Robin Lee Hatcher (4 page)

Fortunately Remington wasn’t troubled by his conscience when it came to fabricating identities or histories for himself. When tracking down fugitives, one was required to do or say many things an otherwise honest person wouldn’t do or say. He’d been hired to take Olivia Vanderhoff back to New York, and if that meant earning her trust through lies, so be it.

He feigned a self-deprecating chuckle. “I thought it was sheer luck that I stumbled onto this place, until you shot me.”

The blush in her cheeks deepened, but her gaze didn’t waver.

“I was lost, Miss Blue. I was in the territorial capital on business and decided I’d have a look at the country before returning to my home. I had a map and thought I could head off into the wilderness, explore a bit of the territory, then find my way back, none the worse for wear. As you’ve no doubt guessed, I lost my way. But then I came across your place.”

“Why didn’t you ride up in the open where you could be seen?” Her eyes narrowed. “Why’d you leave your horse in the trees and come to the house carrying a rifle?”

“Bad judgment on my part.”

He could tell she weighed his words carefully. Then the suspicion left her gaze, and a hint of her pretty smile touched the corners of her mouth again.

“You’re not from around here, Mr. Walker. I can tell by your accent. Where are you from?”

“I was born and raised in Virginia, ma’am.” Like the name he’d given, that was the truth.

“Well, I suggest you return there as soon as you’re able to travel.” She rose from the chair, her expression stern but her tone teasing. “We do things a bit differently here in Idaho.”

“Shoot first?” Remington rested the palm of his right hand on his left side. “I noticed.” Then he grinned to take the sting out of his words.

Libby’s pulse quickened. Alarmed by her reaction to his smile, she stepped toward the door. “You must be hungry. There’s a kettle of stew on the stove. I’ll bring you some broth. You need food in your stomach.” She hurried out of the bedroom.

Never trust a stranger. Never. I know better. Don’t trust
him, no matter what.

Keeping her guard up was a rule that had served her well for over six years. It was a rule she couldn’t afford to abandon—not even for this particular stranger’s devastating smile.

Unbidden, unwanted, the memory of her father intruded. A regal man with steel-gray hair and eyes to match. A man who bought and sold people the same way he bought and sold property or ships or anything else. A man for whom everything and everyone had a price. Even his daughter. She was to have brought him the southern railroad he coveted
for so many years.

Libby closed her eyes as she leaned against the sideboard. She didn’t want to think about her father. To do so only made her unhappy. She couldn’t change who he was or how little she’d meant to him.

Her mother’s image drifted into her thoughts, and Libby felt the sting of tears. “Oh, Mama,” she whispered, her heart aching.

She wondered if her mother knew she was all right. Dan Deevers had mailed Libby’s letter from Cheyenne when he was there last year, but she couldn’t know if Anna Vanderhoff received it. It had been a foolish thing to do, writing to her mother after years of careful silence. But Amanda Blue’s death brought loneliness, and Libby missed her mother with a keen freshness.

Libby sniffed and opened her eyes. She was being melodramatic. The Lord had given her a good life here at the Blue Springs. She owned her land and her sheep and her home. She had Sawyer to love, and she had McGregor and young Ronald, trusted friends. Nobody owned her. She wasn’t trapped in a loveless marriage to a godless man.

Drawing a deep breath, she filled a bowl with broth, placed it on a tray, and carried it back to the bedroom. She needed to get Mr. Walker well and on his way—and the sooner the better.

Three

IF REMINGTON DIDN’T KNOW BETTER, he would have thought Libby had spent her entire life doctoring men in the back-country instead of hobnobbing with the sons and daughters of New York’s Knickerbocker families. Still, he was glad to take over tending his own wounds after one week of her excellent care. It didn’t seem right, having her do it. Not when he knew what he intended.

Remington’s injuries would take time to heal, and even though he couldn’t afford to lose that time, neither did he relish the prospect of walking with a limp the rest of his days. He suspected that might happen if he tried to leave the ranch too soon.

He clenched his teeth as he cleansed the wound on his thigh. Stabs of pain shot up and down his leg. To distract himself, Remington thought about Libby. He had memorized the tiny wisps that curled at her temples, the unusual color of her pale rose-gold hair, her tiny shell-shaped ears, the small point of her chin. He recalled the sweep of her thick eyelashes, the delicate arch of her golden brows, and the smoothness of her skin. He decided he even liked the splash of freckles over her nose.

What made you run, Libby Blue? Why did you leave a
life of ease for this?

He thought of Northrop Vanderhoff, standing behind his large cherrywood desk, a glass of brandy in his hand, his thick gray eyebrows drawn together as he had glared at Remington.

“I hear you’re the best, Walker.”

“If she can be found, I’ll find her,” Remington had answered, his gaze never wavering, his expression hiding the bitterness that seethed in his chest. It galled him that Northrop either didn’t know Remington was Jefferson Walker’s son or didn’t care. Or perhaps Northrop had forgotten Remington’s father altogether. After so many years, why should he remember a man he’d helped ruin? Jefferson Walker hadn’t been the first nor the last casualty of Northrop Vanderhoff’s greed.

Well, Northrop might forget, but Remington never would. Never. Not until he evened the score.

“I want my daughter returned to me,” Northrop had continued. “I’ll make it well worth your time. You find her and bring her back.”

At first Remington suspected Olivia Vanderhoff ran off with a man her father didn’t approve of. It wasn’t unheard of for girls of good breeding to do that. But his investigation hadn’t turned up a mystery lover.

So what made you run, Olivia, if it wasn’t love?

Half an hour later, when Libby came to collect the soiled bandages and washbasin, Remington decided to seek the answer to his question. “Has this ranch always been your home, Miss Blue?”

A strange expression flickered in her eyes as she lifted her gaze to meet his. “I came to live with Aunt Amanda over six years ago.”

Remington knew she had no aunt, living here or anywhere else. “And before that, where did you live?”

“San Francisco.”

That much was true. San Francisco was where he’d picked up her trail.

Libby dropped the bandages into the basin that she held in the crook of her arm. “I’ll bring you something to eat. Porridge might sit well on your stomach.”

He made a face. He hated oatmeal.

She laughed, a light, airy sound that filled the room.

“Mr. Walker, you and Sawyer have something in common. He doesn’t think much of my porridge either. But Aunt Amanda said it was good food for the sickbed, and she was seldom wrong. So I’ll fix it, and you’ll eat it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Still smiling, Libby left the room.

Remington grinned too. At least he wouldn’t be bored during his convalescence. Discovering how Olivia Vanderhoff had transformed herself into Libby Blue would prove an interesting diversion until he could finish the job he’d come here to do.

Sawyer waited until Libby was hanging clothes on the line before he ventured over to the bedroom door and peered inside.

When Mr. Walker saw him in the doorway, he said, “You must be Sawyer.”

He nodded.

“Come on in.”

Sawyer glanced toward the back door. Libby had told him to stay away from Mr. Walker. But she came in here all the time, so he couldn’t be dangerous. Besides, he’d run off Mr. Bevins. In Sawyer’s mind, that meant Mr. Walker couldn’t be a bad man.

“It’s okay to come in. I’ll tell your mother I invited you.”

Sawyer stepped into the room, stopping at the foot of the bed.

“My name’s Walker. Remington Walker. What’s yours?”

“Sawyer Deevers. And Libby ain’t my ma. My ma’s dead.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He held out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sawyer. Excuse me if I don’t get up, but I’ve had a bit of an accident.” His smile was friendly.

Sawyer moved forward to shake Mr. Walker’s hand. “’T’weren’t no accident. Libby meant to shoot you. She just thought you were somebody else.”

Mr. Walker laughed aloud. “So she told me. I guess I’m lucky she’s not a good shot.”

“You’re lucky all right. Libby can’t hit nothin’ she aims at. She prob’ly meant to kill you, which is why you’re still alive.” He sat on the chair next to the bed.

Mr. Walker’s smile faded. “I thought ranches always had lots of men around the place. Why haven’t I seen anyone else around?”

“McGregor, he’s with the sheep. Ronald Aberdeen too. The others were all let go. Libby can’t afford to pay more help. Things’ve been kinda hard ’round here since my dad died.”

“Your dad worked here?”

Sawyer dropped his gaze to the floor. “He was foreman for Miz Blue and Libby. He froze up on Bear Mountain last winter, lookin’ for the sheep Mr. Bevins run off.” He squeezed his hands into tight fists. “It’s Mr. Bevins’s fault my dad’s dead, and someday I’m gonna get him for it.”

Remington empathized with the boy. He knew what it meant to lose a father. He also knew what it was like to want revenge.

Hoping to divert Sawyer’s thoughts, Remington asked, “Have you been taking care of my horse for me?”

Sawyer’s brown eyes grew wide,
all traces of anger disappearing. “I sure have. He’s about the best horse I’ve ever seen. What’s his name?”

“Sundown. I’ve had him a long time. Raised him from a colt. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to him. I’ll tell you what, Sawyer. You take good care of him for me while I’m laid up here, and I’ll pay you fifty cents a day.”

“Fifty cents! A
day
?”

“That’s right.”

“Thank you, Mr. Walker,” Libby interrupted from the doorway, “but Sawyer can’t accept.”

Both Remington and Sawyer watched as she entered the bedroom, stopping at the foot of the bed. She gave the boy a pointed look.

With his chin nearly touching his chest, Sawyer turned toward Remington. “I’ll take good care of your horse, Mr. Walker, but you don’t gotta to pay me for it. Thanks anyhow.” With that, he shuffled away.

Remington felt bad for the boy. Wasn’t Libby being a bit hard on him?

She seemed to read his mind. “I’m sure you meant well, Mr. Walker, but Sawyer should take care of your horse because it’s the right thing to do, not because he can make money doing it.”

“But I—”

“I’ll see that he doesn’t disturb you again.” She shut the door behind her when she left.

Remington sighed as he leaned against the pillows. Sawyer had said money was short, and Remington figured the boy would take good care of Sundown. Was it such a terrible thing to pay him for his work?

“Sawyer should take care of your horse because it’s the
right thing to do, not because he can make money doing it.”

Remington doubted Northrop Vanderhoff had ever done anything without considering the bottom line. How had that unscrupulous old man managed to raise a daughter with principles?

And how could an honest, kindhearted man like his own father have befriended Northrop Vanderhoff? How could his father have been fooled for so many years? How could he have allowed Northrop to drive him to such desperate measures?

All questions without answers. His father could not respond to them. His father was dead.

Weariness swept over Remington, and he closed his eyes, swearing even as he drifted into sleep that he would have his revenge.

Four

THE SUN WAS BARELY A promise on the horizon as Libby made her way toward the barn. The morning air was crisp, a lingering chill mocking the coming of summer, and dew lay heavy on the ground. The moisture sparkled like tiny diamonds scattered over the earth.

Libby loved mornings, especially this time of year, when everything smelled fresh and new. She never minded awakening early. She never minded the chores that awaited her. This was her time.

Raising her left arm toward the sky, she said, “‘The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament sheweth his handywork.’” Quoting the verse made her smile. Praising God always had that effect on her.

When she pulled open the barn door a moment later, she heard the sound of whimpering puppies, obscured a moment later by a loud moo.

“I’ll be with you in a minute, Melly.” She set the milk bucket near the Jersey’s stall. Then she walked to the back of the barn and knelt beside Misty. “How’re you doing, girl?”

She stroked the border collie’s head before picking up one of the black-and-white puppies.

“Look at you. If you’re not a charmer, I don’t know who is.” She pressed the pup into the curve of her neck and jaw, enjoying the feel of his soft coat against her skin.