Robin Lee Hatcher (14 page)

She glanced down at Sawyer. “Are you all right?”

“I’m okay.”

“And Ringer?”

“He’s okay too.”

The moment the wagon stopped, Libby was over the side. As she ran toward the horses, she saw Remington slide to the ground, holding on to the harness to steady himself.

“Remington.” As she spoke
his name, he pulled her into his embrace, and she heard his heart beat against her ear.

They stood like that a long while before Remington said, “This is my fault. I shouldn’t have provoked him.”

“We don’t know it was Bevins.” She drew back and looked up.

“
I
know it was him.” He raised his hand to cup the side of her face. His voice softened. “I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to you.”

Her heart fluttered like the wings of a hummingbird, and she felt joy spreading a warmth through her body. He loved her. He’d never spoken the words, but he
did
love her. Maybe that meant he would stay. Maybe there was hope.

The blue of his eyes darkened. “It isn’t safe for us out here.” He took hold of her arm and turned her toward the wagon. “We’d better get moving.”

With the sheep herders off with the flock, the bunkhouse had not been used for two months. It looked it too. Cobwebs and dust clung to everything, and a film of dirt on the window worked as good as any curtain.

Libby offered to clean the place for Remington, but he declined her help, needing time alone with his thoughts. When he was with Libby, he forgot what mattered, he forgot why he’d come to the Blue Springs in the first place, he forgot just about everything except for his desire to hold her, to kiss her, to protect her.

But it’s me she needs protection from.

Remington had made too many mistakes. He’d been careless. He let himself care for his prey. That was sloppy detective work, and he wasn’t a sloppy detective.

He paused in his cleaning and leaned on the mop, taking weight off his bad leg. The pain had worsened tenfold since the wagon incident.

I need to get out of here.
He rubbed his thigh.
I need to
send that telegram and then put this place behind me.

Libby wasn’t Libby. She was Olivia Vanderhoff.

It is Mine to avenge; I will repay.

Remington raked a hand through his hair, wanting to silence the voice in his head. It was just one more reason he needed to get out of here. Ever since his father died, Remington had gone his own way with no thought of God, not considering if what he did was right or wrong in the eyes of the Lord. But since meeting Libby and Sawyer, he’d thought about his long-forgotten faith more than once, and he didn’t like the guilt he felt because of it.

He cast a jaundiced look around the bunkhouse. This ought to prove something, his taking up residence in this dismal room with an uncomfortable bunk because he didn’t want others talking about Libby, saying things that weren’t true. But why should he care what they said? She wasn’t going to live here much longer anyway. The talk wouldn’t hurt her once she was back in Manhattan. Libby would be away from the gossip, and Remington would have his money and his revenge. That’s the way it was meant to be.

It is Mine to avenge; I will repay.

Remington resisted the voice by tackling the dirt with renewed vigor.

That night Libby sat on the floor beside her dresser and stared at the miniatures inside the locket. She studied the hard expression on her father’s face. She saw no laughter there, no joy, no love. She wondered if he was capable of loving others.

Her gaze shifted to her mother, to the sad-sweet expression on her face. That was how Libby always remembered her, sad and wistful.

“I miss you, Mama. I wish you were here to counsel me.”

Lord, what is Your will? I used to feel like I knew what
You wanted for me, but now I’m confused. Did You bring
Remington here so I could fall in love with him, or is this a test?

Straightening, she looked down at the portraits, at this small link to her past, one more time. She brushed the miniature of her mother with the tip of her finger.

“I love you, Mama,” she whispered. Then she closed the locket and put it away.

Restless, Libby left her bedroom. In the parlor, the fire in the grate burned low, and the red coals cast eerie shadows across the walls. The wind outside had risen, causing tree limbs to brush against the side of the house, whispering mournfully. It all seemed fitting for her mood.

It wasn’t until she neared the sofa that she realized she wasn’t alone. She drew a quick breath of surprise as she stopped in her tracks, staring at the dark shadow in the overstuffed chair.

“Sorry,” Remington said. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“I thought you were out in the bunkhouse.”

“I came in to get another blanket and sat down to rest my leg. I must have pulled something today.”

She sat on the sofa. “Is the pain bad?” She wanted to touch him, help him, comfort him.

“No,” he replied, turning his gaze toward the fire. “It’s not bad.”

It wasn’t Remington’s leg but his conscience that bothered him most. He couldn’t shake the image in his head of Libby being taken from the Blue Springs Ranch by her father.

“Remington?”

The soft plea of her voice drew his gaze back to her.

“You asked me earlier why I left my home to come here. I never answered you.”

“It’s okay.” He was starting to think that the less he knew, the better. “It isn’t any of my business.”

“No.” She touched his wrist. “No, I want to tell you. I . . . I was running away from my father.” The hot coals on the hearth cast a red glow over her profile, the darkened room a perfect setting for the sharing of secrets. “My father decided I should marry a man who owned something Father wanted to acquire. My marriage was a business deal, and he didn’t care what sort of man he’d chosen to be my husband. If I’d stayed, I would have had no choice but to marry against my will.” Her voice lowered even more. “My father always gets what he wants.”

No one knew this truth better than Remington.

“It was always that way,” she continued, her voice soft and distant. “My father ran everything in my life. He chose my friends. He chose my clothes. He decided what I would do and where I would go, every minute of every day. The only thing he couldn’t control was my faith in God. He—” Her voice broke.

She doesn’t hate her father.
The realization surprised Remington. He heard pain in her words but no bitterness. Resignation but no hatred.

Libby sighed, then sat a little straighter on the sofa. “I know from observing my mother what it’s like not to be loved by one’s own husband, to be unequally yoked with someone who doesn’t share your beliefs. I saw what that did to her. I didn’t want the same thing to happen to me. So I ran away. God’s providence brought me here.”

Remington took hold of her hand. With a gentle tug, he pulled her from the sofa and onto her knees on the floor before his chair. He cupped her face between his hands and claimed her mouth with his, wanting to wipe from her memory the pain he’d heard in her voice.

This was the daughter of his sworn enemy, and he cared for her far more than he should.

With his left hand, he freed the ribbon that tied the end of her long braid, then loosened the plait until the thick tresses hung freely down her back. Releasing her mouth, he trailed kisses across her cheek to her ear, where he nibbled her tender lobe before burying his face in her abundant rose-gold hair.

This was the daughter of his sworn enemy, and he meant to betray her.

I’ve got to stop this. I can’t care for her.
I’ve got to finish
what I came here to do.

Holding her by the shoulders, he gently pushed Libby away from him. “It’s late. I’d better get back to the bunkhouse.” He rose from his chair, a bit unsteadily—unsure if it was because of his bad leg or the heady taste of Libby Blue—and walked away without a backward glance.

Fifteen

ANNA VANDERHOFF LET THE DELICATE yellow silk fabric slip through her fingers. “It is lovely, Mrs. Davenport, but I never wear this color. My husband prefers something more ... subtle.”

“But it would be perfect on you, Mrs. Vanderhoff. With your eyes and your hair . . . Why, you could find nothing better.”

The woman was right. The yellow would be perfect. She wore this particular shade often when she was a girl, before her marriage to Northrop. The first time she did so after their wedding, he demanded she remove the dress and destroy it.

A tiny sigh escaped her as she pushed away the bolt of fabric. “No, I’m sorry. Please show me something else.”

“Of course, Mrs. Vanderhoff.” The dressmaker turned toward the doorway leading to the workroom. “Jeanette,” she said to the young woman standing there, “please bring out some of the other silks.”

While she waited, Anna’s gaze returned to the forbidden fabric, and she felt bitterness burning hot in her chest. Why
shouldn’t
she have a yellow dress if she wanted one?

But she knew why. Northrop would simply send it back to Mrs. Davenport. He would never allow her to wear it. The color was frivolous, he would tell her.

The shop door opened, causing the bell to tinkle. Anna heard Mrs. Davenport’s gasp of surprise and twisted on her chair to see who had entered.

The woman was a stranger to Anna. Tall and attractive, she appeared to be no more than thirty years of age. She wore a graceful gown of India silk, the black fabric brightened with a pattern of pink and yellow blossoms. Her dark hair was mostly hidden beneath a large straw hat trimmed with pink ribbon and pink and cream flowers.

Mrs. Davenport hurried forward. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Prine.” She spoke softly, but Anna still heard her.

Mrs. Prine?
Anna continued to stare. Ellen Prine? If so, the “Mrs.” was a lie, for Anna knew Ellen Prine was neither married nor widowed.

“I’m afraid your gown won’t be ready until tomorrow,” the dressmaker said as she placed herself directly between Anna and the other woman.

“But you sent word that—”

“I’m sorry. It simply isn’t ready.” Mrs. Davenport’s anxiety was obvious.

The last of her doubts disappeared. This was Northrop’s mistress. Anna rose and turned to get a better look at her.

At the same time, Ellen glanced in Anna’s direction. The mistress’s eyes widened and her back went rigid.

Anna understood. She felt herself stiffening too, knowing she was looking at the mother of Northrop’s two illegitimate sons.

“Mrs. Davenport, why don’t you check on that fabric for me?” Anna suggested, never taking her gaze off Ellen Prine.

“Well, I . . .” The dressmaker glanced from one woman to the other, then scurried from the room without another word.

Anna stepped around her chair. “You must be Ellen. I’m Anna Vanderhoff.” She felt a surprising calm flow through her.

“I know who you are.”

“It never occurred to me you might patronize Mrs. Davenport’s shop, but I suppose it makes sense. This way, Northrop has only one bill to pay at the end of each month.”

Ellen didn’t reply.

Anna moved closer, studying the pretty, younger woman. No wonder Northrop was attracted to her. She had pale, flawless skin and a generous mouth; a long, slender throat; and a narrow waist. Her hair was a deep umber shade, almost auburn, but without quite so much red. She must have been no more than eighteen when she gave birth to Northrop’s first son.

“I suppose it’s surprising we haven’t met before,” Anna said at last. “After all, thirteen years is a long time.”

“Yes.”

“Do you love my husband, Miss Prine?”

Ellen looked surprised. “Love him?”

“I’ve always wondered, and this may be my only chance to ask. I may be dead and buried before another thirteen years pass. Do you love him?”

“Why would I stay with him if I didn’t?” Her tone was defensive, haughty.

At one time, Anna had hated this young woman, sight unseen. Now she felt only compassion for her. “Why else would you stay? Perhaps because there is nothing else you can do. You are trapped as surely as I am, Miss Prine.”

“My sons will inherit Vanderhoff Shipping when their father dies. He’s promised me.”