Page 16

“ T hink you can bring me in?”

The voice came from behind him. He didn’t need to turn around to know that it belonged to the man he’d been chasing for so long.

He didn’t need to turn around to know there was a pistol pointed at his back, either.

He could feel it though it wasn’t touching him.

What he didn’t know was how Big Bill Cassidy had gotten the jump on him, managed to sneak up on him when every muscle, sinew, and nerve in his body was attuned to everything around him.

“I don’t think it, Cassidy, I know it.” His hand lowered oh so slowly to the revolver at his hip.

“Uh uh, don’t you be movin’!” Cassidy stopped him, his voice filled with derision and—was that a touch of fear?

Maybe it was and if it was, then he might just have a chance to escape this encounter with his life.

“Put your hands up and turn around real slow. Don’t be making any sudden moves.” Cassidy laughed, though there was no joy in the sound. “My trigger finger’s a little itchy.”

Devlin did as he was told, raising his hands up and turning slowly to face the man who needed to be brought to justice for the horrible crimes he’d committed. It only took a moment to size up the bandit, notice the bloodshot eyes filled with hate, and the sneer of contempt spreading his lips.

“Drop the holster.”

It was the last thing he wanted to do, but it was either that or get shot right where he stood. Cassidy wouldn’t hesitate. He hadn’t before, and unless he was brought in, he wouldn’t again. Some men just liked killing and Cassidy was one of them.

Slowly, so as not to raise suspicion, Devlin reached for the buckle of his holster, even as his mind went over the various scenarios, only one or two of which would leave him not dead, though at this moment, he didn’t care if he died. Life without Hannah was too hard.

Still, Avery needed him. Hell, he needed her. And once Cassidy was brought in, he could be with her again.

He unbuckled the holster but didn’t let it drop to the ground. Instead, he lowered it until it rested on the dirt then straightened, going over all the possibilities in his head to get out of this alive.

“Who are you?”

“Devlin Goodrich. U.S. Marshal.”

Cassidy nodded, the gleam of recognition shining in his dark eyes. “Heard about you. How’d you find me? No one knows about this place.”

“Been looking for you for a long time, Cassidy. Caught up with your buddy, Smiley Burdette. He’s sitting in my jail cell right now and talking up a blue streak.

” He tilted his head, knowing he was antagonizing the man who held his life in his hands, hoping, praying that something he said would make this man act irrationally, giving him a chance to act. “He told me where to find you.”

He awoke, startled and disoriented, and sat up quickly, the dregs of the nightmare still in his head.

It took a moment or two to orient himself.

He wasn’t in the high mountains of New Mexico—he was in his own bed, in his own home.

Moonlight streamed into the bedroom, not the high glare of midday sunlight that had made him squint when he’d finally found Cassidy’s hide-out.

He let out a sigh. He’d never go back to sleep now. He never could after one of his nightmares. Fortunately, those nightmares were becoming less and less frequent though they still had the power to scare the living daylights out of him.

He rose slowly, grabbed a pair of socks, trousers and a shirt from the bureau and slipped into them, then padded down the hall, boots in hand.

He pushed open the door to Avery’s room carefully, praying the hinges wouldn’t squeak then tiptoed in, leaving his boots in the doorway.

He didn’t need to light the lantern; he was able to see his daughter quite clearly in the moonlight.

She lay sprawled on her bed on her stomach, one arm around Cecily, the other arm under her pillow.

The blanket half covered her and one foot hung off the bed.

He smiled. She slept like her mother—hard, deep, and unplagued by the nightmares he himself suffered.

He moved closer to the bed, slowly brought her foot up so it was covered by the blanket, then straightened the covers around her shoulders. She sighed in her sleep, clutched Cecily a little closer, but didn’t awaken.

He stood there for a moment, just watching her, listening to her breathe.

Pure love filled his heart. It was his duty to keep her—and the world around her—safe, a duty he was proud to perform.

Secure in the knowledge that he would never again let someone try to keep her away from him—like Frances had tried to do—he carefully stepped out of the room.

Grabbing his boots, he closed the door, though not all the way.

He wanted to be able to hear her if she should call out, then headed downstairs, careful to avoid the riser that creaked.

As he passed through the parlor, he noticed that it was only a little after five in the morning.

He had another hour or so before Tresia breezed into the house and started breakfast. Her hours, when he hired her, were seven to seven but that seemed to have gone by the wayside.

She frequently arrived before that time and stayed well after.

She didn’t seem to mind. He didn’t either.

He rather enjoyed sharing a cup of coffee with her after Avery went to bed.

He wandered into the kitchen, slipped into his boots and went about making a pot of coffee then sat at the table and just waited for it to be ready, at odds with himself and the reason he wasn’t still sleeping.

He couldn’t just sit there, though, his fingertips tapping out a rhythm.

He had to do something…constructive…instead of simply waiting for the coffee… and Mrs. Tresia Morgan.

He rose from his chair and went into the small study, grabbed the rolled-up tube of new Wanted posters that had been delivered yesterday, and brought them back to the kitchen table.

He untied the neat little bow that held them together and spread them out in front of him, placing the sugar bowl at one corner of the papers and the creamer at the other to keep them from rolling back up again.

He poured himself a cup of the finally done coffee, then made himself comfortable at the table and studied the posters as he always did, committing the names and faces to memory.

If any one of them wandered into his town, he’d make sure they never did again.

The kitchen door opened, startling him, as Tresia entered the house. She stopped for a moment as her gaze landed on him before a big smile spread her lips. “I didn’t expect you to be up.”

“Avery’s still sleeping.” He gestured to the coffeepot on a trivet on the table. “I made coffee.”

“You look tired. Didn’t you sleep?”

“Not very well, if you want to know the truth.”

“Have you always had problems sleeping?”

“No, I haven’t.” Not until Hannah passed and he’d spent the next couple months tracking down Big Bill Cassidy with a determination that made most of his friends doubt his sanity. Hell, he’d doubted his own sanity more than once.

“Maybe a glass of warm milk before bed instead of coffee.” She laughed softly as she hooked the strings of her drawstring purse over the spindle of the chair and dropped a bundle of clothes on that same chair.

“My father always had a glass of whiskey before he went to sleep, even after his stroke. He always said it helped him. Brett?—”

“Your late husband?”

“Yes.” A hint of sadness flashed in her eyes but disappeared just as quickly. “He preferred brandy. I do, as well, on occasion, though not very often.” She glanced at the papers spread before him and gave him a questioning look. “Are those…Wanted posters?”

“They are.”

“Avery shouldn’t see those.” She glanced at the clock over the sink. “She’ll be getting up soon.”

“She’s seen them before. She knows what I do. She always said she wants to be a lawman like me.” He laughed but rolled the posters back into a tube and tied them with the string, then leaned them against the wall behind his chair. “I’ll put them away before she gets up.”

“Thank you. Even though Avery wants to be a lawman like you, she’s far too young to know how bad some people can be. Those lessons will come soon enough.”

“Hannah always said the same thing.”

“Hannah was right.” She turned away to take a cup from the cabinet and poured herself some coffee.

She didn’t sit down to enjoy it though. She added a bit of cream and sugar, took a sip then got right to work, taking down a bowl from the cabinet and utensils from the drawer and bringing everything to the kitchen table.

“I know you haven’t even had breakfast yet, but what would you like for dinner? ”

He laughed. “Whatever you make will be fine—you’re a great cook. I even like your green beans.”

Her cheeks blossomed with color as a blush stole over her face. “Thank you!”

He watched her, fascinated with how the deepening redness on her cheeks made her eyes seem darker than the pansies that grew in the town square.

A sudden suspicion settled over him—was she paying for the items she was bringing into his home?

She hadn’t asked him for money, nor did she seem like she would do so but he didn’t want anything to come out of her own paycheck.

“Are you paying for everything out of your own pocket?”

She looked at him like he had three heads. “No, of course not. You have a tab with Goldwater’s, the butcher, and the ice man.” She gathered eggs, vanilla, cinnamon, and milk as she spoke. “You settle up at the end of the month when you get your bill. Did Lucy not tell you that?”

He shook his head. If Lucy had told him that, he’d forgotten. So much had happened on the day he met Lucy and received the key to this house. He’d met Tresia for the first time…and she had proven to be a godsend in more ways than one. Avery was thriving…and he, to some extent, was as well.