Texas Gold (Mills & Boon Historical) Page 2
“It’s not that easy,” he said sharply. “There are things to be settled, papers to be signed and…” He hesitated, then drew in a deep breath. “Can we just have the day together, Faith?”
“So I can sign papers for your divorce?” she asked.
“Divorce?” He repeated the word slowly. “What makes you think I’m here for a divorce?”
“That would be the logical reason for you to come calling.” She tilted her chin, only too aware of the effect he had on her, conscious of her trembling hands, of the rapid beating of her heart, and worst of all, her yearning for the brush of his lips against her own.
“Well, that isn’t the reason. Far from it, in fact.”
His statement was flat, with certainty underlining each word.
“I’d think you’d want to get on with your life,” she said curtly. “Marry again, have a family.”
“I’m already married,” he reminded her. “And my wife has shown herself capable of giving me a family.”
The pain was sharp, quick and urgent, and she clutched at her waist as if wrapping her arms around the aching emptiness would alleviate the knife thrust he’d dealt. “I gave you a child, and then proved incapable of being a good mother.” Her stomach ached as if a giant fist clutched at it, threatening to empty its contents. “Our baby died, Max. And it was my fault.”
“I never said that,” he said quietly.
“Didn’t you?” Her laugh was forced and harsh, and held no semblance of humor. “Perhaps not.” She gave him the benefit of the doubt. “But others did.”
“My mother?” he asked, watching her closely. “If it came from her, I can only say she’s difficult to please, and she was hurt by the loss of her first grandchild.”
“Is that supposed to fix everything? Your mother was hurt?”
“Let’s not get into this right now,” he suggested mildly. “There are other things we need to decide. I know this is painful for you, sweetheart.”
“Sweetheart? I think not,” she said sharply. “You lost the right to call me that a long time ago.”
Her eyes were like daggers, he thought, stabbing in an attempt to draw blood. In fact, this woman bore little resemblance to the wife he’d last seen almost three years ago. Never had Faith aimed such venom in his direction. Seldom had she even shown a sign of anger, and rarely had she disputed his word or challenged his opinions.
A new light shone from her blue eyes, a sharp, knowing glance aimed in his direction, as if she judged him and found him wanting. Her hair was loose around her face, soft tendrils clinging to her forehead and temples. The ends were caught up in a braid that failed to subdue the curls and waves of gold.
A golden hue almost matching the color of her horse, he noted, glancing from woman to mare. The woman who had been his, the woman he’d called his sweetheart.
“Pain is what I feel when you deny my touch, Faith. When you glare at me with distrust and hatred in your eyes.”
“You call that painful?” she asked, a subtle undertone suggesting wry humor. “You don’t know what painful is, my friend. And neither does your doting mother.”
“And you, Faith?” he asked, aware that her eyes held not a trace of softness. “Have you suffered? Or has leaving our home alleviated your pain? Were you able to leave the past behind and get on with your life?” He hadn’t meant the sarcasm to be so biting, and he sighed, wishing those final words unsaid.
And so he apologized once again. “That was uncalled for. I recognize that you’ve carried scars.”
“Really?” Her own sharp retort revealed her doubt about his sincerity. “What would you know about my scars, Max? Your main interest in life is your business and the money you’re capable of adding to your bank account.”
“Is it? Was I so bad a husband, then?”
Her brow furrowed, and he recognized the signs. Faith was cogitating, developing an answer. And, he feared, the longer she considered her words, the worse the picture she would paint of him.
“Look,” he said quickly. “Can we put this whole rehash of things on the back burner? At least long enough for me to have a cup of coffee. Maybe even a bit of breakfast?”
She swung her gaze from the horses, which had run in tandem to the far side of the pasture, to meet his again. “You haven’t eaten this morning?”
He shrugged. “I saw the sheriff as soon as I got up. The man at the hotel pointed him out to me as he was leaving the dining room there. By the time we spoke, and he had me put my signature on his ridiculous piece of paper, I knew he was pulling my leg. There was no doubt in my mind he knew exactly who you were, once I described you in detail.
“I decided to follow him, but it took me a few minutes to get a horse from the livery stable on the other end of town. Then it was a chancy thing, staying far enough behind him so he wouldn’t look around and see me dodging among the trees and taking shortcuts through the brush.”
Max lifted his hands in a gesture of defeat. “I’m not at my best when I’m hungry, Faith. Will you take pity?”
Her look was scornful, and her sigh told of patience at its end as she led the way to the house. “A piece of toast and a couple of eggs wouldn’t be beyond me, I suppose,” she said, climbing the steps before him.
Her slender form was garbed in heavy cotton, and yet she was as appealing as she’d ever been when dressed in silk and lace, he thought. Possibly even more so. There was a maturity about her that held his interest, a beauty gained by the years, perhaps even abetted by the struggle she’d undergone in this place. He’d admired her three years ago, and been smitten by her lovely face and figure before their marriage began. How could he help but be even more intrigued by the woman she had become since he’d last seen her?
She’d been young, twenty-two years old, with the promise of acceptance from Boston society and a husband who held her in highest esteem. And yet she’d still been not much more than a girl, hurt by circumstances that fate dealt out in a cruel fashion, and unsure of herself and her place in the world in which they lived.
She’d changed, he decided. Faith was a woman, full grown. The promise of beauty she’d worn like a shimmering shawl of elegance had become a deep-seated, golden radiance that illuminated her as if sunshine itself dwelled within. Her eyes were intelligent, the small lines at the corners adding a certain maturity to their depth.
Her hair had lightened considerably, probably from hours spent in the sun, he thought. And she was lean, her youthful curves shaped by whatever work she’d been doing into sleek, feminine contours that drew his eye to the length of her slender form.
And then she was gone from sight, entering the dim kitchen, and he hastened to follow. He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the shadowed interior, and watched as she walked unerringly to the stove against the far wall. A coffeepot sat on the back burner and she pulled it forward, then lifted a skillet from where it hung amid a collection of pots and pans, all neatly arrayed against the wall.
“Two eggs?” she asked, turning to him as one hand reached for a bowl of brown eggs on the kitchen counter. A heavy cupboard adorned one wall, glass doors above displaying dishes, solid doors beneath apparently concealing foodstuffs.
“Yes, two is fine. Three would be better, but I’ll settle for what I can get.”
She lifted her shoulders in a delicate shrug. “I can afford to feed you.” Her hands were deft, unwrapping and slicing a loaf of bread and placing two pieces on the oven rack. The eggs were cracked and dropped with care into the skillet, to which she had added a scoop of butter from a dish on the table.
“Do you bake your own bread?” he asked, settling in a chair, stretching his legs full length and crossing his boots at the ankle before he placed his hat on the edge of the table.
“The nearest store is close to an hour’s ride away,” she said, “and they don’t carry a selection of bread. The ladies hereabouts bake their own.”
“And the butter?” he asked. “You know how to make that, too?”
&n
bsp; “Any fool can learn how to lift a dasher and let it fall into a churn,” she told him. “The difficult part was finding a neighbor with a cow.”
“Why didn’t you buy one of your own?” he asked idly, his gaze fixed on the neat economy of her movements as she set the table before him, turned the eggs in the pan and rescued the toasted bread from the oven.
“A little matter of money,” she said. “Mine is in short supply.”
“Where do you get your milk, then?” he asked, intrigued by her methods of survival. She’d never been so complicated a woman during their marriage.
“I told you,” she said impatiently, serving his eggs and placing the toast neatly on the edge of his plate. “I barter for what I need. There are a couple of neighbors close enough to swap milk for eggs, or garden produce. Right now, I get my milk from Lin’s cow.” She looked up quickly to meet his gaze.
“Lin is Nicholas Garvey’s wife. I taught her how to milk her cow, and since I have chickens, and she hasn’t had time to develop much of a flock yet, I provide eggs for their table.”
Max nodded, picking up his fork. The woman was downright resourceful. “And how about your staples? You know, the everyday things you need in order to put food on the table.”
“I have a big flock of laying hens,” she said. “I carry eggs to town once a week, and I do sewing and mending for folks. Then there’s my garden.”
“You raise your own food?” The eggs were good—fresh, with bright golden yolks. And the bread was finely textured and browned with a delicate touch. He spread butter on the piece he’d torn off, and tasted it. “Someone taught you well,” he announced.
“Trial and error, for the most part. Though I had a neighbor, while I was still a squatter, who shared her yeast with me.”
“A squatter?” His face froze, as if he was stunned by the term.
“Yes, a squatter. Not a pretty word, is it, but it applied to me. I lived in a cabin in the woods on property not my own.”
“I know what a squatter is, Faith. But I hate it that you were reduced to that. Why didn’t you take money with you when you left? You knew the combination to my safe.”
“I had money,” she said stubbornly. “And I sold my mother’s jewelry.”
“I know. I bought it back,” he said quietly. “I traced you that far during the first week. And then you vanished from the face of the earth.” His fork touched the plate with a clatter, and he looked down at it in surprise, then lifted it to place it carefully beside his knife on the table.
“I thought you were dead, murdered perhaps, or killed in an accident, and someone had hidden your body. I was only too aware that the city was not a safe place for a woman alone.”
She sighed, and her voice held a note of regret. “I’m sorry. Truly I am, Max. I fear I wasn’t thinking rationally when I left. But there was the note.” Her pause was long as she awaited his reply, as if he might admit to the accusations her note had held, listing his sins, one by one.
She prodded him. “You did read my note, didn’t you?”
“Of course I read it. As a matter of fact, I’ve read it since, several times, and it still doesn’t make much sense. At any rate, I was never able to fully understand your reasons for walking away from me.”
“I’m a bit surprised that you even knew I was gone,” she said casually.
He glanced up, aching as he recognized the truth. “You had become like a shadow, Faith, barely causing a ripple in the household. I thought it best to leave you to grieve as you saw fit, I suppose. I certainly hadn’t helped the process by trying to comfort you with my presence.”
Her laughter was broken by a sound that he thought resembled a sob, and he felt a familiar sense of helplessness wash over him as she turned aside. “I don’t recall you even speaking of our son’s death, Max. Let alone offering me any comfort.”
Then she spun to face him, and her face was contorted by pain, her eyes awash with tears she could not hide. “Please. Just eat your breakfast and be on your way. We have nothing else to discuss as far as I’m concerned.”
“We haven’t even begun,” he said quietly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“What about your business?” Her words were a taunt. “Surely it will fall into ruins without you there at least sixteen hours a day to keep it on the straight and narrow.”
The sound of her voice was shrill now, and if ever he’d seen Faith lose control of her emotions, it was at this moment. Even the tears she’d shed at their son’s funeral had not torn at his heart as her helpless sobs did now.
“I’ve left it in competent hands,” he said. “I’m on hiatus for a while.”
“Well, coming here wasn’t a smart move, Max. I don’t want you in my home,” she said harshly, backing toward an interior doorway. It led into a hallway behind her, and she seemed unaware of all else but the urgency to rid herself of his presence. “Go away,” she said, her voice rising. “Leave me alone.”
From the yard beyond the porch, a call rang out. “Faith! What’s wrong?”
Max turned to look out the screened door, his attention taken by the man who stalked up the steps onto the porch and then into the house. Tall and bronzed by the sun, he was dark-haired, with brilliant blue eyes and a demeanor that might have stricken a lesser man speechless.
Max had faced down wrongdoers in his life, but he was aware that in this case he might be considered to be at fault, and as such, didn’t have the proverbial leg to stand on. But there was always the truth, he decided.
“Faith is my wife,” he said quietly, halting the intruder’s headlong approach.
The man looked to where Faith leaned for support against the wooden framework of the door. “Faith?” he asked again, the query implicit in his voice. Hands clenched at either side, he was a formidable opponent, Max decided, one he’d just as soon not be forced to do battle with.
“Yes.” Her response was a bare whisper. “Max is my husband.”
“Has he threatened you?” the man asked quietly, alert to every nuance of expression, each breath that Max took.
Faith shook her head. “No, not the way you’re thinking, Nicholas.”
“Ah—so you’re the neighbor who has provided my wife with shelter,” Max said, allowing no inflection of sarcasm to enter his voice. He ached with the urge to oust the stranger from the kitchen, though it was a moot question whether or not his attempt would meet with success.
“Faith is living in a house that I own…so I suppose you could say that I’ve provided her with shelter.”
“I should probably thank you, then,” Max said nicely, rising in slow motion, lest the visitor take it in his head to consider him a threat.
“You should probably vacate the premises, is my guess.” Harsh and unyielding, the man stood aside and waved a hand toward the door. “I think you’ve gotten the message that my tenant doesn’t want your company.”
“Please, Max,” Faith said quietly. “Just leave. There’s nothing for you here.”
He hesitated, his eyes taking in the tearstained face, the slumping shoulders, and her arms wrapped in mute agony around her waist, as if she were attempting to soothe an ache that threatened to tear her asunder.
“I’ll leave, Faith. But I’m coming back. I have the right to speak with you. Hell, I have the legal right to haul you back to Boston with me, if I want to push it that far.”
The man she’d called Nicholas spoke up, his words icy, his demeanor threatening. “I wouldn’t try that if I were you, Mr. Hudson. Faith is among friends here.”
“Hudson?” Max felt the stab of pain at her denial of his name. “Her name is Faith McDowell. Mrs. Maxwell McDowell, to be precise. The day she married me, she lost any need for her maiden name.”
“Well, maybe she needs to see a lawyer about having it changed back legally.”
“No, Nicholas.” Faith stepped from the doorway. “Don’t make a fuss over it. It isn’t worth your while. I’m all right. I just want to be left alone.”
Staying would solve nothing.
“There’s a hotel in town,” Faith said quietly.
“I know. My baggage is there. I took a room yesterday.”
“There will be a train heading east tomorrow,” Faith told him. “If you want me to, I’ll come to town and see a lawyer with you, have him draw up paperwork to dissolve our marriage.”
Max shook his head. “No, I’ll go to the hotel and decide what has to be done. If you’ll call off your watchdog, that is.”
“Speaking of dogs, where’s Wolf?” Nicholas asked, a frown creasing his brow.
“There’s a female over on Clay Thomas’s place. Wolf has gone calling, I think.”
“Wolf? Your dog…” Max paused, envisioning a massive guard dog, and was suddenly thankful the absent creature had been stricken by the sudden desire for a mate.
“Yes, my dog is called Wolf.” Faith lifted her chin. “I wouldn’t return in a big hurry, Max. He doesn’t like strangers.”
Chapter Two
Morning brought an end to the restless night she’d endured, and her usual sunny nature was lacking as she stepped onto the back porch. Some critter had threatened her henhouse in the early morning hours, causing the dog to sound an alarm, and then had vanished when she’d peered from the window. Just in case, she decided, she’d be prepared for its reappearance, and she caught up her rifle as she opened the back door, hoping for a shot at the varmint.
And then stopped dead still. Max had returned, and was in the process of gaining Wolf’s loyalty. Her “watchdog” lay on his back, wiggling joyously as long, agile fingers scrubbed at his belly.