River Song (46 page)

"That did it, Pop," she groaned. "I must be off to bed now while I can still walk."

"Aye, and I'll be happy to give ye
yer
leave, but I must first inquire of me son's health. Why has Sean not returned with
ye
, girl?"

Sunny laughed and stretched her arms over her head. More tired than she could ever remember being, she yawned and said, "Do not concern
yourself
with Sean, Pop. He could not be better or happier. He is helping a damsel in distress. We will hear from him soon."

"First you, and now me son has lost his heart in Phoenix, as well? Humph. What d' ye suppose they put in the water in those parts?"

Sunny managed a short laugh,
then
shrugged. "I cannot be sure if he has lost his heart. The only thing I am sure of right now is that I will soon fall out of this chair. I have hardly slept these past four days."

"Four days, lass?
How'd ye make the distance between here and Phoenix so fast?" Patrick shook his head and wagged a finger. "Ye must've run poor Paddy to the ground."

"No," she yawned, barely finding the strength to get to her feet. "Paddy's just fine. I left him at the Triple F ranch."

Sunny pushed in her chair and started for her bedroom.

"But Sunflower, girl.
How'd ye make the trip home?"

"It was no problem,
Pop
," she said through another yawn. "I stole a fast horse. Goodnight."

Open-mouthed, Patrick watched his daughter disappear into the other room. Reaching for his glass, he muttered, "Bad
cess
. '
Tis awful bad
cess
I feel a
comin
' our way."

Late the following afternoon, Patrick returned to the farm, the buckboard filled with supplies. He fed and watered his mule, Flossie, then afforded Dust Bucket the same kindness. By the time he'd unloaded the last sack of flour and re-stocked his whiskey supply, the sun had dropped behind the mountains. Tip-toeing to the bedroom door, Patrick pushed it open a crack.

Still his Sunflower slept.

Pulling the door shut, Patrick went into the kitchen and began to prepare the leg of lamb he'd purchased to celebrate Sunny's return. He filled a kettle with water, onions, and the piece of meat and placed it on the wood-burning stove, but stopped short of lighting the fire.

Cocking his head he listened,
Was
that the sound of a rider approaching?

Moving quickly for a man with arthritic knees, Patrick went to the front door and scanned the yard. In the vague light of dusk, all appeared calm.

No puffs of dust on the horizon announced a visitor. No startled crows shrieked and exploded from the corn fields where they fed.

Shrugging, the Irishman returned to the stove and struck a match on the heel of his boot.

"Evening."

Patrick wheeled on one leg, nearly falling, and gasped, "Wirra! And who'd be
scarin
' me half outta my wits?"

"Sorry, I didn't mean to alarm you, but I'm a stranger to these parts. I didn't want to walk into the barrel of a shotgun."

"Kindly state
yer
business, sir."

"I'm looking for the Callahan farm. Have I found it?"

Patrick stood rock still, the match burning in his left hand, and stared at the tall blond man in the black felt hat.
Everything about him exuded confidence, an understated sense of wealth.
Could this be the man his Sunflower spoke of? Was he here to help her or arrest her?

The flame inched its way down the wooden match until it met Patrick's toughened flesh.

"Faith and
begorra
."
He flipped the match to the floor and stuck his fingers in his mouth, but managed to keep one eye on the stranger.

With a chuckle, Cole stepped into the room and removed his hat. "I'd say I found the Callahan farm. I'm Cole Fremont from Phoenix.
A friend of Sunflower's."

Patrick narrowed a wary eye as he followed the progress of Cole's extended hand. He decided to accept the greeting.
"Pleased to make
yer
acquaintance, sir.
I am Patrick Callahan. What's
yer
business here?"

Cole glanced around the small house,
then
gestured towards the table. "May I?"

"Uh, I suppose there's no harm."

One side of his mustache lifting in a grin, Cole walked over to the table and tossed his hat down. Grabbing the back of a chair, he used it for support as he continued to look around. "I'd like to speak to Sunny."

"Uh, she's not here, I'm '
fraid
."

"No?"

Making another visual sweep of the wood and sod home, Cole noticed the woman's touch, the flowered curtains and boldly colored Indian rugs hanging on the walls. The room was small by any standards, but every square inch of space had been utilized to the maximum. Two chairs circled the dining table, but three others hung upside down on the wall behind, their legs serving as temporary hat racks.

An extra-wide sofa, its wooden frame built right against the wall, looked as if it had doubled as a bed for one or both Callahan boys when it wasn't supporting visitors, and the curtained closets were carefully shelved to serve as pantries during the winter months.
Neat, compact, efficient.
With no visible sign of Sunflower.

Cole glanced at Patrick, then to the back wall and its two doors. One was ajar, revealing the corner of a mussed bed.
Patrick's?
The other was shut tight.

Inclining his head in the direction of the latter, Cole said, "Is that Sunny's room?"

Patrick cleared his throat and walked over near her bedroom. "Now see here, lad.
Yer
makin' some mighty personal talkin' here and I
do'na
care to indulge ye any longer.
Be on
yer
way."

But real or imagined, Sunny's scent was all around him. He hadn't come this far just to be turned away now. "Sorry, but I don't plan to leave here without seeing her. I've a lot to tell her. Where is she?"

"I'm
tellin
'
ye
, man. I
do'na
know."

Cole slammed the chair against the plank floor. "Sunny? Answer me, dammit."

"Aw, now that's really quite enough of
yer
insolence, sir. I'll be
askin
'
ye
to take
yer
leave now." Patrick slapped his hands to his hips and spread his legs, blocking his daughter's doorway.

More certain than ever he'd found her, Cole searched for the words that would bring her out of hiding. But to appease her father, he took a backward step.

"All right, Mr. Callahan. I'll be leaving." He took his hat from the table and spun it in his hands. "Tell Sunny I'm not going to stop looking for her."

He took another step,
then
paused a few moments. "And please be sure to tell her that I love her."

When this drew no response from behind the closed door, Cole resumed his retreat. Just before he reached the threshold, he turned, his hat still in his hands, and tossed a final lure.

"Oh, by the way.
There is one other thing she may be interested in hearing about."

Again he paused,
then
raised his voice a notch. "Sean has been arrested for the murder of Buck Wheeler."

 
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN

Sunny pushed her back against her bedroom wall near the door and drove her teeth into her knuckles.
Had she heard Cole right?
He loved her?

But then she thought of her crimes. Remembered the proof, Dust Bucket, stood tied in the corn field. Maybe Cole was trying to use her vulnerable heart as a way to trap her, to catch her off guard.

Torn with indecision, Sunny stood motionless and kept her silence.

Then Cole uttered his parting words.

Sunny gasped. Was it a trap? Or had her brother really been arrested for a murder she'd committed?

The heavy thud of Cole's boots grew dimmer. She listened to the unnaturally slow heel-to-toe gait resounding against the wood floor. Was he giving her plenty of time in which to make the most logical decision?

But time wouldn't help. Sunny knew what that decision had to be. She could take a chance with her own life, but not with her brother's. For Sean, if for no other reason, she would have to reveal herself.

Sunny tore open her bedroom door.

She expected to find her father standing in the frame, but instead, Patrick was already halfway across the room.

"If this be
dooble
talk," Patrick threatened as he reached Cole. "If
yer
usin
' me boy to get to me girl, I swear by all that's holy I'll have ye bound and roasted."

"Pop," Sunny called. "Please, let him be. I have to talk to him. Cole? Is it true? Has Sean really been arrested?"

Looking past the red-faced Irishman, Cole's hungry gaze feasted on the woman he loved. Her skin was flushed with sleep and her long raven-black hair hung down to her waist in stark contrast to the fresh white cotton of her nightgown.

"Sunny," he whispered, too grateful to find her alive and unharmed to say anything else.

"Well?" she demanded.

"He's safe for the time being." Cole's green eyes warmed, growing moist as he softly said, "And how are you, little flower?"

Sunny's breath caught. Her throat swelled, and her heart felt as if it had grown to twice its size. Maybe he really did love her.

All pretenses of modesty forgotten, she hurried across the room, the hem of her long nightgown skipping along after her like a bridal train. She stopped just inches from him, her vision refusing to acknowledge her father's image at his side.

"Cole," she whispered thickly.

Impatient arms and eager fingers intertwined as they closed the gap and clung to one another. Cole rocked her, pressed her against his body as he filled her ear with his innermost thoughts.

"Oh, Sunny.
You don't know how worried I've been, the dreadful thoughts I had when I didn't come across you on the trail. How could you just leave like that? Why didn't you come to me and tell me how you were feeling? Don't you know how much you mean to me?"

Pressing her mouth against his leather vest, she tried to unravel the ball of string her mind had become.
"Yes, no.
I do not know."

Leaning back, Sunny looked into his eyes and tried to make him understand. "I can only be certain of how much you mean to me. The things I do, I do for you. When I heard you and your father arguing about me, I could not stay in your home any longer."

"What are you talking about?" Cole furrowed his brow, adding, "And what does my dad's opinion have to do with us, anyway?"

"A damn sight more than me own opinion, from the look of it," Patrick cut in. "In the name o' decency, man, unhand me daughter and let us adjourn to the table."