Rafe's Redemption Page 2

  She stumbled backward in the thick muck, judging the distance to a horse tied in front of the store. The big animals scared her, but not as much as the big man choking her cousin.

  “That’s right, darlin’.” A grime-covered hand snaked around her wrist. “You just sneak away with ol’ Joe.” Maggie snapped around. Black eyes, previously filled with hate, now gleamed with lust.

  “No!” Her scream broke the heavy silence of the other’s stand-off.

  Rafe dropped Michael and leveled a pistol at Joe. “Let go of her.”

  She sidestepped and jerked her arm free.

  Joe grinned. “Never you mind. My luck’s bound to change.” He shoved her against Rafe. “Yours, too, blue belly. Last time I was at Turner’s Mill I heard ‘bout a man lookin’ for a friend from the war. The description sure did sound like you.”

  Rafe’s hard stomach twitched against her back as he sucked a sharp breath.

  “I think I’ll send word to that feller,” Joe continued.

  “I’m right fond of happy reunions.”

  “Go to hell, Joe.” Rafe’s voice never faltered, but his knuckles turned white as he gripped the gun.

  “Hah,” Joe spat. “I’ll meet you there.” He backed away, laughing, his beady stare never leaving them.

  Rafe took her arm and tugged until she faced him, frozen in his steel gaze. He pulled off his coat and held it out to her. “Ma’am, I’m Rafe McBride. Put this on before you freeze.”

  She glanced from where Michael rubbed his bruised neck, to the strong hand offering the coat. His expression softened as he waited for her to accept the coat, his gray gaze now warm, his full lips curved with encouragement.

  Who was Rafe McBride? Owner or savior? Cruel or kind?

  “Thank you.” She pulled the coat around her and worked the buttons to cover her breasts. Musky male warmth filled her senses and seeped into her chilled body.

  “What’s your name?” His voice rumbled through her.

  She swallowed hard and forced herself to meet his gaze. She had to at least pretend bravery. Sniveling and crying would gain her no ground.

  “Maggie Monroe.”

  “Come over here out of the snow.” He led her in a gentle grasp to the covered boardwalk in front of the mercantile. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.” He tipped the brim of his hat in a ridiculous gesture given the circumstances.

  He stalked toward the horses. A flannel shirt hugged his muscled back, wool trousers molded thick thighs. A simple wardrobe, but clean. His short, neat beard hugged a square jaw; dark brown hair brushed his shoulders. He had a loose-limbed gait, but she didn’t think for a minute Rafe McBride was relaxed. He looked to be the kind of man always on alert. Powerful.

  Dangerous.

  She inched toward the edge of the boardwalk. There had to be a way to escape.

  “Goin’ some place?” A tall man wearing a skunk hat smiled, his gaze locked to her chest as if he could still see her exposed nipples.

  She shook her head and scuttled backward, shaking, though not from the cold. Tears pricked her eyes, but she clenched her hands into fists and bit her lip.

  Everything would be fine. She just had to remain calm and think.

  Rafe wrestled dozens of furs from his mule and handed them to Zeke. The men exchanged a few words, then the saloon owner left with two huge armloads.

  Michael, however, turned up his nose in disgust at the offered pelts. Rafe shrugged his wide shoulders, dropped the furs to the ground and turned to leave.

  “But I need money,” Michael demanded, puffing out his chest.

  Rafe stopped; his cold glare pinned Michael.

  The door behind her opened. “Bring them pelts in here, boy,” an old man called. “I’ll pay you cash for ‘em.” Michael’s eyes danced at the mention of cash, and he dug into his pocket for gloves. With theatrical reluctance, he picked up the skins. When he reached the boardwalk where she stood, he stopped.

  “Good-bye, dear cousin. Have a nice life. I know I will, spending your inheritance.” He chuckled.

  A burning wave of hatred flowed through her, and she stepped toward him. “Good-bye, Michael.” She kept her voice quiet, meek, then planted her knee hard between his legs.

  He fell to the ground, groaning in agony.

  “I hope you rot in hell.” She let disgust drip from the words.

  A smile quirked the corner of Rafe’s mouth as he stepped up onto the boardwalk. He took her elbow and turned toward the door.

  “I’ll go to Zeke’s to get the rest of your things. You wait inside where it’s warm.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t have anything left. He gambled it all away.”

  “Sonofabitch.” Rafe turned to Michael and grabbed a couple of the skins. “She needs a coat. You’re buying her one.”

  Michael grabbed for the pelts, but drew back when Rafe pulled his gun.

  “F-fine, take them.” Michael’s drawn face flushed scarlet, and he gulped. “But the rest are mine.” Rafe narrowed his eyes. “Go inside, trade your skins, then get out of my sight.”

  Michael climbed to his feet and shuffled past on the boardwalk, giving them wide berth.

  Rafe’s gaze skated over her, then away. “A s soon as he’s finished, we’ll go inside.”

  The frigid wind whipped her skirt from her legs, tangling the material around his leather boots. He jumped back as if flames, not velvet, encased him. She squeezed the necklace hidden in her skirt. He seemed to be a decent man. Maybe she could give him the locket for her freedom.

  The ping of the blacksmith’s hammer rang through her thoughts. Soon the stagecoach would be repaired, and Michael would leave. A nd she would be here. A lone.

  With this man she knew nothing about. She stole a peek at Rafe’s hard-set expression and swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. Nettie’s prediction about trouble had proved true.

  If only Maggie had listened.

  She inhaled the frosty air until her lungs ached, wishing she could float away on the mist she expelled.

  Float all the way back to St. Louis, to the life she’d thought dull. There’d be no more wild dreams of sketching the western frontier or displaying her art in galleries. Drawing ladies’ fashions for Godey’s fashion periodical would be enough excitement to last the rest of her life.

  Her fingers itched for her pencils. She could lose herself in a sketch and pretend none—

  Her paper and supplies!

  “Mr. McBride?” She grasped his arm. “I do have something I left in the saloon. It’s in my room—a leather satchel.” She had lost everything else; she couldn’t leave her drawings behind.

  He nodded. “I’ll see to it as soon as—”

  The door creaked open, and Michael strutted outside.

  He smiled and flipped a few gold coins in his hand as he sauntered toward Maggie. She stepped back, bumping her body against Rafe’s. Reassuring warmth and needles of awareness prickled her skin, tightening her nipples, sending a hot shock of need pulsing through her cunny.

  She felt him stiffen, but his hand wrapped around her arm and pulled her protectively behind him.

  Michael sneered. “A w, that’s sweet. I—”

  “You’re through talking.” Rafe pointed toward the saloon. “Leave.”

  Michael gave a smug grin and strolled to Zeke’s.

  Rafe ushered her to the mercantile. “Go inside with Tom. I’ll get your bag and be right back.” He opened the door for Maggie, and she entered the store. The commotion from outside melted away in the quiet warmth.

  “Tom?” Rafe’s voice echoed through the small room.

  “I need to leave Miss Monroe with you for a few minutes.”

  The old man popped up from behind the counter. He scuttled toward the door to look Maggie up and down, then motioned her forward. “You come on in, young lady, and git warm.”

  Rafe gave her a nod, then closed the door.

  She turned a slow half circle examining the room.

  Lante
rns hung low from rough timbers, the dim light calming her scattered mind. Barrels and crates filled with shovels and axes stood in each corner. Dust-covered shelves climbed the wall behind the counter and formed two rows down the center of the store.

  A nd it was warm.

  The inviting fire of the large pot-belly stove beckoned her to the back wall. Heat seeped into her bones, reminding her of all the time she’d spent in the kitchen with Nettie. If she closed her eyes the yeasty smell of bread filled her senses, the tang of cucumbers dropped into jars with dill and vinegar, the sweet temptation of sugared apples ready for pies. Hunger gnawed at the delicious thought.

  “Miss?”

  Maggie jerked her eyes open. No clean kitchen surrounded her, just a dirty, drafty store. No warm bread or fresh dilled pickles, only musty blankets, tobacco, and a stench that could only be the pelts. No safe—albeit stifling—home in Missouri. Just fear—in the middle of nowhere.

  “I asked if’n you wanted coffee.”

  “I’m sorry,” Maggie offered, trying not to grimace at the way her boots gritted on the mud-covered floor.

  “That’s most kind, Mr…”

  The old man smiled showing an almost toothless mouth. “Tom Ward. But you can call me Tom.”

  “Maggie Monroe.”

  Tom blushed at her outstretched hand, then wiped his back and forth against questionably clean pants before touching her fingers. “Pleasurable meetin’ you.” He dropped her hand and reached for a tin cup hanging from a peg on the wall. Then with a sheepish glance toward her, he hurried to a small cabinet, pulled out a chipped porcelain mug and grinned as if he’d struck gold.

  “I can git some sugar if’n you like.” Tom’s gnarled hand trembled as he passed the steaming cup. “Don’t keep no cow for cream though.”

  “No, I can drink it black.” Might as well get used to living without the finer things such as sugar. Even if she could convince Mr. McBride to set her free, the life she knew would be lost forever. A t the rate Michael gambled, the house, the money, everything would be gone, and Nettie put on the street to find employment elsewhere.

  A nd her one chance at life outside marriage destroyed. I won’t let that happen.

  Rafe blew through the door in a swirl of snowflakes, the white crystals glistening in his dark hair and whiskers.

  “The blizzard’s moving in. We need to hurry.” His stormy eyes flicked over her. “I put your satchel in my saddlebags.”

  “Thank you.” Maggie took a fortifying gulp of the thick coffee. She had no time to lose. Now was the time to appeal to his sense of honor. She swallowed hard, preparing for the most important speech of her life. “Mr.

  McBride, I wondered if—”

  “Tom will show you to the coats.”

  She stepped aside as Rafe brushed by her, leaving her hopeful proposal melting like the puddles of snow left from his boots.

  She riddled his broad back with silent curses.

  Damned, arrogant horse’s ass. What made men think they owned the last word? Since her father’s death, Maggie had had a small taste of freedom. She wasn’t going to lose it now to some overbearing mountain man.

  Ice pinged against the windows, matching the cold beat of her heart. She needed another drink of courage.

  She drained the bitter coffee in one long swig, then handed Tom the cup. “Mr. McBride, there’s something I have to say.”

  The muscles in his back tensed, pulling the plaid shirt tight as he stiffened, then turned. “Well, I don’t have time to listen. Do you understand if we delay, we’ll be riding in a whiteout?” His dark brows knitted a frown. “I’m not afraid to die, but I’ll be damned if I want to do it by freezing. Now hurry up and choose a coat!” Tom tugged her hand, pulling her down an aisle.

  “He’s right. You two best git goin’.”

  “But I can’t—”

  “Oh, don’t fret about decidin’. Not many of these coats be small enough to fit you. Won’t be much choosin’

  to do.”

  Maggie groaned in frustration. Tom was daft if he thought her concern lay with the stylishness of her coat.

  A nd Mr. McBride…she glared across the room. She hoped he choked on his coffee. Boorish bastard.

  “Tom, make sure it will keep her warm.” Rafe spoke into his cup, never raising his gaze, but his rich voice, laced with worry, flooded her with shame. Maybe he was daft. Harsh and controlling one second, then worried about her comfort the next.

  “I’ll pick the warmest one I got.” Tom scratched his bald head as he scurried to the back of the store. He dug to the bottom of a stack. “This’n might do.” She accepted the dusty coat he held out. The abrasive brown wool scratched against her palms, but the inside lining was soft and would protect her from the harsh weather. Even though she had no intention of leaving with Mr. McBride, she couldn’t hide in the store forever.

  “Thank you, Mr. War—I mean, Tom.”

  He blushed, toeing the floor like a schoolboy. “My pleasure, Miss Maggie.”

  “Is there somewhere private I can change coats?” If not, then these two men would have to turn their backs.

  She was not exposing her breasts to anyone else today.

  “You know,” Tom said as he tapped his mouth in thought, “she’s gonna have a hard time ridin’ in that fancy dress. I still got a box of Jimmy’s clothes from afore he went to war. He weren’t too big a boy. I bet they’d fit her.”

  Rafe’s gaze raked over her. Head to toe, then back again. When their eyes met, heat flooded her face. His look appraised, not lusted, still her heart beat a little faster, and the heated ache between her legs started again. It wasn’t too far a stretch to imagine those gray eyes filled with desire, with hunger. A hunger she would not encourage. Freedom was what she wanted. Not a man.

  “Thank you.” Maggie tried to clear the husky timbre from her throat. “I appreciate your offer.”

  “Just let me go git them clothes, then you can change.” Tom scuttled away. Several clanks sounded from two shelves over. “Hell and damnation. Where is that—ah-ha.” He reappeared carrying a cobweb-covered box, then showed her to a small room attached to the side of the store.

  “This is where I sleep.” He dropped the box onto the bed and lit a lantern. “You take whatever clothes fit. A nd don’t fret.” He gave her a wink. “Rafe’s a good man.” A patchwork blanket-door swung closed behind him, swirling dust throughout the room. Did she look so worried even Tom could see? She twisted, searching for a mirror, but this room competed with the hotel for sparse. A bed, a table, and one frost-covered, curtain-less window.

  The wind howled outside, a cold draft blowing through the rough, unpainted wall. How did Tom sleep in here without a stove? Goose skin prickled her body.

  A nd the thought of taking her clothes off in the frigid air made shivers run down her back. It was warmer beside the hanging blanket, but what if the men could see through the thin material? She sidled closer and squinted at the fabric. She couldn’t see anything…but the floorboards groaned as footsteps passed on the other side of the curtain. The creak of the stove door made Maggie drop to her knees and peer under the blanket to the big cast iron heater.

  “I still need the supplies, Tom, probably more, but I don’t know how I’ll pay you.” Rafe’s muffled baritone floated across the floor

  She clutched the blanket until her fingers turned white. This was her chance. Rafe had spent all his money. A nd the necklace sewn into her skirts dangled hope. She didn’t wait for Tom’s reply. It was time to make her offer.

  Both men turned when she entered the room. “You need somethin’ else, Miss Maggie?”

  “Scissors, please.” Her high-pitched squeak didn’t bode well for her bravery.

  Tom quirked a bushy gray brow, but reached behind the counter for the tool. Her knees wobbled as she sat down beside the stove to clip the threads. What if Rafe refused her offer? He won’t. He won’t. He won’t. Still, her hand shook when she fished the locket from her skirt and
looked into his frowning face.

  “If Tom will buy my necklace, I can repay what you’ve lost, Mr. McBride.” She stood and met his stare. “I hope by replacing your money you’ll be gentleman enough to grant me my freedom.” She swallowed hard and pushed ahead. If she stopped talking, he might say no. “I only need enough money to purchase passage back home to St. Louis. You may keep the rest.” She turned to Tom. “Will you allow me to stay with you until the next stage comes through? I will be no trouble.” Tom gave a nervous laugh and rubbed his chin. Rafe stared into his coffee.

  “Well?” she prompted. Every item in the store seemed to hold its breath awaiting answer.

  Tom was the first to speak. “Miss Maggie, I don’t think—” He coughed again. “I don’t think you’re fully understandin’. The stage don’t run here regular. It only stopped because of the wheel. A s much as I’d like to help you, I can’t protect you. If these men ‘round here wanted to, well…” He let the words hang and shrugged his stooped shoulders. “I’m too old to stop ‘em. Rafe here’ll take care of you.”

  The words settled like a cold lump of porridge into her stomach. Blinking hard, she dropped to the hard oak chair and clasped her hands together to stop the trembling. She couldn’t stay in this horrible town. There had to be another way.

  She turned to Rafe. “Then I’ll pay you to take me to the next stage stop. I can even send you more money once I get settled. Name your price.” She hated the desperate sound of her voice, but damn it all, she was desperate. “Please, understand. I—I—” The words lodged in her throat, then escaped in a warble. “I can’t stay here.

  You can’t keep me!”

  Rafe slammed his cup onto the stove. “Miss Monroe, I never intended to keep you.” His gruff voice suggested she’d offended him. “Believe me, a woman is the last thing I want.”

  “Then why—”

  His gray eyes narrowed to icy slits. “You saw your alternatives outside.”

  Maggie shrank in her seat, the bitter coffee churning in her stomach. Just the thought of those men…Their nasty hands touching her bare skin…Their foul breath as they kissed her. She shivered and swallowed down coffee-tinged bile.