A Texan's Luck (5 page)

She looked for a hint of the old man in the captain but could see none. The kindness of the father hadn't been inherited.

Lacy stood, tripping on the corners of her blanket. "You're right. We can wait till morning." She would just as soon wait forever. She wasn't sure she could tell him how humiliated she'd been that day he'd taken her so coldly in the back room of his office. If she told him, she'd have to relive something she'd spent two years trying to forget.

Quickly, she moved to the tiny main room. "You can sleep in here." She pointed to the small couch by the room's only window. "Or the rug is comfortable. I slept there when your father was too ill to live at the boardinghouse and moved in with me."

He followed her. "You should have written me about my father."

When she faced him once more, he lowered his voice and added, "I didn't know how he died. Sheriff Riley sent word about how you took care of him those last months, nursing him and running the paper. I thank you for that."

"There is no need." She backed toward her bedroom door. "I loved him. He was like a real father to me."

Walker probably couldn't understand how close she'd felt to the old man who'd paid her way out of jail and adopted her as his daughter-in-law. He'd treated her like a jewel, and she'd loved him for always being so kind. Staring at the son he'd always talked about, she wondered how the old man could have been so wrong about his child. He'd said his son would cherish her.

Walker took a step toward her room but stopped when she raised her hand as though to block any advance.

He growled for a second. "I only planned to make sure the window was locked," he snapped.

"I can do it." She turned away.

"Lacy?"

She looked back at him, her knuckles whitening as she gripped the door to her bedroom.

"We
will
talk about what happened between us in the morning."

Disappearing into her bedroom, she stood against the door for a moment as if preparing to brace for an attack. She wasn't sure if his words were a promise or a threat.

Slowly, she made her fingers relax from the fists they'd curled into. If the captain wanted to come into her bedroom, there would be no way to stop him, but from the sounds beyond the door, he appeared more interested in sleep.

She smiled suddenly as she drew the heavy curtains over the window and checked the lock on a window she never opened. Any intruder who could jump the fifteen feet to the window might prove to be more than even Captain Larson could handle.

After shoving the dresser against the door, Lacy crawled beneath the covers and tried to stop shivering long enough to fall asleep. But the coffee and the excitement wouldn't let her relax. She liked her quiet life. She loved running the paper and sewing at night. Why did he have to come home and ruin everything?

Home
, she thought. This was her home, not his. She'd never had a place she felt she belonged, but she planned to fight for this one. She'd been moving and running most of her life, but here she'd make a stand. Not even Zeb Whitaker would frighten her away.

The echoes of a song children had made up about her drifted through her mind: "Lacy, Lacy, pretty and poor. Nobody's daughter anymore. Lacy, Lacy dirty and wild. Just an orphan, nobody's child." She'd been passed around between neighbors so much as a child, when folks asked where she was from she always thought of saying, "The back of a wagon."

Closing her eyes, she drifted to sleep.

Walker stomped around in the tiny living room telling himself she might appreciate him being quiet, but that was probably all the ungrateful woman would appreciate. She hadn't bothered to thank him for riding three days to get to her.

He tugged off his wet boots and moved them close enough to the fire to dry by morning. She'd looked like she'd gladly kill him when he entered, and then she hadn't said three words to him before she accused him of rape. This wasn't going to be an easy assignment.

The tiny cooking stove in the kitchen was the only heat, and it hardly warmed the living space. He could guess how cold her bedroom must be with its northern exposure. Not that he cared, he reminded himself. He was here to keep her alive. No harm would come to her on his watch. He'd told her two years ago he had no room in his life for a wife, and nothing had changed.

"Nothing," he mumbled as he unpacked. Except that he couldn't forget the way she'd felt, or smelled … or how she'd fought back tears when he'd made her his wife in more than name only. She'd haunted him like a plague through waking and dreaming since that day. Maybe spending a few weeks with her would finally clear his mind of the memory of the way she'd felt beneath him.

He sat on what he thought was one of the chairs covered by a colorful quilt and tumbled to the floor. Rolling quickly back to his feet, he lifted the material and found only a wooden box beneath quilts pinned to look like arms of a chair. He examined the other furnishings. With the quilts they both looked like chairs, but they were simply frames and not even sturdy ones.

Marching to the couch, he lifted the layers of patchwork quilts and found only boxes stacked up beneath. They did look strong enough to hold his weight, but little more.

Except for the kitchen table and chairs, and a stool, it appeared all the furniture was make-believe.

How fitting,
he thought,
fake furniture in a fake marriage.

Spreading out his bedroll on the rug, Walker tried to relax and get some sleep, but the knowledge that she probably shivered behind the closed door bothered him. Other things also worried him. He'd been sending her half of his salary since he'd learned they were married, but there was a sparseness about the way she lived that even the colorful quilts couldn't hide. The little food in the cupboard, the lack of firewood, the absence of furnishings. She was barely surviving when she should have been able to live comfortably on his money plus the amount the paper brought in.

A cat crawled out from beneath the stool and stared at him.

"Great," Walker mumbled and rolled over. "On top of everything else, she has a cat!"

Another pair of feline eyes stared at him from a shelf, watching him as if considering him little more than prey.

"I hate cats," he mumbled and pulled his army-issue blanket over his head.

Lacy awoke to the sound of a door closing.
She pulled her blanket down just enough to see that she'd overslept. Not that it mattered. Duncan and Jay Boy would pick up the papers and start selling them without her help. Eli, because his joints hurt too badly to go outside in the weather, would hopefully be downstairs in time to open if anyone needed to place an ad for next week. She didn't have to be in the shop early; they all knew about the hidden key.

Holding on to as much of the covers as she could, she stood, shuffled to the window, and pulled back the heavy curtain. Never a morning person, Lacy usually had to let the sun slap her hard to pull her from sleep. She hated mornings, feeling she could easily go the rest of her life without ever seeing the sun rise.

A full day greeted her, pushing the memory of her dreams aside. From the number of people milling about, it had to be past eight. Clouds still blocked any brightness from the sun, but the threat of snow didn't keep the folks of Cedar Point from Saturday morning activities. Several farmers were already setting up their wagons in the empty space between the saloon and the sheriff's office. Unless Sheriff Riley posted notice of a hanging, everyone agreed that Saturday was trading day.

This late in the season, farmers brought in mostly vegetables from their root cellars and canned goods along with eggs and salted hams. Usually the Church Women's League had a table of handmade items for sale: crocheted pot holders and bits of lace women had donated as part of their dues. Crocheted Bible covers had been a hot seller last spring, but now the leftovers were beginning to yellow. Another month, and the lacy Christmas angels would replace the covers on the table.

The merchants on Main Street, from the saloon to the blacksmith, hauled their wares outside for display. Miss Julie Stauffer's small table by the hotel was already stacked with fresh cinnamon-raisin rolls. She was the hotel owner's daughter and a beauty. Though her rolls weren't the best, single men lined up every Saturday to buy them and visit. More than one cowhand had gotten sick eating too many.

Lacy grinned. Only the undertaker seemed left out of the trading. Even the barber had been known to take a chicken in exchange for a whole family's haircuts. Another hour, and everyone for miles around would be in town exchanging and talking. Lacy hurried to the chest of drawers and dressed as fast as she could.

Saturday excitement always tickled her. Today she'd sell her papers and find the news she'd need for next week's space. If she were lucky, several folks would be in to place small ads.

As she pulled her dress over her head, a noise came from the other room. For a second, she thought one of her cats had knocked something off one of the shelves he always crowded onto. Probably Andy. He was always climbing into small spaces between books and along windowsills.

Then she remembered she had company. How could she have forgotten?

Walker!
Last night's nightmare apparently still lurked beyond the door.

A cat yelped suddenly in pain.

Without thinking of how she must look, Lacy pushed the dresser aside and ran out of her bedroom. If he'd hurt one of her cats, she'd kill him straight out and explain her actions later.

She almost collided with a wall of wool uniform before she brought herself to a sudden stop. He stood just beyond her door, his fist raised to the level of her face. For a moment, they both stared, truly surprised to see the other so close.

Lacy, recovering first, stepped back. "What are you doing? Have you hurt my cats?"

Walker looked frustrated, which she was beginning to think must be his natural expression. "I was about to knock on your door to see if you were up, but I accidentally stepped on a mangy excuse for an animal and the thing responded like a doorbell."

Lacy noticed Andy several feet away, licking his tail.

"Try not to kill my cats while you're here protecting me." She lifted her chin and stepped back, attempting to put more space between them.

The back of her head hit the doorjamb.

Walker moved closer, but Lacy stopped him. "Don't," she said with one hand raised while the other rubbed the back of her head.

"I was only—"

She stood her ground. "Don't touch me."

He retreated a safe distance. "I didn't plan to hurt you," he said. "And as for that cat, he looks like a few freight wagons have already run over him."

She glanced at Andy. Half his tail was missing along with one ear. His short fur was a mixture of black and brown, making him look muddy. She held out her arms to him, but the cat showed no interest in needing comfort from her.

"Is your head all right? Maybe you should sit down." He glanced at the furniture and looked like he was reconsidering his offer.

For the first time, she noticed he was fully dressed in his uniform, with boots newly polished. He made a striking figure in dark blue, but she knew better than anyone else that no heart beat beneath the uniform.

She stopped rubbing her sore head and tried to pull her hair into some kind of order. "You're leaving?" It was a hope more than a question.

"No. I always get up an hour before dawn." His voice lowered as he talked, as if once more pulling himself into complete control. "Since I consumed your store of food last night, I went down and restocked your supply." When she didn't thank him, he added, "I also made breakfast."

"You cooked?"

He pointed to the kitchen and waited for her to lead the way. "It's a necessary skill I learned years ago."

Lacy tiptoed into the kitchen, aware that he followed. She smelled coffee and Julie Stauffer's rolls. Food covered the tiny kitchen table. Bacon, eggs, pancakes, bread, and several jars of canned fruit.

"I didn't know what you liked." His words were matter-of-fact. "So, I picked up a little of everything as the farmers set up on the street." He pulled out her chair and waited.

"Thank you," she whispered as she took a seat.

He moved to the other chair. "I thought we could talk while we eat."

When her chin shot up, he added, "About our routine."

He passed her the eggs. "There are a few rules we need to go over to make everything run smoothly for the next few weeks. I believe in laying the groundwork first. That sets everything in order so that we both know where we stand."

She filled her plate, thankful that he wasn't planning to talk about the last time they were together. She usually didn't eat much on Friday, knowing that she'd be going to

Bailee and Carter's house for supper on Saturday. Her stomach groaned as she tasted food while waiting for him to pass more.

His words were slow, measured, while they ate, as if he feared he might frighten her again. He listed the routine he was used to and the one he expected her to follow while he was here. They'd rise before dawn and have lights out an hour after sunset. He expected the office downstairs and the apartment to be locked at all times. She could carry a key around her neck and leave a note on the door for anyone with business to knock and identify themselves. She was to go nowhere without him and, from this morning on, alter her routine so that no one on the outside could assume her whereabouts at any one time. No one, with the exception of him, was to be told her planned movements.