Blackstone's Bride

Dedication

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Epilogue

Stolen Kisses

Books by Teresa Southwick

Copyright

About the Publisher

“Damn it! I smell smoke.”
Jarrod Blackstone reined in his roan and looked around. His foreman, Gib Cochran, stopped beside him.

In this wild, rugged country, a man learned to listen with all his senses. No sight, sound, or smell could go unexplained. The threat of fire struck fear in every rancher, especially after all the rain that winter. Vegetation had grown waist high in some places, but was dry and brown now. One spark and a little wind could start a wildfire that would consume every last blade of grass. A blaze could burn for weeks, until it reached the ocean, destroying grazing land, cattle, and lives.

They were about a hundred yards from the house. The birds still chattered and bees continued buzzing. That told Jarrod that the faint smell of smoke was nothing nature need worry about. So he knew it came from the ranch buildings.

“You didn’t forget to bank the fire in the bunkhouse again, did you, Gib?” he asked.

“Nope.”

“I was afraid of that.” Jarrod’s horse shifted nervously as he looked closer. Pointing a gloved finger, he said, “There. It’s coming from the main house.”

Beyond the thick oak grove in front of him, smoke rose, gray and unmistakable against the rich, dark blue haze of the mountains behind it.

“Yup. No mistake. That’s where it’s comin’ from all right.”

“I left the stove cold,” Jarrod said, uneasy. “Haven’t had a fire in the front room since …” He recalled the last time and frowned.

“You expectin’ anyone?” Gib asked, scratching the silver stubble on his chin.

“Who’d come all the way out here?”

“No one. And if they did, they wouldn’t make themselves at home. Unless maybe they was lookin’ for help—or trouble.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Jarrod said, lifting his pistol from the holster strapped to his thigh. He spun the cylinder to make sure he had a full load. Gib did the same.

“Ready, boss?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Jarrod answered. “Let’s go.” The thick undergrowth muffled the sound of horses’ hooves. It was late afternoon and nearly dark beneath the dense ceiling of interlacing tree branches. There was still enough spring left in the air to make it chilly as the sun went down.

They approached the rear of the three-story, white-shingle-covered house. The top floor was an attic, the middle contained bedrooms, and the bottom held the main living area. That’s where the intruder would be, but from here Jarrod saw nothing amiss.

He pulled back on his reins and held up his hand, signaling Gib to stop. Jarrod quickly dismounted, and the other man followed suit. Together, they circled around to the front of the house. Three columns held up the roof over the porch, where two slat-backed rockers sat with a table in
between. A wagon hitched to a couple of chestnut horses stood several feet away. Other than that, everything looked the same as it had when he’d left that morning. As they moved closer, Jarrod saw there was writing on the side of the wagon proclaiming its owner:
HOLLISTER FREIGHT CO
. In the wagon bed stood a canvas-covered object.

Jarrod relaxed his grip on his pistol and holstered it. Wasn’t likely that anyone from the town of Hollister was dangerous. When redheaded Abby Miller walked out onto the porch, he changed his mind about that. She was trouble of a different sort.

“Howdy, Firecracker.” Gib grinned.

Jarrod groaned. He hadn’t seen Abby for a while. Not since Dulcy had left.

“Good day, Gib, Jarrod.” Her voice was husky. “I’ve got a delivery for you. From Chicago.”

He nodded. “I’ll have Dusty and Slim unload it.”

“Thanks.”

“Looks like ever’thin’s fine here. I’ll rub down the horses and stable ‘em, boss.”

Jarrod nodded, although he wasn’t so sure everything was fine. It never was when Abby showed up.

“Nice to see you again, Gib,” she said.

“Same here.” He nodded once, then walked away.

In any other woman, Jarrod would have thought that smoky, soft voice was practiced and meant to tease a man. But not Abby. She was a no-nonsense, get-the-job-done sort of woman. He’d never known her to flirt, at least not in front of him. He couldn’t say what she did in Hollister, which was where she lived, worked, and spent most of her time, when she wasn’t at Blackstone Ranch trying to deliver some newfangled contraption someone else had ordered and didn’t want.

He stopped at the bottom porch step and looked up at Abby. Dressed in a long-sleeved, plaid cotton blouse, brown split skirt, and boots, she leaned back against the middle porch column. They were not quite eye-to-eye and she looked down her nose at him. He noticed it was a pretty
little nose crisscrossed with freckles, but he still didn’t like that she was looking down at him.

Jarrod stepped up to the bottom step, then stared straight into eyes as blue as the Pacific on a clear summer day.

He frowned. “What did you bring this time? Some contraption that’ll turn cow pies into perfume?”

Far from being intimidated by his gruffness, she smiled at him. Her eyes twinkled, again reminding him of the ocean as the sun’s rays turned the peaks of the swells into diamonds.

“Are you still angry about that painting? That was a long time ago, Jarrod.”

“It was fruit, Abby. What am I supposed to do with a flat canvas full of apples, pears, and bananas?”

“Hang it in the parlor like I suggested.”

“I didn’t want it.”

“Maybe not, but your wife did. My responsibility was to deliver it to its destination. You could have sent it back to Hollister with me.”

“You would have charged me to haul it back.”

“I had no choice. It’s my job.”

“So what
did
you bring me this time?” He almost didn’t want to know. Every time she showed up, his life turned upside down.

“It’s the bookcase you ordered. There’s something else—”

Just then the front door opened and slammed shut. A small boy stopped beside her. Jarrod hadn’t the least notion how old he was. He’d never been around kids much. This one’s blond head came to about Abby’s waist. He was blue-eyed and scrawny. He had his thumb in his mouth, and his other hand clutched his privates as he hopped from foot to foot.

“Are you my uncle Jarrod?” he asked.

Stunned, Jarrod couldn’t get a word out. A pained expression crossed the child’s face. “Gotta go,” he said. As he bounced, he looked around for the necessary.

Jarrod pointed through the trees. “Over there,” he said.

The boy took off running.

“What’s going on, Abby?” he asked suspiciously.

Before she could answer, the door opened again. A girl came out and stood beside Abby. She was slightly taller than the boy and there was more than a little resemblance between them. Same color hair, but hers was curly, and she had green eyes.

“Where’s Oliver?” she asked.

“He went to the outhouse.” Abby put her hand on the child’s shoulder. “This is Katie.”

Two of his sister Sally’s children were named Oliver and Katie. The door opened again. An older girl and a boy slightly younger stepped outside. The brown-haired, green-eyed girl stood close to Abby, as if for protection. The boy’s hair was the exact color as his sister’s, but his eyes were gray. He kept himself slightly apart.

All four of them were thin. Jarrod didn’t remember ever being that skinny as a boy, but that had been a long time ago. He wondered about their ill-fitting, threadbare clothes. Sally wouldn’t dress them in playthings to travel. More likely, they’d be in their Sunday best.

“What’s going on?” Jarrod asked.

Abby looked at him nervously, although she was trying to hide it. “I did bring you something else,” she said. “But this time I think you’ll be pleased. They tell me you’ve never met. Jarrod, may I present your nieces and nephews.”

“Where’s Sally?” he asked. He hadn’t seen his sister in fourteen years. Why hadn’t she let him know she was coming? He had a bad feeling as he glanced at the three of them. “Where’s your mother?”

Abby’s eyes clouded as she looked at the oldest girl. “Lily?”

The child’s hands anxiously twisted together. “She’s dead, Uncle Jarrod. We buried her three weeks ago. Before she died, she wrote you this.” She reached into the pocket of her patched calico dress and pulled out an envelope. Then she stepped shyly to the edge of the porch and handed it to him.

He opened it and scanned the paper. Instantly he recognized Sally’s neat, artistic handwriting. He read quickly, barely absorbing the essentials. Sally’s no-good husband was dead. She begged Jarrod’s forgiveness for not listening when he had tried to warn her about Reed Donovan. When she knew she was dying, she had to make sure her children would be provided for. She wanted them raised as Blackstones on the family ranch, as she and Jarrod had been.

He looked at Abby. Of all the deliveries she’d made, this was the worst. Shock, grief, and unreasonable anger boiled up inside him. He knew it was unfair, but the need to lash out at someone was overpowering.

He fought it as Abby and the children stared at him, waiting.

The silence dragged on, and Katie started to whimper. Abby squeezed the girl’s shoulder reassuringly. “Say something, Jarrod.”

“I can’t.”

“They’re your family. The resemblance is unmistakable. Tom has your eyes. They’ve got Blackstone written all over their faces.”

“I can see that.”

“On the way from town, they could hardly wait to meet you. Lily showed me a picture of you that her mother gave her.” She half turned to the girl. “Show him, Lily.”

The girl hesitantly stepped toward him again, and Jarrod’s chest tightened when he saw that she was the image of her mother. He took the old tattered tintype from her and recognized the likeness of himself taken when he was twenty and Sally six years older. She had left not long afterward.

He couldn’t believe that his sister, always so full of life and mischief, was gone. He’d never see her again. There were things he wanted to say to her, and now he never could.

At the sound of running footsteps behind him, Jarrod turned to see Oliver coming as fast as he could go on his short, spindly legs. The boy stopped beside him and tugged on his pant leg.