Dalton, Tymber - Hernando Heat (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour) (2 page)

Chapter Two

“Goddamn it, this coffee tastes like water!” Deputy Mason Carlisle opened the kitchen door. He stepped onto the porch and slung the offending liquid out into the yard, scattering chickens in the early morning light. “Why the hell you bother making it if you’re only going to waste it like this, Joe?”

His cousin, Joseph Lansing, arched an eyebrow at him. “Why the hell you drink it if you don’t like it? Some of us like coffee we can swallow without needing a spoon to scrape it out of the cup first.” He tolerated his younger cousin living with him because he loved him.

That was the only reason.

Well, maybe not the only reason, but it was the only reason he’d publicly admit to. Having Mason around beat living alone. Not by much, admittedly, but his thunderstorm of a cousin was enough of a distraction to help keep Joseph’s own mind off the past.

Amused, he watched as Mason rolled his brown eyes and grabbed the coffee pot off the stove. He stomped back outside and dumped it and the grounds over the edge of the porch and into a flowerbed before returning and pumping water into the sink to rinse the pot and start over. “You’re hopeless. You know that? You need a wife.”

“You need a woman worse than I do. The people of Brooksville expect their deputies to not need a bib when they eat.” He nodded toward Mason’s shirt, which sported a huge grease spot on the front.

Mason looked down. “Goddamn it!” He finished fixing a new pot of coffee and set it on the stove to boil while he stormed back to his bedroom. “This is ridiculous!” he yelled from his bedroom in the back of the house. “You need a maid!”

“I thought you said I needed a wife?” Joseph called back. “It’s not my fault you don’t know how to wash a shirt properly.”

The two cousins were as different in looks as they were personality. Easygoing, blue-eyed Joe at thirty-four, with his sun-bleached blond hair, was three years older than intense, brown-eyed and dark-haired Mason. Joe’s successful lumber mill only added to the income from his thriving cattle ranch on the outskirts of Brooksville.

Mason returned sporting a relatively clean shirt and holding the dirty one, which he dumped into the sink and began scrubbing with a bar of laundry soap. Joe watched on, amused. “You look like you’re about to lose a button on that one,” he teased Mason.

Mason swore again as he looked down the front of his shirt. “I don’t have time for this nonsense this morning.”

“Do you have any other clean shirts?”

“No!” He threw the soap into the sink, where it bounced off the enamel with a loud, clanging thump before it shot out of the basin again and sailed across the kitchen.

Joe burst out laughing.

“Shut up,” Mason growled.

Shaking his head, Joe disappeared to his room and reappeared with one of his work shirts. “Here, wear this. Take that one”—he nodded to the one Mason currently wore—“into town with you this morning. I’m sure Widow Dorchester can mend it for you.”

“Oh. Oh yeah. Good idea.” He quickly changed. “I’ve got two more that need buttons. I should take those in, too.”

“Good idea.” He shook his head as Mason disappeared to the back of the house again.
Heaven help me,
he thought. Thank God Mason was far better at being a deputy than he was at taking care of his laundry.

That boy really does need a wife.

* * * *

Katie awoke at dawn, as she usually did. After lighting her oil lamp and firing up the stove on the small back-porch kitchen, she put on a kettle of water to boil for her morning tea. She had three dresses to finish hemming today for Mrs. Palmer’s daughter’s trousseau. The girl would be leaving for her honeymoon after her wedding next weekend. Not to mention Mr. Greenville, who ran the dry goods store, said his latest shipment of fabric should arrive today. She had specially ordered several bolts for herself to complete some pending orders, and he’d assured her she could have first pick of the others as well.

She performed her morning ablution and dressed while she waited for the kettle to boil. As every morning, she stood in front of her husband’s picture. “Good morning, Paul. Going to be another warm one today.” While several women friends had hinted they could introduce her to single male relatives, she shunned that kind of contact despite her loneliness and longing.

She’d had the best husband in the world. How could any man compare? Not to mention the men who’d approached her, or who had been volunteered to her as available, weren’t exactly…handsome.

Most mangy cow dogs had better looks.

She sat at her tiny table, sipping her tea and eating a leftover biscuit from the previous night’s dinner when a loud knock on her front door startled her.

Who could that be?
Her hours were clearly posted on a neatly lettered sign beside the door, and a check of the mantle clock showed she still had thirty minutes before opening. Peeking through the curtain separating her bedroom from the rest of her store, she spotted a familiar foe trying to peer inside.

Blast that man!

She grabbed her shotgun, which she kept loaded with rock salt, and stormed to the front door. When she threw it open, the senior Dorchester looked startled before his expression turned calculating.

“Good morning, Katherine.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to talk. This is silly, for you to be living over here by yourself. You should be home in Dade City, with family.”

She hefted the shotgun, blocking him when he attempted to step inside. “You are
not
my family, Mr. Dorchester. Now get out of here.”

His face darkened, and she once again glimpsed the evil she suspected lived inside him. “I have someone interested in buying that property. It’s time for you to stop this foolishness so I can sell it.”

“What happened to wanting to keep it in the family?” she sarcastically asked. “That property belonged to my husband. He willed it to me. My attorney said it was legal and proper. I will do what I choose with that property, and for now, I choose not to sell it.”

She didn’t take her gaze off his face, but out of the corner of her eye she spotted Deputy Carlisle riding up.

Taking a step forward, she forced Dorchester out of the doorway and onto the front porch where Carlisle hopefully couldn’t miss what was happening.

“You will regret crossing me, Katherine.”

“That’s
Missus
Dorchester to you,
sir
.”

Deputy Carlisle did, in fact, spot the confrontation, because he spurred his horse faster until he slid to a stop in front of her store, kicking up a cloud of dust in his wake. He leapt off his mount and ran up to the porch, his hand on the butt of his revolver.

“What’s going on here? What’s wrong, Miz Dorchester? This man bothering you?”

Dorchester Senior didn’t say anything at first, just shot her a murderous glare. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m leaving.” He jabbed a pudgy finger at her. “But don’t think we’re through, Katherine.” He turned, stormed off the porch, climbed into his buggy, and snapped the team’s reins.

Once he turned the corner out of her sight, the tremors hit. It wasn’t until she felt Deputy Carlisle’s gentle hands on hers, taking the shotgun from her, that she realized she was also crying.

“Miz Dorchester?” His voice sounded kind and gentle. “Let’s get you inside and you tell me what’s going on.”

She nodded and let him escort her into the back room, where her knees gave out and she heavily sat at the table.

He knelt in front of her. “Are you all right? Are you hurt? Who was that man? Did he threaten you?”

A ragged laugh escaped her. “He’s my former father-in-law. A greedy son of a buck who thinks he can get his way by threats and bullying.”

* * * *

Joe’s stable boy had Mason’s horse saddled and waiting at the hitching post outside the front porch. Mason jammed the three shirts, as well as a pair of trousers he’d forgotten needed the seat mended, into a saddlebag. The twenty-minute ride into Brooksville was, as usual, uneventful. As the sun rose in a hazy blue May sky, indicating the high pressure system sitting over the top of their area, he knew it meant another scorcher. The rainy season should start soon, bringing momentary afternoon relief from the heat every day even though it also meant a return of the horribly muggy afternoons.

Then he rounded the corner.

When he spotted Widow Dorchester standing there outside her shop and holding a man at bay with her shotgun, he urged his horse forward at full gallop. He didn’t know her very well, but he and the other deputies tried to keep an eye out for her as much as they could, as did the volunteer fire brigade members when they were at the firehouse.

After the man left and Mason got her inside, she told him the story. He fought the urge to hop on his horse and go after the man and teach him a thing or two about manners. He knew of Widow Dorchester’s story from around town, but had never had an up close conversation with her before since he didn’t often work on this side of Brooksville. “Has he been bothering you, ma’am?”

“Not lately. But now that he’s back I’m guessing his threats will resume. He said he wants to sell the property. It’s not his to sell, it’s mine! My lawyer said so!” She blew her nose in a handkerchief and despite the circumstances, he realized for the first time how cute the strawberry blonde was. Definitely feisty. Dorchester had a good foot in height on her, and she’d stood tall against him.

She looked at him. “Thank you for coming along when you did,” she said. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am. Can I make you a cup of tea or something?”

“No, ma’am, that’s all right. Actually, I was on my way here.” He explained his mending problem.

She smiled, but it looked sad and careworn. “Please, bring them in. I’ll do them for you right now.”

“I don’t mind leaving them.”

“Nonsense.” She stood and smoothed her skirts. “After the grief you’ve saved me this morning, it’s the least I can do. Won’t take me long at all. Truth be told, my nerves are still a little rattled. I wouldn’t mind the company for a while longer.”

He retrieved the items from his saddlebag as she opened her shop. He sat and watched her as she found matching buttons for the missing ones and quickly sewed them on. Her hazel eyes keenly focused on her work, yet she easily talked with him while her needle rose and fell.

She smiled at him over the ripped seam in his trousers as she poked her hand through it and wiggled her fingers. “I hope you weren’t bending over in front of any ladies when this happened.”

He laughed. “Nope. Just my cousin. Believe me, Joe teased me something fierce about it.”

He loved her smile. From the worry lines around her eyes and on her forehead, he suspected she didn’t smile very much. “I’m sure he did, Deputy.”

“Please, call me Mason.”

Did he imagine she blushed a little? “All right, Mason.”

“May I be forward, ma’am?”

She blushed a little more. Could she look anymore beautiful if she tried? “Forward, Mason? And please, call me Katie.”

He took a risk. “Katie, would you allow me to take you to the dinner at the Methodist church tomorrow night?”

* * * *

Her first instinct was to say no. The word caught and hung on the tip of her tongue. Then she spotted the unmistakable hope in his sweet brown eyes. How had she missed his good looks before? Then again, she’d never had much contact with him before, despite hearing many local women talk about his charming ways and handsome features.

She took a deep breath. “I would be honored to accompany you to the dinner.” Considering it was only across the street, and she’d been planning on going anyway, what harm could come from that? If she had the handsome deputy on her arm, it would help ward off the unwelcomed advances from single men—or their well-intentioned relatives—that invariably occurred at the local shindigs.