Robin Lee Hatcher (12 page)

Sawyer peeked around the doorway into the parlor and smiled. Libby sure did look pretty in that dress, and there was something right about her and Mr. Walker holding each other like that.

Sawyer’s dad used to say that God never meant for man to be alone. “I was blessed because the good Lord gave me your ma for a time. Boy, when you grow up, you find yourself a wife like your ma, a woman who loves God with all her heart, and you’ll never regret it.”

Sawyer had to suppose the same was true for Mr. Walker. God must want him to have a wife who loved God too, and there wasn’t anybody who loved the Lord more than Libby. Leastwise, none that he knew of. And if Mr. Walker could make Libby happy, all the better. Sawyer loved her something fierce. For as far back as he could remember, Libby had looked out for him when his dad was busy overseeing the Blue Springs, and after his dad died, she’d sorta been like a mother to him. Now he reckoned God had sent somebody to look out for her.

Still smiling, he drew back from the doorway and headed for his room.

Remington ignored the needles of pain in his leg. The pain was worth it if he could hold Libby a little longer. When it was over and she was back in New York, he hoped this would make up for some of his deception. He hoped she would remember tonight and not think too harshly of him.

He rested his cheek on the crown of her head and breathed in the fragrance that was uniquely Libby Blue.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry I must use you this way. If it weren’t
for my father . . . If it weren’t for your father . . .

As if she’d heard his thoughts, she lifted her head and gazed up at him, and as he stared into eyes filled with love, Remington knew he was a greater scoundrel than Northrop Vanderhoff could ever hope to be.

Libby found it impossible to breathe as Remington slipped his right hand from her back and pulled his left hand from her grasp. Then he took hold of her upper arms and gently set her one step away from him.

“I think maybe you were right. I’m not up to dancing.” He turned and reached for his crutch, then made his way with a
thump-step
,
thump-step
toward his bedroom. At the parlor entry, he paused and glanced at her. “You do look pretty in that dress, Libby. You ought to wear it more often. The men hereabouts would be buzzing around you like flies.”

Something fearful pricked her heart, but she forced herself to smile. “A dress gets in the way when I’m working.”

“Yeah, I suppose it would at that.” He stepped into the hall. “Good night.”

Libby sank onto the sofa and stared at the dancing flames. She listened to the crackle of burning wood and the patter of rain on the rooftop and knew she would never hear them again without remembering the moment he’d held her in his arms and swayed with her to the imaginary music.

The loneliness of her future closed in around her while outside the rain continued to fall, as if nature understood the pain in her heart and wept.

Twelve

FOR THE NEXT WEEK, REMINGTON distanced himself from Libby. It was for her own good. He didn’t like her thinking he was something he was not. So why had he followed her out to the barn this morning?

When he entered, Libby was seated on a three-legged stool, squeezing milk into a bucket. He must have made a sound. She looked up, and her hands stilled on the cow’s udder. Her eyes widened with surprise.

“You’re up early,” she said after a lengthy silence.

“You too.”

“I always am.” She returned to her milking.

Remington watched the frothy white liquid spray into the bucket and wondered how a woman could look so fetching while seated on a stool and leaning up close to the belly of a cow. He’d always appreciated feminine trappings, yet he thought Libby looked more enticing than any society beauty he’d seen, no matter how elaborate the dress or how sparkling the jewels.

“Aunt Amanda said milking was the best way to start a day. It gives a body a moment of peace so she can think before the busyness begins.”

“I’m sure she was right.” He stepped into the stall. “I’ve never milked a cow. Care to show me how it’s done?”

Her hands stilled a second time. “You want to learn how to
milk
?”

Why can’t I have the good sense to leave her alone?

“Are you sure?” she asked softly.

“I’m sure.”

“All right.” She slid the stool backward, then rose. “Come over here and sit down.”

He leaned his crutch against the wall of the stall and limped the few steps to where Libby waited. She took hold of his arm as he sank onto the short-legged stool. When he was settled, she knelt beside him, the straw crunching beneath her knees.

“The first thing you must know”—she took hold of one of his hands and guided it beneath the cow—“is don’t yank. If you do, you’ll only succeed in making Melly mad.” Her hand covered his. “Squeeze firmly, starting with your thumb and forefinger and rolling downward with a gentle pull.”

He felt the warmth of her body near his.

“Use your other hand too,” she instructed.

She always smelled clean and fresh, even here in the barn.

“Now alternate. It’s easier when you get a rhythm going. That’s right.”

Milk shot into the bucket.

Libby laughed. “You’re a faster study than I was. I thought I’d never learn how.”

The last remnants of his restraint slipped away, and he did what he’d been wanting to do for a solid week, the very thing good sense told him not to. He turned his head and kissed her cheek. Afterward he kept his forehead close to her temple, knowing she could feel his breath upon her face, wishing he knew what she was thinking, cursing himself again for not being stronger, for not staying away from her.

The barn grew hushed and still. For an endless heartbeat, neither of them moved.

“You’ll go away soon, won’t you?”

He thought of his father and the promises he’d made. “I can’t stay here.”

She turned to look at him. “I know.”

“Libby . . .” He cupped her cheek with the palm of his hand. “You don’t understand. There are things you don’t know about me. You—”

“I don’t care.”

“You
will
care,” he warned, yet he couldn’t keep himself from drawing her against him and kissing her again, this time on the mouth.

When the truth comes out, you’ll care.

But Libby didn’t care about anything as long as Remington was with her.

She didn’t care that day or the next. Not that week or the next. Not as long as Remington sometimes held her in his arms. Not as long as he kissed her when they were alone together. Not as long as she could pretend they had forever.

She felt a desperate kind of happiness, a temporary one at best. Remington would recover from the wounds she’d inflicted with her shotgun, but Libby wondered if she would recover from the wounds of a broken heart.

Thirteen

STANDING ON A CHAIR, LIBBY reached for the earthenware jar atop the cupboard. Her fingers closed around the narrow neck of the vessel, and she pulled the jar toward her, carefully drawing it close to her body before stepping down. She removed the lid and tipped the container sideways, emptying its contents onto the table. The smattering of coins mocked her. There were so few left after paying off her debts, and now that the remainder of the wool crop was lost, there wouldn’t be more any time soon. With a sigh, Libby scooped the coins into her hand and dropped them into the pocket of her trousers, then she walked to the back door and opened it. Her eyes quickly found Remington and Sawyer, standing inside the corral. Sawyer was brushing Sundown’s neck and chest while Remington leaned against the gelding’s back.

She paused to look at the two of them—Remington so tall and strong, Sawyer small and wiry but growing fast. Remington was patient with the boy, always willing to talk to him, spend time with him, and Sawyer’s affection for the man was obvious.

He’d make a wonderful father.

Her heart skipped a beat.

Remington’s child.

She imagined herself holding an infant in her arms, Remington standing beside them.

Oh, but that wasn’t to be. There was no point in wanting the impossible.

With quick strides, she crossed the yard to the corral. Remington and Sawyer turned.

Libby deliberately set her gaze on the boy. “I’m going into Pine Station for supplies. McGregor will be expecting us soon.”

“I’d like to ride into Pine Station with you,” Remington said.

Again her traitorous heart skipped a beat. Remington grew stronger every day. Although the pain from his leg wound was still fierce at times, he could now walk without the aid of his crutch. Soon he would be able to ride again.
When are you
going away? How long do I have before you go?
She drew a shaky breath. “You should stay here and rest. Sawyer can go along to help me.”

“I’m plenty rested, Libby.”

Her brief flash of self-preservation vanished. She wanted him with her every moment
of the day, and she was too greedy to let this opportunity slip away. “All right, if you want to come.” She glanced at Sawyer. “Help me hitch the team to the wagon.”

As the three of them set out toward Pine Station—Remington with his rifle across his knees, Libby driving the team, Sawyer in the back of the wagon with his pup— Remington told himself for the hundredth time how much better off Libby would be when she was back in New York.

He glanced at her without turning his head. She was leaning forward, her forearms resting on her thighs, the leather reins looped through her gloved fingers. She wore a floppy-brimmed felt hat, pulled low on her forehead. Her eyes were hidden in the shade of the brim, but he could see the splash of freckles across her nose and the firm set of her mouth.

She had more worries than a woman should have to bear. She shouldn’t have to work so hard. She shouldn’t have to live this hardscrabble life. Her father was one of the wealthiest men in America. She should be living in ease and luxury. After all these weeks, Remington had yet to discover why she had chosen this life instead.

He wanted to know why she’d run away. The reason hadn’t mattered to him before. His questions up to now had been part of a game he played to satisfy his curiosity. But now her reasons mattered. They mattered because Libby mattered. She mattered too much.