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“I couldn’t have done it without him,” Doreena agreed, spreading a napkin across her lap.
His neck heated up, as if he stood in the sun, and his throat locked, holding in the protest proclaiming she’d done most of the work.
“Eat up,” Sarah insisted as she took a seat next to her husband.
“Don’t mind if I do.” Tristan lifted a basket. “Here, Clint, nothing’s better than Sarah’s biscuits.”
Clint took one and passed them to Doreena, whose genuine smile had his pulse slapping against his skin.
The warm atmosphere was like a calming balm. Jeb and Sarah were good people, friendly and forthright, and Tristan, though young and with his head still in the clouds, was a likable kid when all was said and done, but it was Doreena that held Clint’s attention.
She’d changed her dress, and now wore a delicate rose-colored gown that made her about the most fetching woman he’d ever laid eyes on. No matter what he tried, he couldn’t quit staring at her. After everyone finished the fine meal with a large slice of chocolate cake that had made his stomach growl like he hadn’t just eaten two helpings of ham and potatoes, Clint took his leave of the house. It was too hard to think straight with Doreena’s long lashes fluttering like a butterfly’s wings. Her transformation from a no-nonsense ranch owner to a proper and almost prim young lady was mystifying, and had him thinking about things he shouldn’t be thinking about.
A big round moon lit up the yard, and the stillness let the sounds of night float on the air with an unhurried peace. Clint stretched his arms overhead as he walked to the bunkhouse, where he found a sturdy chair under the overhang. He sat and let his mind dwell on the situation he’d planted himself in. After two years of living in a cell and not doing much except thinking, most folks would have thought themselves right out of thoughts, but that wasn’t the case for him. If anything, he now had more to ponder, including a beautiful and baffling woman pig farmer.
Trancelike, watching the tiny flicker of a flame far off in the hills, his insides twitched when someone sat down next to him.
“Nice night,” Doreena said.
“Yes, it is.” Drawing ease from her tranquil sigh, he added, “Nice supper you made there.”
“Thank you. I’m glad you liked it.”
Neither spoke then. It was a gentle silence, one that didn’t seem strained or out of place or lonely. That thought surprised him, too. He hadn’t pondered loneliness for some time.
“Clint,” she uttered so softly it sounded whispered.
“Yeah?”
“Where’d you learn to shoot like that?”
He shrugged. “Here and there.”
“Where’s here and there?”
He shifted in his chair. Being a hired gun wasn’t far from being an outlaw.
“Never mind. It’s none of my business anyway.”
“Texas,” he blurted, somewhat stung by the piece of his heart that was ready to share his entire sordid past with her.
“Excuse me?”
“Texas is where I learned to shoot like that. I was born and raised in Missouri, but moved south when my mother died several years ago.” He pulled his attention back to the tiny glow. “When did your hired hands head out with the pigs?”
“That’s not them.”
He’d already gathered as much.
“I don’t know who it is, but they’re out there every night. Every day.” Her chair creaked as she leaned back. “That’s part of the reason I waited so long to send Joe and Dobbs and the herd to market. I’ve searched. Rode every trail, but I can’t find them.”
“Maybe it’s drifters.”
“No. Whoever it is, they’re watching us. Watching me, and waiting to make their move.”
“Indians?”
“No. There aren’t any hostiles around. I believe it’s Stewart Drake. Not necessarily him, but his cronies.”
“Drake? The Sheriff you mentioned earlier?”
“Yes. He’s out to break me. Has been since I accused him of killing my father.”
The hair on the back of his neck grew stiff.
“My father died riding posse with Drake. The two of them separated from the rest of the group, and Drake returned with the body of my father, shot in the back. The rustlers were never caught. Jeb was there. He thinks the same as I do.”
An all-too-familiar, gut-churning, bile-building scene crossed his mind. Blocking the memories, he started to ask, “Why would—”
“Drake showed up around here about the same time as all the rustling started. When Sheriff Dobson was shot dead—” her gaze was serious “—again in the back, Drake supposedly shot the assailant, and then convinced the city council to appoint him the new sheriff of Plum Creek. The man’s as dirty as they come. I know it. I just haven’t been able to prove it.” Her sigh echoed in the still night. “I’ve been too busy trying to keep our heads above water.”
