Intimate Strangers (Eclipse Heat Book 2) (4 page)

“No, Brody, she’s our mother all right. And now they can’t hang Pa because she’s alive.”

Lucy was satisfied to see her children had inherited her intelligence. Together, the kids stood up in the wagon and turned to the sheriff.

The little girl spoke first. “Sheriff Bailey, this is our mama. You need to turn loose our pa.” Quivering bottom lip or not, she delivered her order without hesitation.

Lucy turned her rifle and horse back toward the sheriff to lend her encouragement.

Ham had already cut their father free. Now Ambrose stood chafing the blood back into his hands, an almost smile curling his lip as he watched his children take on the law.

There was no doubt that he was grinding his teeth when his gaze swung to her. Curious, she returned his stare. In her other life, she’d apparently taken a predator to husband. Now she tightened her grip on the rifle, thankful for her Mondays of target practice.

He didn’t waste words but mounted the horse his brother led forward. Lucy didn’t know where home was, but the brothers made it clear she was accompanying them there. Her son handed his pa a hat that looked huge in the young boy’s hands but settled on top of Ambrose’s head with a firm fit.

Suddenly the sheriff took it upon himself to lecture and interrogate her. “Lucy Quince, you can’t just ride back into town and take up where you left off.”

She ignored him ’til he demanded, “Where have you been hiding?”

Lucy inexplicably hated the man so much she had to stop herself from shooting him. “That would be none of your business, Sheriff. I’ll take that up with those who need to know.” When the lawman tried to ease closer, she chambered another round, making no pretense about where she aimed.

He backed off fast, sputtering, “I’m the sheriff and you can’t threaten me.”

“I’m not threatening you. I’m telling you a fact. I don’t answer to any man who would sit children in a front-row seat to see their daddy get hanged no matter his crime. If it’s an elected official you are, these people should remember that and send you packing the next time they vote.”

Her finger itched on the trigger of the Winchester every time the miscreant opened his mouth. He took note of that and sidled away.

Unexpectedly, a man rushed from the bank as though he’d just realized he was missing something important. “Here now, here now, what’s this? What’s the holdup? Get on with things.”

Evidently the hanging wasn’t going fast enough to suit him since there were people blocking the bank entrance on what should have been a business day. When he saw her, he stopped in his tracks and backed up, white in the face. “Lucy?”

“Do you know me?” She edged her mount around to face him.

“Of course I know you. I’m the Eclipse Bank President, Stephen Pauley.” His self-important expression turned to doubt as he studied her.

Recognizing which threat was greater, Lucy shifted her rifle enough to keep it steady on the sheriff, dismissing the banker as unimportant. “It appears that people in Eclipse didn’t anticipate my arrival.”

Pauley shouldered his way closer ’til he stood next to her horse, looking up. “I’ll come out to the ranch when you get settled. We’ll talk when we don’t have an audience.” He nodded his head toward the children and the two Quince brothers.

She shook her head, not keeping her rebuff quiet. “If I have reason to need banking services, I know where you work.” Done talking, she backed Sheba to the buckboard, her rifle up and ready if anyone in the crowd decided to dispute the day’s outcome.

While Lucy had made herself the center of the spectacle, the brothers had readied to leave. Now Ambrose rode his horse next to her, nodded at his son and pulled his hat lower over his eyes. “Let’s get on home, Alex.”

The boy picked up the wagon reins and the Quince family set out, leaving the townsfolk to figure out if they were satisfied with the show they’d witnessed.

Lucy had plenty of time to think as she traveled with her silent escorts. Her almost-dead husband hadn’t said another word to her since his greeting, but he kept his horse jammed up close to hers, pushing at her every time she tried to slow down. Ham sectioned her off from the other side and the children bounced in the buckboard as everyone clipped along at a good pace.

She kept her arsenal handy, although she remained unafraid except when she felt the eyes of her children on her. She didn’t have any memory of them or their father. But whoever had knocked her around and disfigured her hadn’t stolen her wits.

First, she’d called herself Quincy Smith. She remembered adding the
Smith
because Roberta said she needed a last name. But from the time she’d started to mend, she’d had the word
Quincy
in her brain.

Second, if she’d had doubts before, seeing her daughter eliminated them. Brody was a miniature Lucy without the harsh overlay of life.

Frustration gnawed at Lucy when her memories remained hidden. She knew nothing more than what had happened in the three years since she’d come awake in Buffalo Creek.

Her face had been left untouched, as if her murderer wanted her identity known. The person or persons who had done that to her still remained undisclosed and nobody appeared interested in why or how she’d disappeared.

It occurred to her as she rode between the two grim ranchers that somebody in Eclipse was probably suffering from heart tremors about now. She’d risen and returned from the dead and it appeared her resurrection was an inconvenience for everyone except her family. It was odd to think of the two children and the hard-faced Quince man that way, but impossible to think otherwise.

The day was hot and lather from three horses flecked her skirts as the brothers kept her centered between them. It began to get irritating. After Lucy gave Ham a warning look, he put some distance between his horse and her mare.

Ambrose didn’t show the same respect. Finally, after he’d jammed against her leg for the third time, Lucy shook her boot loose from the stirrup on his side and waited for daylight to show between the horses. Then she lined up and let fly, catching his knee with a solid thump from her heel.

He glared at her but she didn’t care. It had felt good, as if she’d delivered a blow for past injustices.  She was satisfied she’d made her point when he kept his distance the rest of the ride. When they reached an open gate that fronted a well-used dirt path, Lucy passed under the Double-Q sign mounted above the ranch yard entrance stoically. 
Here is where
I’ll find the answers to who I am.

Ambrose dismounted and automatically turned to help Lucy from her horse. In former days she would have criticized him for ungentlemanly behavior had he not done so. Today she’d already stepped down and crossed the space separating her from the wagon.

Instead of heading for the house, she took hold of the harness and steadied the animal, waiting for Alex and Brody to climb out. No one thanked her and she didn’t look as though she expected it.

Brody hopped down and ran over to hug him hard, burying her face against his side for a moment. He lifted her high in his arms so she was eye level with him. “Guess the Quinces made it through another one together, Sugar Plum.” Then he caught sight of Lucy watching and set Brody to the ground.

“Take your mama to the house, Brody,” He turned to his son. “Alex, carry her satchel in for her.” Lucy remained outside the circle of conversation, listening as if she wasn’t being discussed.

“Where should I put her things?” Alex posed the question.

Brody answered vehemently, “She’s not sharing my room.”

Ambrose looked at his wife as the kids squabbled over where to put her. The heat of the day, his unexpected survival and the incredible reality of Lucy’s presence all contributed to a dizzy rush. His voice was gruffly hoarse, roughened by the squeeze of the rope earlier and the emotion that clogged his throat now. “Put her stuff where it belongs—in our room.”

Appearing disinterested in the discussion, Lucy studied the ranch yard as though she’d never seen the place before. But when Alex moved to take her satchel, she shook her head. “I need to rub down my mare and grain her.”

Ambrose wanted her in the house, suddenly anxious, as if she might disappear if he looked away. For all his control, he had to keep swallowing to wet his mouth before he could speak to her. “Go on in. I’ll see to the mare when I unhook the wagon.”

Rifle in hand, she silently followed their son into the house, taking time to look around at the weed-infested yard as she walked to the porch.

It did look a shade different from when she’d been here before. Her money had paid for the extras. The paint she’d insisted on covering the adobe block with was chipped and the once-red shutters were a rusty brown.

When they’d first married, he’d tried to explain that the Texas sun would steal the color and the wind and weather would sand away the paint, but Lucy had never been one to listen.

She’d come from back East and she had standards. If he’d heard that word once in his eight years of marriage he’d heard it a thousand times before she’d left.
Standards.

There were more changes than a little paint. Her money had paid wages for the housekeeper and her money had bought the fancy cushions and covers on the furniture. Hell, her money had bought the furniture. He’d been land-poor and cattle-proud, and he still was.

When Lucy disappeared, Steve Pauley had been more than pleased to shut off the flow of cash from Lucy’s bank account.  Without it, the house and kids had suffered. But they’d made it.
At least as soon as we get this herd to market the Double-Q will be solvent again.

Lucy grimaced as her newly discovered husband left the horses for Hamilton to tend and followed her into the house as though afraid she’d escape. She hadn’t come here to crawl in bed with a man, whether this one was her attacker or not, so his plan to share space with her would have to be dealt with soon.

She’d come to find a killer and investigate the welfare of her children. She could already see from the way they’d defended him at the hanging that they loved their daddy. Before she left, she’d know if he deserved their love.

Lucy looked around the dirty sitting room he led her to, letting her contempt show, trying to goad him to violence. If he was one to use his fists on a woman, she’d soon know it. He remained silent, blocking the outer door, waiting for her to make the next move.

She tried to remain impervious to his presence as she viewed furniture and decorations from her previous life. She didn’t see any practical use for figurines, judging it too much work keeping them dirt-free. On a ranch, it was impossible. But everywhere in the house were porcelain dolls and china breakables coated in layers of dust.

Her son looked at her expectantly and Lucy followed Alex to the bedroom where he left her satchel. “Thanks for saving Pa.”

He avoided her glance when she said, “You’re welcome.”

After he left, she shut the hall door and inspected the contents of the closet. It surprised her that he hadn’t thrown out her former wardrobe.  Ambrose came in so quietly she was caught gawking at the line of dresses that hung on the wooden rod.

He stood so close she could feel the tension radiating from him—or maybe it was her own nervousness that made her so aware of his proximity.

“I guess you’ve changed your fancy ways since you were last here.” His drawled words were challenging.

She looked down. The faded cotton dress Roberta had made from feed sacking did appear pretty sad next to the satins and flounces she’d apparently worn in the past.

Lucy didn’t give him time to express more of his thoughts. She swept his shirts and pants into her arms and handed them to him.

“The children think I’m an impostor and that suits me fine.” She stepped away from him, backing toward the vanity across the room. “It’s too much of a shock for them to know I’m not.” She tilted her head, silently warning him to keep his distance as she gripped the handle of the gun in her pocket.

She tried to keep her voice calm when she faced him. “It won’t do for you to stay in this room with me—someone the children think isn’t your wife. You and your brother can sleep in the bunkhouse. This room will be mine while I’m here.”

“You always did have a clear sense of your rights,” he snarled. Evidently, if he’d had any doubts about her being his wife, she’d ended them.

He left, carrying his clothes with him. His muttered curse from the hall reached her as she shut the door behind him. “Dammit, Lucy, this is my house, and I’ll say who stays and who goes.”

Another door opened and closed down the hall. Apparently Mr. Quince planned to stay in the house and not with the ranch hands.
Mr. Quince…
Lucy clenched her fists and turned back to the closet of ridiculous clothes.

They were not dresses worn by a wife and mother who lived on a working ranch. Most of the gowns were silly—bows and flounces and bustles that looked incredibly uncomfortable and totally impractical. It also seemed she’d formerly shown her breasts to the world, because a good number of the gowns were so low-cut that they revealed more than they covered.

She thought of the scar that now snaked a path to her right nipple. Not so pretty anymore. Even with a bosom blemish-free, the dresses would no longer have suited her. It was hard to imagine that they ever did.

But she hadn’t lived with a seamstress for nothing. She lined all of the clothing possibilities in a row to be altered when time allowed. Pushed to the back of the closet she found split-skirted riding apparel, suggesting that there had been a more practical side to the woman who’d lived here.

Lucy wandered around the room, trying to remember at the same time she was afraid to. Her head ached, the scar throbbing painfully.

Taking the stopper from one of the bottles of perfume, she inhaled, straining to capture more than the scent. Her gaze came to rest on the fancy dressing table made of the same cherry wood as the bed and chair. Easing onto the bench in front of the vanity, she sat studying the drapes reflected in the mirror. They were made of heavy brocade with a thin pleated curtain beneath. The expensive material was sun-yellowed and neglected. Uneasily, she let her gaze skate across the bed and her stomach clenched in a tight coil.

Hurriedly she stood and crossed to the window, looking through a dirt-coated pane made of fine glass. Ambrose walked toward the barn. Now would be a good time to find a tub and some water. It had been three dusty days and a lot of horse sweat since she’d been clean.

She unpacked her satchel, laying her wrinkled second dress on the sheet-covered mattress, trying to ignore her queasy response when she stood next to the bed.
This is stupid. He’s outside right now and sleeping in another room tonight. He has no more interest in me than I do in him.

A last foray in the closet revealed a soft lawn chemise and cotton knee-length pantalettes. She looked at the threadbare and darned clothes on the bed and gathered the better undergarments to take with her.
At least I will cook supper in drawers that aren’t filled with holes.
Before today, clothes had not been a concern. She didn’t question why they were now.

Snooping in the hallway revealed a half-finished bathing room. Forlorn fixtures sat unboxed in the space, testimony to plans unfinished.

Lucy fled to the kitchen where she found a washtub concealed behind a curtain. It was primitive, even by Buffalo Creek standards. Again she thought about the rich fabric of the draperies, left to rot on dirty windows. Why had coin been spent on such trivial needs when the same money could have paid for water pipes to the upstairs bathing room or at least to a kitchen pump?

She found a full bucket of water beside the back door and put it in a kettle on the stove to boil while she carried more from the well. On the second trip, Ambrose came from the barn and silently took over.

He emptied the water into the tub and nodded at the water boiling on the stove. “Kind of a funny time of day to get primped up, isn’t it, Lucille?”

She hated the way he said that name. “My name’s Quincy,” she said sharply.

He arched his eyebrow cynically. “Is that so?”

“Call me what you want, Mr. Quince. A meal has to be fixed and I won’t cook wearing yesterday’s sweat under dirty clothes. I’d appreciate it if you would leave me alone,” she answered, her words tart.

He left without saying more and when he was gone, Lucy leaned against the table gasping for breath. The house echoed silently. She had no idea where the children were but she needed this time to herself to gather her thoughts. Carefully she laid her gun on the chair next to the tub, pulled the curtain shut and removed her faded dress and worn undergarments.

When Brody entered the kitchen a short time later and peeked behind the curtain curiously, Lucy was immersed in water. At the little girl’s surprised look, she explained, “Since my illness, I have an aversion to dirt. I missed two baths coming here.”

Brody looked appalled at the idea of bathing so much. It was an oddity in Buffalo Creek too. Roberta had speculated that Lucy needed to feel clean inside as well as out.

“This last year I’ve been better, but this bath is a necessity, not a luxury.” She shivered in the cooling water.

Brody nodded solemnly and left her alone again. As soon as she was gone, Lucy rinsed her hair, stepping from the tub to dry before pulling on the chemise she’d found in the closet. It was too big in the stomach and hips although it fit in the bosom. Apparently, some of her weight had melted away while her breasts had remained almost too fulsome.

Wrapping a blanket around her but leaving her hand free to hold the gun, she made her way back toward the stairs, passing Ambrose in the hall. Though he made no comment, she felt the burn of his gaze following her up the steps.

It was only afternoon, but so much had happened earlier, it seemed as if she’d put in several days’ work already. Lucy changed into one of the few high-necked dresses she found in the closet. She looked but couldn’t find even one apron in her former wardrobe so she used an old apron from the Robin’s Nest to pull in the extra inches of material.

The row of kid slippers and fine leather boots made up for that lack. “Yes,” she sighed, slipping her foot into a shoe that fit so right it had to have been made just for her.
These I take with me when I go.

Refreshed and clean, she tucked the derringer in her pocket and returned to the kitchen where she felt at home. The food in the pantry was mostly canned beans but there was flour and sugar and enough other staples to throw together a meal.

When she asked Brody where the meat was kept, the little girl, hovering as close to Lucy as she could, answered with her own question. “How come you don’t know if you’re my mama?”

Tracing her fingertips across her scar lightly, Lucy explained, “I suffered a head injury and can’t remember things.”

Brody tut-tutted over that and then showed Lucy a jagged mark on her knee where she’d fallen in the stock corral. She huffed out a big breath and folded her arms. “Well, my mama didn’t have any marks on her so you can’t be her. But you can still cook a feast for supper if you want.”

Lucy hid her smile at the child’s request. “A feast?”

“Yep. It will be our celebration that Papa’s not dead.”

There was no meat to be had in the larder. On a cattle ranch she’d expected to find piles of steak, but she made do with chicken.

She and Brody caught two hens scratching in the dirt of what was once a vegetable garden. When Lucy finished wringing their necks, she scalded them and Brody helped pull out the pinfeathers.

Ambrose and Alex stood by the corral watching with great fascination, as though they’d never seen anyone kill a chicken before.