Daisies In The Wind (10 page)

“Pa! Is she talking about Rebeccah Rawlings?
The outlaw’s daughter is going to be our new schoolteacher?” Billy
burst out, then clapped his hand over his mouth as Wolf shot him a
thunderous glance.

“Outlaw’s daughter!” Myrtle cried, wheeling
to stare at the boy.

It was Caitlin who interjected calmly, “Why,
I think it could be a fine idea, Myrtle. You and Waylon and the
mayor ought to ask her about it right away.”

“But ... but ...” Myrtle, like everyone else
in the town, was aware of the stories a few years back that Bear
Rawlings had won Amos Peastone’s ranch. But she had never put much
stock in it. “That girl ... the one who shot Scoop Parmalee—she’s
Bear Rawlings’s daughter? Is she taking over the Peastone place?
Good Lord, Sheriff, do you know that for a fact?”

Wolf had no choice but to answer curtly, “I
do.”

“Well, dear me. Caitlin, how can you even
think such a thing would be a fine idea? I never would have
suggested it if I’d known who she was.”

“According to what my son told me, she’s a
young woman with great presence of mind and mighty good aim with a
pistol,” Caitlin said crisply. “Aside from that, Myrtle, we know
nothing more about her.”

“Except she was mixed up somehow with that
hombre Fess Jones,” Billy piped in.

Myrtle’s mouth dropped open. “Fess
Jones!”

Wolf glowered at his son. “Billy, see to your
chores.”

“But, I—”

“Now.”

Billy knew better than to argue with his
father when he got that quelling look in his eye. He realized too
late that his brash tongue had seriously angered not only his
grandmother but his father as well. He pushed back his chair,
glanced around the table in some consternation, and mumbled,
“Sorry.”

“There’s only one thing to do,” Myrtle said
the moment the door swung shut behind the boy.

“And what might that be?” Wolf inquired
dryly, though he had a feeling he knew exactly what was coming.

“Run the hussy out of town.”

“Myrtle Lee Anderson!” Caitlin’s lips clamped
together reprovingly. “I’m surprised at you.”

“Bear Rawlings was a murdering thief with no
conscience—and any kin of his must be just the same.” Myrtle’s
voice throbbed with emotion. “You know what he did when he robbed
our bank. You both know what happened that day ...” Her voice
broke, but before either Caitlin or Wolf could say anything, she
banged her stout fist on the kitchen table so that the spoons
rattled in the saucers, and rushed on with trembling emotion: “We
can’t have her here in Powder Creek, attracting vermin like Fess
Jones. What’s he got to do with her anyway, Sheriff?”

“Nothing. He’s dead.”

“Well, thank goodness for small favors.”

Wolf decided he’d had enough. He left the
table, lifted his hat from the hook by the door, and regarded the
head of the town’s social committee with a warning glance. “Sorry I
can’t oblige you, Myrtle Lee, by running Miss Rawlings out of town
on a rail, or maybe lynching her in your backyard, but you see, the
lady hasn’t done anything wrong. Until she does, she can stay in
Powder Creek, she can live on the Peastone ranch, and she can dance
down Main Street in her drawers if she wants. It’s my sworn duty to
see that she’s treated as decently as every other citizen. So no
one’s going to be running anyone out of town, do you understand? Or
that someone will have to answer to me.”

The door slammed behind him. Silence settled
over the bright, tidy Bodine kitchen while he mounted Dusty and
headed for town.

Cowed momentarily into speechlessness, Myrtle
only stared at the untouched biscuit on her plate. But she wasn’t
seeing it at all. She was seeing an elegant young woman in a fine
blue traveling dress, a woman gazing up at Powder Creek’s sheriff
with big pansy-blue eyes. Her brows knit together in a dark line.
Then she banged her fist on the table again.

“What’s got him all riled up?” she
demanded.

Caitlin took a sip of coffee. “My son is a
fair man. He doesn’t like to see folks hastening to judgment
against someone—anyone—even if she is an outlaw’s daughter,” she
added coolly.

“Maybe it’s more than that,” Myrtle said, a
sly look entering her eyes. “I’ve seen that girl, Caitlin. She’s a
beaut. You’d better watch out for Wolf. Oh, I know half the town
thinks he’s going to get hitched one day soon to that Westerly
girl, but that there Rebeccah Rawlings, she’s quite a looker. Why,
she could turn his head in an instant.”

“Not Wolf’s head,” Caitlin said.

“Don’t be so sure. Why, I wager that
black-haired hussy could make any man go loco, if she put her mind
to it. Waylon Pritchard sure made a fool out of himself. Wait until
he finds out who she is.”

Caitlin sighed. In a few minutes the youngest
Adams girl would be arriving to help her with the day’s cooking,
cleaning, and household chores. Maybe then Myrtle would leave.
Caitlin had heard more than enough nonsense for one morning.
Besides, she had several things to think about now: whether
Rebeccah Rawlings really might be qualified to become the
schoolteacher the town so desperately needed and what kind of a
woman she really was. As far as what Myrtle had said about Wolf
getting riled because of some attraction toward her, Caitlin felt
only skepticism. It had been ten years since Clarissa, and she
oftentimes wondered if Wolf would ever get over it. She knew
everyone was waiting for him to marry Nel Westerly or possibly even
the pretty young widow, Lorene Simpson, but she also knew he cared
not a whit more for them than he did for Molly Duke, the tall,
buxom owner of the Silk Drawers Brothel. Wolf was in no more danger
of losing his heart than Caitlin herself was of falling into the
Pacific Ocean. Yet she made up her mind to meet this Rawlings girl
and find out for herself what kind of a woman she was.

And the sooner the better.

Caitlin heard Mary Adams trudging up to the
door before she made out the shape of the fourteen-year-old girl’s
sturdy figure. “Myrtle,” she said, rising from the table with what
she hoped was a dismissive air, “now that Mary’s here, you’ll have
to excuse me. I’m behind on all my chores, and much as I’d like to
do it, I simply can’t sit here all day chatting. But do come over
for Sunday dinner,” she added, fearing she’d been too abrupt and
therefore rude. “We’d be happy to have you join us.” Wolf would be
furious, Caitlin knew, but there was no help for it.

She waited until Myrtle had gone before
putting into motion the idea in her head—an idea too irresistible
to ignore. “Mary, dear, pack up a lunch hamper with a side of beef
and the rest of these sourdough biscuits and some of my special
preserves while I see to these dishes. Oh, and bring a jug of
lemonade along. Then get the buggy ready quick as you can. We’re
going on a little neighborly drive.”

“Did you sleep well?”

Wolf knew the answer even before he swung
down from the saddle. Rebeccah Rawlings, busily sweeping her front
porch, glanced over at him, and her weariness was plain to see.

Guilt stabbed at him. Leaving her here all
night with that dead body had been a low-down trick. Today he saw
the results of it. There were dark circles under her eyes, she was
pale, and her shoulders sagged as though they were sore. Yet for
all that she looked as pretty as ever in the bright splash of
Montana sunshine. Her high-necked blue gingham dress molded
becomingly to the curves of her figure, her dark satin hair shone
as it fell loosely about her shoulders, and her generous mouth
looked all too kissable.

But the bruise on her cheek looked raw and
painful.

He was immediately sorry for the sarcastic
way he’d begun the conversation. He moved toward her as she paused,
broom in hand, and wished he could start this visit over.

“As a matter of fact,” Rebeccah said
defiantly, staring at him as he stepped onto the porch to face her,
“I slept beautifully.”

She straightened her aching shoulders with an
effort. All her muscles hurt. Her head throbbed. But at that moment
she would rather have died at the stake than appear weak before
him.

Why did he have to look so fit, so strong and
rested and smug, coming up the walk with that easy lope, with his
guns glittering in the sunlight, his hair glinting beneath his hat?
She wanted to hit him.

Instead she managed a frosty smile
reminiscent of Althea Oxford, vice principal of Miss Wright’s
academy, and the coldest iceberg of a woman Rebeccah had ever
met.

“Why shouldn’t I sleep?” she continued,
adding an airy wave of her hand for effect. “I was comfortably
ensconced in my own home, smack in the middle of this beautiful and
spacious country, and there was no one around to bother me.”

“So you weren’t afraid?”

“Of what?” she managed to sneer. “Ghosts?
Dead men? It takes more than that to frighten me, Sheriff
Bodine.”

He had to hand it to her. She might almost
have convinced him—if not for the dark lavender smudges beneath her
eyes. And he knew those smudges were all his fault.

“I’ll get rid of Jones for you right now,” he
said. He started toward the cabin door. “You might want to wait in
the kitchen while I—”

“Don’t bother. He’s not in there.”

He stopped, then turned slowly, his gaze
riveted on her.

“What did you say?”

“He’s not in there,” Rebeccah repeated, and
began sweeping again, forcing him to move quickly aside as the
broom danced over and around his boots. Whisk, whisk, whisk, back
and forth went the broom. She didn’t glance at him. “I didn’t like
the idea of waiting for you, Sheriff, so I took care of Jones
myself. Dragged him outside, that is. I’m quite strong. And not the
least bit squeamish, you know. I killed a man yesterday, as I hope
you remember. Besides,” she rushed on as casually as she could
despite the gruesome memory of the body’s disgusting appearance and
stench, “it was starting to smell, you see, and I won’t have a foul
odor in my house.”

Wolf gripped her by the shoulders, fighting
the urge to shake her. Mulish, obstinate woman!

Her head flew up defiantly, and he saw at
once that beneath her air of casual indifference she was deeply
shaken. Her skin was drawn tight over her cheekbones, and her eyes
looked utterly weary.

“Why didn’t you wait for me?” he demanded.
His own guilt over not having gotten rid of Jones the previous
night made his voice come out harsher than he’d intended. “I said
I’d do it.”

Rebeccah clenched and unclenched her fingers.
The dazzling August sun was hurting her eyes, making it even harder
to fight back tears. It had been awful getting Fess Jones out of
her house, truly awful, but what she’d said to Wolf Bodine was
true. She couldn’t tolerate Jones fouling up her home one more
minute. And she wouldn’t allow herself to be dependent on Wolf
Bodine—wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that she
needed his help—or anyone else’s.

After the back-breaking effort of dragging
the body out back, she’d spent the better part of an hour on her
knees scrubbing blood out of the floor. It was all gone now, every
drop, and she’d even had a bath in the stream before she’d returned
to work in the kitchen.

I think I’m doing very well
, she
told herself, but all such thoughts faded as she saw the hot anger
flare in Wolf Bodine’s eyes.

“You are the stupidest, most prideful,
highhanded, damndest woman I ever met in my life.” His fingers
singed her flesh, and she nearly gasped aloud at the violent
electricity flashing from his powerful hands and pouring from every
muscle in his tall, lean frame. “I would have removed that body for
you—I said I would—but you were too bullheaded to wait!”

“It wasn’t necessary. I didn’t want to be
dependent on you—or on anyone. It’s not my way. So I just did it,
that’s all. And if you don’t want to bury him for me, Sheriff
Bodine, I’ll do that too. As a matter of fact there’s a shovel in
the shed. I’ll do it right now.”

She tried to wrench away from him, but he
held her back, fury blasting through him like dynamite. “The hell
you will. You’re staying right here on this porch. For once you’re
going to do as you’re told, even if I have to turn you over my
knee. Which is not a bad idea.”

Rage brought vivid color flooding her cheeks.
“How dare you!”

“I’d dare, all right. In fact ...”

Rebeccah gasped as she saw him warm to the
idea. His eyes suddenly seemed to light with the devil’s own fire,
his hands closed around her arms with ominous purpose.

“Seems to me, Miss Rawlings, that you could
benefit from a good spanking more than anyone I’ve ever known.”

“Wolf Bodine, you let go of me right this
minute!”

“Why should I?”

“Because you have no right to ... ah!”

She broke away from him with a sudden,
furious yank and fled into the cabin like a jackrabbit pursued by
hounds. To her dismay he followed, his boots stomping purposefully
behind her.

“Sheriff Bodine, get out of my house!” she
shrieked, flinging an enraged glance over her shoulder. That glance
proved to be her undoing, for she promptly tripped over the bucket
of water she’d used when scrubbing the floor, overturning it and
sloshing water all over, and then pitched headfirst onto the sofa.
Wolf, charging after her, slipped on the spilled water and, with
arms akimbo, slid forward and tumbled down on top of her.

He managed somehow at the last moment to
brace his arms so as not to hurt her, but for a moment they were
wildly entangled. His hard thighs pressed against her slim legs,
his powerful chest was jammed against her breasts, and his lean
face was only inches above hers.

“You
are
the clumsiest woman I ever
met,” he exclaimed, and then stopped, staring in amazement at the
terror stamped on her face.