The Law and Miss Penny (40 page)

Feeling as if he'd just been crushed beneath an icy mountain avalanche, Morgan turned away from the window. He hadn't spotted any of the things he'd hoped to find in Mariah's beautiful violet eyes; no regret, longing, or even a little dash of love.

He just saw good-bye.

Chapter 20

An hour later when Morgan walked into the tidy little white house at the end of Thirteenth Street, sleep was the farthest thing from his mind. Putting his life in order had suddenly become paramount to him.

To that end, he'd begun the process in Sheriff Teal's office after the Doolittle Gang had been secured behind bars. Morgan had laid his United States marshal's badge on the desk, and informed the sheriff that he was taking a long vacation—maybe a permanent one.

Now he passed through the parlor of the home on his way into the kitchen, and headed right for the stove. He lifted the coffeepot off of the burner and shook it. There was at least a cup left inside, and judging from the heat radiating up through the handle, it was still warm. He poured the remaining liquid, grounds and all, into a mug and then fell heavily into a chair at the kitchen table.

The little dining alcove sported a wide window which looked out on the backyard of the small home. As Morgan gazed through the peach organdy curtains, he spotted Amelia.

She was wearing a plain dress of heavy blue wool, her tiny legs wrapped in blood-red stockings, and her delicate little features were screwed into a frown, so intent was she on her assigned "busy work" for the morning. Brandishing her child-sized hoe, she flung aside load after load of damp earth, along with the few weeds that had dared to trespass in the rhubarb patch.

Morgan chuckled softly. Amelia had grown since he'd last been to Silverton, become longer and more slender of limb, and even more startling, appeared to bear a strong resemblance to him. He'd always thought of Amelia as a red-haired version of his wife. When had her features begun to change so?

As he observed his daughter, Morgan heard dainty footsteps and then felt a light tap on his shoulder. He turned to see Virginia's dove-gray eyes and pale blond hair—or a close match to them, anyway.

Prudence, the sister of his dead wife, gently said, "Amelia has really missed you, Morgan. She asks about you almost every day."

He felt a stab of guilt. "I guess it has been something like four or five months since I got this far north."

"It'll be nine months next week, Morgan. You missed her birthday—again."

Nine months?
How was it possible? As he thought back over that period of time, the parts he remembered as Morgan Slater anyway, a great sadness washed over him. It wasn't that he didn't love his daughter—he'd loved her enough to make sure she had a good home after her mother died, hadn't he? He was, in his estimation, the best father he could be, given the circumstances.

But then he remembered Mariah's words the night she discovered Zachariah Penny was not her natural father, and the strength, love, and pride in her voice as she'd said, "A 'real' father need only meet two requirements as far as I'm concerned. He must love me, and protect me. Zack has never failed me in either way."

He'd done neither for Amelia, Morgan realized with a start. Oh, he loved her all right, but he had an idea she didn't know how much. How could she when he was never there?

Morgan gazed out the window, again making note of how much she had grown. Amelia was not a baby, but a little girl—a very needy little girl, he had to admit as he remembered the look in her eyes when she first saw him in the alley. What kind of young woman would she grow into if he continued to neglect her this way? The kind who looked for a father's love in every man she met, always seeking, but never finding?

Prudence, who had drawn back the pantry curtain and disappeared inside the closet-sized room, called to him from over her shoulder. "I have a little surprise for you." She lifted the item she'd been looking for off of the shelf, and then came back over to the table to drop it in front of her brother-in-law. "Amelia's friend Eloise brought this bonnet by earlier. She said the lady who was with you yesterday lost the hat in the street. It was pretty muddy, but I cleaned it up the best I could."

"Thanks, Prudy." One of the plumes was crooked and the supporting quill was badly damaged, although not quite broken. It reminded Morgan of Mariah, and of his fragile relationship with his daughter. "This Eloise—she said that Amelia calls every man she sees 'Daddy.' Is it true?"

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about it too much. She'll stop doing that once you're able to see her a little more often."

Morgan fingered the lemon-colored plumes, remembering how well Mariah's lush ebony hair had set them off. "Be sure to thank Eloise for me."

"Of course." There was hesitation in her voice, a catch as she went on. "This, ah, lady—is she someone special, Morgan?"

How was he to answer a question like that, and to his wife's sister? He'd never really had anyone special in his life before Mariah, not even lovely, gentle Virginia. She'd been his wife because they had agreed to the match as her father, Marshal George Singer, had lain dying. It wasn't that Virginia couldn't have had her pick of men—she was handsome enough, if painfully shy—but George had been so afraid she'd end up like her runaway sister, Prudence, that he'd begged her to marry his then deputy, Morgan Slater. And Morgan, feeling a bond with the old man he'd never had with his own father, had given his promise.

It had been the wrong choice for both himself and Virginia, but the union had produced Amelia—and from where Morgan sat, there wasn't a thing in the world wrong with that.

He had to smile as he glanced up at Prudence, the errant daughter who'd run off with Jack the dreamer, a man who'd dragged her all over the West, chasing one pot of gold after another before he'd finally settled down. He wondered what George would think of this foolish daughter if he could see her now: happy, content, a beloved wife, and the mother of three strapping sons. She was a far happier woman than Virginia had ever been, and much more fulfilled.

Morgan's curious expression and prolonged silence prompted Prudence's cheeks to go pink. "There I go again, poking my nose into places it doesn't belong. I had no right to ask such a personal question."

"That's all right, Prudy." Morgan reached for her hand and squeezed it. "I wasn't trying to ignore you or the question; it's just that I haven't slept for a couple of days, and it's taking me longer to think than usual. The lady—her name is Mariah—is a very special woman. One, I might add, who isn't too happy with me right now."

Her eyes lit up. "Maybe I can be of some help."

He laughed. "I don't think the entire Kickapoo Nation could help, but thanks for the offer."

"Kickapoo...?" She started to inquire further, but then thought better of it. "You're exhausted. Why don't you go into Jack's and my room and get some rest. I'll keep Amelia out of the house for a few hours."

"Thanks, but no." Morgan pushed out of his chair. "She's another little lady who deserves some fence-mending from me. I'm going outside to have a talk with her." As he started for the door, Morgan paused to add, "I want you to know how much I appreciate all you've done for Amelia. It's meant a lot to me, knowing that I didn't have to worry about her well-being. Virginia would have been damn pleased with the way you've raised her girl."

Again, Prudence blushed. "No thanks are necessary. I love her as if she were my own, and you know it."

With a brief nod, he turned and walked out the door. Morgan stood on the porch for a moment, then sank down to the top step, content for the time being just to watch Amelia tend the plants. The sun was out, melting the icy puddles into small lakes of mud, and a gentle breeze carried Amelia's small voice to his ears as she sang a gibberish-filled song to herself.

Suddenly, she looked up, her curly little carrot-top bouncing. "Daddy," she cried, flinging her hoe aside as she ran toward him. "Hi, Daddy. Are you leaving again?"

Morgan winced. She'd almost made it sound like leaving was his job. "Not for a while, Pumpkin."

Amelia whooped and clapped her hands. "Can I go on the train with you this time? I never get to go on the train."

"We'll have to wait and see about that, Pumpkin."

"Why do you call me
punkin
?" She frowned, bunching her freckles at the bridge of her nose. "I don't want to be a pie."

Chuckling, Morgan pulled her onto his lap and ruffled her already mussed curls. "I call you that because your hair is so red. I'm afraid if I ever lost you in a patch of overripe pumpkins, I'd never find you again."

She giggled, but then abruptly grew somber. "Would you miss me if I got lost in a punkin patch?"

"Oh, yes, sweetheart. I'd miss you so much I couldn't stand it." Morgan hugged her close. "I don't ever want to lose you again, Amelia, not even for one minute. In fact, I'm working on a way to keep us together from now on. Would you like that?"

"Really, Daddy? You mean live together?"

"Yes, Pumpkin."

"And you promise you won't go away again?"

Morgan weighed his next words carefully, bound and determined to do right by her. "Not if I can possibly help it."

Amelia sniffled, then wiped her nose, but big fat tears rolled down her freckled cheeks anyway. She buried her face against her father's neck. "Yes, Daddy. I want you to stay."

Morgan held her for a long time, hugging her, soothing her, knowing all the while that he had Mariah to thank for at least a part of his decision. Maybe she hadn't reshaped his soul during his bout with amnesia as much as rearranged it. She'd certainly done one of the two, perhaps even both. Mariah had turned him from a man who hated dogs to one who more than simply tolerated Daisy; from a man who loathed hucksters to one who'd come to understand the value of Doc Zachariah's Kickapoo Medicine Show—so much so, in fact, that he'd actually helped in the preparation of their tonics and herbs.

The ultimate alteration, the one about which he was most frustrated as well as most grateful, was the way she'd manipulated his heart. She had helped him evolve from a man who'd been taught at a very young age not to care too much about anyone or anything, to one who dared to test his emotions. The old Morgan Slater would never have let his guard down long enough to notice how badly his daughter needed and loved him, and he sure as hell wouldn't have seen past the Princess Tanacoa costume to the woman beneath it—to the woman he loved.

Amelia squirmed out of her father's arms, too excited by the idea of their new life together to hold still any longer, and began to shower him with little kisses. She stopped when something wet met her lips, and poked her chubby finger against his cheek. "Are you crying, Daddy?"

Morgan knuckled the moisture away. "Of course not, Pumpkin. My eyes just aren't used to this dusty little town."

Amelia glanced around at the mud puddles still lingering from the recent showers, and shrugged. Seeing the confusion in her eyes, Morgan climbed to his feet and lifted her into his arms. And then it came to him: a plan. A little bit of strategy that not even the most wounded of hearts could turn away. One that would most surely get his foot into Mariah's door. And maybe even back into her life.

Swinging his daughter up high on his shoulders, Morgan said, "I have a really special job to do, Pumpkin. How would you like to be my new deputy and go with me?"

* * *

Mariah hadn't fared any better than Morgan in the rest department. After she'd assured Zack and Oda that the only harm she'd suffered was sleep deprivation, they'd filled her with a warm, nourishing breakfast, and then hurried her off to her room, where they instructed her to sleep for as long as she liked, around the clock if necessary. The medicine show would be canceled, they told her, until further notice.

She'd been grateful at first, her body weary and aching as she slid between the sheets. But sleep hadn't come. She closed her eyes and saw Cain. She clamped her pillow over her ears, but continued to hear those wonderful, painful words of love he'd uttered not three days ago. How long did it take to recover from a broken heart? she wondered. Or was recovery even possible?

She thought back to the look in Oda's eyes as she'd spoken of her time with Patrick O'Conner, and a kind of hopeless despair swamped her. Her mother had never forgotten the first man she loved, and neither would Mariah. The tears began to fall, when a knock sounded at her door.