Outlaw's Bride (13 page)

Clint leveled his gaze on her. “How about you?”

Flustered, Mattie drew her napkin across her lips. “No, that's all right. I have other things to do.”

“If you don't go, none of us can. You just tell us what needs to be done, and we'll give you a hand so you can go with us.”

She shuddered. “I don't like worms.”

“I'll bait your hook,” Clint said with a crooked grin.

She met his gaze squarely and accepted his dare. “Only if I don't have to clean anything I catch.”

“What do you think, Andy? Will you clean your ma's fish?” Clint asked, keeping his eyes on Mattie.

“Sure, though I bet she doesn't catch anything,” Andy said.

“I wouldn't be so quick on that bet, young man,” Mattie said. “When I was younger than you, I caught Fred.”

“Who's Fred?” Andy asked.

“He was the biggest and oldest fish in the pond. Smartest one, too.” Mattie looked at Herman. “Isn't that right?”

Herman chuckled. “Your ma's right, Andy. Everyone in Green Valley was out to get him, but she was the one who caught him when she wasn't much bigger than old Fred herself.”

“My father used to take me,” she said quietly. “My mother used to come sometimes, too, and we'd make a day of it.” Specters of the past flitted through Mattie's eyes, and Clint could see the effort it took her to smile. “That was a long time ago.”

The sadness in her face touched him. Mattie had endured more than her share of heartache.

But he had no right offering her sympathy. He had a killer to catch—a vow to keep—and he would be leaving here soon to do it. He'd already been at Mattie's too long.

She stood and gathered the dirty dishes. “I'll clean these if you three will get the pails from the barn.”

“Sounds like a good deal to me,” Clint said.

“I'd rather be fishin',” Herman muttered.

Clint's lips twitched, but he wasn't about to let the older man out of doing his share around here. Mattie fed him and gave him a place to live—he owed her for that. By the looks of it, he was a member of the family, and family were supposed to help each other out and take care of one another.

Guilt caught him off guard—he'd failed to do that for his own wife.

Mattie placed her old straw hat on her head, wishing she had one of Amelia's fashionable ones. Sighing, she knew wishing for the impossible was a waste of time. She decided not to wear her gloves, preferring to feel the softness of the peaches' velvet skin as she picked the fruit.

It would be odd to have company in the small orchard. She'd worked alone most of her life, even after she'd married Jason. He'd rarely been home, leaving her to take care of their garden and house by herself. When Andy was born, she'd had Ruth, but the older woman had been bedridden and unable to help Mattie with her infant son. Though Ruth had offered advice—more than her share—the burden was on Mattie's shoulders, just as it always had been.

Then came Clint Beaudry, who insisted on helping her with her chores and getting her son and Herman to do the same. No one had been so concerned about her welfare since her parents had died. Her throat tightened, but her heart felt lighter than it had in years.

The thought of fishing for the first time in twenty years also brought a rare bubble of excitement. How had Clint known she would enjoy such a simple pleasure?

With a spring in her step, Mattie left the house and joined Andy, Clint, and Herman, who stood by the corral with pails in their hands. As she approached them, Clint lifted his head. His steady gaze seared her clear down to her pantaloons.

“Everyone ready?” she asked with a breathy voice.

“Lead on, pretty lady,” Clint teased.

Mattie led the way, grateful Clint couldn't see the heat in her cheeks. As soon as they arrived at the small orchard, Clint assigned each of them two trees. There was no doubt he was a man who was accustomed to giving orders and having them followed without question.

She reached up and plucked a gold and red peach from the tree. The smell of the fruit rose around her and she inhaled deeply. She loved the scent of growing things, whether it be the sweetest flower or a patch of skunkweed. It reminded her of the eternal rhythms of life—the seed germinating, the young plant burrowing through the soil to reach for the sun, then growing healthy and strong under the warm rays.

Mattie picked another peach and glanced at her son, who was growing healthy and strong just like her peach trees. She wanted to give him so much, especially the time to laugh and enjoy life. She didn't want him to work from dawn to dusk as she'd done in the orphanage.

“It looks like you have a good crop this year, Mattie,” Clint remarked.

She touched one of the tree's branches. “Nearly ten years ago, when they were barely as big as a twig, I spent a lot of time here, keeping the weeds from choking them and giving them water when they looked thirsty. After they got big enough to fend for themselves, I didn't need to do as much.”

“They must feel like your children.”

Mattie thought about that for a moment, and realized Clint was the first person to understand. “Yes, they do.”

Clint grinned and returned to his task.

Mattie allowed her appreciative gaze to move across his black-clad figure. The dark trousers molded to his backside and his shirt was stretched taut across his shoulders as he reached for a ripe peach. His shaggy hair beneath the black wide-brimmed hat hung past his collar, giving him a raw, untamed appearance that suited him. Although he once again looked like the man who'd first come to her door asking for a room, her fear of him had disappeared. And it wasn't simply because he wasn't wearing his holster and revolver. She'd seen the person beneath—the man who repaired chicken coops and picked peaches.

Mattie checked on Andy and spotted him in one of the trees, balancing on a limb eight feet above the ground. Her breath caught in her chest and her heart skipped one beat, then two. “Andy! Get down from there!”

“I couldn't reach them,” he called back.

Mattie's knees trembled. “I don't care. Get down from there right now!”

The boy reluctantly began to climb down.

Clint laid his hand on Mattie's arm. “He's just doing what boys always do.”

Anger sparked through her. “Trying to kill himself?”

He shook his head calmly—too calmly. “Finding out what he can and can't do. Every boy has to get a few cuts and bruises in order to learn his limits. That way he won't get hurt even worse when he's older.”

Mattie kept her eyes on her son, willing him to move down the tree slowly and carefully. “I don't want Andy to ever get hurt.”

“If you raise him to know right from wrong, he'll be fine. Just let him be a boy.”

She risked a quick glance away from Andy, and put a heavy dose of sarcasm in her voice. “I suppose that includes him learning how to use guns, too.”

Clint met her gaze unflinchingly. “That's right.”

Bitter anger filled her—she'd been blinded by her attraction to him. “You haven't changed, have you? You're still the same gunslinger you were before you were shot.”

He stared at her, no emotion in his chiseled face. “I never claimed to be anybody else.”

Tears burned in Mattie's eyes, but she refused to let him see them. Andy made it safely back on the ground and relief made her light-headed. “What have I told you about climbing trees?”

The boy met her gaze, and in his eyes Mattie read defiance. “You wanted me to pick peaches.”

Andy's insolence startled Mattie, then made her angry. “Don't sass me, Andrew Jason St. Clair.”

“I'm sorry.”

She didn't hear any repentance in his tone. With helpless frustration, she grabbed his shoulders and barely restrained herself from shaking him. “Don't you ever do that again, do you understand?”

Andy's lips thinned, but he nodded.

Mattie released him and her son moved back to his tree, his shoulders straight and his lower lip stiff.

“He'll do it again,” Clint said.

Mattie yanked a peach off the tree. “Not if he knows what's good for him.”

“You can't stop him. You can only be there to catch him when he falls.”

Mattie whirled to face him, fury pulsing through her. “Don't you dare tell me how to raise my own son. I don't need you or anyone else telling me what to do.”

She turned away from him and continued plucking peaches. Her buoyant spirits had disappeared, trampled by anger and doubts.

Clint's hand on her shoulder halted her in midmotion. “You've done a fine job, Mattie.”

She expected him to add something else. Instead, he squeezed her shoulder gently, then withdrew, leaving her feeling empty and alone.

“Y
ou gonna make a peach pie for supper tonight, Ma?” Andy asked as they ate dinner.

Mattie shook her head somberly. “No.”

Both Andy and Herman stared at her as if she'd just kicked a puppy.

“I'm going to make
three
pies.” She didn't bother to hide her smile.

Andy cheered and Herman grinned.

Mattie glanced at Clint, who'd been unusually quiet since their confrontation in the orchard. Maybe she had overreacted, but Andy was all she had.

“Do you like peach pie, Clint?” she asked.

He lifted his gaze and his green eyes glittered, making her stomach flutter. The man knew just how to use those devastating eyes to set her pulse racing. Did other women fall prey to him so easily?

“Almost as much as I like fishing,” he said. “The deal was we'd help you pick peaches if you went fishing with us.”

Mattie fingered her napkin. She wanted nothing more than to spend a carefree afternoon, but she had responsibilities. “I've got to take care of the peaches. Besides, I have to make pies for supper.”

“You mean you're going back on a promise? What kind of example are you setting for Andy?” Clint asked with exaggerated disbelief.

He had her boxed in and they both knew it.

“Yeah, Ma, you did say so.” Andy twisted the knife a little deeper into her conscience.

The hopefulness in his young face tipped the scales and Mattie nodded reluctantly. “All right, but if the pies aren't done tonight, it won't be my fault.”

“Pies can wait, fish can't.” Clint winked at her, sending her heartbeat into a flat-out gallop.

She reminded herself he was a gunman who didn't see anything wrong with teaching a little boy how to shoot, that he lived a life of violence, and most importantly, that he would be leaving soon. One brick at a time, she must build a wall around her heart that even Clint's teasing couldn't penetrate.

Mattie stood to collect the plates, but Clint beat her to the task as he piled his dish atop Andy's, then picked up Herman's.

“You go skin the peaches,” he said.

“I thought you said—”

“If you don't make those pies before you go, you're going to worry about them like a dog worrying a bone and you won't be able to relax.” He gave her a gentle nudge. “Go make your pies and us men will do the dishes.”

Herman snorted.

“Huh?” Andy asked.

“You heard me,” Clint said firmly. “Come on, let's help your mother so she can have some fun, too.”

Unexpected tears stung Mattie's eyes. Nobody had ever cared if she had fun or not.

Nobody until Clint.

Make that
two
very tall, very solid brick walls around her heart.

Clint's side throbbed, but it was tolerable and he wasn't about to spoil Mattie's afternoon by canceling or complaining. Sitting under a tree in the late summer with a fishing pole in hand wouldn't be too strenuous.

He glanced at Mattie walking in front him, her arms swinging loosely at her sides and her backside swaying enough to kick his imagination into gear. Not that he needed a whole lot of incentive to start picturing her in nothing but a smile. He'd painted that portrait hundreds of times in his mind, and each time it brought the same inevitable reaction.