A Kiss in the Morning Mist Page 10

  She didn’t believe him. That much was evident by the expression she wore, but she didn’t press it. He had told the truth—somewhat. He had asked Quincy to purchase him a tin of tobacco for his pipe, but he’d done so last night, giving the man the last of his money as they settled the cows in the barn just after sunset. He turned away and started opening the stall doors, letting the horses roam toward the big door at the back of the stable.

  It didn’t take long to lead them out to their respective paddocks then muck out the stable. They’d developed a pattern—another routine Eamon found comfort in. When the stalls were all cleaned to her specifications and fresh straw padded the dirt floor, Theo turned toward him and grinned. “I thought we’d do something different today.”

  “Something different? Like what?” Usually, at this point, they exercised the older horses in a small ring, then after a quick break for lunch, exercised the younger ones.

  “You’ll see.” Her grin widened as she moved toward the back of the stable and tossed him some leather halters and several lead ropes, then picked up the saddle that had been laid over a sawhorse, one that wasn’t as big or as heavy as the saddles he was used to. She hoisted it over her shoulder before he could help her, grabbed another halter hanging from a hook, and exited the stable. Her quick strides ate up the distance on the grassy path, affording him the uplifting opportunity to admire the sway of her backside as he quickly caught up to her. She turned toward him, the smile on her face warm and enticing.

  In that moment, he wanted to kiss her, to touch his lips to hers and see if they were as sweet and supple as they looked. He wanted to pull the tie holding her hair in a ponytail and let the whiskey-colored tresses tumble down her back so he could run his fingers through the curls. And unbutton the blouse she wore, the collar already open, revealing the long, slim column of her throat and the soft skin that seemed to beg to be touched. Her pulse beat steadily there; he could see it sometimes.

  He stopped short, stunned by the turn his thoughts had taken, equally stunned by how quickly his body reacted. He had no business wanting that. Wanting her. She was a respectable widow who was still in love with her late husband and he . . . well, she deserved so much better than him. And as soon as he had his pay filling his pocket, he’d be gone, although that plan didn’t hold the same appeal as it once did. How could he think about leaving this place? These people?

  “You’re scowling.” She stopped at the gate to the paddock where Echo and Ares frolicked with Hestia. The horses, seeing her come closer, raced to the fence, nickering and blowing in greeting, as if they knew what was in store for them.

  “Am I?” He made an effort to remove the scowl, but he couldn’t force himself to smile.

  Theo raised an eyebrow as she tilted her head and studied his face. “Hmmm, you were. Did I say or do something to upset you?” she asked as she settled the saddle on the fence railing, swung the gate open, and strolled through.

  He shook his head. It hadn’t been her at all, unless he could place the blame on how lovely a woman she was, not only on the outside, but on the inside, where it really counted. “No, ma’am.”

  “Ah, we’re back to calling me ‘ma’am,’” she commented quietly, almost as an aside, but he still heard the disappointment and hurt in the simple statement as she slipped the halter over Echo’s head. A flush crept up his face. He should apologize . . . but he couldn’t, afraid of the words that might slip from his mouth, words and the desire behind them that he had no business saying, much less thinking. She watched him, her gaze sliding over his face, before she drew in a deep breath and hefted the saddle onto Echo’s back. After tightening the cinches, she led the horse out of the gate. “Would you bring Ares and Hestia?”

  Eamon quickly maneuvered the halters into place for each horse, then attached their lead ropes, and followed behind as Theo led them farther up the grassy path toward the woods. “There’s a dirt straightaway before you get to the tree line with a grass track right beside it. I’ve measured them out at four hundred yards each. Do you have the stopwatch I gave you?”

  Eamon always carried it, though she hadn’t asked about it since she’d given it to him. He switched both lead ropes to one hand, then pulled the watch out of his pocket and handed it to her. Theo pressed the button and watched the second hand sweep over the numbers printed on the face, then handed it back to him. “Oh, I forgot my journal. And the starter pistol. Would you mind terribly going into my office and grabbing them? The journal should be on my desk, and the pistol should be in a small box on the top shelf of the bookcase.”

  “Of course.” He handed her Ares’s and Hestia’s ropes.

  “I’ll meet you at the straightaway.”

  Eamon gave a nod, then headed toward the house, excitement whispering through him. Today would be the first time he’d actually get to see the horses put through their paces. He’d spent enough time watching them race each other in the paddocks to know they were fast, but more importantly, he would get to see Theo ride. She’d told him that she did, but he hadn’t actually seen her do so. Did she ride as gracefully as she did everything else?

  He entered the kitchen and stopped in the doorway. He’d never been farther than this room and had no idea where to go, although he could see part of the dining room and parlor depending on which way he turned. Marianne stood at the table, canisters of sugar and flour beside her, and crimped the edges of soft, pliable dough around the rim of a pie pan.

  “Sorry to bother you, but Theo asked me to get her journal and starter pistol from her office.”

  The woman smiled, her face lighting up as she grabbed the loose material of her apron to wipe her hands. “And you don’t know where to go. Come, I’ll show you.”

  He forced himself to pay attention as Marianne led him through a small, but well appointed butler’s pantry into a formal dining room. The long table, covered in yards of lace, easily sat twenty guests. Splashes of color adorned the walls—paintings in oil, pastels, and watercolor, all horses in various settings from exciting racetrack to serene pasture. His feet went from carpeted floor to bare wood polished to a high gloss as Marianne led him out into a long hallway. A flight of stairs led to the second and third floors, but she didn’t lead him up. Instead, she stopped before a set of closed pocket doors near the entrance of the house and slid them open. “Here you are.”

  “Thank you.”

  Marianne gave a slight nod and headed back to the kitchen. Eamon poked his head into the room and blinked before he stepped inside. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected—perhaps an extension of Theo herself—dainty, feminine, neat, and orderly. What he saw in her office was the opposite—a completely masculine room filled with heavy, sturdy furniture and paintings of horses on the walls. He recognized Henry’s All or Nothing, the beautiful horse forever memorialized in oil.

  A big desk in dark mahogany dominated the room; stacks of newspaper clippings, letters, receipts, and magazines—some piled high and in danger of becoming small avalanches, some just spread out over the entire surface—hid the desktop from view. Behind the desk, two floor-to-ceiling bookcases on either side of the window held books and more stacks of paper. On the top shelf, as promised, he saw a small box with carved cutouts in a pattern he couldn’t quite discern.

  From the corner of his eye, he spotted another rag doll, this one with bright red yarn hair and denim overalls, perched on one of the leather chairs in front of the desk. She sported a bandage around her head and seemed a little newer than the other two dolls he’d seen, but no less loved.

  His gaze slid over another pair of pocket doors and a long, leather sofa, angled in front of the fireplace, a colorful afghan folded and spread across its back. The crocheted afghan was the only thing neat in this room.

  Eamon moved toward the bookshelves and grabbed the box. Flipping it open, he found a small pistol and several cartridges he recognized as blanks—all sound but no bullet. There was a difference between this pistol and the ones he’d used in h
is former life . . . this one wouldn’t kill anyone. And yet, that didn’t matter. It was still a gun.

  He stared at the revolver. The scar on his chest seemed to throb in rhythm with his heart, the puckered skin drawing tighter as images flashed through his mind. He recalled the wide grin on Tell Logan’s face as the outlaw aimed, blinked twice, and pulled the trigger, relived the pain of that bullet finding its mark . . .

  Eamon shook his head to clear it of the memories, as if that action could help, and forced himself to breathe. He could do this. He could hold the gun in his hand and pull the trigger. He could.

  Closing the box, he tucked it under his arm and moved around to the front of the desk. There were eight journals on the desktop, lined up side by side between two bookends carved as horses. He bent over a bit and scanned the red leather-bound books, but there were no dates imprinted on the covers and no way to know, without looking, which one was the most current. He picked up the first one, the binding soft, yet sturdy in his hand, and flipped it open to the first page, looking for a date. Neat, meticulous writing—not the elaborate swirls and loops that labeled the jars in Marianne’s pantry—filled the page. Noting the dates written there, he realized he’d started with the wrong journal.

  Placing it back in the same position he’d found it, Eamon put the carved box on the desk, then picked up the journal at the other end of the row. As he did so, a photograph fluttered to the floor and landed face up. His gaze focused on Theo as he put the record book on the desk and stooped to retrieve the keepsake. Her smile, even in black and white, lit up her entire face. Though he knew having one’s photograph taken was a sometimes tedious procedure, one would never know that by looking at her. She stood next to a dapper gentleman dressed in a fine light-colored suit, his hat in his hand. Light hair, slicked back against his head, emphasized his striking features. Theo had her hand tucked into the crook of his elbow, her head turned in a way that she could look at him but still see the camera. Such love showed on her face, there was no doubt in Eamon’s mind the man beside her was Henry.

  Emotion whipped through him. Not jealousy, though that demon was certainly in the jumbled mix of feelings. No, this was deeper, more intense. Almost painful.

  It was longing. And hopelessness. And fear, too. All wrapped up in one bubbling mass that sped through his veins. No one had ever looked at him the way Theo looked at Henry. Nor had anyone loved him the way she loved her late husband. He wanted the kind of love and passion he sensed within her. Or perhaps he was just losing his mind, seeing things that weren’t real, wishing for what he couldn’t have.

  “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  Startled, Eamon jumped, and the photograph once more floated to the carpeted floor as he turned toward Marianne in the doorway, embarrassment warming his face.

  She wiped her hands on her apron as she came farther into the room, then bent down and retrieved the photograph from the floor. A smile crossed her lips. “Ah, I remember this.” Fondness crept into her voice, though Eamon quite clearly heard sadness too. “This was taken just a few months before Henry passed.” She handed the souvenir from happier times back to him. “We’d gone to the county fair when it passed through town a few years ago. A nice man had set up a photography booth, and Henry thought it would be fun to have our photographs taken so we did. And it was fun. You can’t see it here, but we were laughing and carrying on and having such a wonderful time. Theo wanted that day to last forever so she asked the photographer to take a picture of all of us together.” She nodded toward the heavy oak mantle above the fireplace and another photograph in a frame made of silver. Eamon placed the photograph on the desk, stepped closer to the mantle, and studied the picture . . . everyone was accounted for: Henry and Theo, Marianne and Quincy. Granny. The children.

  He leaned closer to the photograph and noticed that not all the children were present. A particular pigtailed moppet was missing. “Where’s Gabby?”

  “She wasn’t with us then. She came to us later. After Henry . . . passed. He would have adored her though.” She joined him at the mantle, her eyes glowing as she glanced at the photograph, then at him. “He was a good man, and he loved our Theo more than life itself. I still miss him.”

  Eamon didn’t doubt it. If he had known Henry Danforth, he probably would have felt the same. He took one last look at the photograph, then turned away and headed for the door. Marianne’s humor-filled voice stopped him before he passed over the threshold.

  “Eamon, didn’t you come in here for these?”

  He turned and caught the twinkle of mischief in her eyes, as well as the journal and box with the starter pistol in her hand. The flush that had warmed his face now heated the rest of him as he took the items from her and quickly exited the room, though not quick enough that he didn’t hear her chuckle.

  He practically bounded up the grassy path, then slowed his pace as he drew closer to where Theo waited on the track beside several tree stumps. Once again, she seemed to be in quiet conversation with a horse. Echo lowered her head to allow Theo to press her face to her forehead while her fingers gently stroked the horse’s nose. Her ears were positioned forward, a sign of relaxation, and her tail swished the air in a slow, regular back-and-forth motion. One would have assumed Echo would be anxious for a chance to stretch her legs over the four-hundred-yard course or be pulling at the reins Theo held loosely in her hand, but she did none of those things. Perhaps that was why Theo spoke to her as she did.

  The other horses, Ares and Hestia, were off to the side in a long, narrow fenced-in area that paralleled the track for about twenty yards. Shaded by several trees, cooled by the mist that had never dissipated this morning, they galloped beside the fence, racing each other back and forth. In the short time he’d been gone, Happy, Mallory, and the cats had decided to join the activities as well and sat in front of the fence, their attention on Theo.

  She turned to face him as he approached, the smile stretching her mouth contagious and he found himself smiling in return. She loved this—loved every part of breeding and raising these horses, training them to be the fastest on the track. The truth was there in the happiness shining from her eyes.

  Stepping away from Echo, but still holding the reins in her hand, she started to step up on a tree stump.

  “Here. Let me help you.”

  “Eamon, I don’t need any help. I’ve done this a thousand times.”

  Ignoring her statement, he put the journal and starter pistol down on the other stump, then took her hand in his and helped her up. After so recently convincing himself that he wasn’t nearly good enough for her, holding her dainty yet strong hand just seemed to intensify his longing . . . and his regret. His entire body stiffened. If she noticed the sudden tension, she chose to pay no heed to it as she slipped her hand from his and fitted her foot into the stirrup.

  She swung her leg over, then seated herself comfortably in the saddle. She held the reins loosely in her hands, her back straight but not tense. She said a few words to the horse, and the big bay moved forward several paces, stopping at a line in the grass Eamon hadn’t even noticed.

  “Are you ready?” He pulled the stopwatch from his pocket, then took the pistol from the box. His muscles tightened just holding the revolver, even though he reminded himself there were no bullets, just blanks. Once again, the scar on his chest began to throb, and pain, whether real or imagined, seemed to center on the spot where his skin puckered. He knew it wasn’t possible. He had healed long ago. Yet the ache remained.

  “Eamon?” Her voice reached him and he blinked. “Are you all right?”

  He wasn’t aiming the revolver at a criminal, nor was an outlaw aiming at him. He forced himself to relax and grip the handle just a bit harder. The pain lessened, and his scar stopped its throbbing. He tightened his grip a little more and marveled at how familiar and comfortable, albeit frightening, the wood handle felt in his hand, like the feel of his father’s pipe cradled in his palm as he filled it with toba
cco.

  “I’m ready whenever you are.” She grinned, her hands loose on the reins, then gestured toward the end of the track with a nod of her head. Beneath her, Echo pawed at the ground, anxious to be running, but otherwise didn’t move. “Why don’t you move farther down the track toward the finish line? You’ll get a more accurate time. At least, that’s the way we’ve always done it.”

  Eamon walked to the other end of the track, the cats, dog, and duck following behind him, which was unusual. Normally, they stayed where Theo stayed . . . at least until the children came home. A tree stump at the end of the track acted as a table. He put the journal on the stump, then turned and waved. The mist for which the farm was named seemed to have grown thicker here, casting a haze around everything . . . the line of trees at the forest’s edge, the grassy track, Ares and Hestia racing each other to the right of him . . . and Theo. She waved in return, then settled into position. He aimed toward the sky and pulled the trigger. The blank cartridge did exactly as it was supposed to, the loud bang echoing in the trees. He pressed down on the timer with his other hand even as he brought the pistol down to his side.

  Echo responded to the shot of the pistol as if suddenly free from earthly chains, and her hooves pounded the grass track, throwing clods of dirt into the air. Theo crouched low over her neck as she raced toward him out of the mist like a wraith from another world. The wind whipped the hat off her head to leave her long ponytail rippling behind her.

  Eamon sucked in his breath, his heart pounding in his chest. He’d seen people ride before. He himself was more comfortable in the saddle than on his own two legs, but he never saw anything like Theo and Echo.

  She raced past where he stood, her laughter filling the air. He didn’t look at the stopwatch in his hand—he couldn’t—the sight before him was too alluring for him to turn away, though he stopped the instrument from recording time. Even without looking, he knew the horse had made great time. Indeed, Echo had flown as if she had wings like Pegasus.