When she didn’t reply, John took her gloved hand in both of his. “I’m truly sorry, Abbie. Death is always hard, but it’s worse when it’s sudden.”
She felt his fingers through the black silk, warm and strong against the bones of her hand. She understood that he was a minister now, and that holding a widow’s hand was second nature to him, but that same hand had once touched her breasts.
The memory brought with it a surge of heat, a melting she hadn’t felt in years and never wanted to feel again.
Being careful to hide her traitorous response, she withdrew her fingers from his. No way was she going down that road again.
“Thank you for your concern.” Stepping back, she stared at her trunk. If the good Reverend came any closer, she’d use those rusty scissors in a heartbeat.
Chapter Two
Calling himself a fool, John ran his fingers through his hair. What the devil was he doing holding Abbie’s hand? She wasn’t an elderly widow with gray hair and wrinkles. Touching her stirred up thoughts he didn’t want, and if her eyes were as honest as they had been in Kansas, she had wanted to slap him.
And with good reason. Just as he remembered, her fingers were strong and slender, perfect for kneading bread or massaging a man’s tired shoulders. She had done him that favor after a day of apple picking.
I’m beat. My arms feel like old ropes.
You worked so hard… Let me rub your shoulders.
He had slumped over the kitchen table, resting his head on his forearms as she’d massaged his neck. Her fingers had worked magic, and he’d offered to return the favor. Wisely she had turned her head, but not before he’d seen the discovery of desire in her eyes. Fool that he’d been, he’d taken it as a challenge.
Now, with the precaution he should have taken in Kansas, John kept the carpetbag between them as he led the way down the platform steps. He hated to ask questions about Susanna, but he needed information. “Do you know when your daughter left Washington?”
“About three weeks ago,” Abbie replied. “She was staying with her best friend in Middleburg. Apparently the girls cooked up the scheme together. They told Colleen’s parents that Susanna was going home, and Susanna wrote to me that she was staying through June.”
John nodded. “I’ve used that trick myself. It’s a good one.”
“Too good, I’m afraid. I wouldn’t have known she’d run away if I hadn’t sent a wire asking the Jensens to send her home early. We have plans to meet my father.”
“We’ll send him a wire, too, saying you might be delayed.”
“No!” Abbie’s voice carried above the street noise. John turned and saw that she was trying to appear relaxed. “He doesn’t know Susanna’s missing. I don’t want him to worry.”
“Is there any chance she’s been in touch with him?”
“None at all. They aren’t close.”
As they approached the telegraph office, he asked the question he’d been dreading. “What does she look like?”
For the first time since leaving the train, Abbie smiled. “Probably like a boy. She just turned fourteen, but she stole clothes from her friend’s brother and chopped off her hair. The disguise won’t be convincing for long, but right now she’s a beanpole and about my height.”
John had to admire the girl’s spunk. “What color is her hair?”
“Dark and straight.”
Like mine, he thought. He wondered if Robert’s coloring had been dark, but it seemed unlikely. Robbie’s hair was the color of sand.
“What about her eyes?” John asked.
“They’re brown.”
He’d been hoping to hear “blue like Robbie’s,” not that it mattered. Brown eyes were as common as mud. At least half the folks in Midas had brown eyes. John lifted a piece of paper off the counter. “Is there anything else I should know?”
“Only that she doesn’t have much money. If she went to Bitterroot, the train fare cost more than I thought.”
At the mention of the town where he’d been convicted of murder, John stifled a frown. He remembered every building, every alley, but especially the courthouse where he’d been convicted for the deaths of Ben Gantry’s sons. If anyone had cause to hate John, it was Ben. Without knowing it, Susanna was spitting on the graves of his sons.
Seeing the worry in Abbie’s eyes, John looked for consolation and found it in the presence of his old friend. Silas had knocked sense into John when he’d been dumped in prison, kicking and shouting obscenities at the guards. “There’s a bright spot in this mess,” he said to Abbie. “I have a friend who’ll look for her if I ask.”
“Who?” she asked.
“His name is Silas Jones. We met in prison, but don’t judge him for it. He’s an ex-slave with more scars on his back than skin. He talked me through some terrible times.”
Silas had known how to get along with the guards. He’d also known how to pray. After John had taken the beating of his life, he’d been begging God to let him die. Instead the good Lord had sent Silas. Thanks to that wise old man, John could sleep at night, alone and usually without dreams. Never mind that he woke up lonely and lustful. He’d made that choice for a reason and he’d be wise to remember it, especially with the scent of Abbie’s skin filling his nose.
After jotting the telegram on a notepad, he asked the clerk to send it immediately. The rustle of Abbie’s dress dragged his gaze to her reticule where she was digging for coins. “How much will it be?” she asked the clerk.
John interrupted. “I’ll take care of it.”
“No, I insist. She’s my daughter.”
Maybe so, but judging by her worn-out clothes, Abbie didn’t have a lot of money. He’d assumed that Robert had been well-to-do, but the man could have gambled away every cent. For all John knew, he’d left Abbie in debt with two children to feed. It would explain the air of secrecy about her. Before she could find her coins, he opened his billfold and slapped a greenback on the counter. “Take it out of this,” he said to the wire operator, a man named Bill Norris.
“No!” Abbie looked at Bill. “How much is it?”
The operator named an amount that would have made a Rockefeller grumble. From the corner of his eye, John saw Abbie pale as she extracted two small bills.
At the sight of her tense fingers, he realized more was at stake than money. She was drawing a line between his responsibilities and hers, but he couldn’t let her pinch pennies. The train fare had to cost a hundred dollars each, and lodging would be expensive, too. Since the telegram was the least of her worries, he surrendered with a smile. “Want to flip a coin to see who pays?”
“Absolutely not,” she said. “And please don’t argue with me. I get enough of that from Robbie.”
