“Breathe.”
She drew in another deep, cleansing breath. Her ribs throbbed in objection. Bit by bit, her alarm began to ease and her composure returned.
Coffee. There were plenty of logs lying next to the fireplace, along with a bucket filled with slivers of resin-rich pine knot that would flame in an instant. Her heart sank. She could handle the kindling, but there was no way she could lift the logs with one arm. Doc Rachel was right. She wasn’t able to do this alone just yet.
A loud rapping at the door sent her spinning around, the fire forgotten.
“Come in,” she called and was surprised at how hoarse and unused her voice sounded.
The knob turned, and Ace Allen, former inmate, the man who had killed her husband, stepped inside. The small room seemed even smaller when filled with his powerful presence.
As if he sensed her sudden discomfort, he left the door open and made no effort to move closer.
“Hello, Mrs. Thomerson. Do you remember me? Asa—Ace Allen? I’ve seen you in town a few times.”
His voice was deep and as dark as his hair, but smooth-dark, like the black velvet dress Mrs. VanSickle sometimes wore to church in the wintertime.
His eyes were compelling, perhaps because their crystalline blue was so unexpected in someone who, for the most part, had received his mother’s looks and coloring. There were lines fanning out at the corners of those incredible eyes. Faint furrows scored his forehead and his cheeks were lean and held grooves that might be attractive if he were not so stern-looking. There were scars, too, around his eyes and on his cheekbones. It was a face on a first-name basis with grief and pain. For the briefest second, her heart throbbed with empathy.
“Why?”
He seemed as surprised by the question as she was to hear it break the stillness of the room.
“Why?” he asked, frowning.
“Why do they call you Ace?”
His gaze never faltered. He seemed to relax the slightest bit. The subtle shift in his demeanor and stance eased Meg’s own distress somewhat.
“When I finished at the mission school in Oklahoma, I went to Texas and became a tracker for the Texas Rangers. They all said I was an ace tracker, so they shortened my name to Ace.”
He—an Indian—had finished school. Meg had no schooling past the fifth grade. As usual, she felt lessened by the knowledge. “So...hunting men down is something you know how to do.”
It was a statement, not a question. From the expression in his eyes, he took it as an accusation, even though she hadn’t meant it that way.
“I shot him in the thigh, Mrs. Thomerson.” Instead of exhibiting the evasiveness she expected, he confronted the specter standing between them head-on.
“He’d taken a shot at Colt that only missed by inches. I yelled and he turned and took a shot at me, just as I pulled the trigger. His bullet grazed the fleshy part of my arm, and I flinched. The plan was to disable him, not take his life.”
He stated his side of things with simple directness and no attempt to color his actions one way or the other. She heard sincerity in his voice. Her instincts told her it was real, but she’d learned the hard way that her intuition was often wrong. Making a lie sound like the truth had been a hallmark of Elton’s. After a while she’d learned not to believe anything he said. Ace Allen wasn’t Elton, but those lessons had been hard-learned and not easily forgotten.
“I didn’t know Elton shot at you, too.”
It was the first she’d heard of that. Or maybe, like so many other things, she’d heard but didn’t remember. Though she had no doubt that Elton had brought about his own demise, she now understood more fully why Ace Allen had taken aim.
“I know I can’t expect you to forgive me, but—”
“Please,” she said, cutting him off with a raised hand. Hearing and accepting his apology, feeling as she did about Elton’s death, would be the height of hypocrisy. “No more. Please.”
He gave a sharp nod.
Meg focused on his face. “I can’t pay you.”
He shrugged in a surprisingly graceful lift of wide shoulders. “It doesn’t matter. The way I see it, I owe you.”
No. She owed him a debt of gratitude for releasing her from her prison of pain and degradation. Meg lowered her gaze so he wouldn’t see the truth in her eyes. He wanted to make amends for leaving her without a husband, though he, more than most, would know that Elton hadn’t been worth much in that regard. Her husband’s contribution to the marriage had been two babies too fast and the occasional promise when he was filled with drunken self-pity to do better. Of course, when he drank even more and she did something to irritate him, that promise, like all his vows, went by the wayside.
“Sheriff Garrett says you can do laundry.”
“I can do a lot of things,” he said with a solemn nod. “I won’t let you lose your business. It’s the least my mother and I can do. Maybe you can take up your mending again now that you’re home and the ironing as you get your strength back.”
Thinking of her future, she moved toward the fireplace and rubbed her hands up and down her upper arms. Taking up her mending would be a step toward standing on her own two feet again, and it would give her something to do, keep her from feeling so helpless. Give her an inkling of hope that she could make a good life for herself and her babies.
“I’ll make a fire and start some coffee, if you’d like.”
Meg whirled at the sound of his voice. She’d been so caught up in her thoughts that she’d forgotten that the stranger was still there.
Within arm’s reach.
Her heart stumbled and she pressed her palm against the sudden tightening in her chest. How had he moved so silently? So quickly?
As if he knew she was uneasy with his nearness, he went to the fireplace and squatted in front of the hearth, removing himself to a more comfortable distance.
Her nerves quieted. How silly of her to feel frightened by him, she thought. Just because he looked dangerous didn’t mean he was. After all, he’d helped her before, and two of the most respected people in Wolf Creek had vouched for him.
Meg had no solution for feelings she knew were irrational, but at the moment it hurt her brain too much to try to figure things out. She decided to fetch a shawl to ward off the chill that gripped her despite the warm morning. As she neared the door to her room she found herself drawn to the other bedroom, the one she’d avoided the previous night.
The door swung wide on creaking hinges and she stepped inside. The room was musty-smelling after being empty so long. She reached for the tin of talcum powder that sat atop the chest of drawers next to a stack of diapers. Doctor Rachel had given it to her when Lucy was born.
Twisting the top, she sprinkled a little onto the inside of her forearm and smoothed it in. She’d used the precious gift sparingly, but still, it was almost gone. She raised her arm and breathed in the
