The Bounty Hunter's Redemption (15 page)

“I’ll see she’s ridden.” He clapped a hand on Mark’s shoulder. “I’m sorry your mother’s sick. Good of you to make the trip.” If only Nate still had a mother to visit.

“I learned a valuable lesson from Max Richards.”

Nate jerked up his head. “What could Richards possibly teach you?”

“His mother was a special woman, yet that worthless son of hers wasn’t at Lillian’s bedside when she passed. The womenfolk kept vigil so Lillian wasn’t alone, but she’d hoped until she drew her last breath that Max would come.” Mark shook his head. “Richards was never around when anyone needed him. Even married to a pretty thing like Carly, Richards was gone more than he was home. Why, he wasn’t even here when Carly gave birth to their son.”

“Where was the guy? Did he have a job that took him away?”

Rowland snorted. “No real job. Max wasn’t fond of work. Everybody knew Carly paid the bills stitching clothes in the shop Max had inherited from Lillian.”

Carly hadn’t been able to count on her husband. Probably had seldom known his whereabouts. She deserved better. She deserved a man who would support her, a man who would stay. Nate sucked in a breath. That wasn’t him.

“Well, I’d better get Duchess saddled. Appreciate the help you’re giving Morris by repairing this place.” He smiled. “You should consider buying the livery.”

As Rowland walked to his horse’s stall, Nate’s stomach knotted. He was getting caught up in folks’ lives, entangled in the community. Something he neither wanted nor expected.

Worse, he felt at home here. Was starting to want things he couldn’t have. Not when his mission was to catch Stogsdill.

Nate pulled off his gloves and entered the office to report the morning sales to Morris.

Bent and stooped, the old man scarcely appeared strong enough to get Betsy to Arizona, yet the peace on his face was proof of his love for his business and his horses.

No, that peace ran deeper. Morris loved his wife and the Lord, and those relationships gave him peace.

If only...

“I should be done here soon,” Morris said. “Then we need to talk.”

The way Morris eyed him tightened the muscles in Nate’s neck. “I’ll be outside.”

Nate grabbed the toolbox and a handful of shims, then left the office to work on the corral attached to the livery. A hard kick from a frightened horse could easily demolish the gate’s wobbly slats. Nate would add a board crosswise on both sides and shims under the iron plate holding the hinges.

With each pound of the hammer, Maverick and the two remaining horses in the padlock perked up their ears and eyed him, but soon grew accustomed to the ruckus and returned to their grazing.

As Nate worked, the tension coiling inside him eased. After he finished here, he’d ride out to the shack on Hartzell Road. Perhaps he’d stock it with hardtack, a canteen of water, even a blanket.

“Hi, Nate!” Henry scampered up two rails of the corral fence, then stuck out his arms, windmilling them for balance. “Whatcha doing?”

“I’m making the corral gate stronger.”

“Can I help?” Henry jumped to the ground and raced to Nate’s side.

If Nate had half the boy’s energy, he’d be finished here and over at Western Union sending a wire to the Porter County sheriff, thanking him for the tip, even if it had been worthless. “Mind handing me that small piece of wood?”

Henry bounced, as if he had springs in his boots. “Where?”

“There,” he said, pointing to a pile of slats he’d shaved to a point of sorts.

With a pleased grin, Henry handed one to Nate.

Soon Nate was cupping his hand over Henry’s and helping the boy turn the screwdriver and tighten down the plate holding the hinge, doubling the time the task would have taken alone.

But then he’d have missed the joy glowing in Henry’s eyes, eyes so much like his mother’s. How could he refuse and dash the boy’s confidence? Still, the prospect of Henry underfoot, trying to keep him safe, tumbled in Nate’s stomach.

“How’s your ma?” he found himself saying.

Chin plopped in his hand, Henry sighed. “She sews and sews and sews. I can’t help her neither.”

“Does she know you’re here?”

“She said I could play outside.”

“But not here?”

“No, sir. I tried to pull weeds out of the garden, but they’re stuck. Could you—” Eyes averted, Henry toed the ground. “When you’re done, could you cul...cultivate the garden? I could help push the plow.”

Henry’s strong sense of responsibility reminded Nate of himself as a lad. Those had been carefree, simple days, milking cows, toting hay and straw, carting milk to town, selling calves. Oh, and swatting the inevitable flies. As a small boy, Nate could remember wishing for the long swishing tail of a Holstein.

“I’ll come by after the livery closes,” Nate said. “Now, run along. It’s close to noon. Don’t want your ma worrying about your whereabouts.”

As if he’d conjured her up, Carly walked out back. “Henry,” she called, “time for dinner!”

“Mama made cobbler,” Henry said, licking his lips. Then with a wave to Nate, Henry trotted toward home. “Coming!”

If only he could put his feet under Carly’s table. Eat the food she’d prepared with her own hands. Share that moment. And leave sated. Why not be honest? Home cooking wasn’t what he craved. He longed for the closeness of a family.

A growl from Nate’s stomach sent him to the tack room for the dinner bucket Anna had packed. Within minutes he’d guzzled half a glass jar of water and devoured the beef sandwich and a slightly withered apple.

Outside the window the leaves on the trees didn’t stir. This would be a good time to burn the rotted boards. He stowed the jar and strode out back.

As he lit and then watched the flames, Nate considered what he should do next to ready the livery to sell. He’d grown fond of Morris and wanted to help.

A glance at the roof gave his answer. He’d nail down the loose shingles. Little by little he was gaining on the work. By the time the judge arrived and ruled on the shop, Nate would have set the livery to rights and could be on his way with a clear conscience. He bit back a snort. A clear conscience was about as likely as a July snowfall in Mississippi.

“You’re harder to find than a weevil in a sack of grain,” Morris said, his tone trying for levity. But his furrowed brow and downturned mouth suggested the man was nearing his wit’s end.

Only hours before Mood had been as peaceful as a quiet summer night. “What’s wrong?” Nate asked.

Mood’s thin tufts of hair stood on end from running his hands through it as he did now. “I went home to check on Betsy. Her cough’s so bad she’s having trouble catching her breath.”

No wonder the poor man was distraught. “I’m sorry.”

“We made our decision. On the way into town, I stopped at the depot and bought tickets to Arizona. We’re leaving Friday, the twenty-second.”

Morris and Betsy were leaving in less than two weeks. Surely with all the repairs he’d made, the livery would sell soon.

“I wired my sister and sent her a ticket. She’ll come as soon as she can and stay until we can get a buyer for the house and livestock.”

“Does she have a husband or son who could run the livery?”

“My sister’s a maiden lady. Grew up on a farm, same as me. She lives in a boarding house, so she can come at a moment’s notice.” Morris lifted earnest eyes to Nate’s. “She can’t handle this livery, too. I’m lowering my price, but until it sells, I’d like to leave my business in your care.”

Nate opened his mouth to protest, but before he could get out the words, Morris held up his palm. “Know what you’re going to say—you ain’t staying. Well, you’re here now. No one else I can ask.”

“The Harders brothers have been helping out. They’d do a decent job.”

“Yeah, until they got locked up for shooting some fool sign.”

How could Nate argue with that?

“Besides, Nate, you have a knack for dealing with customers. Not those two.”

With Nate’s experience as a wrangler on a cattle ranch, caring for Mood’s horses was easy. What surprised him was how much he enjoyed chatting with clientele. But what did Nate know about running a business? He’d have to keep accounts. Order supplies. Make a profit. Or risk losing what Morris had built.

But even if he knew how to do all that, the responsibility of running the livery would tie him here. Though, if Rory was Stogsdill, as he suspected, maybe staying put was a good thing. For now.

A fire-weakened board shifted beneath the pile, collapsing the stack and shooting sparks into the air. Nate’s life wasn’t a good foundation for permanence any more than these rotten, scorched boards. No one should rely on him.

Nate took a step back. “Soon as my sister’s settled, I’m leaving.”

“You could make a good life here. Maybe settle down with one of the pretty women in town.”

One face filled Nate’s mind. Carly’s. In his judgment, the prettiest woman in town. Anywhere. Her crystal-blue eyes stole his breath.

Another face blotted out Carly’s. Shifty Stogsdill, mouth thrown wide, mocking Nate for failing to bring him to justice. If it was the last thing he did, Nate would wipe that smirk off Stogsdill’s face.

“I’ve told you about the man I’m after and why. I have to see Stogsdill pays for killing those I loved. You can understand that, can’t you?”

Morris’s eyes clouded. “You’re intent on vengeance. Nothing good will come from that. If you joined us tomorrow for Easter services, you’d hear about another way to live. Jesus taught us to love our enemies.” He touched Nate’s arm. “Don’t want you to think I’m unsympathetic about your losses, but retaliation won’t bring them back,” he said, and then hobbled toward the livery.

With the weight of Morris’s disappointment and the reminder of how far he’d fallen from his faith resting heavy on his shoulders, Nate watched the fire slowly ebb and die.

Too many innocents had died. No one understood what drove him.

He kicked dirt over the coals. More than anything, he wanted to head inside the livery, slap leather on Maverick, slip his rifle in his scabbard and head toward St. Louis.

But he’d promised Anna he’d stay until the ownership of the shop was settled. Soon the circuit judge would arrive and Nate could leave. But when he did, he wanted the accounts in good shape with accurate records a buyer could fathom.

From what he’d seen of Morris’s books, they needed a lot of work. Nate had no idea how to fix them. His pulse kicked up a notch. But he knew just the person who could.

* * *

With making Vivian’s trousseau and feeding her son Carly’s two main priorities, she’d put off the washing as long as she dared. Henry attracted dirt like honeysuckle attracted bees. Her son didn’t mind. But he needed clean clothes to wear to church, especially Easter Sunday.

Thank You, Lord, for coming to earth and showing us how to live, then sacrificing Your life for our sins.

Carly added shavings of hard soap and boiled the clothes in the rainwater she’d caught. Then, using a long-handled paddle, she transferred them to the wooden washer, a cradle contraption, a vast improvement from scrubbing clothes on the washboard. Once she doused them in a tub of cold rinse water, followed by a tub of bluing and wrung them out as dry as she could, her apron was wetter than the clothes she’d washed. If only she had money for a fancy washer with an attached wringer, as she’d seen at Stuffle Emporium.

With a wicker basket of clothes on one hip, she drudged to the backyard, bone weary after bending over the sewing machine most of the day, her shoulders and neck aching.

At the clothesline, she jammed pins on to the small waistband, hanging Henry’s denims along with the sailor top and knee pants he would wear Easter Sunday. Soon pant legs, shirtsleeves and socks danced in the brisk breeze.

Once she finished here, she’d return to the shop. Customers had been in and out all day, buying gloves, stockings and handkerchiefs. Carly didn’t have time for another interruption, for one more demand on her time.

“Can I help?”

Carly let out a gasp, dropping a pair of Henry’s socks.

Nate scooped them up, offering them with a smile. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

Those gray orbs of his twinkled, obviously more amused than sorry for her pounding heart. With that broad chest, those long legs and attractive face, the man was far too appealing. If she kept busy with the chore, surely he’d leave before their lives became even more entwined.

When he wasn’t around, thoughts of him filled her mind and Henry’s conversation. Yet Nate Sergeant was a bounty hunter. Not an occupation that encouraged putting down roots. Not a safe occupation. Far from it. Worse, Nate showed no interest in attending church. What did that say about him? What kind of example was he for Henry?

She jabbed a peg on to the toes of both socks, pinning them to the line, wishing she could pin the man in place as easily, out of her hair and her son’s existence.

Henry raced to her side. “Anna sent me outside for fresh air.”

Carly tousled her son’s hair. Most likely Henry had been underfoot, slowing Anna’s progress on the ball gown she was making.

Nate must’ve suspected as much, as he gave her a wink.

His gaze traveled to the weed patch she called a garden. “I’d like to cultivate your patch. That is, if you don’t mind.”

“Can I help push the plow?” Henry said.

Nate knelt in front of her son. “I never met a boy more eager to work.”

Henry laid a palm along Nate’s jaw contoured by a day’s growth of beard.

Uninvited, an urge to run a palm along that bristly jaw, a very strong, very manly jaw, popped into Carly’s mind and put a hitch in her breathing. Such foolishness. She’d once thought Max handsome. And look where that had led.

“Ew, you’re scratchy.”

“That’s the stubble of my beard. Compared to yours, my face feels like sandpaper.” Nate chucked Henry under the chin. “One day you’ll have a beard, too.”

“No, I won’t!” Henry giggled.

Evidence her son hadn’t watched his father shave. Not surprising with the length of Max’s absences. Henry longed for a man in his life, someone to emulate.

She snatched up a wet shirt and snapped a clothespin in place. No matter how much she tried to peg Nate as a loner, he behaved more like a father to Henry than Max ever had. Nate had taught her son simple skills, showed him how a man treated his family.