Well, hell. Excuses wouldn’t fill his stomach. More important, they wouldn’t fill Buddy’s. Joseph was accustomed to going hungry on occasion, but his dog wasn’t. Sighing, he rolled onto his side and rubbed the animal’s upturned belly. “Sorry, partner. I’ll feed you twice in the morning to make up for it. I know you worked damned hard today. You should have stayed home with Esa. He would have fed you, at least.”
Buddy’s warm tongue rasped over the whiskers sprouting on Joseph’s jaw. Damn dog. If there was anything he hated, it was a licker. He pushed at the shepherd’s nose. “Stop it,” he whispered. “You think I don’t know where that tongue of yours has been?”
Buddy whined and nailed Joseph directly on the lips. He almost sputtered as Rachel Hollister had. Instead, he settled for rubbing away the wetness with his shirtsleeve and then changed the position of his upraised arm to guard his face. After a moment, the dog thrust his nose in Joseph’s armpit, huffed, and went to sleep.
Joseph’s thoughts drifted and circled until his eyelids grew heavy. Buddy snuggled closer, and their combined body heat made the bed cozy warm.
Rachel had turned her mother’s rocker to face the archway. She sat poker straight on the chair, the shotgun balanced on her knees. A blanket draped around her shoulders, she stared fixedly at the towels she’d tacked over the crate slats. One question circled endlessly in her mind. What in heaven’s name am I going to do?
She had no answers. She knew only that her world had been turned upside down. Nothing was as it should be—as she so desperately needed it to be. First and most alarming, her home was no longer safe. The hole in the barricade made her feel horribly vulnerable. When she thought about that man possibly crawling through, her skin shriveled, she broke out in a cold sweat, and she found it difficult to breathe.
He was there, just on the other side of the wall, a threat to her safety—and her sanity. She wanted him gone. Out, out, out!
But then what? She had no boards to repair the barricade, and she couldn’t go into town to buy more. Darby always went to town and purchased what she needed. Without him, she was helpless, absolutely helpless. What on earth would she do if he died and never came back?
The question was one she couldn’t answer, and it also filled her with guilt. What if Joseph Paxton was telling the truth, and Darby had been shot? She loved that old foreman like a father. What kind of person was she to be worrying about boards when he might be dying?
Tears stung her eyes. She began rocking in the chair to maintain her self-control. Squeak, squeak, squeak. The whine of the chair came faster and faster until she realized she was pushing with her feet almost frenetically and forced herself to stop. Darby. He was much older than she was, and at the back of her mind, she had always known that she would outlive him. She’d just never allowed herself to contemplate the possibility that he might die any time soon. Darby was the closest thing to family that she had left. Oh, how she would miss seeing his craggy face through the peephole that he had installed in her door. And how empty her days would be if he never again tapped on the wood safe for his meals.
The wetness in her eyes spilled over onto her cheeks, creating cold, ticklish trails that made her want to scratch. Only she couldn’t pry her hands from the gun. Why hadn’t she shot Joseph Paxton when she had the chance? He’d known she couldn’t do it, blast him. Even through the shadows, she’d seen the twinkle of amusement in his eyes.
This was all his doing. She never would have fired the shotgun if he hadn’t made a loud sound and startled her. And just who did he think he was, tearing the boards off one of her windows and breaking the glass? She would never feel safe until the window was repaired and boarded up again.
Anger roiled within her. But before she could get a firm hold on it, worry for Darby assailed her again. If the old man truly was hurt, the least Joseph Paxton could do was apprise her of his condition. Had anyone fetched the doctor? How bad was the wound? And who was caring for the poor old fellow?
Rachel wanted to jerk the towels away from the opening and demand that Joseph Paxton give her answers. But was that even his real name? He’d come here with another man. For all she knew, they could be outlaws. The one she’d seen definitely had the look of a scapegrace. Men who wore sidearms were a dime a dozen in No Name, but there was nothing ordinary about the way he wore his, a pearl-handled Colt .45, strapped low on his thigh. Rachel had read enough novels to know that a gunslinger wore his weapon that way to minimize the distance of reach, thereby maximizing his speed at the draw.
She stared at the towels, which offered her little privacy and even less protection. Darby. She had to find out how he fared. Only how? When she contemplated tearing the towels away to confront Joseph Paxton again, she started to shake.
He wasn’t really a large man, she assured herself. But he had a large presence, every inch of his lean body roped with muscle, his broad shoulders and well-padded chest tapering to a slim waist and narrow hips. His eyes were particularly arresting, an ordinary blue yet razor sharp, giving the impression that he missed nothing. In the lamplight, they had shimmered like quicksilver.
A frown pleated Rachel’s brow as she tried to recall the rest of his face. Exposure to the elements had burnished his skin; she remembered that much. But she couldn’t for the life of her envision his features. He’d worn a sand-colored Stetson with a wide brim that dipped down in front. Perhaps that was why. She could remember his hair, which was as blond as her own, only as straight as a bullet on a windless day. Shoulder length, if she recollected right, and tucked behind his ears.
The rapid creak of the rocker told Rachel that she was pushing too fast again. She brought the chair to a stop and then nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of a low growl. The towels over the hole moved, and the next instant, a liver-colored nose lifted a bottom corner of the linen. The dog. She watched the animal’s nostrils flare to pick up her scent. Shortly thereafter, another inch of white blaze on the canine’s nose became visible.
“No!” Rachel cried softly. “Stop that.”
But the reddish-gold dog kept pushing until the bottom of one towel popped free and a slat snapped. His head poked through. Rachel leaped up from the rocker. Leaving the gun on the sofa within easy reach, she advanced on the archway.
“Bad, bad dog,” she whispered. “I don’t want you in here. Away with you. Go on.”
Rachel could have sworn that the silly animal grinned. And then he let loose with more growls, working his jaws so the sounds changed pitch, almost as if he were talking. When she reached to push him back, he whined and licked her hands.
Rachel’s heart sank. He was such a sweet, friendly fellow, and he truly didn’t mean her any harm. He only wanted to say hello. She had always adored dogs. One of the great loves of her life had been Denver, a huge, yellow mongrel with soulful brown eyes. Many had been the time that Rachel wished the killer might have at least spared the dog’s life. Denver, her special friend. The silly mutt had rarely left her side. In the end, his unfailing loyalty had been the death of him.
The thought always made Rachel sad. Unlike the other members of her family, Denver could have run and saved himself. Instead, he’d stayed to protect her and earned himself a slug between the eyes.
As though her hands had a will of their own, Rachel found herself fondling Buddy’s silky ears. Dogs were wonderfully uncomplicated creatures. No subterfuge or pretense. What you saw was what you got. She liked the way his ears stood up, with only the rounded tips flopping forward. He only straightened them when she spoke or made a sound.
He was a handsome fellow, she decided. A snow-white blaze ran the length of his muzzle, and the lighter russet spots above his amber eyes lent his face a pensive look. He was a sheepdog, she concluded, a breed that had proven useful in herding cattle and become popular with the ranchers hereabouts. Rachel had heard it said that most sheepdogs were uncommonly intelligent. Looking into Buddy’s alert, questioning eyes, she had little trouble believing it.
/> “You’re a pushy sort, aren’t you?” she whispered, wishing that she could let him into the kitchen. As it was, he was about to destroy her makeshift repairs. He shoved with a shoulder and snapped another slat. “Stop!” she whispered. “You can’t come in. Can’t you tell when someone doesn’t like you?”
“He’s hungry.”
Startled by Joseph Paxton’s deep voice, Rachel jumped back from the opening.
“Whatever you fixed for supper smells mighty good,” he went on. “I thought I had jerky in my saddlebags, but I was mistaken, and he’s not used to missing a meal. I’ve spoiled him, I reckon.”
Rachel retreated another step. The dog seemed to interpret that as an invitation. Before she could react, he jumped through the hole, breaking the remaining slats and jerking one towel completely loose. The next instant, she was being accosted by the friendly canine. Fortunately, he was an agile fellow and light on his feet. When he planted his paws on her chest, she barely felt his weight. He growled at her again, a yaw-yaw-yaw that sounded absurdly conversational.
It was impossible for Rachel to look into the animal’s expressive eyes without wanting to smile.
“So you’re hungry, are you? All I have is stew and cornbread, and I don’t think that’s good for dogs.”
Buddy dropped to his belly, put his paws together as if he were praying, and then lifted his head to bark. The message was clear. Stew was very good for dogs, the more the better. Rachel was lost. Maybe it was the prayer position that did her in—or maybe it was the sweet, imploring expression on Buddy’s face. She had never been able to turn away a hungry critter. As a girl, she’d loved to feed the wild animals and birds that visited the ranch. One year, her pa had built her half a dozen birdhouses for Christmas so she’d be able to watch the sparrows build their nests and hatch their babies the following spring. Oh, how Rachel missed the birdsong. With her windows boarded up, inside and out, she couldn’t hear it anymore.
Just in case Joseph Paxton decided to climb through the hole after his dog, she retrieved the shotgun before advancing on the stove. With the weapon leaning against the wall within close reach, she set to work to feed Buddy. Thoughts of Darby once again assailed her as she filled a serving bowl with stew and added some crumbled cornbread. This was to have been the foreman’s supper. Would he ever again tap on the wood safe and enjoy a meal that she had cooked for him?
She cast a considering glance at the damaged barricade as she set the bowl on the floor. Buddy didn’t hesitate. With a happy growl, he began gobbling the food as if he hadn’t been fed in a week.
Rachel straightened, gathered the blanket closer around her shoulders, took a breath for courage, and said, “I shall strike a bargain with you, Mr. Paxton. In exchange for information about my foreman, I’ll feed you supper.”
Surprised by the unexpected offer, Joseph sat bolt upright on his pallet. Surely he hadn’t heard her right.
“I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“I said that I’m prepared to make a deal with you. Food for information about Darby.”
Joseph ran a hand over his midriff. “I’m hungry enough to eat the south end of a northbound jackass, Miss Hollister, but I’ve already told you everything I can.”
“That Darby’s been shot, you mean?” Her voice went high-pitched. “Surely you can tell me more than that. Did you fetch Doc Halloway? Was he able to get the slug out? What is the prognosis? Does he think Darby’s going to—die?”
Joseph had given her all that information earlier. “That’s a mighty thick back door you’ve got. I guess you didn’t catch a lot of what I said earlier.” Resting his arms over his upraised knees, Joseph once again recounted the events of that afternoon, how Darby had come riding into his place, barely clinging to the saddle, and how Joseph had staunched the bleeding and gone for the doctor. “Doc seems to think he’s going to make it. The bullet shattered a couple of ribs, but it missed the lung and kidney.”
“What of infection?”
“Doc dressed the wound with honey.”
“Honey?” she echoed.
“He swears by it. Says honey fights infection and has healing properties. He slathered all he could over the wound before bandaging Darby up, and he left some for my brother, Esa, to use when he changes the wrappings.”
Silence. And then, voice quivering, she asked, “So your brother is looking after Darby?”
“Because I had to come over here, Esa volunteered.” Actually, it had been more a case of Joseph’s twisting his brother’s arm, but he didn’t think she needed to know that. Esa had a good heart, and he’d do right by the old man.
“Darby has it in his head that you’re in some kind of danger,” he expounded. “When he first got to my place, he kept telling me to forget about him and come straight here to make sure you were safe.”
Another silence, a long one this time. After a while, Joseph grew concerned. “Miss Hollister? You there?”
He thought he heard her take a taut breath. “Yes. Yes, I’m here, Mr. Paxton.” Another silence ensued, and then she added, “That’s the first thing you’ve said all evening that makes me think you may be telling the truth.”
That was a step up, Joseph guessed. Only what part of what he’d said had been to her liking? She gave a shrill little sigh that reminded him strongly of his mother. Dory Paxton was a great one for sighing.
“Well, now for your supper,” she said. “That was the bargain, after all.” He heard the faint clink of china. “I’ll hand it through to you. Please stand well back, or I shall have to shoot you. I’m sure you’re no fonder of that idea than I am.”
Joseph grinned. “Have you shot a number of folks?”
“Not as yet,” she informed him. “But don’t take that to mean that I will hesitate.”
His grin broadened. He was starting to like this lady. She had pluck. He was also starting to wonder if she wasn’t crazy like a fox. Someone had shot Darby today, and both Joseph and David agreed that the bullet had been meant to kill. Wasn’t it possible that Rachel Hollister had known for years that her life was in danger? Maybe David had hit the nail right on the head, and her hermitlike habits stemmed more from fear than lunacy.
Joseph lighted his lantern and then, honoring her request, stood well back from the hole in the archway to wait for his food. When Rachel appeared at the opening, he noticed that she didn’t have to duck her head to look through at him, putting her height at several inches less than his own. He also noticed that she had small, fine-boned hands, her slender fingers gone pink at the tips where they gripped the bowl. Eyeing him warily, she thrust her arms through the opening.
“Here you go.”
Not wishing to startle her, Joseph moved slowly forward, taking care to stop when the bowl was within reach. Even then, she was so skittish that she nearly dropped the dish before he could get a good hold on it.
“Thank you.”
She retreated several steps, her gaze wide and wary. “You’re welcome.”
“I know that this is an uncomfortable situation for you,” Joseph said as he carried his meal to the table. “You don’t know me from Adam. But ask yourself this. Would Darby have sent me here if he didn’t trust me?”
Standing some three feet back from the opening, she hugged her waist, the blanket tucked under her arms like the ends of a shawl. “I have no way of knowing if Darby actually sent you.”
With a sweep of his hand, Joseph cleaned dust from the far end of the table and sat down facing her. “Why would I lie about it?”
“To gain my trust?”
Joseph fleetingly wished that his brother were present to handle this. A little sugarcoating was definitely in order. “If I meant you harm, Miss Hollister, I already would have done my worst, the devil take your trust.” He inclined his head at the barricade. “Do you really believe a few boards would keep me out if I was bent on coming in?”
She stiffened. “You’d run the risk of getting shot.”
“Not with an empty
gun.”
“It isn’t empty now.”
“But it was, and I knew it. What was stopping me, then, do you think?”
She only stared at him.
“And what stopped me from grabbing your wrist just now when you handed out the food?” He snapped his fingers. “I could have had you then, easy as anything.”
She drew the blanket closer. “Are you threatening me, Mr. Paxton?”
“No, I’m making a point. You say you have no way of knowing if Darby actually sent me? I think you do.”
“Darby never so much as mentioned your name.”
“Yeah, well, Darby’s not much of one for small talk. We met at the south end of your ranch when the fence between your place and mine was in sore need of repair. We worked on it together. When it came time to eat, we shared some shade while we had lunch. Nothing notable happened. Maybe he didn’t count it as being important enough to mention.”
“You met only the one time?”
“We’ve run into each other a few times since.”
“If he knows you only in passing, why does he trust you?”
Now there was a question Joseph wasn’t sure how to answer. “I’ve got an honest face?”
She didn’t smile.
Joseph was starving and wanted to dive into his meal. The stew and cornbread smelled so good that his mouth watered.
“You can learn a lot about a man by mending fence with him,” he offered. “If he whines over the bite of barbed wire, you know he lacks grit. If he leans on his shovel a lot, you know he’s lazy. If he picks the easier of two jobs more than once, you know he’s inclined to be self-serving as well. If he neglects his horse—” Joseph broke off and sighed. “I can’t say why Darby trusts me, Miss Hollister. Maybe he liked what he learned about me that day. Or maybe it’s because he knows I come from good family. Only he can say.”