Romancing the West (9 page)

He heard a creak and a curse. He glanced up and saw a woman, a stunningly beautiful redhead, straddling a gnarled limb and clinging for dear life. “What the . . .?” he lowered his daughter to the ground and surveyed the situation.

“I’ll thank you to avert your eyes, sir,” she said in an accented voice.

With Zoe safe, curiosity doused his anxiety, leaving him oddly relaxed. “Why?”

“I’m in my . . . my . . .”

“I can see that and again I ask, why?”

“Because it’s difficult to climb trees in tiers of stiff frills and yards of silk,” she ground out.

Athens braced his hands on his hips and studied the red-faced woman with a smile. “Climb a lot of trees, do you?” Staring was ungentlemanly, but, by God, she was lovely, even with that distressed expression. Teasing her was ungentlemanly as well, but he couldn’t seem to help himself.

She narrowed her enormous, sultry eyes. “You’re incorrigible.”

Zoe poked him in the thigh. “What’s that mean?”

“Means I’m rude,” he said with a grin. He’d never been rude to a woman, not once in his thirty-one years. This was a first. It was also the first time he’d flirted with a woman in years. He swept off his hat. “Beg your pardon, ma’am. I’m Athens Garrett, Zoe’s pa.”

She blew out a breath. “Kaila Dillingham.”

“Proprietor of the Cafe Poppy. I’ve heard about you.” He angled his head. “Huh.”

“What does that mean? What did you hear?”

That men and women alike were intimidated by her beauty and fancy airs. All except the local doctor who’d developed a hankering for some pastry called crumpets. That everyone wondered about her absent husband. He was suddenly curious on the matter himself. “Never mind about that.” He moved directly beneath her. “Let’s get you down.”

She set her gorgeous jaw and gripped the limb tighter. “I’m not leaving the shield of this greenery without my skirt. Bad enough you’ve seen me in this state of undress.”

“I’ve seen a woman in bloomers before, Mrs. Dillingham.”

“Well, bully for you.”

He laughed. “Where’s your skirt?”

“A mangy mutt ran off with it, after he had the bad manners to eat my cookies.”

“She makes good cookies, Papa,” Zoe said. She pointed past the tree. “I see him! I see the dog. I’ll get your skirt, Miss Kaila!”

His heart pounded as he watched his daughter giggle and skip off. He glanced back up at the redhead. “I assume Zoe was hiding in the tree. She does that a lot. I assume you climbed up in order to get her down.” He turned his hat over and over in his hands. “I don’t know what you said to her, but thank you. I haven’t heard her talk that much, haven’t seen a spring in her step for quite some time.”

“Perhaps if you’d refrain from
whupping
your children.”

His back went up. “I’ve never laid a hand on Zach or Zoe.”

“But you threatened to. Zoe said--”

He held up a hand. “Zoe either misunderstood or misspoke. I don’t threaten my children.”

“Oh.” She winced. “Oh!” The branch snapped and she plummeted.

Athens caught her in his arms. One-hundred-and-some, voluptuous, luscious pounds of the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on. Stunned, breathless, she blinked up at him and his heart raced like a school-boy’s. His body pulsed with awareness. Good God.

She licked her lips, fought for an even breath.

“Thank you, Mr. Garrett.”

“You’re welcome, Mrs. Dillingham.” He tried not to stare at her heaving breasts, and failed. “About your husband . . .”

“I’m a widow.”

He met her mesmerizing gaze and his mouth went dry. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.”

Good God.

Napa Valley, California

What have you done, Father?   Why? Why?” Grief and smoke choked Emily as she tried to beat out the flames with a horse blanket.

Walt McBride slumped against the outside of the barn, his eyes glazed as he stared at the pile of burning books. “Those stories filled her head with notions. Those notions lured her away. They’re evil, Emily, and I’ve committed them to hell.”

“You’re the one who needs to be committed,” she sobbed as the blanket caught fire and her mother’s cherished adventure novels turned to ash. “I’ll never forgive you for this. Never!”

“I should have taken her to Europe,” he said in sing-song voice.

“Let it go,” she implored. “Let her go.”

“Let her go. Let her . . .” Emily woke with a start. “Go.” She stared at the ceiling a full minute trying to calm her runaway heart. “Let her go,” she said softly and more to herself than her conjured father. She closed her mind to the bad dream, the unwanted memory, and took a calming breath.

She squinted at the ceiling, not her bedroom ceiling, she realized. Achy and disoriented she surveyed her surroundings. Sunlight filtered in through a crack in the closed drapes. Worn drapes that had faded with the years like her good vision. She kicked off a thread-bare quilt and pushed herself up on the sofa. She’d fallen asleep in the sitting room.

She rolled a kink out of her neck while tightening the sash of her mother’s green silk robe in a bid for modesty, even though she appeared to be alone. Blurry-eyed, she nabbed her spectacles from the end table and shoved them on. Her vision cleared but her mind was still fuzzy. Last she recalled she’d been playing chess with Mr. Pinkerton.

No, wait. That had been directly after dinner. Mrs. Dunlap had been sitting in the rocker, knitting yet another afghan, and Emily had goaded the poet into a sixth board game. Anything to keep him alert as advised by Doctor Kellogg.

An hour later, Mrs. Dunlap had taken herself off to bed and Mr. Pinkerton, proclaiming himself weary of chess, had perused the bookshelves. He’d noted a lack of poetry in her private collection and she confessed a preference for medieval romances and adventure novels. To which he’d commented, “I can see that.”

“I know what you’re thinking.”

“Do you?”

“Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. The Three Musketeers.
Sword play and chivalry. Romanticized violence. You disapprove.”

“You don’t have to defend your reading preferences to me, Miss McBride.”

You’re right. I don’t,
the new Emily proclaimed, albeit to herself. “Old habits die hard. I’m sorry if I sounded churlish.”

“I assume your father frowned upon this collection.”

“He didn’t know about this collection.” She didn’t elaborate, and thankfully, he let the subject drop. If only he’d stop fingering her shelves and books. His scrutiny made her nervous.

After a few moments, he settled in an armchair with Jules Verne’s
Around the World in Eighty Days.
Breathing easier, she curled up on the sofa with a pencil and her journal. Only she didn’t write about her day, but a fictional heroine’s encounter with a swash-buckling pirate, not that she confessed as such to Mr. Pinkerton. Even though Paris had described him as open minded, his statement regarding Wilde and glorified violence stuck in her craw.

They fell into companionable silence. Next thing she knew it was past midnight. Her lids were drooping and Mr. Pinkerton was yawning, so she’d locked her journal in her desk and asked him to read aloud. Better sleep deprivation than succumbing to a concussion. He’d smiled at her request, a small smile, but one that had made her stomach flutter. Most distressing to have a man in her house, especially one as handsome as Phineas Pinkerton. Not that she was attracted to him in the romantic sense. She was, however, keenly aware of his charismatic aura.

He read very well, though she shouldn’t have been surprised what with him being a professional who recited poetry on stage. But it was the sound of his voice, deep and rich with character, that mesmerized her. He brought new life to a story she’d read a dozen times. Regardless, she must’ve drifted off somewhere in the middle and now it was morning.

Morning.

Emily bolted to her stockinged feet. Where was Mr. Pinkerton? On instinct, she whirled to her rolltop desk, jiggled the lid. Still locked. She checked for the key hidden in the locket hanging around her neck.

Still there.

Mr. Pinkerton, however, was not where she’d left him. Had he gone to bed? Fallen asleep never to wake up again? Had he experienced another dizzy spell, tripped on the stairway, and knocked himself out? Her vivid imagination spun wild and disastrous scenarios as she scrambled out of the room and up the steps. There were three bedrooms on the second floor. They were all empty. Even Mrs. Dunlap was out and about. What time was it anyway?

She hurried back down the hall, slipping and sliding over the polished wood floor. Mrs. Dunlap was not only a knitting fanatic, but fussy neat. Since her memory was spotty, she often scrubbed and straightened a room twice in one day. Although this house and its furnishings were worse for wear, everything was in its place and dust-free.

The hems of the long robe clutched in her fists, Emily rushed down the stairs, toward the smell of coffee. She burst through the kitchen door and found Mrs. Dunlap standing at the sink scrubbing a griddle. “Have you seen Mr. Pinkerton?”

“Yes, of course, dear. You introduced us yesterday, remember? Handsome young man, don’t you think?”

Emily’s heart thudded. Not because she was envisioning the poet’s dashing profile, but because she was imagining him dead! “Mrs. Dunlap, I’m wondering if you’ve seen Mr. Pinkerton
today.”

“Certainly. He made me breakfast.” The grey haired woman looked over her shoulder at Emily and smiled.   “Handsome
and
handy in the kitchen. Unmarried, too. I asked.”

“Of course, he’s not married, he’s . . .”

“What?”

She couldn’t say it. She could barely think it. She could imagine a lot of things, but homosexuality was a little, no, a lot out of her scope. Her father would’ve declared Mr. Pinkerton a sinner. Emily viewed him as an enigma. She could not condemn what she did not understand. “Love is never wrong.”

“What, dear?”

Emily started and refocused on Mrs. Dunlap who’d resumed her vigorous scrubbing. “Nothing. I was just . . .” She crossed the room and placed a hand on the elderly woman’s sturdy shoulder. The only thing feeble about Iris Dunlap was her mind. “I need to speak with Mr. Pinkerton.” There. That sounded direct. Didn’t it?

“Why didn’t you say so, dear? He’s in the barn.”

“The
barn?”

“Yes, he said he’d be in the barn. Or was that yesterday? No, wait. When did he arrive? I . . .”

Emily raced out the back door and across the vast yard toward the listing barn. The grass was slick with morning dew. In her haste, she slipped and fell twice to her knees. By the time she reached the dilapidated building she was winded and hopelessly frazzled. What if he’d found her treasure chest?

“Mr. Pinkerton!” She burst inside full speed, full panic, screaming when she plowed into a half-naked man brandishing a gun.

He pulled her into his arms and into a stall, shoved her down in a corner then peered over the chest-high wall.

She gasped for air, focused, and massaged her pounding heart as she realized the half-naked man was Phineas Pinkerton. Shirtless, sweating, and holding a Colt .45 like he knew how to use it. What in the world?

“Did he hurt you?” he asked in a low, even voice, eyes keen on the entrance to the barn.

“Who?” she squeaked.

“Whoever you’re running from.”

“I’m not running from anyone.”

He glanced over his shoulder, his broad,
bare
shoulder, and pinned her with a stern expression. “You’re not in danger?”

“Why would you think I was in danger?” Her pulse galloped all the same.

He silently slid the gun into a worn holster hanging from the gate post, yanked off his spectacles and squeezed the bridge of his nose. Specs in hand, he crouched in front of her, his normally tender green eyes hard as a gemstone. When he narrowed them, she had the urge to back away, only her back was up against the wall.