The Most Eligible Bachelor Romance Collection: Nine Historical Romances Celebrate Marrying for All the Right Reasons (53 page)

Gabby measured the sugar and slowly poured it into the bubbling pot. The aroma of the plum preserves wafted up and made her mouth water. Mama had been unusually quiet all morning, but as she stirred the savory mixture, she cast a sideways look at Gabby.

“Your father and I were somewhat taken aback yesterday by the way you expressed your opinion of Micah North.” Mama’s tone held no condemnation, but the lines that graced the corners of her eyes defined her concern. “Would you like to talk about it?”

Her mother’s inquiry didn’t surprise Gabby. The way her parents exchanged looks over breakfast this morning hinted the discussion was eminent. She only wished she knew how to answer.

With a sigh, Gabby pulled out a chair from the kitchen table and sat. “Honestly, Mama, other than what I told you yesterday, I’m confused. I know that Micah is a good man. The qualities I see in him are the same ones I’ve grown up watching Papa demonstrate.”

A tiny smile softened Mama’s face. “So why are you confused, daughter?”

A warm flush rose up Gabby’s neck, and she ducked her head. “I’ve known for a long time I’ve had special feelings for Micah, ever since we were in school together. But he is so—”

Mama waited, her brows raised.

“I suppose he’s shy. He carries on conversations with other people, but every time I speak to him, he acts as if my very presence makes him uncomfortable.”

Mama gave the preserves one more stir and came to sit across the table from her. “Are you saying you don’t know if your feelings for Micah are reciprocated?”

Gabby lifted her shoulders. “I suppose. How will I know if he doesn’t talk to me?”

Silence accompanied Gabby’s question while Mama traced a circle on the tabletop with her finger. “I know you’re relieved that Cullen’s reappearance is over and done with, but what about Micah’s cousin, Mr. Walker?”

Gabby frowned and cocked her head. “What about him?”

Mama intertwined her fingers. “Are you attracted to him? Most of the girls in town are.”

The sudden shift in the conversation puzzled her. “I may have been at first. He’s quite handsome, and the stories he told were fascinating.”

“Were?”

Gabby rose and crossed to the stove to check on the bubbling preserves. “He has certainly led an exciting life, and his adventures charm the ladies. But I get the impression he tells those stories to make himself appear better than everyone else, like a thespian on a stage. Why are you asking me about Rod Walker?”

Mama studied her clasped hands instead of looking at her daughter. “Because Mr. Walker came by yesterday afternoon while you were out. He asked your father’s permission to court you.”

Gabby nearly choked on her sharp intake of breath. “What?” Momentarily speechless, she stood holding the wooden spoon as it dripped on the floor. She hastily stuck it back into the pot. “What did Papa say?”

Mama shook her head. “They went outside to talk, so I didn’t hear their conversation. When your father came in, he told me Mr. Walker was polite and respectful. We have always raised you to use wisdom and discretion and seek God’s leading in your life, because we won’t always be here to advise you, and certainly not to make choices for you where issues of the heart are concerned. Your papa told Mr. Walker the decision was up to you. But I thought you should be prepared in case Mr. Walker comes by.”

Gabby plunked down on the chair. “Does Papa know you are telling me this?”

“Of course, dear. Both of us spent time praying for you.” She reached over and squeezed Gabby’s hand. “Sounds like you have plenty to pray about yourself.”

Micah hadn’t seen Rod all day. By the time Jed came in, Micah was more than ready to sample the pot of stew the widow Greeley had given him—unless Rod already ate it. His cousin usually preferred to eat at the café or the hotel dining room where he was surrounded by his newfound friends.

Before he reached the door, Rod opened it and ambled out, his limp barely detectable. A black silk tie fluttered from the collar of his white shirt and every hair was meticulously combed in place.

Rod greeted him with a roguish grin. “Home from the salt mines, I see.”

Micah pushed away the resentment that rose from his belly every time Rod implied Micah’s job was boring drudgery. “Seeing Millicent again this evening?”

“No.” Rod didn’t elaborate, but the sly grin on his face prodded Micah’s senses to alert. He didn’t like the gleam in his cousin’s eye.

“You’ve given up Millicent already? I’m fairly certain she still fancies you.” Did his cousin realize Micah’s pointed comment was designed to convince Rod to continue pursuing Millicent, or any of the other young ladies? Anybody but Gabrielle.

Rod peered at his reflection in the window glass and straightened his tie. “The fun has… shall we say, dimmed with Millicent. She’s a bit too eager. Too clinging. She smothers me.”

Several of the other girls chased after him as well, but Rod still appeared to enjoy their company. Micah bit the inside of his cheek. The wicked smirk on his cousin’s face sent shards of foreboding spiraling through him.

“I’ve always craved adventure. You know—the thrill of the pursuit.”

His cousin’s cavalier attitude left a bad taste. Just as Rod stepped off the porch, Micah remembered the sheriff’s message.

“Rod, Sheriff Trask was looking for you. The Slater brothers were seen not far from here, and Trask wants you to help him protect the town if the need arises.”

Rod’s cocky demeanor drained from his face along with most of the color. In its place, sweat beads popped out on his upper lip and something akin to panic widened his eyes.

Chapter 11

A
loud thump jarred Micah awake, and he rolled to one side. Before he could blink, he landed on the floor, tangled in the quilt and sprawled on the rag rug. Fighting the cobwebs in his brain, he threw the quilt aside and leaped to his feet.

He glanced toward the front window. A faint glow barely painted the sky to the east. Another thud drew his attention to the bedroom, where light peeked out from under the door. Rod had come in early last night and had gone straight to bed, complaining of a headache.

Micah ran his hand through his hair. “What’s he doing in there?”

As if in response to his muttered question, the door flung open, spilling light across the floor. Rod entered the main room, satchel in hand. “Oh, uh, sorry to wake you, but it’s just as well. I need to buy a ticket on the eastbound stage.”

Micah pulled his pants over his long johns and hiked the suspenders onto his shoulders. “Isn’t this kind of sudden? You didn’t say anything yesterday about leaving.” He struck a match and lit the kerosene lamp on the kitchen table.

“Uh, well, I… uh… I got a letter. My boss… I’m—I’m expected back—”

“A letter? I don’t remember a letter for you when I was sorting mail yesterday.”

“I mean a tele—” Rod’s eyes widened and his face flushed red.

Micah narrowed his eyes at his cousin. “I guess your leg is all healed up now?”

“That’s right. And I—I have to get back, so I n–need to secure passage on the stage. Today.”

Rod’s formerly sophisticated manner had evaporated overnight. In its place was a man unsure of himself and off balance—much like the man Micah saw in the mirror every day.

Micah crossed to the stove. “The eastbound stage doesn’t come in until two o’clock, when it’s on time.” He shaved several wood chips onto the glowing coals and tossed a few pieces of kindling on top.

“Two o’clock? But I have to—”

Micah turned. “Sorry, I don’t make the schedule. It will be awhile before the coffee’s ready. You might as well relax.” He measured ground coffee into the pot and ladled water from the bucket.

Rod dropped his bag and drummed his fingers on the back of the chair.

Micah set the skillet on the stove to heat while he sliced strips of bacon. He itched to ask Rod why the sudden decision to leave, but he could guess. “Did you talk to Sheriff Trask?”

“Huh? Oh… he—uh, he doesn’t need me.” Rod strode to the window.

“Really? He told me yesterday he hoped you were still around so you could help him protect the town. In case the Slaters come through here.”

Rod paced back to the chair, where he lowered himself and slumped his shoulders. A defeated sigh slipped from his lips. “You know, don’t you?”

“Know what?”

Rod blew out a stiff breath. “That I’m not a Pinkerton agent—that I made up all those stories.”

Micah couldn’t claim surprise, but a twinge of sympathy for his cousin took him unawares. “Let’s just say I suspected as much.”

“Why didn’t you say anything? Most men would challenge something they thought wasn’t true.”

Millicent hadn’t hesitated to point out Micah wasn’t like his cousin, and that truth had hurt at the time. Now, with Rod’s observation, understanding awakened. Micah wasn’t meant to be like his cousin or “most men.” If he were to fulfill the purpose for which God put him on this earth, he was supposed to strive to be as much like Jesus as humanly possible.

Micah crossed the room and sat to pull on his boots. “Questioning the validity of your claims wasn’t up to me.” He rose and returned to the stove. The coffeepot still hadn’t begun to boil. “How’d you get shot?”

Rod leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head hung like a hound dog caught in the chicken coop. “Shot myself accidently while I was cleaning my gun.”

Gabby hurried down the boardwalk toward the bank. She wanted to catch Harold Linquist before he went home for lunch. She clutched a jar of Mama’s plum preserves, knowing Mr. Linquist enjoyed them every bit as much as his wife did. She hoped the gift might put the bank president in a generous mood.

She stepped through the double doors of the bank and glanced toward Mr. Linquist’s desk in the corner of a partitioned-off area. The portly gentleman sat shuffling papers and jotting notes. Gabby glanced at the clock. A quarter till twelve. She smiled a polite greeting to Mr. Nolan, the bank teller, and arched her brows in a silent inquiry, pointing to the desk. The teller nodded and continued serving his customer.

Gabby approached the bank president and cleared her throat. Mr. Linquist glanced up, and his thick jowls broke into a smile. “Miss Gabby, my Bessie said you’d be stopping in.” He craned his neck. “That wouldn’t, by any chance, be a jar of your mother’s plum preserves, would it?”

“Good morning, Mr. Linquist, and yes, Mama knows you and Miss Bessie like her preserves.” She handed him the jar and he smacked his lips.

“I’m going to take this home for lunch.” He motioned to the chair opposite him. “I understand you ladies are sponsoring a book drive. Tell me about it.”

Halfway through her explanation of the missionaries’ need for schoolbooks, Mr. Linquist’s face paled and his mouth dropped open. His eyes grew round, his gaze fixed behind her.

She turned in her chair and stared down the barrel of a gun.

Micah tucked two replies to Sheriff Trask’s telegram into his pocket as he strode down the boardwalk. Up ahead, a man he didn’t recognize stood, half inside and half outside the door of the bank with his gun drawn, looking furtively down the street.

Micah froze for the space of a heartbeat, and then he ducked into the alley and peered through the branches of a scrubby bush. No, his imagination hadn’t played tricks on him. The man disappeared into the bank and closed the door.