Page 5

She peered beneath the cloth. “I don’t think it’s gonna blister.” She touched her finger to the pink scar that circled his wrist. “What happened here?”

Austin stiffened, his throat knotting, and he wished he’d taken the time to roll down his sleeves after he’d finished chopping the wood. He considered lying, but he’d learned long ago the foolishness of lies. “Shackles.”

She lifted her gaze to his, her delicate brow furrowing, anxiety darkening her eyes, imploring him to answer a question she seemed hesitant to voice aloud.

He swallowed hard. “I spent some time in prison.”

“For what?” she whispered.

“Murder.”

He had expected horror to sweep across her face, would not have blamed her if she had run into the house to fetch her rifle.

Instead, she continued to hold his gaze, silently studying him as though she sought some secret long buried.

He considered telling her that he hadn’t killed anyone, but he’d learned that the voices of twelve men spoke louder than one.

Unfortunately, until he proved someone else had killed Boyd McQueen, he was the man who had.

“How long were you in prison?” she finally asked.

“Five years.”

“That’s not very long for murder.”

“It’s long enough.”

Releasing his hand and his gaze, she eased away from him. “You should eat. You earned it.”

He gave a brusque nod before delving into the stew. She sat on the bottom step of the porch and put one foot on top of the other. She had the cutest toes he’d ever seen. The second toe was crooked and pointed away from the big toe like a broken sign giving directions to a town.

She hit her thigh. “Come here, Digger.”

The dog trotted over and nestled his head in her lap. With doleful eyes, he looked at Austin.

“Digger?” Austin asked.

She buried her fingers in the animal’s thick brown and white fur. “Yeah, he’s always digging things up. Do you have a name?”

“Austin Leigh.”

“I thought that’s where you were headed.”

“It is. I was born near here. My parents named me after the town.”

“Must get confusing.”

“Not really. Haven’t been back in over twenty

years.” He returned his attention to the stew, remembering a time when talking had come easy, when smiling at women had brought such pleasures.

“I’m Loree Grant.”

“I appreciate the hospitality, Miss Grant.” He scraped the last of the stew from his bowl.

“Do you want more stew?” she asked.

“If you’ve got some to spare.”

She rose, took his bowl, and walked into the house. The dog released a little whimper. Austin reached out to stroke the animal. A wave of dizziness assaulted him. He grabbed the edge of the porch and breathed deeply.

“Are you all right?”

He glanced over his shoulder. Loree stood uncertainly on the porch, the bowl of fresh stew in her hand.

He brought himself to his feet, afraid what he’d already eaten wasn’t going to stay put.

“Reckon one bowl was plenty. Sorry to have troubled you for the second. I was wondering … with night closing in … if you’d mind if I bedded down in your barn. ”

Wariness flitted through her golden eyes, but she gave him a jerky nod.

“ ‘Preciate it. You can hold on to the saddlebags and guns until morning if it’ll help ease your fears about my staying. Before I head out, let me know what chores I can do as payment for the roof over my head.”

He strode toward Black Thunder, hoping he could get the horse settled before he collapsed from exhaustion.

He didn’t have the eyes of a killer. Loree repeated that thought like a comforting litany as she sat crossed-legged on her bed, the loaded rifle resting across her lap, her gaze trained on the door.

Five years ago, she’d looked into the eyes of a killer.

She knew them to be ruthless and cold. Austin Leigh’s eyes were neither.

She shifted her attention to the fire burning in the hearth.

In the center, where the heat burned the hottest, the writhing blue flames reflected the color of his eyes.

Eyes that mirrored sorrow and pain. She wondered if any of the creases that fanned out from the corners of his eyes had been carved by laughter.

Hearing thunder rumble in the distance, she hoped the storm would hold off until he’d left, but she thought it unlikely. The clock on the mantel had only just struck midnight.

The barn roof had more holes than the night sky had stars. Still it would offer him more protection than the trees. And he probably had a slicker. All cowboys did, and he certainly looked to be a cowboy. Tall and rangy with a loose-jointed walk that spoke of no hurry to be anywhere.

The rain began to pelt the roof with a steady staccato beat. She cringed. The nights were still cool, but he hadn’t asked for additional blankets or a pillow, and he couldn’t build a fire inside the barn. She cursed under her breath. He wasn’t her worry. He was a murderer, for God’s sake.

If only he had the eyes of a murderer. Then she could stop worrying about him and worry more about herself. If only his eyes hadn’t held a bleakness as he’d spoken of prison. She wondered whom he had killed. If he’d had good reason to murder someone.

She tightened her fingers around the rifle. Did any reason justify murder? She had asked herself that question countless times since the night the killer had swooped down on them. The answer always eluded her. Or perhaps only the answer she wanted eluded her.

She slid off the bed and walked to her hope chest. She knelt before it and set the rifle on the floor.

She ran her hand over the cedar that her father had sanded and varnished to a shine for her fourteenth birthday.

For three years she had carefully folded and placed her dreams inside …

until the night when the killer had dragged her to the barn.

Her dreams had died that night, along with her mother, father, and brother.

The rain pounded harder. The wind scraped the tree branches across the windows. The thunder roared.

She lifted the lid on the chest for the first time since that fateful night.

Forgotten dreams beckoned her. She trailed her fingers over the soft flannel of a nightgown.

She had wanted to feel delicate on her wedding night so she had embroidered flowers down the front and around the cuffs.

She had tatted the edges of her linens and sewn a birthing gown for a child that she now knew would never be.

The killer had charged into her life with the force of a tornado. He had stolen everything, and when she’d tried to regain a measure of what he’d taken—he had delivered his final vengeance. With one laugh, one hideous laugh that had echoed through the night, he had shattered her soul.

She slammed down the lid and dug her fingers into her thighs. She had no future because the past kept a tight hold on her present.

She rose to her feet, walked to the hearth, and grabbed the lantern off the mantel.

Using the flame from the lamp, she lit the lantern.

She jerked her slicker off the wall and slipped into it, calling herself a fool.

Then she walked to the corner and pulled two quilts from the stack of linens.

Digger struggled to his feet, his body quivering from his shoulders to his tail.

“Stay!” she ordered. His whine tore at her heart.

The dog got his feelings hurt more easily than the town spinster.

Loree softened her voice. “If you get wet and muddy, I won’t be able to let you back in.

I won’t be long.” She stepped outside. Lightning streaked across the obsidian sky.

Rain pelted the earth. The barn was as black as a tomb.

She couldn’t remember if a lantern still hung in the barn. She shivered as memories assailed her.

Satan had risen from the bowels of Hell and made their barn his domain. It had been raining that night as well, and the water had washed their blood into the earth.

She pressed her back against the door. She hadn’t gone into the bam since. Her mouth grew dry, her flesh cold. So cold. As cold as the death that had almost claimed her.

Austin Leigh wasn’t her worry, but the words rang hollow. Her mother would have invited him into the house and provided him with shelter and warmth. Her mother’s innocent words flowed through her. “There are no strangers in this world, Loree. Only friends we haven’t yet met.”

Reaching deep down, she gathered her courage. Clutching the quilts, with the lantern swinging at her side, Loree darted to the barn, hopping over puddles, landing in others. She stumbled to a stop in the doorway of the barn. “Mr. Leigh?”

She raised the lantern. The shadows retreated slightly, hovering just beyond the lantern’s pale glow. With all the holes in the roof, the barn resembled a cavern filled with waterfalls. Bracing herself against the memories, she took a step. “Mr. Leigh?”

She had sold all her animals except for one cow and a few chickens.

She heard his horse snort and saw it standing in the distant stall.

Using the lantern to light her way, she peered in the stalls she passed until she reached the stallion, secured in the driest area of the barn.

How could a man who placed his horse above himself be a murderer?

Holding the lantern higher, she gazed inside the stall. The horse nudged her shoulder. “Where is your owner?”

The animal shook his head.

“You’re a big help.” She turned at the sound of a low moan.

The glow from the lantern fanned out to the opposite stall, revealing a man curled against the corner, lying on his side, knees drawn up, arms pressed in close against his body.

She eased toward the stall. “Mr. Leigh, I brought you some quilts.”