Robin Lee Hatcher (8 page)

She doesn’t want to lie to me.
The thought heartened him. “I wish I could have met your aunt.”

She glanced up. “I wish you could have met her too. Aunt Amanda was special.”

Libby had the most unusual eyes. Remington had never seen eyes that shade of green before. Once again, he thought that Northrop hadn’t received his money’s worth for the portrait of his daughter that hung at Rosegate. Certainly the artist hadn’t captured the goodness of Libby’s heart or her spirited determination to care for herself and those she loved. Libby was more than the beautiful girl in the painting. She was more . . . more than Remington could have imagined.

Libby felt a blush rising in her cheeks as Remington continued to stare, his gaze intense and thoughtful. She felt as if he could see right into her mind, as if he knew what she was thinking, what she was feeling. As if he could read all her secrets. She, on the other hand, could never guess his thoughts. Even when he smiled, he kept parts of himself closed off, in reserve, mysterious. She wished she could break through that barrier. She wished . . .

She looked away from him, trying to calm the irregular beat of her heart, and turned her gaze on Sawyer. “I’m going up to Tyler Creek tomorrow.”

The boy brightened. “How long’ll we be gone?”

“I’m going alone. You need to stay here. Melly needs milking, and someone has to keep an eye on Misty and her pups too.”

“But—”

“Don’t argue, Sawyer.”

“What’s at Tyler Creek?” Remington asked.

“The flock. Tyler Creek’s part of our summer range. I think McGregor and Ronald should know what’s happened here.” She sighed. “Losing the wool could mean I won’t be able to pay them their wages. Not for quite a spell. They should have the choice to stay or go elsewhere.”

Remington frowned. “I’m not sure you should be riding up there by yourself.”

“What alternative do I have, Mr. Walker?”

“I could go with you.”

She felt a strange tightening in her chest and knew she wanted him with her, but she shook her head. “You aren’t ready to ride a horse. It’s a long way up to Tyler Creek.”

He leaned forward, his expression austere, implacable. “Then I think you should wait until I
can
ride.”

She was tempted to agree. More tempted than she’d felt in a long, long while. She would like to wait until he was well and strong. She would like to let him take care of her, if only for a short time. She would like to depend on someone else for a change.

But she couldn’t. Remington said he wanted to help, to stay until she and Sawyer were back on their feet. He hadn’t promised anything beyond that.

Do I want him to promise more?
No. She was better off alone.

Trust Me, beloved.

The words—almost audible in their clarity—made her insides tremble.
I do trust You, Lord.
But even as her mind responded, her heart knew the words weren’t true. Not really. If she trusted God completely, would she hide the truth from this man? If she trusted Him, wouldn’t she also trust the people He sent into her life?

Once again Libby shook her head. “I can’t wait. I’ve got to go now.” Was she speaking to Remington or to God? She wasn’t sure. “I’m sorry. McGregor and Ronald should be warned. If Bevins manages to run off any more of our sheep ...”

Remington’s scowl reminded her of her father. She closed her eyes, trying to escape the image of Northrop Vanderhoff, the determined glare of his eyes, his intractable demeanor. She could almost hear his condescending tone as he explained to her that he knew what was best for her. That she was merely a girl and unable to take care of herself, unable to
think
for herself.

But she
was
able to take care of herself. She
was
able to think for herself. She wasn’t helpless. She wasn’t mindless.

She opened her eyes and stared straight at Remington. “I can’t wait for you. This is my ranch, and I’m responsible for what happens here.” She rose and picked up her supper dishes. “My mind’s made up, so there’s no point in continuing this discussion. Sawyer, help me clear the table. Then you’ve got some reading to see to, young man. You haven’t opened your primer in nearly a month.”

Stubborn female.
Remington moved the brush in brisk strokes over Sundown’s back.
She shouldn’t go into the hills
alone when there’s trouble brewing.

But why did her decision rankle him? Libby had managed fine before he showed up. She wasn’t his responsibility. He had other things to worry about. Getting well and sending a telegram were just two of them.

She’ll be better off when she’s back in New York. She’ll
be her father’s concern then.

Thinking of Northrop Vanderhoff didn’t improve his mood. He muttered a few choice words as he tossed the brush into a wooden bucket, then turned the gelding loose in the corral before heading back to the house.

Inside, he found Sawyer at the kitchen table, a book open before him. Libby wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

“What are you reading, Sawyer?”

“Nothin’ interesting.” The boy closed the book, obviously glad for a diversion.

Remington pulled out the chair opposite Sawyer and sat down. “When I was your age, I read books all the time. Mark Twain and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow were two of my favorite authors.”

“Mark Twain. He wrote
The Adventures of Huckleberry
Finn
. Libby and I read that one awhile back. I liked it a lot.”

“So did I.”

Sawyer leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. “Libby likes to read poetry too.” He wrinkled his nose in distaste.

“Poetry isn’t all bad.” Remington suppressed a smile.

“I guess.” The boy shrugged. “Libby says the Psalms are Hebrew poetry, and I like them.”

Remington thought of his father, reading aloud from the family Bible. Jefferson Walker had professed a strong faith, a deep love of God. When did that fail him? If he’d really believed, he never would have—

“You gonna join us for church tomorrow, Mr. Walker?”

“What?”

“Church. You joinin’ us for church in the morning? We’ll have a meetin’ before Libby leaves. Sometimes a travelin’ preacher comes through, but most of the time, we have church on our own. You gonna join us?”

“Well, I—”

“Libby says it’s important not to forsake gatherin’ together on the Lord’s Day with other believers.” Sawyer narrowed his eyes. “You
are
a believer, aren’t you, Mr. Walker?”

Remington didn’t know how to answer the boy. Did he believe in God? Yes. But he wasn’t sure God believed in him. Not anymore. Not since he’d turned a deaf ear toward the Almighty after his father’s suicide.

“If you’re not a believer,” Sawyer continued, “we can pray and take care of that.”

The last thing he needed was a kid praying for him. “Thanks, Sawyer.” Remington stood. “I’ll see how I feel in the morning.” He left the kitchen as quickly as his crutch would take him.

The house fell into silence under the cloak of night. Libby sat in her room, a book of poetry by Thomas Moore open in her lap, lamplight flowing over the pages.

I feel like one,
Who treads alone
Some banquet hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled,
Whose garlands dead,
And all but he departed.

She closed the book, trying to blot out the loneliness that the poet’s words stirred in her heart. She wouldn’t think about being lonely. She wouldn’t let herself abandon all she had gained. Not now. The price was too high.

I feel like one,
Who treads alone . . .

She extinguished the lamp and closed her eyes, but the words of the poem prevented slumber from bringing solace as her thoughts were dragged backward in time.

“You’ve kept us waiting,” Northrop announced as Olivia
entered his study.

Her mother was in the room, seated in her usual chair off
to the left of Northrop’s massive desk. Olivia took the chair
on the right, as she always did for these meetings with her
father.

“I’m sorry.” She didn’t give an explanation for her delay.
Her father wouldn’t care.

“I have important news, Olivia. You’re to be married
this summer.”

“Married?” She glanced toward her mother.

Anna’s compassionate gaze met hers briefly, then fell away.

Olivia looked at her father again. “To whom?”

“Gregory James.”

Olivia’s heart thundered in protest. Gregory James, a
railroad magnate as rich as Midas, was thirty-five years older
than Olivia. Worse still, it was whispered that he was a
drunkard and a womanizer who had flaunted his many mistresses
in front of his now deceased wife.

“Northrop”—her mother spoke hesitantly—“Olivia is
only seventeen. Isn’t there someone—”

“She’ll be eighteen next month, and it’s time she married.
This union will give Vanderhoff Shipping the access it needs
to the South. We’ve intended to own such a railroad for
years, and when James dies, it will be ours. It’s an opportunity
I cannot ignore.”

Olivia suddenly saw herself as she would be in another
twenty years, a replica of her mother, weighed down with
sorrow. “I cannot marry him, Father.”

Northrop turned wide eyes in her direction. “What?”

“I cannot marry Mr. James.” Her insides twisted with fear.
“He is old. He is cruel. He is godless. I cannot be unequally
yoked with a man who defies God.”

Her father rose from his chair. “But
I
have said you
will
marry him.” He spoke with icy calm.

“I don’t wish to be disobedient or to dishonor you, Father.
But I must obey the Lord first. When I marry,
if
I marry, my
husband must be a
Christian
. And . . . and he must love
me
.”

Her father turned toward his wife, his face flushed with
fury. “This is what religion does. It warps the mind. I’ve told
you not to fill Olivia’s head with that rubbish.” He cursed
at her.

“It’s not Mama’s fault!” Olivia jumped up from her
chair, frightened by the rage in her father’s face.

Northrop rounded the desk with surprising speed. He
grasped her by the upper arms, his fingers biting into her
flesh. “I’ll not have this impudence from you, girl. Do you
hear me? You’ll marry Mr. James. It’s your duty to do as I
command.” He gave her a shake. “Do you hear what
I’m
saying, Olivia? I won’t be disobeyed.”

She wanted to ask him why he couldn’t love her, why he
couldn’t love her mother. She wanted to ask him why he was
so willing to barter and sell her as he would any other commodity
that belonged to Vanderhoff Shipping.

In the end, all she said was, “Yes, Father, I hear you.”

But she could not marry Mr. James. She knew then that
she would have to escape. She didn’t know how or when, but
she would have to get away before it was too late.