A Kiss in the Morning Mist

  Praise for Marie Patrick

  “Plenty of intrigue, romance, and an unforeseen plot twist will captivate the audience of this spirited tale; enthusiastically recommended.”—Library Journal (starred review)

  “This western with a hint of mystery is . . . a real rootin’, tootin’, captivatin’ read!”—RT Reviews

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  Contents

  Cover

  Praise for Marie Patrick

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  ‘Mischief and Magnolias’ Excerpt

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Guide

  Contents

  Start of content

  A Kiss in the Morning Mist

  Marie Patrick

  Avon, Massachusetts

  To Jan and Paige, my wonderful (and very observant) beta readers: Thank you, thank you, thank you!

  To Jess, editor extraordinaire, for her expertise and encouragement.

  To Lexi and Ann, my critique partners, for holding my feet to the fire to finish this manuscript . . . as you know, some days were harder than others. I couldn’t do this without both of you, and I can’t thank you enough.

  And to my husband . . . always my hero!

  Chapter 1

  Colorado, April 1886

  For the first time in a very long time, Eamon MacDermott could breathe easier. He filled his lungs with sweet, fresh air. The knot in his stomach unraveled a little, just enough to be noticeable, and guilt, his constant companion, eased.

  A bit.

  He never thought he would come back to Colorado. There were too many ghosts here, too many memories of the day the Logan Gang changed his life, but he didn’t seem to have a choice. Something had drawn him back here. Perhaps it was the thought of his brothers, Teague and Brock, and his need to see them, though he wasn’t quite ready for that yet.

  His stomach growled, reminding him of his hunger and his meager provisions. The piece of jerky he’d eaten earlier had only served to make him hungrier. The coins in his pocket could buy him a decent meal, but only one, perhaps two if he was careful. He needed to find a job. Or a meal. Or both.

  He followed the road to Pearce, the rumbling in his stomach a companion to Traveler’s steady clip-clop, until he came to a wide path cut between two blue spruces. A big, white sign with black letters stood at the entrance to the path. It read “Morning Mist Farms, est. 1876.” Painted in the upper right hand corner was a horse in full gallop.

  Eamon eyed the sign from beneath the brim of his hat, then gave a slight tug on Traveler’s reins and nudged him up the path. He had nothing to lose and everything to gain. Even if there was no work to be found on Morning Mist Farms, at the very least, perhaps he could get a hot meal before going on his way.

  The house came into view around a bend in the path and made him sigh. A nice place. Made of wood and rock most likely mined from the river he passed a while back, the structure rose three stories with one-story wings branching out to the north and south. Windows, framed by black painted shutters, were open, and lace draperies fluttered in the breeze. Rose bushes, beginning to bloom, were lined up neatly all along the front of the house, as well as the path that curved around the structure toward the back.

  A porch ran the length of the three-storied section, sheltering two distinct sitting areas complete with wicker chairs and small round tables. A swing, suspended from the porch’s ceiling, rocked gently.

  Eamon dismounted and studied the house. A curious sensation settled in his bones. This house was more than just wood and stone―this house was a home. He could almost imagine the people who lived here, hear the laughter echoing within the walls.

  He tied Traveler’s reins to the railing, then took the steps leading up to the porch, his boot heels clicking on the wooden risers, and knocked on the door. While he waited for someone to answer, he studied his surroundings and noticed a rag doll on one of the chairs to his left. Missing a button eye, its black yarn hair in tangles, stuffing leaking from just about everywhere, the doll appeared to be very loved. Perhaps a bit too much, judging by her condition.

  There were children here. A little girl, at the very least.

  He knocked again, a little louder this time, then shoved his hand in his pockets. When no one answered, he bounded down the steps and followed a flagstone walk around to the back of the house, his gaze taking in and memorizing everything he saw as it came into view—barn, henhouse, icehouse, smokehouse, and huge stable—all well-kept and tidy—and a tall, sparse old woman wearing a big, straw hat. She wandered around a huge garden, talking to the various plants greening up the tilled earth, pulling weeds with gnarled, twisted fingers to fill the wicker basket hanging from her arm while pristine white sheets snapped in the breeze closer to the house.

  He removed his hat from his head and approached her. “Excuse me, ma’am.”

  She didn’t jump or stop pulling weeds from between rows of sprouting greenery. In fact, she didn’t seem to be alarmed by his sudden appearance at all. Instead, she peered at him from beneath the wide brim of her hat. Her sharp brown eyes boldly assessed him as her scrutiny went from the top of his hatless head to the boots on his feet and back. She smiled, the wrinkles on her face deepening, as she nodded. “Well, now, you certainly took your time gettin’ here, son, but you’ll do.”

  Somewhat taken aback by the comment, Eamon peered at the woman and frowned. She spoke as if she’d expected him, but how could she have known? He hadn’t known until a short time ago he’d be here.

  She continued her frank appraisal, then stuck out her hand. “Lavinia Stark, but you can call me Granny. Everyone does.”

  Despite her misshapen hands, her grip was strong and solid.

  “A plea—”

  He never had a chance to finish his sentence or introduce himself. He heard the back door open, then the distinct double click of a shotgun being cocked.

  Eamon released the woman’s hand and dropped his hat to the ground. Without another thought, he reached for the pistols slung low around his hips but found . . . nothing. No holster, no guns. He’d forgotten he no longer wore them—they weren’t part of him anymore and hadn’t been for a long time. He took a deep breath, turned slowly to face the direction of the noise, and blinked several times. A woman stood before him, the shotgun steady in her hands. Dressed in a white blouse, a split skirt made of fine, soft suede, and tooled leather boots, she stunned him with her perfection. A hank of whiskey-colored hair slipped from the ponytail at the back of her head and fell forward. She swung it out of her face with a practiced jerk of her head.

  She spoke, her voice low and gravelly, but exuding confidence. “Mister, I don’t know who you are, but if I were you, I’d get off my land. I’ve never killed anyone, but
there’s always a first time.” She didn’t raise the shotgun and point it at him, but she didn’t have to. The threat couldn’t have been more clear. She would if he forced her hand.

  She stood not ten feet away and looked . . . angry and unapologetic. Determined to make him leave. Green eyes, as green as spring grass, sparkled with indignation, and the firm set of her mouth left no doubt . . . she wanted nothing more than to have him gone, and he didn’t think she would hesitate to pull the trigger.

  “And you can tell Mr. Pearce I haven’t changed my mind.” Her voice dropped an octave, becoming more hoarse, sounding like she gargled three times a day with rocks, but still strong and commanding and oddly, very pleasant. “I’m not selling. I’ll never sell. I don’t care how many men he sends to bully me. He’s messing with the wrong woman.”

  “I don’t mean no harm, ma’am.” Eamon took a step back . . . a slow careful step, and just as carefully, picked up his hat. “I don’t know any Mr. Pearce. I’m just lookin’ for work. Or maybe a hot meal.”

  She didn’t seem convinced as she stepped closer, her eyes narrowing as she studied his face.

  “Theo Danforth! Put down that shotgun!” The woman beside him finally spoke and moved with a swiftness that belied her age, advancing on the woman named Theo.

  A heated, whispered conversation, which Eamon couldn’t hear, ensued while he watched both women warily, his hat still in his hands, his feet planted firmly to the ground. Their conversation became more animated, though he still couldn’t hear their words. The fact Theo still held the weapon tightly in her hands was enough to let him know he wasn’t welcome.

  “Look, lady, I’ll just leave. No harm done.” He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, his discomfort growing by the second. No one liked being on the wrong side of a gun, no matter which side of the law one stood on, even if the bore of the shotgun was pointed at the ground. Accidents could happen. “I ain’t that hungry.”

  Despite his words, his empty stomach chose that moment to gurgle loudly. Much to his embarrassment, the noise carried to where to the two women argued. The younger one snapped her mouth shut in midsentence, while the older one, Granny, grinned with smug satisfaction.

  Theo relaxed her grip on the gun, but she still didn’t smile. “The least I can do is feed you,” she said, though her expression made it clear she wasn’t happy about it. She turned and marched through the back porch into the house, slamming the door behind her.

  Granny held out her hand. “It’ll be all right, son. Trust me.”

  Though doubtful he should trust either one of them, Eamon allowed her to lead him toward the back porch and a long wooden trestle table before she went back to her garden. As he took his seat on one of the benches and placed his hat next to him, he noticed several things at once. Again, he saw toys—a wooden train, a barn that resembled the one standing across the yard, and another rag doll as equally loved as the one on the front porch, except this one had yellow yarn hair and a calico apron. Beside the door, a big bell had been screwed into the doorframe, and rain slickers, in various sizes, hung from hooks along the wall. Beneath the coats were boots, again in various sizes. Dried herbs hung from the ceiling of the porch and lent their aroma to the smells coming from the kitchen.

  He jumped to his feet as the woman named Theo came out onto the porch. She had replaced the shotgun with a tray, which she slid onto the table. On a flower-patterned plate, thick slices of ham and cheese were wedged between two pieces of bread. Steam rose from a bowl to the left of the sandwich, the aroma making his stomach grumble once more. She moved everything from the tray to the table, including a huge glass of milk, a napkin, and a spoon. There was also a cup of coffee, but she didn’t set that before him.

  “Sit,” she said as she moved the tray to the side and slid onto the bench across from him. A ray of sunlight settled on her, illuminating her entire being, making it appear as if she had a halo around her head. “Eat.” She nodded toward his food, then picked up her coffee cup and took a sip.

  Eamon took his seat and changed his opinion of her in that moment. Despite the fact she’d held him at gunpoint just a few short minutes ago, she looked like an angel, and he couldn’t stop himself from staring at her. She was older than he originally thought; fine lines radiated from the corners of her eyes. Deeper creases defined her mouth, telling him this woman smiled and laughed. Perhaps not right now, but quite often.

  She cocked an eyebrow and pointed to the food on the table once more before her gaze shifted to Granny in the garden.

  Embarrassed he’d been caught staring, blood heated his face as Eamon dug into his meal. The sandwich was delicious, the bread, as he suspected, soft and chewy, the ham succulent with the sweet taste of honey, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a bowl of chicken soup this delicious, nor dumplings so light and fluffy.

  Eamon felt the warmth of her gaze as her attention returned to him. She sipped her coffee while she studied him, but didn’t say a word until he took the last bite of his sandwich. “My name is Theodosia Danforth. And you are?” she asked, her brilliant green gaze never leaving his face.

  “Eamon MacDermott, ma’am.”

  “Mr. MacDermott,” she repeated and gave a slight nod, a thick curl of whiskey-colored hair falling next to her cheek. She tucked it behind her ear. “About earlier. I don’t normally greet people—”

  “No need to apologize, ma’am.”

  She stiffened and a becoming flush stained her features. “I wasn’t about to apologize, Mr. MacDermott. I have every right to defend my family and my property, by whatever means necessary.”

  Eamon almost grinned but forced it away. She was a thorny little thing, full of bluster and bristle. He liked that. “Yes, ma’am, you do.” He rose from his seat and grabbed his hat. “Thank you for—”

  She grabbed his arm, her long slim fingers imparting warmth to the flesh beneath the material of his shirt, a slight burst of heat that traveled along his veins, filling him with sensations he couldn’t describe. Unnerved, he wanted to take a step back but forced himself to remain exactly where he was . . . at least until the unfamiliar feeling passed.

  And whatever that sensation was, she must have felt it too. She released her grip on him quickly, as if burned. The flush staining her cheeks grew brighter, and her eyes, those glimmering shards of green, gleamed. “You still need that job?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I do, but . . . why did you change your mind?”

  Her gaze stayed on him, unblinking, and then she shrugged. “Let’s just say I’m willing to take a chance on you. Besides, a fancy back east lawyer wouldn’t be dressed the way you are nor would he wolf down a meal like he hadn’t eaten in three days.”

  He wished she would smile, but she didn’t as she gestured toward the bench. Eamon took his seat once more and laid his hat beside him.

  “Tell me about yourself.”

  “Not much to tell. You already know I’m looking for work.”

  “Have you worked on a horse farm before, Mr. MacDermott?”

  “No, ma’am, but I have moved cattle and milked a few cows. I also washed dishes and waited tables in a hotel in Tombstone, Arizona.” He didn’t tell her he’d been a U.S. Marshal, a job he loved before he put his guns away. She didn’t need to know he blamed himself for the deaths of his brother, Kieran, his wife, Mary, and their son, Matthew, and the near death of his brother, Brock, at the hands of the Logans. If he could forget, he’d be much happier. “Poured whiskey in a little saloon in Cheyenne, too, and once, on a dare, I even sang in that saloon.”

  His attempt at humor failed. She still didn’t smile. Instead, she absorbed the information with the tiniest frown on her face, the corners of her mouth turned down.

  “Can you repair fences and the like?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  There was another question in her eyes, but she didn’t ask. Instead, she took a deep breath, her chest expanding against the stark white of her shirt, distrust evident on
her face, and he couldn’t help wondering who or what had made her so. She didn’t seem like a woman who would normally be full of suspicion, but then, he didn’t know her. He only knew what he saw and felt—years of experience taught him to trust his gut. This woman was afraid, though she tried to hide it. Did it have something to do with the name Pearce she had mentioned? Who was he? And why did he want her to sell her farm?

  He shook himself out of his musings and listened.

  “Regardless, Granny insisted I offer you a job, and truthfully, we do need you. Breeding season is fast coming upon us, and I recently lost a worker,” she said, her gaze intent, “but I have rules, Mr. MacDermott. This is a working farm. We work. Hard. Every day. If you’re not willing to make that commitment, then I don’t want you.”

  Again, her hair fell in her face, but instead of tucking the thick tress behind her ear, she removed the strip of leather holding the mass together and let it hang loose to curl around her shoulders. Eamon could only stare. Her hair wasn’t just the color of whiskey. It was so much more. Rich golds, burnished reds, and deep chestnut shimmered in the sunlight, fascinating him. He resisted the urge to touch the softness and forced himself to listen to her words instead.

  “There are children here, none of whom have had an easy time of it. I will tolerate nothing less than kindness toward them.” She spoke around the strip of leather clenched between her teeth as she smoothed her hair back one more time. “I will tolerate no abuse to the animals either. None. Some of them have already been abused and are healing. I’ll let nothing stop that process.”

  She finished finger-combing those shining tresses back into a ponytail, wrapped the leather strip around the mass, and tied it off before she stood and smoothed the wrinkles from her split skirt, then stuck out her hand. “Can you abide by my rules? Think carefully before you answer. Many have said my rules are too harsh, and they quickly left.”