Rafe's Redemption Page 7

  “You think I belong to another, yet you kissed me!” Rafe felt embarrassment crawl up his face. “No, I—”

  “Then you think me a spinster?” she ranted.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Didn’t you? Why, it’s no wonder you live alone. No woman in her right mind would tolerate your insults.”

  “Now, wait just a damn minute.” This wasn’t about him. “I—”

  A shot blasted through the trees and whizzed over Rafe’s head.

  He shoved Maggie forward, flattening her face against Moses’ mane.

  “Umph!” The breath rushed from her.

  “Shhh,” Rafe hissed in her ear. He eased his pistol from the holster.

  “Get off me,” she demanded. “The saddle horn is digging a hole in my stomach.”

  “Better than a bullet.” He eased to one side. “Stay down.”

  “State your business,” a man yelled, “or I’ll pick you off that horse with the next shot.” The voice echoed through the snow, but Rafe recognized the owner.

  “Cecil! It’s Rafe McBride. I need help.” A light flickered to the right of them, then brightened as a shadowy man held up a lantern. “Ride closer, so I can see your face.”

  Moses plowed a few more feet toward the light. Rafe kept his pistol drawn, but hidden beside his leg.

  If he was wrong, if this wasn’t Cecil, they were dead.

  Chapter Four

  Maggie squirmed in the saddle, then peeked through frozen horse hair as the lanky man trudged through the frozen forest toward them. Snow whirled around the evergreens, making it impossible to see if the man looked friendly—or deadly.

  “McBride?” He lowered the rifle.

  “Cecil,” Rafe shouted, relief in his voice. He removed the hand that held her facedown and pulled her back up against his chest. His arm slid around her waist, and she felt all the tension drain from his muscles. He kept her in a loose, possessive embrace, as if she belonged there.

  A fter his rude assumption a few minutes ago, his large palm spread over her belly confused her to no end.

  “My God, McBride! What are you doing out in this storm? A nd what were you yelling about? I went to check my horses, and it sounded like a war party coming.”

  “I’ll tell you later.” Rafe climbed from the horse and shot her a disapproving look. “How far is your house?”

  “Not far.” Cecil tilted his head and spoke around a heavy red scarf. “You passed it about a hundred yards back.”

  “Jesus,” Rafe muttered, “we rode right past.” The wind propelled his words to her ears, slapping her with realization. They would have died tonight!

  Tremors racked her body, clattering her teeth so loudly the men glanced at her.

  “I don’t see how you made it this far.” Cecil peeled a blanket from around his shoulders and flung it around Maggie. “How long have you been riding?”

  “A hell of a lot longer than I’d planned.” Rafe looped the reins around his hand. “Let’s go.” He nodded toward Maggie. “I’m worried about her.”

  They struggled up a hill, then wove through a row of pines. She clutched the saddle horn and shivered.

  Without Rafe’s body to block the wind, the snow battered her from all sides. Through the swirling snow, she spied a cabin, tucked between two large boulders. Well, maybe cabin was too generous a word. This was a shanty, a miner’s shack if the gaping tunnel beside it meant anything. Hope sprung inside her. Maybe this was just the barn. She squinted into the snow, searching for another building. Nothing. A nd unless Cecil had a cave attached to the back, she couldn’t imagine they would all fit inside.

  Rafe stopped at the house, then wrapped his hands around her waist to lift her down.

  “I can do it.” She didn’t want kindness from a man who believed her an old maid with loose morals.

  Twisting in the saddle, she hefted her leg over the horse’s neck and tumbled to the ground. Sputtering, she mopped snow from her face.

  “Damn stubborn woman.” Rafe scooped her into his arms.

  She should have known her legs would be too stiff to accept her weight. But the fact that he’d known made humiliated heat creep up her face.

  “Little Owl!” Cecil pounded the door. “It’s safe. Let us in.”

  Dim light flickered through a lone window. The plank door creaked open, and a woman, layered in men’s clothing, filled the space. The wind whipped her black hair around her copper-skinned face, but she broke into a wide smile when Cecil pressed a kiss to her cheek and patted her protruding stomach.

  “Get some coffee ready, darlin’. It’s McBride and his woman. They’ll need something hot to drink.” Rafe tromped through the snow with Maggie tucked against him, his gaze glued to her. She looked away, knowing what she would see. The same disappointed expression her father had worn. But somehow, it would hurt more to see Rafe wear that expression. Somehow, during the past couple of days, she started to realize some self-confidence from Rafe’s approval.

  “I’ll put Moses away for you.” Cecil trudged toward the tunnel.

  Rafe shouldered through the small wooden door, folding her tight against his body.

  “I can walk now,” Maggie insisted, wiggling to get free. “I’m just stiff, not frozen like before.” His jaw tightened beneath his whiskers. “I will carry you.”

  “Mr. McBride—”

  “For God’s sake, stop arguing with me.” He glanced at Cecil’s wife, then lowered his voice. “I didn’t mean to insult you earlier. My words came out wrong.” He blew a long breath toward the ceiling.

  She studied his face, nose red from the cold, ice pellets frozen to his whiskers, gray eyes full of regret.

  A nd her embarrassment scattered. So his stiff attitude was from guilt?

  “A ll right.”

  He turned toward the fireplace. “Little Owl, this is Maggie. Where should I put her?”

  “Here. Beside the fire.”

  Little Owl pulled a chair from the table and scurried to light another lantern. Rafe deposited her onto the worn oak seat, then dropped to his knees and untied her boots. His strong fingers brushed her ankle as he slid one shoe free, sending a flash of heat up her leg until her cunny tingled with need.

  “I can do it.” Maggie bent and tugged on the shoe, though her cold fingers protested. “Go take care of Moses. He’s frozen, too.”

  “I will see to her,” Little Owl soothed. She pulled the wet blanket from Maggie’s shoulders and wrapped a heavy quilt around her. “Go, McBride.”

  Rafe darted a glance between the women, then strode to the door. “I won’t be long.” He slammed the door against the howling wind.

  Maggie heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank you. His hovering makes me nervous.” Nervous and flushed and…

  too many other things she was sure would lead to trouble. It was too hard to concentrate when Rafe was close. A ll her thoughts turned to sexual need.

  “Men worry much.” Little Owl shook her head.

  “I suppose.” He had seemed worried. But why he felt such a responsibility for her, she’d never understand.

  “McBride would not want you hurt. You are his woman.”

  “I’m not his woman.” She didn’t intend to belong to any man.

  Little Owl crooked a brow. “No?”

  “No. I don’t wish to marry.”

  “I did not say marry.” She winked before turning to the fire.

  “Oh.” A delicious shiver coated Maggie with goose skin. Did she dare take advantage of what fate offered?

  A nd why did the thought of using his body tie her in knots, and make her hum with need at the same time?

  Nettie always told her to live life if she got the chance.

  She would probably also point out at no other place could Maggie take a lover without social repercussion.

  “Put your feet near the fire and wrap your hands in this.” Little Owl handed Maggie a warm towel.

  Maggie nodded, propped her feet on the hearth and surve
yed the room. It was only half the size of Rafe’s cabin. How would they all fit? The small table and two chairs took up most of the floor space. Wood lined the walls beside the fireplace, and crates of supplies occupied the wall behind the bed. A single bed.

  Oh, Lord. Where would she sleep? In a room so small, she and Rafe would have to sleep close, sleep together. Her blood heated at the possibility of lying next to him, cuddled beneath a blanket, his hard body pressed against her, his arm draped over her waist, cupping her breast, touching her nipple. Ugh.

  She inched closer to the fire and tried to think of something else, anything else to erase the images in her mind. Stew bubbled in a black kettle. She inhaled the fragrant steam, and her stomach growled in protest, reminding her it was supper time.

  “We didn’t mean to interrupt your meal.”

  “No, no. There is plenty.” Little Owl squatted in front of the pot and sliced a turnip-like vegetable into the stew.

  “Besides, no women live close. I glad you visit.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Cecil tell me what happen in Cougar Creek. You lucky McBride buy you. Skinner Joe bad man. He need this.” She chopped the end off the long root. “Then he not hurt women.”

  Maggie nodded, unable to think of an appropriate comment to such a bald statement.

  “McBride good man,” Little Owl continued. “A nd now I have a woman neighbor.”

  “Neighbor?” Good Lord, they had traveled all day!

  “What about at the fort? A ren’t there women there you visit?”

  Little Owl stopped slicing and turned to Maggie, eyebrows raised. “I not go there. I am Cherokee.” Maggie shook her head. “I don’t understand. Cecil was in town. He’s—”

  “Half white. Soldiers not bother him.”

  “Soldiers?”

  “Since your big war over, soldiers hunt us. The government want us on reservations.” Her dark eyes clouded. “But Cecil would die before he let them take me.”

  A sick feeling churned in Maggie’s stomach. Many people had decided to head West since the war, but she didn’t realize it was at the Indians’ expense. “I’m sorry.”

  “I not tell you to make you sad, just so you understand.” Little Owl pulled a chair close, and poured Maggie a cup of steaming coffee. “In the spring, we move to our other cabin, closer to McBride’s. I will make Cecil bring me so you can see our baby. It will come next month.” She touched her round belly and beamed.

  A familiar tug-of-war roared through Maggie, the want to be a mother, the need to be an artist. But no matter how much she yearned for children, finding a man to let her travel and sketch would prove impossible, so she buried the motherly want where it belonged.

  “Maybe you and McBride have baby some day.”

  “What? Oh, no. We’re not…we don’t.” Maggie gulped her coffee. “I’m very happy for you, but I won’t be here much longer. Not nearly long enough to see your baby.”

  “Why? You McBride’s woman now.”

  “No. He did save me from my cousin, but I have to return to St. Louis. In fact, we were headed to Fort Union today, so I can catch the stagecoach.”

  “Oh.” Little Owl slumped. She squatted to the floor and stirred the stew. “You no like McBride?” she asked over her shoulder.

  “I like him fine.” Sometimes too much. “But I have responsibilities back home.”

  “A nother man?”

  “No!” Good Lord, did everyone assume her affections were scattered willy-nilly?

  “You stay then. He need someone to love him.”

  “Love! Oh, I—”

  The door blasted open with a frigid gust and two snow-covered figures. Rafe dropped the saddlebags onto the floor and dragged the wet hat from his head. Little Owl took the coat from his hand and pushed him toward the fireplace. Shivers racked his body, and his teeth chattered as he shuffled to the fireplace and knelt in front of the flames. His gaze landed on Maggie and scanned her from head to toes.

  “A re you all right?” he rumbled.

  She nodded and watched him chafe his palms together in an attempt to get warm.

  “Here.” She swept the quilt from her shoulders and draped it around his, then pushed her warm cup into his hands. “Drink some coffee. It helps.”

  “Thank you.” He clutched the cup and moved to the hearth. “I brought your things inside. I hope nothing is ruined.”

  Maggie glanced to the soggy pile of leather. “Maybe I should look. I have several sketches in there.”

  “What are…sketches?” Little Owl whispered across the room.

  “I draw and paint pictures.”

  She unbuckled the flap and pulled her satchel from Rafe’s saddlebag. Everything felt dry, but she scurried to the table to check.

  “You never said you were an artist.” Rafe ambled to her side.

  Maggie tilted her head toward him. “You never asked.” She reached in for her paper. “A nd it didn’t seem impor—” She pulled the stack—a hand written, ink-filled stack—free from the leather.

  Her heart stopped, her stomach plummeting to the floor as her artistic dreams vanished.

  These weren’t her sketches.

  Rafe watched all the color drain from Maggie’s face.

  “What’s wrong?” He took the documents from her hand and a sick knot of guilt roiled through his gut.

  “These are Michael’s papers. My satchel must be with him.” Her hollow voice faded as she dropped into a chair.

  Rafe glanced at the legal papers, then to Maggie. Her blue eyes watered with unshed tears as she stared into the fire.

  “I’m so sorry.” Rafe knelt beside her. “When Zeke showed me your room, I took the first leather bag I saw.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” She scrubbed her palm across her eyes and sucked a deep, shuddering breath.

  Her choked dismissal flooded him with guilt.

  “No, Maggie. I really am sorry.” The sketches were the only thing she’d asked for that day. A nd he failed her.

  “I’ll buy you some more supplies once we reach the fort.” Somehow. He could sell something if he had to.

  “It’s not important.” She sniffled, then escaped to the fireplace. “Let me help you dish up supper, Little Owl.” Rafe moved into her chair and stared at the useless papers. He’d feel a hell of a lot better if she’d unleash that temper of hers on him.

  Cecil clapped him on the back on the way to the coffee pot, then sat across from him and shrugged.

  “Don’t worry. Maybe she can draw on those.”

  “I don’t know.” Rafe thumbed through them.

  Ledgers, contracts, and several scribbled notes. “I suppose she can look through them later. Maybe there are some blank sheets.”

  He gathered it all into a pile, then stopped and ruffled through the stack again. Something had caught his eye, danced in his mind. Something significant. It had been on one of the notes. He yanked the paper from the rest and scanned the words as a gnawing fear filled his gut.

  “Maggie, who is Mr. Bouse?” Rafe feared the answer, but he prayed this was a different man. If not, then everything changed. He couldn’t just put Maggie on a coach.

  He’d have to return home. To St. Louis. The last place he wanted to go. The last place he was welcome.

  “Phillip Bouse is our family attorney,” she called over her shoulder.

  The answer cut through him, the pain like a saber into his lungs. Bouse was also a close friend of his stepfather.

  “A nd Bouse negotiated the sale of the shipping company for Michael?” Rafe shuffled the papers. Where was that note?

  “Yes. He handles all our business. He always has.

  That’s why I have to see him immediately.” She walked to the table, her brows pinched together.

  Rafe pulled all the notes with Bouse’s signature and examined each one before passing them to Cecil. Maggie frowned, but Rafe had to be sure of what he’d read before he said anything.

  Cecil nodded, then gave a low whistle and pushed all t
he papers back to Rafe. He took a deep breath and stood.

  “You can’t see Mr. Bouse.” Rafe met her frown, ready for her argument.

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’ll kill you.”

  The words swirled in Maggie’s ears until the room started to spin. Weakness buckled her knees, and the spoon slipped from her fingers. The clatter echoed through the room along with Little Owl’s gasp.

  “What are you talking about?” Maggie demanded.

  Rafe had to be wrong. He had to.

  Cecil stood and held the chair for her. “Sit and look at what he’s found.”

  Rafe pushed the papers in front of her, in order, according to date. He tapped the first page. “This is addressed to Michael, from Mr. Bouse.”

  She took the paper in her hand and read. The hateful words swam before her as tears filled her eyes. This couldn’t be true!

  “Tell me.” Little Owl edged beside the table and gripped Maggie’s shoulder.

  Maggie cleared her throat, twice, then read, “‘I don’t think you understood my last message. For my continued silence

  about

  Gerald’s

  death,

  I

  require

  more

  compensation than our original agreement. I want the shipping yard in San Francisco. Make your travel arrangements. I’m drawing up the contracts. Do not forget I have the receipts from the apothecary—receipts for poison, receipts with your signature, Michael.’”

  “Wait. Who was Gerald?” Cecil asked.

  “My father,” Maggie whispered.

  Rafe pointed to another letter, and Maggie continued,

  “‘I don’t care how you dispose of her. But since you can’t explain where the assets have gone, I suggest it happen before you reach California.’”

  Maggie felt the whole room tilt. She pressed on her stomach, thankful she hadn’t eaten anything yet. None of this made sense.

  “But I’ve known Mr. Bouse my entire life.” Her hands shook until the paper rattled. She slapped both on the table. “A nd Michael. This means…” She choked as realization thundered through her mind. “Maybe it’s a mistake.”

  But it wasn’t.

  Poisoning Father was no rash decision made in the face of an angry lynch mob. Michael had wanted the money all to himself. No matter whom he had to kill. A heavy lump inched up her throat, no matter how many times she swallowed it down.