Robin Lee Hatcher (11 page)

He frowned, thoughtful. “I didn’t see it on the
map I bought in Boise City.”

“I doubt it’s ever been on a map.” She laughed softly.

“Do they have a telegraph in Pine Station?”

She shook her head. “No. I imagine you’d have to go to Weiser for that, although I can’t say for sure. I’ve never been there.”

Remington suspected she’d never gone to Weiser for fear of her father’s detectives. She remained as close to this secluded ranch as possible. But she forgot she needed to be wary, even here.

She hadn’t escaped her father after all.

“Do you need to send a telegram?” she asked, drawing his attention back to her.

Remington shook his head. “No hurry. It can wait.”

“I suppose I could send a message with Pete Fisher. He might be going to Weiser sometime soon, and—”

“It’s not important, Libby. It can wait until I leave.”

Her gaze fell away. “Yes . . . you can do it when you leave.” When she looked up again, her smile was sad. “Do you feel up to a walk? I need to stretch my legs.”

Remington wished he could drive away her sadness, but he suspected he was the cause, not the cure. And if he wasn’t the cause of it now, he would be soon enough.

Libby led the way to the pasture where she kept a few ewes and lambs during the summer months. Some had injuries that needed attention. Others would be slaughtered for food over the summer.

Misty, followed by her growing offspring, came out of the barn and preceded Libby and Remington to the pasture. The black-and-white collie slipped beneath the bottom rail of the fence and herded the ewes and lambs into a tight bunch. At nearly six weeks old, the puppies seemed to think the herding was a game for their enjoyment. They gamboled into the midst of the sheep, scattering them. The air was filled with a cacophony of bleating and yapping.

“Sheepdogs, huh?” Remington chuckled.

Her spirit brightened at the sight of his smile. “We’ll need to do some training when they’re older.” She whistled to bring Misty in.

“
Some
training?” He cocked an eyebrow. “That’s an understatement.”

Libby feigned a Scottish accent. “Me good friend McGregor claims these dogs be smart enough t’cook yer breakfast an’ serve it t’ye, if that’s what ye want of ’em, an’ he willna let ye say otherwise.”

Remington leaned against the fence, grinning as the puppies crowded around her, whining and wiggling, begging for attention. The look in his eyes made her go soft and warm inside.

Her breathing slowed as her gaze dropped to his mouth, wondering what it would be like to be kissed by him. She had to know. She needed to know. With a gentle sweep of her leg, she moved the puppies aside and stepped toward Remington.

What are you doing, Libby? Don’t do this!

But she kept moving closer. Slowly. Ever so slowly.

It’s going to hurt when you go away, Remington.

She stopped when only a whisper of air separated their bodies. She heard the crutch drop to the ground, felt the puppies scampering around their feet, investigating the strange object in the grass, but Remington’s arms encircling her dominated her awareness.

He lowered his head. She tipped hers back and to one side, then closed her eyes. His mouth covered hers, the most natural thing in the world. She felt herself grow hot, grow cold. Blood pounded in her ears, yet she thought her heart had stopped. Her skin tingled. Her knees felt weak.

He might stay . . . He might stay . . . He might stay . . .

He raised his head. She opened her eyes.

He might stay . . . He might stay . . .

He brushed her cheek with the side of his thumb. “Libby . . .”

Her stomach tumbled.

He might stay . . .

“I . . .”

She shook her head. “Don’t say anything. Please.” She wrapped her arms around him and pressed her cheek against his chest.

“Ah, Libby.” He rested his cheek against the top of her head. “You don’t understand.”

“You’re wrong, Remington. I understand.”

His arms tightened around her. “No, Libby, you don’t. But I do.”

Then he lifted her chin with the tip of his finger and kissed her again.

Eleven

BLACK CLOUDS BLEW ACROSS THE sky as evening approached, driven by gusts of wind that bent the tall pines into arcs and rattled the leaves of the quaking aspens and cottonwoods. A shadow blanketed the earth, making the whistling winds ominous. Minutes later, the lightning began, a thunderous display that brightened the heavens and shook the ground.

Libby and Sawyer ran to the pasture and, with the help of Misty, drove the sheep into the shelter of the barn. Then they led the skittish horses, prancing and whinnying in alarm, into their stalls and closed them in. Only Melly seemed oblivious of nature’s uproar. The milk cow stood quietly in her stall, chewing her cud and flicking her tail, her doleful brown eyes observing the frantic activity.

Libby felt a flash of envy for Melly’s calm. She wished she felt the same. Instead she was as skittish as the horses, as the black clouds that tumbled and crashed. She’d been unsettled ever since she and Remington kissed earlier in the day.

“We better hurry, Libby,” Sawyer shouted from the doorway of the barn. “The rain’s comin’.”

Libby followed the boy outside, racing to beat the deluge. She didn’t reach the house in time. In a matter of seconds, she was drenched to the skin.

Sawyer entered the back door ahead of her. “Wow, ain’t it somethin’?”

Libby shook her hands and wiped the rain from her face. “Yes, it is.” She would have corrected his grammar, but then she saw Remington, and the words died in her throat.

“Sawyer’s right. That’s some storm.” He limped to the window and looked outside.

The kiss had changed everything . . . and nothing. In less than three weeks, he had become the center of her world. She loved him even though he remained a stranger to her. How was that possible?

He turned. “You’re soaked.” The hint of a smile curved his mouth.

“I know.”

“You’d better get out of those wet things.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

Remington glanced at Sawyer. “You too.”

The boy nodded and headed to his room.

“I made a fire.” Remington’s gaze returned to Libby. “I think it’s going to be a cold night.”

She couldn’t form a reply, so she too nodded and left the kitchen, hurrying to her own room. As she leaned against the door, her heart pounded a rapid and unsteady beat. Tears burned the back of her throat.

Love me, Remington. Stay with me.

Once, long ago, in a different life, she had learned the fine art of courtship. She was taught the things a well-bred young woman should say and do when in the company of men. Her lessons were detailed, right down to the proper way to hold and wave a fan and how to light a man’s cigar. She learned how to waltz and how to walk and how to sit. She learned how to flirt and how to sing and how to play the piano.

But she’d forgotten all of those
lessons. She’d put that world—and the girl she had been—behind her. When she donned a flannel shirt and denim trousers and became a sheep rancher, she forgot how to be a woman, at least the kind of woman who could charm a man.

Her eyes flicked toward the dresser in the corner of her room.

Would such a woman make Remington want to stay?

Remington added another log to the already blazing fire. The room was warm, and now that the lightning storm had passed, the sound of the rain upon the roof was peaceful.

But Remington didn’t feel peaceful. He kept berating himself for complicating things with a kiss.

He didn’t deny Libby was special in countless ways—feminine yet tough, generous of spirit, tenderhearted, funny, gentle, determined—but he couldn’t fall victim to all the things he found appealing about her. He had to stay focused on the future, on his goal. There was no room in his life for a woman, particularly not
this
woman.

Wearily he sank onto the sofa, staring at the orange and yellow flames in the fireplace while his thoughts drifted.

Remington had enjoyed a reckless, carefree youth, unaware of his father’s burgeoning debt. At seventeen, he went to college, more intent on having fun than on learning. He knew, of course, that his father endured hardship in the decade following the war, but there was always enough money for Remington to do as he pleased. JW Railroad, from all he was told, was returning to its prewar strength. Sunnyvale Plantation, although hard hit by the war and lacking in servants, remained in the Walker family, as it had for six generations. What could possibly disturb his carefree life?

How ignorant he’d been. How selfish and thoughtless. Maybe if he’d paid some attention to his father’s worries . . .

Remington closed his eyes and leaned his head against the back of the sofa.

He remembered the shock of his father’s suicide, of discovering that Sunnyvale and the railroad and all he’d known were gone. He remembered the fury that raged through him when he learned the part Northrop Vanderhoff played in Jefferson’s destruction. He remembered swearing on the memory of his father to repay Vanderhoff in kind.

It took Remington over fourteen years to chart a course for that revenge. He’d begun to think it would never happen, that he would have to resign himself to letting go of the promise made beside his father’s grave. But the opportunity finally presented itself last summer, and ultimately led him to this parlor tonight. He couldn’t allow his heart to soften toward—

“Remington?”

He opened his eyes, turned his head, and saw Libby standing on the opposite side of the room, wearing the green dress he’d seen in the bottom drawer of her bureau. Her hair, still damp, was twisted into a bun at the nape, caught in a net made of emerald satin ribbons. Her hands were clenched at her waist, and she watched him with an uncertain gaze.

He rose from the sofa, placing his crutch under his arm.

She glanced down at her dress, smoothing the wrinkles with the palms of her hands. “I don’t ever wear this anymore, but I thought . . .” She gave a helpless shrug.

“You look lovely.” Why did she have to be Vanderhoff’s daughter?

Libby took a hesitant step forward. “I haven’t had much occasion to wear a dress since I came to the Blue Springs.”

“To live with your aunt.”

“To live with my aunt.”

How many more lies would raise the wall that separated them? How many lies before she despised him completely?

“It’s a pity,” he said. “You should be seen like this often.”

It wasn’t her fault she was a Vanderhoff, but that’s who she was. He would hurt her because of it, and she would hate him when he was finished.

She offered a tentative smile. “Aunt Amanda said they used to have dances in Pine Station on occasion, but when the stage route changed and the railroad didn’t come through, folks moved away, and . . .” Again she finished her sentence with a small shrug.

“Do you miss dancing, Libby?”

She shook her head, then nodded.

“Would you like to dance?”

Her eyes widened.

Remington glanced down at his leg, then set his crutch aside. “You’ll have to come to me.”

Her eyes rounded even more. “You shouldn’t, Remington. You—”

“Come here.”

Even as she obeyed him, she said, “There’s no music.”

“Of course there is.”

She arrived before him. He smelled the clean scent of her rain-dampened hair. He saw the fresh glow of her skin.

Taking hold of her right hand with his left, he placed his other hand in the small of her back and drew her closer. “Close your eyes, Libby.”

She did, her long lashes fanning above her cheeks. Her mouth was parted slightly, and he heard the quick breaths she took.

“Listen. Can you hear the rain upon the roof?”

She nodded.

“Can you hear the crackle of the fire?”

Again she nodded.

“It’s music, Libby.”

He drew her closer yet, then began to sway from side to side.