The Bounty Hunter's Bride. Victoria BylinЧитать онлайн книгу.
are you, Mr. Morgan?”
“I told you. I’m Patrick’s brother.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Beau held back a smart remark about jabbering females. If Miss Baxter ended up at the hotel, she might blather to every busybody in town. She looked like the kind of woman who’d want to go to church on Sundays. Beau knew all about gossip cloaked in prayer. He’d been the focus of his share after Lucy’s death. Wishing he’d been less of a blowhard, he tried to smile. “Forget the bluster. I’m no one.”
“Somehow, I doubt that.”
Beau said nothing. In truth, his reputation stretched from Bozeman to El Paso, across the plains and over mountains that dwarfed a man’s pride but not his pain. If word spread he was in Castle Rock, anyone he touched would be a target for Johnson. That included Miss Baxter. He didn’t need another female in his care, but honor required him to see to her safety. Like it or not, he’d have to keep an eye on her.
No hardship there…Daniela Baxter was just plain pretty. Slender but womanly, she filled out the dress in all the right places. Not that Beau cared. Being a man, he couldn’t help but notice her looks, but he knew the rules. When he’d married Lucy, he’d promised to love, honor and cherish his wife until they were parted by death. Lucy was gone, but Beau took comfort in keeping his vows. His eyes locked on Miss Baxter, saying things with a look that acknowledged the deepest of truths. He was male. She wasn’t. He had the power to harm her. She needed to know he never would. He made his voice solemn. “I’m an honorable man, Miss Baxter.”
“You’re the one who mentioned wolves,” she replied. “I understand they come in sheep’s clothing.”
“I’m not one of them.”
Before she could reply, footsteps padded on the landing at the top of the stairs. He turned and saw Ellie and Esther peeking around the corner. Esther, as always, had her thumb in her mouth. She was five and too old for the habit, but Beau hadn’t tried to stop her. Human beings, no matter their age, took comfort where they could find it.
“Are you Dani?” Ellie asked.
“I am.”
The girls hurried down the steps and threw themselves into her arms. More hugs, more tears. Beau was tired of the flood but knew the girls would pull on Miss Baxter’s heart in a way common sense couldn’t. With a throat as dry as sand, he watched the swirl of pink and ribbons and locks of golden hair. All four of them were blond, though the girls’ hair would darken with time as Patrick’s had. Beau’s hair had lost its shine a long time ago, though it lightened up in the summer.
He watched as the woman kissed Ellie’s forehead, then lifted Esther on to her hip. In a voice choked with tears, she rambled about God and Patrick looking down from Heaven.
They loved you, brother. I wish I’d known you better.
Even as he thought the words, Beau stifled his regrets. He’d learned to live one day at a time. To take what pleasure he found and be content with it. A can of beans for supper. A lantern on a moonless night. If a man didn’t have a home, he couldn’t lose it. If he didn’t love, he couldn’t get hurt. Beau had drawn that line the day Clay Johnson shot Lucy and not once had he crossed it. He hoped Daniela Baxter would be wise and draw a similar line for herself. She had no future in Castle Rock. Even if he’d wanted to hand her custody of the girls, he couldn’t do it. Running a farm required both brains and muscle. The thought of leaving a woman and three children at the mercy of hired hands struck him as gutless.
Beau glanced at the mantel clock. In two hours, he had an appointment with Trevor Scott, the attorney handling Patrick’s will. If things went as planned, the girls would leave for boarding school at the end of the month.
Ellie, a tomboy in coveralls, broke the hug and looked at Dani. “You’re staying, aren’t you?”
Miss Baxter tousled the child’s hair, then looked at Beau. Her eyes soothed his soul and laid it bare at the same time. “Can I trust you, Mr. Morgan?”
“With your life.”
“In that case, we have a deal. If you’ll stay in the barn, I’ll tend to the house.”
When she held out her gloved hand, Beau noticed the cupped shape of her fingers. His own hand, loose and open, was just a clench away from the violence that defined his life, but he offered it in good faith. He expected to see trepidation in her eyes. Instead she squeezed back with surprising firmness. The grip, he realized, came from hard work. The grit came from her heart. Beau saw her pink dress, the shadow of roses in her cheeks, and pined a moment for Lucy. How did it feel to grow old with a woman? To see your daughters marry and your sons grow strong? To live without the thirst for Clay Johnson’s blood? Beau would never know. Most of the time, he didn’t want to know. He let go of Miss Baxter’s hand. He’d had all the innocence he could stand for one day.
He’d seen a rented buggy out front. “Where’s your trunk?”
“At the train station.”
Beau thought of his appointment with Patrick’s attorney. “I have to go to town this afternoon. I’ll take you and the girls and we’ll pick it up.”
“Thank you,” she said.
Beau looked down at his nieces. “Get going. We leave in ten minutes.”
They scurried up the stairs like frightened mice, leaving Beau to wonder what he’d done to scare them. He wished he could be less stern, but he had a melancholy nature. Miss Baxter had turned her head to watch the girls. Even with tears on her cheeks, she seemed like the cheerful sort. Beau hoped so. The girls needed a woman’s tenderness.
Leaving Miss Baxter at the stairs, he strode into Patrick’s bedroom where he changed into a clean shirt, then balled up his laundry and slung his saddlebag over his shoulder. As he came out of the dark room, he saw Miss Baxter sitting on the bottom step with her head bowed.
Beau feared God but didn’t much like Him. Taking Patrick’s life struck him as wrong. Leaving this young woman to cope alone counted as cruel. He stopped a few feet away. “Miss Baxter?”
She looked up with damp eyes. “Yes?”
“I’m truly sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
Beau shifted his weight. Handing her his dirty clothes didn’t seem right, so he headed for the door.
When she called his name, he turned but said nothing.
“Is that your laundry?” she asked.
“Yes, it is.”
“I expect to keep my end of the bargain. Leave your clothes and I’ll wash them tomorrow.”
Beau stepped back to the staircase where she’d pushed to her feet. Judging by the twitch of her nostrils, the smell of the barn reached her before he did. He had three horses in his care, his roan and Patrick’s two workhorses.
“You’ve been mucking out stalls,” she said.
“Someone had to do it.”
“And the milking?”
“Of course.”
What did she think? That he dozed in a hammock all day? Patrick had ten Jersey cows. They might have been “ladies” for Patrick, lining up at the gate at milking time, but they hadn’t taken to Beau. Each one had bawled and squalled while he looped a rope around her neck and led her to the barn for milking. He’d felt ridiculous on a little three-legged stool, and his clumsy hands annoyed the cows until Emma had given him pointers. She’d also informed him the cows had names and liked it when her pa sang hymns. Beau had grunted, then listened to the child crooning words to a song he’d made a point of forgetting.
Blessed assurance, Jesus divine!
Oh what a foretaste of glory is mine…
Beau