Robin Lee Hatcher (10 page)

“There’ll come a day when you’ll fall in love.”
Aunt Amanda’s words invaded her thoughts.
“The day will come
when you’ll not be afraid to give your heart away.”

Libby had told Amanda she was wrong. Libby didn’t need anyone else in her life, least of all a husband. She could take care of herself.

“That’s pride talking, Libby, my dear. And pride cometh
before a fall, you know. At the very least, you’d best leave it
up to God if He wants you to marry.”

Marry? What was she thinking? When she ran away from her father’s choice of a husband for her, she’d made the decision to remain untethered.

But if I truly love Remington . . .

She drew in a ragged breath, then opened her eyes and started Lightning forward again. What did it matter what she felt? Remington didn’t love her, and he wouldn’t stay for long. He had a home and stables and wealth in Virginia. She had a home and sheep ranch and practical poverty in Idaho. He would ride out of her life as abruptly as he’d ridden into it, and when he was gone, she would look back and laugh at her foolishness.

Foolishness. I’ll laugh at my foolishness.
Libby repeated those words to herself often in the next hour. She repeated them so often she almost believed them. Then she arrived at the Blue Springs, saw Remington step through the back doorway, and knew she wouldn’t laugh when he left her.

She would want to die.

Remington felt a surge of relief when Libby rode into sight. Strands of hair flew free of her braid. A fine layer of dust covered her shirt and trousers. Dirt smudged her right cheek and the tip of her nose. She looked tired and sweaty.

She looked adorable.

Leaning on his crutch, he hobbled to the corral. She glanced at him as she dismounted, then looked away as she looped the reins around the top rail of the fence and loosened the cinch on Lightning’s saddle.

“Did you find McGregor?”

“Yes.”

“Everything okay? They haven’t had trouble?”

“No. No trouble.” She glanced toward the house. “Where’s Sawyer?”

“He took Misty and the pups down to the creek.”

Remington leaned against the fence, taking weight off his bad leg. He thought of the dresses in the bottom drawer of Libby’s dresser and wondered if she ever wore them. He watched as she lifted the saddle off Lightning’s back and set it on the corral fence. In a swift, easy motion, she removed the sweaty blanket and laid it bottom side up over the saddle. Then she slipped the bridle from the horse’s head, replacing it with a halter and rope.

During his years in New York, working first for Pinkerton and then opening his own agency, Remington made use of his business connections and family background to gain acceptance among Manhattan’s privileged set. Although he purposefully avoided the Vanderhoffs—easy enough to do with his moderate income—he knew his share of debutantes and society matrons. He sat at their supper tables and was entertained at their Newport estates and danced at their charity balls.

He even knew his share of unusual women, those who rebelled against fashionable mores. But none of them were anything like Libby.

He suppressed a chuckle.

As if sensing his amusement, Libby turned. Suddenly Remington
didn’t want to laugh. He wanted to kiss her.

And she
wanted
him to kiss her.

He felt that truth in the air like the crackle of electricity during a thunderstorm. He read it in her eyes as easily as he could read the stars on a clear summer night.

Libby moved to the opposite side of the horse, hiding herself from his view, breaking the spell. Lucky for him. Who knew what stupid thing he might have done otherwise?

He cleared his throat. “I’ve got stew for supper. I’d better check on it.” He started away.

“Remington.”

He stopped and glanced over his shoulder.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

“For what?”

“For watching after the place while I was gone. For keeping an eye on Sawyer.” She shrugged. “For staying to help.”

The desire to kiss her returned with a vengeance.

She offered a tentative smile. “It’s nice to have someone here I can trust.”

Her words doused his ardor like a splash of cold water in the face. Trust him? She didn’t know how wrong she was.

“I’ll check on our supper,” he replied gruffly, angry at himself, but even more angry at Libby. Angry at her for being born a Vanderhoff.

I won’t love him. It would be the most foolish thing I’ve
ever done.
Libby looked at Remington across the supper table.
He’ll leave soon. Perhaps in a week, maybe two. I
won’t love him. I won’t.

Lifting her chin for courage, she forced herself to speak. “You must miss your home, Mr. Walker. It shouldn’t be long now before you can ride.”

“My home,” he repeated softly. There was a subtle change in his expression, a change she couldn’t quite read. “You mean Sunnyvale.”

“Sunnyvale. It sounds lovely.”

“It was beautiful . . . before the war.”

Bitterness? Sadness? What was it she heard in his voice?

“Yes, I’d like to return to Sunnyvale.”

See? She was right. He wanted to leave. He was eager to leave. Heartsore, she glanced at Sawyer. “Have you decided on a name for your pup yet?”

“Yeah. I been callin’ him Ringer ’cause of the white ring around his neck. He’s mighty smart, Libby. He’s gonna be the best sheepdog we’ve got on the place.”

Libby picked up her fork. “He will be if you train him right.”

She tried to smile for the boy’s sake, but she was hurting. Hurting in a way she’d never hurt before. Longing for something she couldn’t have and shouldn’t want.

Her appetite left. “I’m too weary to eat. I think I’ll retire.” She rose from her chair. “Just leave the supper dishes. I’ll do them in the morning.”

Once in her room, the door closed behind her, Libby drew a deep breath. It was for the best. It was for the best he was leaving. She didn’t want a man to love. She wanted only her freedom.

But her familiar protests no longer rang true.

Ten

TIMOTHY BEVINS TIPPED HIS CHAIR onto its hind legs, leaning it against the wall of the house as he stared at the cattle grazing in the distance. A warm breeze stirred the tall grass. A green carpet covered the valley now, but if this heat persisted and the late spring rains didn’t come, the land would be parched before the end of June.

He cursed as he dropped his chair into place with a thud and rose to his feet. He needed
all
the range hereabouts if he was going to increase his herd. He needed those sheep to quit eating the feed his cattle could use, and he needed to control the springs that provided water to the valley. Once he controlled it, he’d be able to shut out ranchers like Libby Blue and farmers like the Fishers, who had settled alongside Blue Creek.

Spurs jingling, he crossed the porch and went down the steps. Swift strides carried him to the hitching post where his horse waited. He freed the reins, then stepped up into the saddle. Jerking the animal’s head around, he spurred the roan into a gallop and headed west, toward Pine Station. He needed a drink.

Hang Libby Blue! Why was she so stubborn? He’d given her plenty of chances to sell, lots of opportunities to leave without trouble, just like he’d done for the old woman before she died. Now he was running out of patience.

He didn’t know how, exactly, but he was going to make the Blue Springs his. He would have to get tougher with her. Stealing her sheep and burning her shed wasn’t enough.

Libby spent the morning in the garden, weeding, hoeing, and watering. The growing season was short in Idaho, and the vegetable gardens were too important to ignore. Without the food grown there, she and Sawyer and the sheepherders wouldn’t have enough provisions to see them through next winter, let alone to feed the shearers when they arrived in the spring.

She hoped the hard labor would clear her mind after another restless night, and for a while, it did. But eventually Remington drifted into her thoughts. Instead of the smell of freshly turned soil, she caught a whiff of his uniquely male scent, something very subtle, something very Remington. It was so real, she sat back on her heels and looked about, half expecting to find him beside her.

He wasn’t there.

Once he left the Blue Springs for good, she knew she would still be able to close her eyes and remember everything about him. The way he looked. The way he smelled. The feel of his arms around her, her face pressed against his chest. Everything.

As if conjured by her thoughts, Remington came out of the house, pausing on the stoop. The other night she’d asked God to take away her fears, to help her open her heart. It seemed her prayer had been answered.

Libby dropped the short-handled spade and rose to her feet.

She loved Remington—and it didn’t matter why she shouldn’t. She did, and she meant to love to the fullest. She would accept every moment God gave her with him, and when he went away, she wouldn’t let herself regret loving him.

During the previous night, Remington had decided he’d done nothing wrong. He was doing his job. He’d been paid to find Olivia Vanderhoff. Withholding information, twisting the truth, and telling outright lies went hand in hand with being a good detective. Libby would be better off because of his work. Even if he succeeded later in crumbling the Vanderhoff empire, as he’d sworn he would do, Libby would still be better off in Manhattan than she was here. So he’d told himself last night. Watching Libby’s approach, Remington’s heart called him a liar.

“Morning,” she said as she stopped before him. “How’s your leg today?”

“Better.”

She brushed wisps of hair away from her face with the back of one hand. “I was weeding the garden. I’ve been neglecting it.” She glanced back at the tidy rows, then returned her gaze to him. “Pine Station doesn’t carry much more than basic staples, so we try to grow as much of our own food as we can.”

“Pine Station?”

“It used to be a trading post. Later it was a way station for the stagecoaches headed north. Folks thought it might grow into a real town, but the stage route changed because of the railroad, and Pine Station never grew much beyond the saloon and general store.”