arrogant, cocky grin on his handsome face before he...
No! No! Don’t think about it.
Malignant memories bombarded her from every direction, and she couldn’t think for the raw terror rising inside her. She turned in a circle, rubbing her upper arms, confused and unsure what to do next.
Stay calm and breathe. Remember that Elton can’t hurt you anymore. If things seem overwhelming, think them through. First things first.
Rachel’s voice, so soothing and sensible, played through Meg’s mind. She drew in several deep breaths and felt the anxiety begin to recede.
First things first. Coffee. She wanted coffee. Needed coffee. Was there any here? She couldn’t remember. She recalled Gabe Gentry saying that he’d brought a few staples from the general store, but she had no idea what. She knew she should eat something, even though she had no appetite. Was there water in the bucket?
She pressed her fingertips to her temples to try to still the pounding in her head.
“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
