The Horseman's Bride (5 page)

There was no use putting it off. Bracing herself for the downpour, she stepped out of the barn, sprinted through a quagmire of mud and manure in the corral and clambered over the fence. The yard was a spattering lake of rainwater. Clara ran toward the house, sloshing with every step. Her boots would be a mess, but that couldn’t be helped.

Out of breath and dripping, she stumbled up the stairs and onto the porch. There she peeled off her wet boots and sluiced water out of her shirt, jeans and hair.

Even in the warmth of the house she was shivering. It was urgent that she get into some dry clothes. But first she needed to check on Tanner.

She found him sleeping so deeply that he barely stirred at her touch. He was still feverish but no longer chilling. Clara lingered a moment at his bedside, listening to the drone of the rain and the slow cadence of his
breathing. Sleep was the best medicine for him, she told herself. Tanner was a powerful man. She could only hope that, with rest and fluids, his body would be strong enough to fight off the infection.

She couldn’t let herself think of any other outcome.

Gathering up his pants and boots, she took them into Mary’s room and shoved them under the bed. If he woke up and decided to leave again, it wouldn’t do to have them close by. She would get the pistol out of sight, too. Then she’d look for dry clothes. Maybe she could put on something of her grandmother’s. But what if she needed to rush outside again, or mount up and ride for help? Mary never wore pants, and Clara didn’t want to brave the storm in one of her grandmother’s housedresses. Hopefully there would be something more usable upstairs where the old clothes were stored.

After hiding the pistol behind the couch cushions, she climbed the narrow stairway to the upstairs bedrooms. Rarely used now, the rooms had housed Mary’s growing brood of children. The smallest room had been converted for storage. Rough-hewn shelves held boxes of old books, canning jars, school papers, a guitar with broken strings, balls of used twine and a few worn-out toys. If Mary had saved her children’s clothes—and the frugal woman rarely discarded anything—they would most likely be here.

A large, homemade pine wood chest stood against one wall. That would be the place to find clothes, Clara reasoned. The girls’ dresses would be hopelessly out of style and a problem to ride in. But Mary had also raised
three strapping sons. An outgrown pair of jeans or overalls and a warm shirt would do just fine.

The chest, which had no lock, did contain clothes. On top there were worn cotton dresses, petticoats, chemises and flannel nightgowns, all of them too small. Wet and shivering in the unheated room, Clara moved them aside and dug deeper. Now she found boys’ clothes, as well. But the denim overalls and flannel shirts were child-size. One by one, Clara lifted them out and held them up. Nothing here would fit her. Maybe all the larger garments had been worn to rags by the time they were outgrown.

She had nearly reached the bottom of the chest when her fingers discovered a book-size object. Its solid shape yielded to her touch with a light crackle of paper. Curious, she reached in with both hands and lifted it to the light of the small window.

It was a packet of some sort, wrapped in brown paper and bound with knotted string. An address was written on it in faded ink. In the faint light, Clara could just make it out.

Miss Hannah Gustavson
General Delivery, Dutchman’s Creek, Colorado

The return address was easier to read. The packet bore the official stamp of the U.S. Post Office in Skagway, Alaska Territory.

Wet clothes forgotten for the moment, Clara stared at the packet. It was addressed to her mother. But Hannah
had been Mrs. Judd Seavers for twenty years. This piece of mail must have been sent to her a very long time ago.

Sitting on her heels, she examined the wrapping. One end appeared to have been opened, then tucked closed again. A probing finger revealed the contents. Inside the paper wrapping, Clara could detect a tightly compressed stack of letters.

Hastily now, she replaced the clothes in the trunk and closed the lid. The voice of discretion whispered that she should replace the packet as well. But curiosity was eating her alive. She had to know what was inside.

Rain drummed against the shingled roof overhead, cascading in torrents off the eaves. She couldn’t stay here. The room was too chilly and too dim, and she needed to check on Tanner.

Holding the packet away from her wet shirt, she padded down the stairs and left it on the kitchen table. Tanner had flung off one of the quilts and was stirring feverishly, muttering as if in the grip of a bad dream. Clara straightened the covers and sponged his face with a damp sleeve. “Rest,” she whispered. “It’s all right. I’m here.”

His eyes opened to stare into hers. He looked startled, almost as if he’d expected to see someone else. Then he drifted back to sleep, more peacefully this time.

Clara was shivering in her wet clothes. This was no time to be particular. If she needed to go out, she could put her damp things back on. Right now, she had to get warm.

Leaving Tanner, she went into her grandmother’s room and found a thick flannel nightgown in the drawer. Stripping down, she pulled it over her head. The fabric was soft and warm, a comfort against her chilled skin. In the kitchen she hung her wet clothes over the backs of the chairs and lined them up in a half circle around the stove. Hopefully everything would be dry in an hour or two. Meanwhile, she could settle in the parlor, listen to the rain and explore the contents of the mysterious packet.

Curling up on the couch with a knitted afghan, she unfolded the crumpled end of the packet and let the letters drop into her lap. There were perhaps a dozen, none of them opened. They scattered as they fell.

Each envelope was rubber-stamped with the word
UNCLAIMED
. Evidently the postal clerk had decided to return them all together. Picking one up at random, Clara recognized her mother’s neatly rounded schoolgirl handwriting. Her brows met in a puzzled scowl as she read the address.

Mr. Quinton Seavers
General Delivery, Skagway, Alaska

Strange, Clara thought. Uncle Quint had never mentioned being in Alaska. And why would her mother have written him so many letters? The two were close to the same age, so it was natural to assume they’d been friends. Still, it seemed odd.

With a prickle of foreboding, Clara worked her
finger beneath the flap of the envelope. Crumbly with age, the glue gave way easily. Unfolding the letter, she began to read.

Clara reread the first paragraph word by word, as if looking for some mistake. For the space of a long breath she sat in frozen silence, her eyes staring into space. Then her frantic hands began scrambling for other envelopes, ripping them open, pulling out the letters and arranging them by date. The earliest ones were simple declarations of love and longing. Most of the others were pleas for Quint to return, or at least to write back. Finally, one of the latter ones held the answer to the question screaming in her mind.

Hands stilled, Clara stared at the photographs on her grandmother’s wall, at the faces she’d come to know as her family. Everything had changed in the light of one inescapable truth. Quint Seavers—her darling, dashing uncle Quint—was not her uncle at all.

He was her father.

H
e was dreaming again, the nightmare as real as when he’d lived it. He could see Hollis’s body sprawled half-naked on the bedroom floor, his blood soaking like spilled wine into the peacock-blue Persian carpet. He could see Ruby’s bloodied cheek and purpled eye and feel the hot weight of the pistol as he slid it into his pocket.

His sister, clad in a torn mauve silk dressing gown, had been in shock. “Go to your girls, Ruby,” he’d ordered her. “Make sure they don’t see this. Give me a ten-minute head start. Then call the police. You know what to say.”

The rest of the dream was always the same—running, running, down the long, curving stairway and out the front door and onto the porch, where he’d paused long enough to think about fleeing in his new green Packard. No good, he’d decided. The roads could be blocked, the flashy auto easily spotted. Decision made, he’d raced for the stable.

The irony of taking Hollis’s prize Thoroughbred stud, worth a small fortune, hadn’t escaped him. But he’d chosen the stallion for its power and speed, not for its pedigree. Ruby, he knew, would not report the horse missing.

“Where will you go, Jace? What will you do?” Her frantic questions had echoed in memory, lost in the scream of the train whistle as he raced through the night.

Where will you go? What will you do?

Lord help him, he had no answers.

Clara huddled on the wooden chair beside the bed. Beneath the loose flannel nightgown, her knees were drawn up against her chest. Her eyes watched Tanner’s restless sleep, concentrating on him to distract herself from the shocking secret she’d uncovered. His legs twitched as if he were running in a murky dream. His lips moved forming words she couldn’t make out. Only once had he spoken clearly—a name, Ruby.

Who was this Ruby? she wondered. A wife? A sweetheart? But why should she care? Until yesterday she hadn’t even known the man existed. And as soon as he was well enough, assuming he survived, he’d be gone, taking the stallion with him. The only thing she knew about him for sure was that he couldn’t be trusted. He was as mysterious as the wind.

But then, considering what she’d learned today, was anything what it appeared to be?

The clock in Mary’s parlor chimed the hour of two.
Outside, the storm raged on, wind battering the house, rain turning the pastures to swamps and the yard to a sea of mud. A storm like this one would flood the road and probably wash out the bridge. Clara had already abandoned hope that Mary would make it home today. Her mother and Katy would likely be stranded as well and have to take a room for the night. The telephone lines were down—Clara had discovered that when she’d tried to call home. She was on her own here, with a man who could just as easily die as live.

This whole day had turned into a trip through the looking glass.

How many people had known that Quint was her father? Judd would have known, of course, as well as Mary and Aunt Annie and heaven knew who else. So when had they planned to let
her
in on the family secret?

Clara pressed her face to her knees, feeling the hardness of bone against her eye sockets. Questions flocked in her mind like the blackbirds she’d seen crossing the fields this morning.

Why hadn’t Quint received her mother’s letters? When had he learned he’d become a father? No doubt he’d at least found out when he returned home from wherever he’d gone. But the divorce had never happened. Quint had walked away, leaving Judd to raise his baby daughter. And six years later, after that terrible time in San Francisco, Quint had married Aunt Annie. Happy as the two of them appeared to be, they’d never been able to have children.

Clara stared down at her hands, at the square nails and the exaggerated webbing between her fourth and fifth fingers. Even her hands were a smaller version of his. She was Quint’s child. His only child.

An image flashed through her mind—Quint’s bruised and bleeding hands reaching toward her through the rubble of the San Francisco earthquake that had followed her kidnapping, the glimmer of tears in his eyes as he’d pulled her to safety. He had nearly lost his life rescuing her on that awful day. And he had known she was his. The whole time, he had known…

“Hello, there.” Tanner’s raspy voice startled Clara out of her reverie. She raised her head to see him gazing up at her sleepy eyed, his skin flushed and dry.

“How do you feel?” she asked him.

“Like hell,” he muttered. “What time is it?”

“A little after two, and it’s still raining outside. I fear my grandmother won’t be back anytime soon.” Clara rose from the chair. “I’ll make you more tea and maybe some broth. You need all the fluids we can get down you, and the hot tea and broth will keep you warm.”

“I have a better idea.” He sounded drunk, although there was no way he could’ve had any alcohol.

“What’s that?” She paused in the doorway.

“Since you’re wearing your nightgown, why not just come to bed?”

Heat flashed in Clara’s cheeks. She checked the impulse to lash out at him. The man wasn’t in his right mind. Clearly he was even sicker than she’d feared.

His heavy-lidded eyes looked her up and down.
“Can’t say much for the style. A little lace might improve it some, and maybe a nip in the waist…”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Clara exploded. “Having a fever’s no excuse to act like a lout! Be still and rest. I’ll be back in a few minutes with the tea!”

Slamming the door, she stalked into the kitchen, where she put the kettle on to boil and crumbled more willow bark. While the water was heating, she stood on a chair and searched Mary’s supply of herbs for something else she could add. Yarrow…sage…creosote nodes…She put in pinches of the plants she knew to be safe. But she was still only guessing.

In the cool box, built into a shaded north wall, she found a pot of freshly made chicken soup. Silently blessing her grandmother, she put the soup on the stove to heat. While the tea was brewing, she carried the letters upstairs and replaced them in the trunk where she’d found them. She didn’t have the time or energy to deal with her discovery now. She needed time to think. Maybe a long time.

When she came back downstairs a few minutes later, the tea was ready. Clara strained it into a white china cup and walked back toward what she’d begun to think of as Tanner’s room. Opening the door, she gasped. Tanner was on his feet, moving unsteadily toward the doorway. Startled, she dropped the cup. It landed on the rug, not breaking, but spilling hot tea in all directions.

Her frayed nerves snapped. “What do you think you’re doing?” she shrilled. “Get back into that bed, right now!”

He glared down at her as if she were a backward child. “
Miss
Clara, there are certain things a man likes to do standing up,” he drawled. “Now if you’ll excuse me—” He pushed past her, made his way toward the front door, stepped outside and turned toward the far end of the porch.

Clara retrieved the cup and found a rag to sop up the tea. Her cheeks were flaming. What was it about Tanner that made her want to fly at him with her fists and pummel him black and blue? The man was crude, arrogant, condescending and plain impossible. He had a way of making every word that came out of his mouth sound like an insult. Why, the ingrate hadn’t even thanked her for taking care of him. Being sick was no excuse for being rude. It would serve him right if she rode away and left him here to rot!

Walking back toward the parlor, she flung the tea-soaked rag toward the kitchen sink. A tear welled in her eyes and made a salty trail down her cheek. Furiously she brushed it away. The last thing she wanted was for Tanner to see her cry. But more tears kept coming, like water spilling over a broken dam. It wasn’t just Tanner. It was everything that had happened today—the whole blasted emotional bronco ride. The stress of dealing with Tanner had pushed her emotions to the brink. But what she’d learned about her parentage had carried her over the edge. She was exhausted and angry. Worse, her secure world had just shifted on its axis. Why hadn’t they told her the truth? Who could she trust and depend on, if not her own family?

She had never felt so alone.

Tanner was gone for just a few moments. But by the time he came back inside, letting in the smell of rain, Clara’s eyes were red and swollen from weeping.

“Rain’s letting up, but the roof’s blown off the damned hay shed,” he said. “It’ll take—What the—?” He broke off, staring at her. “Now what’s the matter?”

“Nothing. Leave me alone.” She turned her back so he wouldn’t see how awful she looked.

“Oh, bloody—” He crossed the floor, laid his hands on her shoulders and turned her around, none too gently. “Listen, I know I’ve been a handful. If I’d had my way, I’d be long gone by now.”

“And so would Galahad.” She gave him a full view of her tear-ravaged face. “You were running out. It didn’t matter that you’d likely fall off your horse and break your neck or drown in a puddle or die of the fever. You just wanted to get away—from
me!
”

“Not from you, Clara. There are other things, things you don’t want to know. You and your grandmother would be better off with me gone.”

His words triggered another surge of emotion. “It’s not just you. It’s…everything. This whole rotten day. If you only knew…” She gulped back a sob but she couldn’t stop the tears. She ached to have him hold her, to melt into his arms and pour out her heart. But that would only make him uncomfortable, Clara told herself. Tanner didn’t know her parents and he wouldn’t care about her problems. All he wanted was to leave.

“Hellfire, I never could stand to see a woman cry!”

His hands cupped her face, hard and forceful, fingertips gripping the edge of her jaw. “I’d never hurt you if I could help it, girl. Don’t you know that?”

Clara tried to answer him, but the only sound that emerged from her throat was a whimper of need.

“Oh, damn it all!”

With one swift, sure movement his mouth captured hers. His lips were fever hot, their power so compelling the Clara felt her knees go limp. She had wanted Tanner to kiss her, she realized, from the first moment she’d looked at him. And right now, kissing was exactly what she needed.

With a little whimper, she melted into his heat. Her arms slid around his neck. Her face tilted upward, lips softening against his. His own lips were chapped from fever, his jaw prickly with stubble. The roughness sent shivers of arousal all the way to her toes. She opened her mouth to welcome his probing tongue. More experienced girlfriends had told her that boys sometimes kissed this way, so she had some idea what to expect. She met each thrust with her own. The sensation was delicious and more than a little frightening—especially given Tanner’s reaction.

A growl rumbled in his throat as he jerked her closer. Naked beneath the flannel nightgown, she could feel every subtle contour of his body against her skin—the muscled chest, the flat abdomen, the hard bulge pressing the length of her belly. The pulse between her legs had deepened to a savage throb. Instinctively she rose on tiptoe, straining upward to find him.

“Oh, damn it, don’t do that, Clara…” he groaned in feeble protest. Then, as if to make lies of his words, his big hands groped for her buttocks through the worn fabric, found them and lifted her high and hard against him.

The contact triggered rocket bursts inside her. Clara’s head reeled as she drank in the smell and feel and taste of him. She was spiraling out of control, and all she could think of was wanting more.

She wrapped one leg around him, curling her hips inward against that heavenly hardness. He rocked her, heightening the feeling until she wanted to scream. His breath had deepened to an urgent rasp. Her arms tightened around him as the sweet sensations swirled and peaked.

Lord, maybe it was the fever, Jace thought. Either that or he’d taken leave of his senses. Only two thin fabric layers separated his body from Clara’s. She was pressed so close against his erection that he could feel the open cleft between her thighs. With a bit of imagination, he could feel the hard little bud inside it, rubbing against the sensitive underside of his shaft. Her hot young passion was driving him crazy. He wanted to rip away the nightgown, fling her on the bed and ram into her like a steam drill.

Do that, and he would hate himself forever.

Clara was all fire and innocence, trusting him to give her what she craved with no pain and no consequences. But that, Jace knew, wasn’t possible. He was
going to ride away, and he couldn’t leave her soiled and hurting. Seconds more, and he’d be out of control. He had to put a stop to this madness. Now.

“No!” The word exploded out of him as he lowered her feet to the floor and shoved her away. “We’re not doing this, Clara. I need to get out of here. Where are my clothes?”

Clara had stumbled against the back of the couch. Her lips were damp and swollen from his kiss. Eyes burning with humiliation, she faced him. “Don’t be a fool. It’s raining outside and you’re too sick to ride.”

He forced himself to stay distant, knowing he wouldn’t have the strength to pull away if she touched him again. “If I’m well enough to make love to a woman, I’m well enough to ride a horse.”

“We didn’t make love, Tanner. It never happened. And if you try to ride out of here, you won’t make it past the front gate.”

“Maybe not. But that’s not your problem. Whatever you might think of me, I have my own code of honor. The last thing I want is to repay a good woman’s kindness by seducing her granddaughter. Now get my clothes.”

“I’m not letting you leave. You’re sick. You could die out there.”

“That’s not your choice to make,” he said evenly.

“Isn’t it?” Turning, Clara reached over the back of the couch and thrust her hand behind the cushions. At first Jace thought she was getting his clothes. Then she swung back toward him, and he saw the .38 Smith &
Wesson in her hand—the same weapon that had shot Hollis Rumford three times through the chest.

Eyes narrowed, she aimed the muzzle and thumbed back the hammer. Something told Jace the little sweetheart knew how to shoot.

“You’re not going anywhere except back to bed.”