unsettle her.
Life couldn’t be that cruel, could it?
“Extremely grateful—” Bass nodded then seemed to think better of the painful motion “—since we stopped here just to meet with you, Widow Trumbo.”
It’s him, Daisy’s heart thundered as the storm of reality swept through her. Bass Parker had come to High Plains.
And she’d just invited the man she blamed for taking Knox away from Ollie to stay in their home.
Bass Parker struggled through the pain forcing himself awake. Strange images swarmed in his brain making no sense. A small girl with a gun. A tall woman with eyes the color of warm honey and hair the shade of ripening wheat. Dressed in black.
His mind began to surrender to sleep again, but Bass shook his head trying to ward off the darkness threatening to engulf him once more. Petula, not safe! His fists connecting with another man’s body. Gunfire. Bank robbers! The child and her mother. He must protect the innocents.
Bass bolted upright as reality rushed through him. He groaned and grabbed his left shoulder, praying the burning would subside as quickly as it had blazed. The sight of his half-bandaged body assured him he had somehow survived the shoot-out, but where was Pet? Was she hurt?
He concentrated harder. Vague images of her holding his hand, riding in the back of a wagon with his head in her lap, the sound of her voice thanking someone named Teague for coming with them to the ranch, all reassured Bass that Petula was alive. But had she managed to stay out of trouble? That was the question.
Taking stock of his surroundings, Bass found himself in someone’s home and the comfort of a bed. An armoire took up most of one wall in the room and a table and chair set next to the four-poster, offering a lamp for reading. No fancy lace curtains or doilies adorned the room that contained only practical, functional furnishings.
The sheets were clean and the patchwork quilt comfortable but frayed. He’d apparently kicked the quilt off due to the oppressive heat, but whoever attended him was kind enough to leave open a window to bring in a breeze. His host was certainly thoughtful.
He strained to remember who that might be.
You can stay with us.
The widow’s generous words came back to him. He’d been stunned by her offer. Surprised at the gentle care she’d given him in tending his wound until the doctor arrived. He hadn’t expected such charity from the woman who had avoided even written contact with him previously.
Despite being shot, he adjusted his feelings about stopping at High Plains instead of just sending money and messages by way of Banker Cardwell as he’d done before.
He was especially glad he’d come since the banker and the doctor both confirmed Daisy as Knox’s true widow. He needed to find out just how long the widow had known each of them and why in ’60 Knox had introduced another woman as his wife. He hoped Knox Trumbo would not prove himself to be anything other than the hero Bass thought him, but if this was truly the man’s wife and child, there was a mystery to be solved in the matter.
Bass pushed aside the sheet that barely covered him. He wore no shirt, most likely to allow for changing the bandages easier.
But bloomers? Whose idea of a joke was this?
“Petula, I’m awake,” he announced strongly. “Come here, please. I need you.” He knew full well she wouldn’t have dared be any part of changing his clothes. Or any other man’s, despite the scandal that followed her from one end of the country to the other.
“I’m comin’ in. You nekkid, Mr. Parker?” asked an oddly familiar voice from beyond the door.
When he remembered the light-toned, Southern accent, Bass scrambled to grab the sheet and quilt. He wouldn’t put anything past a little girl who toted a gun easily, empty or not. “I’m covered. Will you tell my sister that I need to speak with her, please?”
“Can’t.” Olivia Trumbo opened the door, carrying paper, a book and a pencil. “She’s off in the barn with Teague. It’s just you and me and Mama and Myrtle in the house right now. They’re fixin’ you somethin’ to eat and they’ll be up here in a minute.”
She grabbed the chair at the small reading table and scooted it next to the bed. Plopping herself down, Olivia rested the book on her lap and the papers on top of it, then stared him square in the eye. “Ya ready?”
“For what?” Bass pulled the quilt up a little higher despite the heat. How could a child feel so intimidating?
Because she’s capable of holding men hostage. He felt as if he had his back against the wall and couldn’t make a move without shocking him or her.
The little Trumbo’s amber eyes disappeared into her upper eyelashes, as if she were asking God to intervene for her.
“For my questions,” she said with a sigh of impatience. “I told ya at the bank, I wanted to ask ya some questions. But things got a little wicked and I had to wait. Now I got to catch ya while I can or Mama will make me leave ya alone ’til ya get better. Who knows how long that’ll be?”
“Why is my sister in the barn with that man?”
“I’m supposed to be asking the questions, not you.” The child’s eyebrows knitted together.
“Answer that and I’ll answer a question for you.”
She hesitated then nodded. “Okay, Mama always says fair is fair. Your sister is learnin’ how to muck out a stall so Teague can keep him and his horse there. She only wanted to watch, but he told her she had to help if she was goin’ out there instead of helpin’ Mama. Said he’s gonna stick around here for a while to make sure Mama don’t need him to help with ya or anythin’.”
“Who is Teague?” Bass wondered if the man just offered his presence as a measure of protection or had other motivations for wanting to stay. Petula didn’t need to make male acquaintances here in High Plains until he could get back on his feet to chaperone her.
“Uh-uh. It’s my turn.” Olivia glanced down at her paper and readied her pencil. “How tall are ya countin’ them fancy boots?”
Bass reluctantly gave in to her stubbornness. “Six feet without. I never measured what I am with them on.”
“Mama would say about this much more, I’d guess.” She stretched her thumb and forefinger vertically.
Bass estimated. “About three inches?”
She nodded. “Yeah. She makes boots and stuff, so she’d know. That might do. How much money ya got?”
“Whoa there, that’s two questions for my one, and a man usually doesn’t disclose...tell...that kind of information about himself to a stranger.”
She put the book and paper on the edge of his bed and stuck the pencil through one of her braids to rest on her ear. The child stood and offered him her left hand. “You can call me Ollie. Now we ain’t strangers no more.”
Offering
