A Kiss in the Morning Mist Page 14

  And so Aldrich Pearce, a man who wanted satisfaction immediately in some cases, but was willing to wait in others, waited. His gaze was drawn to the map over the now cold fireplace. Yes, he could be patient when the circumstances dictated. He turned away from the map and headed toward his desk.

  The door to his sanctuary burst open and crashed against the wall. Aldrich flinched, but otherwise didn’t move as Tell Logan stood in the doorway, his hands hanging loosely at his sides, but looks were deceiving. Aldrich knew, despite Logan’s relatively relaxed stance, he could draw the pistols from his holster and pull the trigger so fast, you’d be dead before the smoke cleared the barrel.

  A snarl curled Logan’s lips beneath the bushy handlebar mustache, and his eyes were squinted beneath the brim of his hat as he scanned the room, which made the scar running down his cheek appear more sinister. He looked like the devil himself, come to earth to wreak havoc and mayhem, leaving nothing but heartache in his wake.

  Aldrich studied the man and waited for thunder to rumble and lightning to strike, as he thought it should whenever Satan—or his henchman—took center stage. He’d seen that in a play once and the image had never gone away, but it didn’t happen today as Logan crossed to the bar in his slow, rambling walk, his spurs jingling with every step he took. “I’m a busy man, Pearce.” He didn’t pour himself a drink. Instead, he pulled the cork from a bottle of whiskey and drank directly from it. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve when he was done. “I don’t have time for you to send your sniveling son up to fetch me every time you got a bee in your bonnet.”

  All of it—his attitude, his looks, his slow movements—were meant to intimidate. And for the most part, it worked. AJ was terrified of the man. Most people were, but not Aldrich. He could intimidate people as well as—or better than—a two-bit desperado like Tell Logan. “You’re on my payroll. You’ll come when I tell you to come.”

  The fingers on Logan’s right hand twitched as they inched toward the gun handle gleaming dully in the light spilling through the window. For a split second, Aldrich thought he might have gone too far, but instead of drawing and shooting, Logan simply patted the gleaming ivory handle and grinned. “Had ya goin’ there for a minute, didn’t I?”

  Aldrich did not respond. He simply glared at the gunslinger and hoped the relief he felt to still be alive did not show. A lesser man would have fallen into his chair, his knees suddenly unable to support his weight. Not him. He stood straight, shoulders back, lips pressed together, not willing to show any sign of weakness to the bully in front of him. And that’s what Logan was—a bully.

  After a moment, Logan shrugged and slumped into the chair opposite him. He took off his hat and laid it on the seat of the chair next to him, revealing dark hair that looked like it hadn’t been washed—or combed for that matter—in weeks. He took another swig from the bottle. A little whiskey dribbled down the side of chin and dripped onto his filthy shirt. Aldrich didn’t know what stained the shirt other than dirt, but from his viewpoint, it could have been egg. Or maybe gravy. Difficult to tell as Logan was never one to be concerned about appearance. As long as he did the job, Aldrich didn’t care what he looked like.

  “What the hell was so damned important?”

  “I have two words for you.” Aldrich placed his hands on his desk and leaned forward, pinning the outlaw with his stare. “Eamon MacDermott.”

  Logan paused with the bottle halfway to his mouth. A curious look came into his nearly black eyes. Aldrich recognized it for what it was—panic. “What did you say?”

  “Eamon MacDermott. Or should I say Marshal MacDermott?”

  In all the time he’d known him, Aldrich had never seen the hired gun sweat. He did now and it wasn’t pretty. Perspiration beaded on his forehead and cheeks. It even beaded at the base of his Adam’s apple, something Aldrich had never seen before. He himself never perspired. He was never warm enough or scared enough to sweat.

  Logan tried to cover his sudden agitation and took another quick swig from the bottle. “What about him?”

  “Did you know that he’s here? In Pearce?”

  The scar on Logan’s cheek stood out in stark relief as the man lost all color in his face and more sweat beaded on his forehead. A pink tongue licked pale lips. “He ain’t dead?” The question was asked in a tone that spoke of disbelief until Logan sat up straight. “Shit! I shot that son of a bitch in the chest. How can he not be dead?”

  Aldrich shrugged, enjoying this little game immensely. It was one thing to not show fear to Tell Logan, but it was another to turn the tables on the killer in front of him and watch him squirm. The outlaw seemed truly surprised MacDermott wasn’t dead . . . and he was afraid, which suited Aldrich’s purposes perfectly. “You missed.”

  Logan jumped from his seat. The whiskey bottle dropped to the floor as he drew his pistol in one smooth motion, and pointed the bore at Aldrich’s chest, the barrel shiny in the late morning sun. “Missed hell! I was this close, Pearce. I saw him go down, an’ he wasn’t breathin’ when me an’ Zeb hightailed it outa there.”

  Again, Aldrich shrugged and slowly lowered himself into his chair, even though the gun was still pointed at his chest. “I wasn’t there, Logan. I don’t know what happened. All I know is that Marshal Eamon MacDermott is alive and well and working on Morning Mist Farms.”

  Logan uncocked the revolver and sat as well, the pistol resting on his lap where he could caress the ivory handle. He continued to sweat. Several beads of perspiration rolled down his face and were absorbed in his thick handlebar mustache. “Farmin’?”

  “Does it matter what he’s doing? He’s breathing and that’s all you need to know.” He pinned Logan with another glare when what he really wanted to do was laugh in the outlaw’s face. Tell could be intimidating, frightening everyone from little girls to grown men, that was true, but he could be manipulated too, by someone who knew how. And Aldrich Custer Pearce knew how.

  “He should be dead. I shot him.” A belligerent note crept into Logan’s voice, but beneath his tanned skin, his face was pale with the slightest hint of green. Sweat left wet rings on his black shirt and the odor emanating from that sweat became unbearable in the room, despite the windows being open to catch every little breeze. “Don’t you want to know why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why he needs to be dead.”

  “Logan, I don’t give a damn why you shot him or why you want him dead. I just want to know what you’re going to do now.”

  “Kill him, o’ course.” He picked up the pistol and stroked the barrel before taking aim at a painting on the wall. He didn’t pull the trigger, but imitated doing so.

  “Good. Good. You do just that.” If Logan wasn’t sitting across from him, Aldrich would be rubbing his hands together in anticipation of Theo Danforth coming to him for help. The more he thought about it, the more he liked it. Truly, it would be the best possible scenario for him. She’d been strong enough when Henry died to carry on and keep their dream alive. Would she have the heart to continue the struggle when everything she worked for went to hell, or would she decide to give it all up? He loved nothing more than seeing a strong woman finally break, and with MacDermott out of the way, he could get what he wanted—her, the farm, the horses. Everything. The hell with how much AJ thought he was in love with her.

  But first, he wanted to see her beg. Needed her to realize that Aldrich Pearce always got what he wanted. She should never have turned him down all those months ago. He’d come to her as an honorable man, asking for her hand in marriage. She had been kind, had said all the right things, but in the end, she had declined his offer. Still, he didn’t want anyone to hurt her. That would be his job once she was begging him. “Go ahead and kill MacDermott, but don’t hurt the woman. She’s mine. I want her strong enough to crawl to me on her knees.”

  “Woman?”

  “Theodosia Danforth. Theo. She owns Morning Mist Farms. I want that farm and all that glorious horseflesh. And I want the wom
an.”

  “I see.” A grin settled on Logan’s lips, but it wasn’t a nice one.

  Aldrich chose to ignore it as he rose from his seat. “No, you don’t.” He gave a slight nod to the outlaw. “We’re done here. You can let yourself out.”

  Chapter 10

  Eamon took a deep breath, grabbed his shovel and rake, and laid them over the wheelbarrow, then pushed the wheelbarrow beyond the stable door, grateful for the cool breeze that dried the sweat on his face and back. Mucking out the stalls was hard, hot work—a task that seemed to never end. For the moment, he was finished, and the results would fertilize Granny’s garden.

  He had done it alone today. No Theo beside him, which didn’t make keeping his mind on his chores any easier. Beside him or not, she remained a distraction. The kiss they’d shared, even though it had been days ago, lingered in his mind. As did the haircut she’d given him; her fingers running through his hair, then across the back of his neck had been one of the most enjoyable, but agonizing, experiences he’d ever had, affecting him not only mentally but physically—even a second dip in the ice-cold water of the swimming hole where he usually washed up hadn’t diminished his ardor.

  If they’d been alone, if her family hadn’t been in the parlor, he might have brought her down on his lap and kissed her again . . . and again, but he hadn’t dared to touch her. He might not be able to let go this time. He might forget he was an honorable man and she was a respected widow.

  Ever since that haircut, though, she’d been busy getting ready for the horse breeders and buyers who were expected to be here within the next couple days.

  He stopped the wheelbarrow beside Granny, who, on her hands and knees, pulled the weeds from between rows of beans and peas and potatoes. “Where do you want it?”

  The woman peered up at him from beneath the wide brim of her hat, her smile wide. There was dirt on her face as well as her hands, which were without gloves. She never wore them, claiming she wanted to feel the earth between her fingers. She aimed her little spade at the far corner of the garden where corn would soon grow tall. “Over there would be fine. Thank you, Eamon.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  As he spread the manure where Granny wanted, his mind wandered back to his favorite subject: Theodosia Danforth. Theo didn’t have just one gift. She had two. Whereas Quincy organized, Marianne cooked, and Granny grew things, Theo Danforth loved. Hard. With every ounce of her being. She opened her heart and accepted people for who and what they were—with passion and a completeness that stunned him and, sometimes, unnerved him, too. That’s not to say she did not get angry or outraged. She did. Especially over cruelty or injustice, but if one were lucky enough to be in her circle, one felt the depths of her love and was better for it.

  And she healed. Took something broken or hurt and nursed it back to health. He saw it with his own two eyes and still didn’t know if she had a magic touch or if she, by sheer force of will and patience, demanded it be so. Maizie, the former ice-wagon horse, had done a complete turnaround. Her wounds had mended, leaving very faint scars that marred her reddish-brown coat, but it was more than physical healing. Her spirit rebounded, her joy contagious as she raced the younger horses in the field, tail flying behind her.

  Mallory the duck, too, had healed and the bandage had been removed. He tested his wing, extending it, flapping it about in preparation for flight, but he did not leave the farm and, instead, waddled after Theo wherever she went, usually behind the dog and cats.

  If Eamon wasn’t careful, she’d probably try to mend him, but what he suffered from couldn’t be fixed with Granny’s special salve spread liberally over a wound or warm, soapy water and a soft touch. How many times could he hear “You will open up to me, Eamon MacDermott. Eventually, everyone does” before he did just that and revealed all his secrets?

  I should leave. The thought rambled through his head, as it did from time to time, but less frequently than when he’d first come here, and the truth was, every time he thought about leaving . . . well, he just couldn’t bring himself to do so. He liked it here. Perhaps too much.

  Finished spreading the manure, Eamon took his tools back to the stable, walked down the aisle toward the back door, and stepped outside. He meandered along the grassy path between paddocks and stopped at one of the gates. Arms resting on the top slat, he watched the younger horses chase each other up and down the fence line. He pushed his hat back, his gaze stopping briefly on each horse, even those Theo wouldn’t try to sell or breed. His own horse, Traveler, roamed one of the fields with some of the draft horses. He seemed happy. That was important. Traveler had served him well and deserved to be content, but Eamon wondered if his trusted mount missed the danger and excitement of his former profession. He shook his head. No one, not man or beast, enjoyed being shot at.

  His gaze flickered toward another paddock, and he spotted Daphne, his favorite out of all the horses Theo owned. The color of roasted chestnuts, she had a white star on her head and was, in his opinion, the most beautiful. Her sweet temperament and gentle brown eyes had Eamon enthralled. She had a sense of humor, too, and stole his hat a few times, running off so he’d have to chase her. She also liked to roll in the water rushing through the stream crisscrossing the pasture, then find a patch of dirt or mud to dry off with—and required more care than the other horses.

  And she was doing it now! Just looked at him, that expression on her face, and rolled in the mud. “Daphne! Stop that!”

  She stopped rolling and stood, her gentle brown eyes guileless and guilt-free, as if to say she’d do it again as soon as he wasn’t looking. He let himself into the paddock, making sure to close the gate behind him, and approached the mare. “Didn’t I tell you to stay clean? Theo’s going to think I can’t do my job.”

  Daphne nickered at him, then moved closer and dipped her head so he could scratch her in the middle of her white star. He smiled as he did so, then reached for her halter. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up . . . again.” He led her toward the small corral right behind the stable and grabbed one of the currycombs hanging just inside the door. “Don’t you know the breeders and buyers will be here soon? You have to look your best.”

  He shook his head and grinned. He’d become the joke of the ragtag group of people Theo called her family because he spoke to Daphne more than he spoke to anyone else. What amazed him was that he didn’t mind the teasing. It was good natured, and because they all did it—spoke to the animals—getting teased made him feel like he was part of the family, something he had missed since the Logans had turned his world upside down.

  Brock, Teague, and Kieran were never far from his mind, and though he missed his brothers, missed the camaraderie and the trust, he didn’t miss the painful memories. Theo’s family made him feel welcome. And wanted.

  “Oh, who am I kidding, Daphne? I think I’ve found a little bit of paradise here, but don’t tell anyone.” The mare looked at him, her serene brown eyes shining with unequivocal love, assuring him she’d keep his secret.

  “Mr. MacDermott?”

  Eamon continued brushing Daphne, but looked over the horse’s back. Gabby stood on the other side of the fence and peered at him through the slats. He forced himself not to smile, but failed miserably when he noticed a doll in one of her little hands and the fancy cigar box filled with bandages, small wooden splints, and other supplies tucked under her arm. It wasn’t the first time Gabby had brought him one of her patients. She’d told him the first time she’d asked him for help that she was going to become a doctor like Dr. Foster. He walked over to the gate and laid the currycomb on the railing of the corral, then studied the little girl. “Yes, Gabby. What seems to be the problem?”

  “Mandy has a broken leg. We need to fix her.”

  “All right.” Eamon left the corral, closing the gate behind him, and went down on one knee as she offered the doll like it was the greatest gift one person could give to another. He inspected the doll, gently turning it this way and that, m
aking note of the stuffing escaping Mandy’s leg, his expression as serious as he could make it. He had no experience with little girls, never having had children of his own. His only knowledge came from Desi Lyn, Kieran’s daughter, but she’d only been a little over two years old the last time he’d seen her. She wasn’t a precocious six-year-old like the girl looking to him right now. “Yes, I can see her leg is broken. What do you have in mind, Doctor Gabby? Should we operate?”

  The girl shook her head. “No, she doesn’t need a operation. It’s a small break.” She maintained her serious expression as she sank to the ground, her legs in the shape of a W, which looked extremely painful to him, although she seemed quite comfortable. She took the cigar box from beneath her arm and laid it on the ground. Flipping open the lid, she rummaged about, choosing several colorful ribbons before deciding on a plain white length of cotton. She clicked her tongue, shook her head, and mumbled something about Mandy being clumsier than a six-legged horse wearing shoes. Where on earth had she heard an expression like that?

  “Hold her still, Mr. MacDermott. This is very serious.”

  Eamon grit his teeth to keep himself from laughing. He held Mandy in his hands as Gabby wrapped and tied the white cotton strip around the doll’s leg.

  “Okay, she’s as good as new,” Gabby proclaimed as she packed up her cigar box and tucked it once more beneath her arm. She grabbed for the doll by her freshly bandaged leg and stood up. “You have to come to tea now.”

  “Tea?” He shook his head. “I have work to do, Gabby. I can’t just . . . ”