care about an old widow? “I’ll be glad to help in any way I can.” She eyed the piano. “That’s a beautiful instrument. Do you suppose she would let me play it?” When Da wasn’t around, Mam had taught Marybeth to play, using the piano in a neighborhood church. She’d gone to practice as often as she could, first to escape Da’s anger, later for the sheer enjoyment of playing.
“I think she’d be pleased to hear you.” Rand moved a hand closer to Marybeth’s but pulled it back before he made contact, apparently rethinking the gesture. “I’d like to hear you play, too.”
The intensity of his gaze stirred an unfamiliar sensation in her chest. Was it admiration? Oddly, traitorously, she hoped he did admire her. What girl didn’t want to be appreciated?
“Well, I’d need to practice first. It’s been a while since I played.”
He seemed about to respond, but Mrs. Foster entered the room carrying a black-lacquered tray filled with all the necessities for a lovely tea. Rand stood, as any true gentleman would, until Mrs. Foster reclaimed her seat.
“Oh, my.” He looked hungrily at the cake, the look every cook hoped for. “It’s a good thing we didn’t have any dessert at the café.”
“The café!” Mrs. Foster blustered in an amiable way. “Why, I can outcook that Pam Williams any day.” She raised her dark gray eyebrows and stared at Rand expectantly.
“Now, Mrs. Foster.” He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “There’s a reason I never volunteer to judge the Harvest Home baking contest or any other one. As a bachelor, I don’t want to get in trouble with any of the many fine cooks we’re so fortunate to have here in Esperanza. You don’t know how much we depend on your good graces to have a decent meal from time to time.”
He waggled his eyebrows at Marybeth and she bit back a laugh. It was their first moment of camaraderie, and it felt...right. Very much so. Oh, Lord, hold on to my heart. Please don’t let me fall in love with this man.
* * *
“Humph.” Mrs. Foster poured tea and passed it to her guests. If Rand weren’t so used to Mother’s Wedgwood china, he’d worry about breaking the delicate cup that was too small for his large hands.
Mrs. Foster served the cake and then focused on Rand. “Well, young man, you won’t be a bachelor for much longer. Have you chosen your wedding date?”
He did his best not to choke on his tea. Mrs. Foster’s question was understandable, but he hadn’t had time to figure out how to tell folks the wedding was off. Besides, his family should hear it first and from him. The way gossip both good and bad traveled through the community, he’d get home and find out Nate and Susanna had heard all about the “postponed” wedding.
“I’m sure everyone knows how much planning a wedding requires.” Marybeth sipped from her cup. “In fact, Maisie Henshaw tells me the church is planning to build an addition right after harvest, one that would accommodate large parties such as wedding receptions.” She took a bite of cake. “Oh, my, this certainly is an award-winning recipe.”
The smile she gave Mrs. Foster was utterly guileless, but Rand’s chest tightened. Marybeth hadn’t lied, but she hadn’t told the whole truth, either. Of course, he still had some truth-telling to do, as well, so he mustn’t judge her too harshly.
He noticed that Mrs. Foster’s eyes narrowed briefly, as though maybe she hadn’t been fooled by Marybeth’s little diversion from answering the question. She didn’t comment, however, just took a bite of cake. Food always provided a handy excuse for not saying something. Rand often used that ploy himself.
They passed several more minutes trading mundane information, as folks do when first meeting. Rand already knew everything Marybeth told Mrs. Foster, because she’d written it all in her letters. Too bad she hadn’t felt inclined to warn him about her plans to postpone the wedding until she found her brother. Guilt smote him again. He should have written to her about the gunfight. Should have anticipated someone else bringing it up. He couldn’t get over the idea that she already knew and that Maisie had told her. But what exactly did she know? What did she really think? These were things they needed to settle between the two of them, so he sure couldn’t ask her those questions in front of Mrs. Foster. The dear old lady never hesitated to give her opinion on any topic under discussion.
Marybeth seemed weary from her travels, so Rand took his leave, promising to visit the next day.
As he walked toward town to see if Tolley was still around, a dull ache settled into his chest, replacing the growing joy he’d felt for weeks in anticipation of meeting and marrying Marybeth. This was no more than he deserved. What lady from back East would understand what he’d done? He didn’t even understand it himself. Only his friends and neighbors proclaimed him a hero; only his younger brother wanted to copy his actions. He hated every memory of that fateful day and all he’d done that led up to it.
Shoving away those thoughts, he started his search for Tolley at Mrs. Winsted’s general store. He remembered to pick up a packet of cumin and spool of white thread his sister-in-law, Susanna, had asked for, but didn’t find his brother. Back out in the sunshine, he headed toward the livery and caught Tolley leading his saddled horse out of the stable.
“Say, shouldn’t you be over at Mrs. Foster’s wooing your pretty little bride-to-be?” Tolley’s impish expression made Rand want to tweak his nose, as he used to when they were scrappy little boys.
“She’s pretty tired from her travels.” Rand tried to sound cheerful so Tolley wouldn’t ask any more questions. “Did you order the rope from the hardware store?”
Tolley chortled. “Don’t change the subject. Tell me—”
“Northam!” A well-dressed, black-clad man, gun strapped to his leg, stepped off the boardwalk and strode toward them. “Randall Northam.”
Rand felt his dinner and Mrs. Foster’s cake rise up in his gullet. Another gunslinger out to prove himself. Didn’t he know better than to face two men? Tolley might be young and hotheaded, but he was a fast-drawing crack shot. Lord, please don’t let my brother get shot.
He sighed. “I’m Randall Northam. What can I do for you, Mr.—?”
A sly smile crept across the man’s face but his eyes remained as cold and deadly as a rattlesnake’s. And surprisingly familiar. “Name’s Hardison. Dathan Hardison. I believe you met my cousin Cole Lyndon about three years ago.”
Rand went cold all over. Frozen cold in spite of the sunshine beaming down on his shoulders and the warm summer breeze fanning over him. If the man drew on him, he wouldn’t be able to get his hand halfway to his holster. Somehow he managed to keep all emotion out of his face, a seasoned gambler’s ploy. Except he wasn’t a gambler. Not anymore. Nor was he a gunfighter, despite the gun at his side. But what could he say to the kin of the man he’d killed? Lord, help me.
“Yes, I ‘met’ Cole Lyndon. I’m sorry to say it was an unfortunate meeting.” On the other hand, the no-good horse thief had robbed and beaten Susanna’s father, leaving him for dead. The sheriff in Del Norte had said Cole had left a string of robberies and murders behind him. But no matter how often his friends called Rand a hero for outdrawing the wicked man, he’d never aspired to be an executioner. Never aspired to have every gunslinger from Montana to El Paso come gunning for him, risking his family and his town. So far he’d been able to talk himself out of another fight with humor or appeals
