. “I’m not exactly sure.” Soon as the words were said, the temper returned. “I’m thankful it’s not today. This was my only clean dress.”

“Bein’ as I’m not your intended, I’d rather not imagine you without a clean dress, ma’am.”

His joke fell flat. Rather than smiling as he hoped, she deepened her frown. “Just what are you suggesting, sir?”

“I’m not suggesting anything, Miss Bertrand. It’s just that you’ve unintentionally given me an image of you that a gentleman doesn’t need to have.”

Caleb dabbed his finger in the honey and tasted it for effect. Yes, it would be mighty fine on those biscuits waiting for him back in the dining room. From the look of his clothes, however, he probably ought to eat on the run.

Dare he hope the widow might see fit to send a meal or two his way while he was a guest of the jailhouse? He’d have to ask once he knew exactly how long a term he faced.

With that thought weighing on his mind, Caleb struggled to his feet and reached to offer help to Miss Bertrand. When she declined, he made his way back upstairs to step into the last set of clean clothes he owned: his Sunday suit.