Outlaw's Bride (16 page)

He reined the horse around and trotted away.

Clint remained where he was. After a few moments, he heard Mattie mutter, “Stupid fool.” Her staccato footsteps told him she'd returned to the house.

He emerged from the shadows and frowned. Mattie was right: Atwater
was
getting too old for the job. Clint had seen it before—men who didn't know when to give it up. He himself had been guilty of the same, only he hadn't paid the price—his wife had.

He gazed at the porch where Mattie had stood in the silvery moonlight, and the breath left his lungs like he'd been gut-punched.

Maybe he was paying the price now.

Early the next morning, Mattie sat on the porch paring a peach as the sun rose above the eastern horizon. Normally she blanched the peaches to remove their skins, but the kitchen was warm and the porch was cool and the air fresh. As she removed the stone from the peach, she listened to the comforting sound of the sparrows as they chirped and hopped around the yard, looking for breakfast. A few pigeons cooed from the barn roof and a crow cawed in a nearby tree.

Clint's horse snorted and Mattie watched the animal trot around the enclosure. Dakota was getting restless from being penned for so long, just as her master was. Mattie had seen the barely restrained impatience in Clint's eyes last night when he'd excused himself from the table. She knew what he was thinking, and she couldn't completely blame him for wanting to go after the man who'd shot him.

But why would someone ambush Clint?

Uneasy and unwilling to think too deeply about the answer, Mattie returned to paring the fruit.

“Mornin'.”

The low, gravelly voice sent a shiver down her spine. She looked up at Clint, who ran a hand through his long, tousled hair. For an insane moment, Mattie wanted to reach up and do the same. Then he set his wide-brimmed hat on his head, shading his features against the morning sun and giving him a strangely menacing appearance.

“Good morning. How're you feeling?” she asked.

Clint lowered himself to the chair beside her. “Stiff, but I expected that.” He looked at the two pails brimming with skinless peaches. “You must've gotten up early.”

“I planned on doing this last night, but after Walt left, I was too tired.”

Even though she was exhausted, she'd slept restlessly. She didn't tell him that her dreams had been filled with images of the two of them, their limbs intertwined, their lips seeking one another, and hot skin touching hot skin. She didn't tell him that she'd awakened early in the morning, the damp blankets tangled around her body. She didn't tell him she had to get up because every time she closed her eyes, she could see his virile body in its full glory.

He chuckled, the rich sound warming her. “Mattie the Magnificent actually gets tired?”

In spite of herself, she smiled. “I want to thank you for yesterday.” She stared down at the fruit in her hand. “You didn't have to help in the orchard or take me fishing, especially after how I treated you.”

“You were just worried about your son.”

She raised her gaze to meet his curtained eyes. “Yes. He's all I have, Clint.”

He rested his elbows on his thighs and leaned forward. “I know I'm just passin' through and I have no right telling you how to raise Andy, but—”

“I don't want him to grow up the way I did,” she interrupted.

“What?”

“I know what you're going to say. You're wondering why I let him play so much instead of tending to the chores.” Memories of the gray, cold place where she'd been placed after her parents died sent a shiver down her spine. “When I was Andy's age, I had already been in an orphanage nearly two years. I worked from sunup to sundown six days a week. On Sundays we had to sit through a three-hour service without squirming.” She smiled bitterly. “Do you know how difficult it is for a child to sit still for three hours?”

She wasn't expecting an answer, and Clint remained silent.

“After that, we were able to play for an hour, then had to do more work until we went to bed to start the week all over again. When Andy was born, I promised myself I wouldn't have him work the way I did. I want him to enjoy his childhood.”

“There's a difference between working a child too hard and teaching him responsibility,” Clint said quietly. “You keep giving Andy what he wants, and he's going to expect it when he's an adult, too.”

“So what do
you
think I should do?”

“I don't claim to be any expert on kids, but I think if he does more chores, he'll appreciate his playtime more. His rewards have to be balanced by his labor, Mattie.”

That made more sense than she wanted to admit. “Maybe I have spoiled him a little.”

She continued to mull over his words even as she grew increasingly aware of his nearness. She could make out a tiny nick along his left jawline, most likely from his shave that morning. The scent of soap and his own masculinity swirled around her, making her heart beat faster and her palms grow damp.

She drew the sharp blade of her knife around and around the fruit, peeling away the skin with practiced ease. If only she could remove her attraction to Clint as easily. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him stand and return to the house. She was relieved; it was difficult to concentrate with him watching every movement.

Five minutes later he returned and Mattie glanced up in surprise. In his hand, he carried another paring knife.

“I put a pot of coffee on.” He grinned boyishly. “And I figured I could give you a hand with these while I'm waiting for my first cup.”

Clint picked out a peach and expertly began to pare it. Mattie watched his long fingers curve around the fruit, gentle enough that he didn't bruise it, yet firm enough that it didn't slip from his palm.

A bolt of sensual energy shot through her, and her pulse ricocheted through her veins. Her dreams came back to tease her with the reality of the man beside her. He'd made no secret of the fact he wanted her. All she had to do was say the word….

The sound of Andy clomping down the stairs brought sanity crashing back down upon Mattie and her cheeks bloomed with heat.

Andy joined them on the porch and seemed startled to see Clint helping her. “Where's breakfast?” the boy asked.

Grateful for the interruption to her lustful thoughts, Mattie dropped the peach she'd been working on into a pail and stood. “I'll start it.”

Clint grasped her wrist firmly, but his gaze was on Andy. “Give us a few more minutes to finish up here, then your ma will get something ready.”

“But I'm hungry.”

“We all are,” Clint said. “But you don't see your ma or me complaining, do you?”

Mattie could tell Andy wanted to argue, and if
she'd
told him that, he would have. She wasn't certain if she felt better or worse that he didn't debate the issue with Clint.

“I'm gonna go down and see Dakota and Polly.” Andy trudged away toward the corral.

“I have a better idea,” Clint said. “Go gather the eggs and feed the chickens. That way, you'll get breakfast a little faster.”

For a moment, Andy stared at Clint as if trying to decide if he wanted to argue. Finally, he nodded and headed toward the repaired chicken coop.

She settled back in her chair uncomfortably. “I could've finished the peaches after I made breakfast.”

“Andy has to learn that he can't have his way all the time and that people aren't going to drop everything to cater to him.” He shrugged. “Besides, he's old enough to start taking over some of the chores you've been doing.”

Much as Mattie hated to admit it, Clint was right. Maybe she spoiled him to make up for his not having a father.

“I'm taking Dakota out for a ride today,” Clint announced.

Mattie's knife slipped.
He's getting ready to leave.

“That might not be such a good idea, since your wound broke open yesterday,” she managed to say calmly.

Clint shrugged. “Maybe not, but I can't stay here much longer, Mattie.” He paused. “I'm leaving tomorrow.”

Her throat closed and she stared down at the peach in her hand until it blurred. She didn't want him to leave. He had given her back the joy of fishing. He'd awakened her slumbering femininity and made her want a man for the first time since her husband's death.

“That soon?” she managed to ask.

“I've already been here longer than I should've.” He paused and gazed at Andy, who was tossing grain out for the chickens. “You saved my life, Mattie.”

She couldn't let Clint see how much his leaving would hurt her. “I only did what I had to.” She picked up the last peach left to be peeled. “What will you do?”

“I have to find him.”

Mattie didn't need to ask who “him” was. “I can't understand why he shot you.”

She glanced up to see his face had gone hard and his icy eyes were filled with hatred. Her insides grew as cold as the look in his eyes.

“He's the man who killed my wife.”

Mattie's stomach dipped and churned. The image of husband didn't fit with the dangerous man who sat beside her. “Your wife?”

“Emily.”

Mattie's eyes widened. That was the name he'd spoken when he'd been delirious. Most of the pieces of the puzzle dropped into place. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“What? That I couldn't protect my own wife?” Clint's voice was filled with self-loathing.

“Surely you don't blame yourself.”

He pinned her with a stare that made her draw back. “Who else can I blame? If I'd been home, I could've saved her.”

“Or maybe you would've been killed, too,” Mattie said quietly.

“Maybe it would've been better if I had,” he said, equally as softly.

Her heart cried for him and his loss, as well as the guilt that was eating at him. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and comfort him, but she was afraid—afraid that he would reject her solace and afraid of her burgeoning feelings for him.

Her hands trembled as she struggled to finish paring the last peach. She stood and spoke awkwardly. “I'll start breakfast.”

“Do you want the peaches in the kitchen?” he asked, his voice stiff.

“Yes, that'll be fine.” Her voice didn't sound much better.

She picked up one of the full pails and carried it into the house. Clint followed with two more and set them in a corner. He made two more trips before all the peach pails were in the kitchen.

As Mattie mixed a batch of biscuits, Clint poured them each a cup of coffee.

Startled, she accepted it with a thank-you. She'd never known a man so thoughtful and considerate. She'd been so wrong about him.

Instead of taking his cup onto the porch, Clint sat by the table and watched her silently. Mattie dared to glance at him … once. The embers in his intense eyes rekindled the banked fire inside her, and she quickly looked away.

“I didn't tell you about my wife to scare you or get your sympathy,” he said gently. “I figured you had a right to know why I'm in such a hurry to leave.”

“You don't owe me an explanation.” She cursed the breathiness of her voice.

“Maybe not, but I wanted to give you one.”

She should have been pleased that Clint thought enough of her to tell her the truth, yet the more she learned of him, the more she weakened toward him. She couldn't take many more revelations without completely surrendering to this man who touched her so deeply. No longer could she look at Clint as a mere gunslinger, and to deny her attraction to him was ridiculously naive. Although it would be difficult to say good-bye tomorrow, it was for the best.

He'd obviously loved his wife very much to leave his home and track down her killer. Mattie wondered what it would be like to have a man love her so much he'd give up everything for her.

She took a deep, unsteady breath. No matter how much it hurt to see him leave, it would be selfish to try to dissuade him.

A frightening thought struck her and her heart skipped into her throat.

What if the killer came back to finish his job? He'd already killed a woman—he'd have no compunction about killing a little boy.