Beyond the Broken Road, page 12
"Nothing now. Just tell me what's been happening."
She frowned and even that was lovely. "Nothing. Marshal O’Brian said because of the rainstorms, neither he nor his deputy could find any tracks. He cannot begin to look for Abigail until you tell him what happened."
"No backtracking?"
“The storm wiped out all traces. Everyone is desperate to find her. What do you remember?”
Hmmmmm this bore some considering. “I don’t know. I was shot... I remember that. They must have taken her.”
“Who are they?”
“The outlaws who shot me.”
Although he was uncertain regarding details, someone had shot him. He had assumed it was the little man they had followed away from Tucson, but there had been others. Who were they? If it was the little man-- well, no matter who it was-- he was certain he had been shot while running away. That would not be something Tucsonans would want to hear. But then who had to know?
“Was Abigail kidnapped?” Priscilla asked.
He had no idea where she was, what had happened to her, but he did know this whole mess was all her fault. It would be best for him if she never returned, certainly not to tell her version of what happened. “Possibly,” he said. “After I was shot, it all is a blur.”
"They didn’t murder her, did they?" Priscilla asked, her face paling. “I can’t bear to think Abigail is dead.” He saw tears in her eyes.
"I don't think so. Tell me the rest. What are people saying about this?" Sweet little Priscilla, she really was being a darling. He wondered why he’d never noticed that before.
"Well, of course, people are wondering why you two went out there. Some think you were eloping, but that wasn’t it, was it?”
Had her face paled a bit more? She was so beautiful. ”We were definitely not eloping.”
“There are the most horrid stories being speculated upon.”
“What are they saying about me? Are they accusing me of being a coward because I was responsible for Abigail, and she is missing?"
"Of course not," she said, bristling becomingly at the very suggestion and relieving his mind that at least she didn't feel he had been less than a man. "You were wounded," she said as though that excused him.
"Surely people feel I failed her." He closed his eyes again and sighed loudly. "I did too. I know I did. I just wish I could remember more of what happened.”
"It will come to you."
He knew that was not the case. He liked being treated as a wounded hero. Even Priscilla would see that differently if she knew he had run. He was surprised to find how tender Priscilla’s manner was. Abigail would’ve never treated him like this.
Priscilla looked down at her hand, then met his gaze, her own troubled. "People are so revolting. I'm afraid Abigail's reputation has been ruined." She shook her head. "If she is found, she won't be able to hold her head up in Tucson, not for months, maybe years, maybe never."
"Of course, if a man loved her," Martin said, trying to be noble, "he wouldn't let such a thing stop him from giving her his name for protection."
Priscilla smiled. “A gentleman would certainly do that.”
He felt irritated and out of sorts again. He did not want to be a gentleman especially for the woman who had instigated the whole mess. He would have no choice. He had asked her to marry him, but he brightened thinking of her refusal. Still, he would not be able to withdraw his offer even though she had been debauched. He had no doubt that would have been the outcome and served her right. What wasn’t right is that he be dragged into it. He had only thought her an obnoxious female before this. Now he knew it for certain.
There was a knock at the bedroom door, and when Priscilla opened it, Martin saw Jacob Spenser. He wished he could lose consciousness, prayed for it to happen, but nothing saved him.
"Martin, I'm so sorry to see you in such a state," Jacob said, sitting in a chair across from Priscilla.
"Would you like me to leave you two alone?" Priscilla asked Martin, but he shook his head. The last thing he wanted was to be left with Jacob.
Jacob, unfortunately, felt differently. "Would you please?" he asked. "I'd really like a cup of tea if you have any. I'm not feeling at all the thing."
Priscilla left, and Martin had no choice but to face Jacob. "I'm sorry," he said.
"What happened, man? What were the two of you doing out there? Where is my daughter?” He frowned then and said, "I'm sorry. I know you're not feeling well, but I have to know what happened, where she is."
"Of course, but I find the entire experience to be cloudy, very confused. We ran into a gang. One man was killed. The others... The others must have Abigail. I’m so sorry, Jacob, but I was shot very early in the whole dastardly affair. From then on, I was unconscious or... uh delirious, yes, out of my head."
“A man was killed? Who? Where? You must try, my boy. We have to have some sort of lead to have any hope to find my daughter.”
“I wish I could help you... I really do.”
"Why did the two of you go out alone like that and so far into the wilderness?”
“We weren’t alone. We went with someone who claimed to know where the mail bags were.” He wished then he’d not said that. His best approach was no information, amnesia. Probably too late for that now.
“You took Abigail out there with a scoundrel?”
On one point, Martin was certain. This was Abigail's fault, but he didn't suppose this was an opportune time to cast blame onto her. When he could delay responding no longer, Martin groaned as though in pain. "We both knew how important that insured shipment was to you. The man came to us, swore he'd never take a large group out. You had not been well. He would not let us contact the law, or he would deny everything. Abigail didn't want to worry you. She insisted it would be all right." He didn't like the way that sounded and let his answer drone off. Unfortunately, he could think of nothing to add to it that he liked any better.
A tall, black-haired man Martin recognized as Marshal O'Brian appeared at the bedroom door and Martin sucked in a breath wishing Priscilla had been somehow able to ward him off. He knew he couldn't escape his day of reckoning forever, but he would have done so as long as possible.
Sitting astraddle the chair Priscilla had earlier occupied, his arms resting on its back, the marshal looked thoughtfully at him for a moment, the expression in those cold blue eyes unreadable. "Who shot you?”
Martin frowned. "I don't remember much about what happened.”
“Let’s start with where you were.”
“We rode south, into the hills.”
“Can you lead me there?”
“I couldn’t get out of bed.”
“When you heal up,” the marshal said with a tight smile.
“I don’t know that I could. I mean I followed a man. He knew where we were going. I had no idea.”
“You made it here from there.”
Martin swallowed. “My horse did that, I guess. I just got on him. I really don’t know this country. Maybe an angel led him back.”
The marshal scowled more deeply. Martin hoped he would leave him alone but no such luck. “How many men?”
"I think... Maybe ten or twelve. I woke up at one point, and one of them was bandaging my wound."
"Kind of odd if he shot you that he’d fix you up."
He wished he had not said that. He wanted no sympathy for that scoundrel. "He hurt me. He poured something caustic... whiskey, I think, over the injury. It burned horribly."
"Better than infection," Marshal O'Brian said with no sympathy. "Think you could identify any of those men. Was Miss Spenser with you at that point?
“I think so. Yes.”
“They were the ones who kidnapped her?"
"I don't know... I... Everything was fuzzy... I blacked out again."
"Damn, you’re not much use here. How many could you identify?"
"Only glimpses of most of them, except for the one who bandaged my wound. I do think though that he was their leader."
"How tall, what color hair, any accent?"
"Taller than you, I'd guess. I don't know. He was bearded-- maybe just unshaven. I'm not sure. His hair was dark."
"That description could fit a thousand men including me."
"Of course, I didn’t mean you,” Martin said trying to essay a small joke but seeing from the marshal’s irritation that he saw no humor in it. “Honestly, I wish I could be more helpful."
"Maybe you will," the marshal said, "as you think on it and as your wound heals." The tone of his voice was disdainful. Martin supposed the man had seen enough wounds to know his was not that major.
"I do remember one thing. The man had blue eyes, intense blue, not the sort of color you see often." He realized he was looking at eyes that color now. Could the men be related? Not hardly.
O’Brian rubbed his jaw. "Not a lot but something. You think on it. See if you come up with more. In the meantime, we'll send out a description of Miss Spenser. Maybe somebody will have heard or seen something down along the border."
"You've got to get her back. What will I do without my daughter?" Jacob pleaded.
"It’s a big territory. She could be anywhere." The marshal rose from his chair.
"I have to do something. What can I do? I don’t think I’d be up to riding with you when you go looking for her. I could offer a reward. "
O’Brian put his hand on Jacob’s shoulder. “A reward might help or not. Men like those aren’t loyal to much except what they can get out of something. On the other hand, once you put out a reward, you’ll get all kinds of crazies trying to collect it.”
“I must do something.”
“I had a little girl of my own once.” The marshal’s expression darkened. “I’ll put all I can into finding yours.”
CHAPTER 10
Abigail awoke after another wonderful night’s sleep. The altitude of the ranch and the setting of the house combined to provide cool nights and pleasant breezes through the rooms. Watching the morning light spread across the sky, the breeze ruffling the curtain, she lay in her bed thinking. If it hadn't been for her desire to return the stolen mails to their rightful owners, to reassure her father of her safety, she was surprised to realize she would have felt happy. There was rightness to this home that she'd never experienced elsewhere. She wondered how much of that rightness came from the enigmatic man she had married. She understood that this was a moment in time. It would not last. She must clasp every memory to her heart to remember when the day came she must return to reality. It would have to last her a lifetime.
Sam was already in the kitchen, and the aroma of coffee filled the air when she walked downstairs. His face was bruised, and he moved stiffly. Otherwise, he seemed little the worse for his altercation of the day before.
Without asking, he poured her a cup of coffee. "Now," he said, "I think we need to talk."
"About what this time?"
"Cooking. You really do not know how?"
She smiled sheepishly. "I know how to make tea."
"But not coffee?"
She shook her head. "I am sorry. From the time I was out of school, I worked for my father in the office. I know all kinds of things about tallying up figures and keeping records though."
"In other words, you'd be useful in my rustling enterprise, but not so much in my home."
She gave him a look and ignored his sarcasm. "I have been hoping your Mr. Gray might have left behind some cookbooks. With a little help, I am sure I can manage the basic things. I'm not stupid."
He smiled. "I never once would've figured you were. Actually, Ollie's done our cooking. If you want, he can do it."
"No!" Her answer was probably too sharp, but she didn't want that. She would pull her own weight. She had asked him to take her. She couldn’t offer what he probably had hoped, but she would work while here. "I don’t want that, but would he mind teaching me, do you think?"
"I don’t know. Ollie's not much for women." He turned to the counter and scooped flour into the bowl in front of him.
“What are you making?”
“Maybe burnt offerings,” he suggested with a half-smile.
Her smile broadened.
At that moment he knew he would do just about anything to see that smile. It seemed to spread all across her face and made him want to kiss those full lips until they turned soft and passionate under his until the nipples he could see under her shirt contracted into hard nubbins and her whole body was hot with wanting him. Instead, he turned to the large bowl. "I was figuring to make flapjacks."
She watched as he began dumping in various ingredients. He measured nothing, and when she would ask how much of each thing, he could only shrug. "What looks right."
“That’s not helpful,” she complained with narrowed eyes.
The knock at the door saved him from a reply.
Ollie came through with the hulking Rock at his heels. "Rock here wants to say he’s sorry," Ollie said.
"That so, Rock?" Sam asked.
The big man nodded, glancing quickly and then away from Abigail.
"I'd like to hear you tell me for yourself, not use Ollie here as your mouthpiece," Sam said.
To Abigail's mind, she thought Sam was rubbing in his victory more than needful, but it didn't appear Rock saw it that way. He nodded more definitely.
"I'm right sorry," he said then, his voice muffled and difficult to understand, and she realized why Ollie was doing his talking for him.
"All right then. I just don't want to go through this again," Sam said, rubbing his own jaw.
Rock smiled again. His smile made lopsided by swelling.
Sam then looked at Ollie. "Buck take his gear and pull out?"
Ollie nodded, looking at the bowl on the counter with interest, then at Abigail. "Uh, Sam, what you doin'?"
"Looks obvious to me," Sam retorted. “You more nearsighted than you let on?”
Ollie muttered a few curses. "You been makin’ a lot of mistakes lately.” He gave Abigail a look. “Not killing Buck is another."
Sam nodded, not needing the reminder that he had missed his shot there. He would have to hope for the best and watch his back trail. He still could not believe he had been so careless as to turn his back on Buck in the first place. Had he done that because his mind was on Abby, on returning to her? Ollie would not always be around to yell a warning. She might yet be the end of him.
Abigail went to the stove and refilled her own cup. “Would you gentlemen like some coffee?”
Ollie looked at her with skepticism, but both he and Rock nodded, and she handed them each a cup. “Ollie,” she said, “May I call you Ollie?"
The old-timer nodded again, not giving an inch of friendliness. “Yes, ma’am.”
"Please make that Abigail. Sam said that you’d been doing the cooking here.”
Ollie nodded again. "You wantin' me to keep on doing that?" he asked.
"Well, I suppose that will be necessary for a bit, but what I was really hoping is that you could teach me to cook."
Ollie’s surprise showed on his face. “All women know how to cook.”
She shook her head. “Not all.”
“Wal, why the… How come you don’t know how?”
“A lot of reasons. My mother died when I was young.” Not that young but Ollie didn’t have to know that. The truth was her mother had had little patience or interest in teaching Abigail about the homemaking arts.
Ollie looked at her with the first possible smidgen of sympathy. "Suppose I could… When would you be wantin’ to start?"
“I have a few things to do this morning, but maybe for the evening meal, which I guess we'd have to start this afternoon. Is that correct?"
He nodded again, looked at Sam then. "What you gonna be doing?"
Sam considered. "I suppose we should break in that new remuda that Sandy brought in. Some of those springtails haven't ever been ridden. We're going to need them soon."
Ollie grinned more broadly. "Then, yes, ma'am. I'd be right proud to start teachin' you to cook today. Anything to keep from breaking my... uh bones out in the corral."
Abby looked with concern at Sam. "Breaking horses? That's what you're going to do, break horses? Isn't that dangerous?"
"Not when you know what you're doing," Sam said, sending a quelling glance at Ollie. "Most of them won't need much anyway."
Ollie chuckled and nudged Rock to head for the door. "We'll leave you two to argue this out. Did you tell her about the time you dislocated your shoulder--on those gentle little horses--Sam?" With that he and Rock were gone, Ollie's chuckling and Rock's muddled attempt at it still being heard as they stomped off the porch.
"It is dangerous," Abby said, shooting up out of her chair at the table. "You cannot think this is a good time to do something like that. You’re still recovering from that fight."
“The fight was nothing, and this isn’t much more.”
“Couldn’t some of the other men do it?”
He smiled, but the stubborn set to his jaw told her he was not amused. "I don't need a mother, Abby. I had one. She wasn't much, but I don't want another. You let me take care of breaking horses. I've been doing it for a lot more years than you're giving me credit for."
"But..."
"I need some water for shaving. Is that still hot?"
She nodded and watched as he took it out onto the back porch and set the water on a wooden stand. She heard the sound of the razor being sharpened and headed out to continue the argument. When she saw he'd removed his shirt and all she could see was that perfect torso with the sculpted muscles, now flexing as he lifted his arms, she scuttled back into the kitchen to wash the breakfast dishes.
When Sam came through the door, he was again wearing his shirt. With the bristle removed, she saw a roughhewn, exceedingly handsome face. His cheeks were lean, his jaw firm and strong, a stubborn, strong face of a man who knew what he was doing in life and would give others confidence in his abilities to lead them anywhere but unfortunately with a daredevil glint in his eyes. His mouth had a humorous look, or was that sensuous? She felt a fluttering in her belly at the thought of those lips against hers.
