attack had been brutal. And there’d been no reason for it. Daisy had been on her way to the mercantile. Sarah Jane had been with her. At some point, she’d screamed. Blossom, one of the other women at the brothel, had heard her and come running. She’d fired a shot at the man, and he’d fled before anyone could get a good look at him.
Daisy, who’d been battered senseless, had no recollection of the assault. When Sarah Jane was asked if she could describe the man who’d attacked them, she’d shaken her head no. One day later, and she still hadn’t uttered a single word.
The doctor said the little girl, who bore bruises along one of her arms, had been traumatized. Poor little thing. Tom had no idea what her life had been like so far, but losing her mother so young...and now this.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his gold watch. What was taking the doctor so long? He was hoping to get out of town as soon as Daisy was able to travel. Unfortunately, Daisy couldn’t mount a horse in her condition, even if she’d wanted to. And since Tom couldn’t rid himself of the suspicion that the attacker had intended to kill Daisy for some reason and might want to follow them so he could finish what he’d started, it would be difficult to hide their wagon tracks.
Something else niggled at him, too. Something that could be a coincidence. But why had the two women moved so many times since meeting in Mexico? Had they been running from someone?
Too bad Trapper Jack had already gone home. Tom could have used the man’s help today, even if he would have had to listen to his infernal jabbering and advice.
To make matters worse, Tom also had to look after Sarah Jane. And as much as he wanted to do right by Caroline’s daughter, he didn’t know squat about kids—especially little girls. And Daisy wasn’t going to be much help since she couldn’t even see to her own needs right now.
The doctor didn’t think her skull had been fractured by the blows to her head, but she’d suffered a serious concussion.
If that weren’t enough, that safe place he had in mind was a three-day ride from here.
Needless to say, Tom was growing too antsy to sit any longer. So he stuffed his father’s gold watch back into his pocket and got to his feet. He might as well do something useful, like head to the livery and get that wagon. But before he could cross the room, a sharp rap sounded at the door.
Sweet Heather, a plump blonde wearing a black, low-cut gown, sashayed toward the entry. “I’m comin’, sugar.”
As she swung open the door and a familiar redhead strode into the parlor with a determined step, her smile drooped to a frown and her hand fisted against her hip.
This ought to be interesting, Tom thought, as he studied the lady who was clearly out of place.
Afternoon sunlight peered through the front window and glistened upon her red hair, highlighting shades of fire and autumn. Expressive blue eyes blazed in a passionate array of emotions—worry, concern, nervous indignation, he guessed.
In spite of the modest apparel, he had to admit that she intrigued him far more than any of the women who lived and worked at the Gardener’s House.
As she scanned the parlor, the room grew still and intense with silent fury, like the air before a Texas twister.
“You again?” Sweet Heather asked. “What do you want this time?”
The redhead swept past her. “I just heard what happened. I came to see Sarah Jane and to talk to Daisy.”
Sweet Heather crossed her arms under her ample bust. “I told you before. You aren’t welcome here, so you’d better skedaddle.”
“I’m not leaving until I see them.”
Sweet Heather laughed heartily, her bosom bouncing like a bowl of calf’s-foot jelly. “Then I guess you’ll be here for a long, long time.”
“I can wait.” The redhead surveyed the room. When her gaze moved to Tom and recognition sparked, her breath caught.
Tom had to admit she had guts. Most decent women would rather drop dead than walk into a place like this.
“I told you to go,” Sweet Heather bellowed, her face reddening, her mouth set in grim determination. “We lost two customers the last time you came here.”
Sweet Heather looked like a ruckus ready to happen, and if the lady knew what was best for her she’d leave now.
Miss O’Malley didn’t flinch. Instead, she strode deeper into the parlor, her head still held high. “Then I’ll wait for someone to tell me where to find Sarah Jane.”
Sweet Heather closed the gap between them. “You’ll get out even if I have to pick you up and throw you out myself.”
About that time, the women who’d gathered at the top of the stairs began to file down the steps.
Realizing things could get out of hand, Tom made his way to the lady. “Miss O’Malley, I think you’d better leave. Sweet Heather would actually favor a fight.”
Miss O’Malley stood a bit taller, if that was possible. “I appreciate your concern, Mr. McCain, but I’m not going to leave until I’m ready to do so. And that’s not going to happen unless someone tells me where I can find Sarah Jane.”
Tom scanned the length of her. He could throw her over his shoulder and force her to leave, but it really wasn’t any of his business.
How involved did he want to get?
He figured he might as well head to the livery stable.
As he made his way to the door, Sweet Heather called out to him. “Where are you going, handsome?”
Tom stopped long enough to turn and say, “I’ll be back.”
But that didn’t seem to appease Sweet Heather, because she grabbed a vase and threw it at Miss O’Malley, who ducked just in the nick of time.
As the glass shattered on the floor, Sweet Heather looked as smug as a fat cat with its paw pressed down on a mouse’s tail. “The next thing I break will be your teeth.”
Tom sighed heavily. He sensed a real fight coming, and, in spite of his better judgment, he sauntered toward the redhead, lifted her feet off the floor and threw her across his shoulder like a sack of grain.
He’d been prepared for the weight of her—but not the delicate scent of lilac on her clothes and hair.
“Put me down this instant,” she cried, her words coming out in raspy shrieks. She kicked her feet and pounded her fists on his back like an ornery cougar kit that had been caught and placed in an empty feed sack.
As feisty as the former schoolmarm was, she might actually hold her own in a tussle with Sweet Heather.
He wrapped one arm around her knees and tried to still her flailing legs as he carried her outside and down the porch steps to the lawn in front of the brothel.
“I said, put me down!” she shrieked.
“Stop fighting me and I will.”
She
