Mac looked up at Rebecca. She ran her fingers through his soft hair. “It’s okay, you don’t have to look at it if you don’t want to.”
The child frowned and turned to look at the gun. Cole waited patiently, as if he had all the time in the world. Then the boy released Rebecca’s skirt and ran the distance to Cole.
Rebecca’s heart sank. Her son trusted so few people, yet he’d gone to Cole easily.
Mac touched the gun. “Big gun.”
Cole frowned and pulled the gun out of his reach. “I said don’t touch.”
“Big gun!” Mac shouted and then without warning grabbed the barrel. “I want the gun!”
A muscle in Cole’s jaw tensed and he rose, unfolding to his full height. “I said no.”
Cole’s firm and masculine voice startled Mac. His bottom lip trembled and he bolted back to Rebecca. He clung to her and buried his face in the soft folds of her skin.
Rebecca picked him up and hugged him. “You frightened him.”
Cole shrugged. “He’s gotta understand no means no especially around guns.”
“He’s just a baby.”
“He’s old enough to mind.”
Anger warmed Rebecca’s blood. “I hardly think you’re in a position to judge what a two-year-old can or can’t do.”
“When it comes to guns, I am.”
He was right, of course. But it rankled her nerves to have him taking charge, ordering her son about.
“I think it’s time for that walk now,” Bess interjected. She stepped between Cole and Rebecca and took Mac in her arms.
“Good idea,” Rebecca said, forcing herself to remain calm. It was more important to put distance between Cole and Mac than give rein to her temper.
Bess paused at the door. “It was good seeing you again, Cole.” She shot Rebecca another look of warning then left with the boy.
The high-pitched timbre of Mac’s voice blended with Bess’s gruff responses as the duo moved through the kitchen. When the back door banged shut, their voices disappeared completely, leaving only an awkward silence between Cole and Rebecca.
“Now about that room…” he said a touch of steel in his voice.
Her head throbbed as she stared at this mountain of a man. How was she going to get rid of him when at each turn he seemed to be digging in deeper?
Resigned, Rebecca knew she wasn’t going to win this battle. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll get your key.”
She walked to the library that served as her office. She went to a mahogany secretary equipped with an assortment of cubbies filled with keys. Her fingers shook as she pulled a key out with the number two etched on it.
She turned and gave a sharp gasp. He was right behind her. As silent as a mountain lion, he’d soundlessly trailed her. Unnerved, she stared up at him. He was so close she could see the silver flecks in his green eyes.
He cocked an eyebrow. “That my key?”
His voice broke her trance. “Yes.” She held the key out to him. Warm fingers brushed against her skin, sending a shiver through her limbs. “The room’s at the top of the stairs. First door on your right.”
“You want your money?”
“What?”
“The first night’s in advance, right?”
She moistened dried lips. “Of course.”
The lines in his face deepened. He dug three silver dollars out of his vest pocket and laid them on the desk.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
He walked out into the hallway, scooped up his hat and headed up the staircase. Determined, steady strides shattered the calm silence. His presence filled the house, dominated it.
She hurried to the base of the stairs, gripping the rounded newel of the banister. “How long will you be staying?”
He paused, his foot poised on the top step. “Guess that all depends on you.”
Chapter Four
A child’s cry woke Cole at ten minutes to six the next morning. He jerked his gun out from under his pillow, cocked it and bolted up straight.
His heart thundered in his chest as he struggled to remember where he was. He studied walls papered in delicate roses, sun-kissed lace curtains, and his own pants hanging over a richly carved bedpost. His mind cleared. He’d taken a room at the Shady Grove Inn.
Rebecca’s home.
Cole groaned and eased back the hammer of the gun. His mind drifted back to a night long ago when he’d waited for Rebecca outside this house. It had been the site of a town dance, a party thrown by old man Sinclair to celebrate the town’s newfound prosperity. Everyone in town was invited to the dance and Cole had decided to attend.
Rebecca didn’t know him, but he knew her. A young girl with blond ringlets and laughing eyes, she came to town only on breaks from school. And when she did he’d steal glimpses of her whenever he could. She was about the prettiest little thing he’d ever seen.
Under the light of a bright moon, Cole had stood on the cold uneven ground as the wind whipped through the trees biting into his coat. Violin music drifted out of the Sinclairs’ house and hundreds of tiny candles lined the gravel driveway, lighting the path that led to Rebecca standing on the porch. She wore a silk pink dress and bows to match. Next to her stood her father who sported a dark, smartly tailored suit. Together they laughed easily and greeted everyone with a hearty welcome.
Cole tugged his worn vest down over his lean stomach and stepped from the shadows. He’d worked eighteen hours straight in the mine, but he wasn’t tired. He was energized by the promise of a dance with Rebecca.
But as he’d walked into the light, he caught sight of the black grime embedded under his fingernails. Suddenly, his freshly laundered worn denim pants and homespun shirt seemed crude for such a fancy gathering. Ashamed, he balled his fingers into tight fists and drew back into the darkness, anxious she not see him.
He wasn’t fit company for her.
And deep in his heart he sensed he never would be.
Cole tried to shake off the old memory as he laid his head back against the down pillow covered in a soft cotton case and squeezed his eyes closed.
The pillow smelled freshly washed and he reckoned was the finest he’d had under his head since he’d splurged on a night in a fancy Saint Louis hotel a few months back.
What had goaded him into staying yesterday? Whatever the reason he knew now it was a mistake.
Hell, hadn’t he learned his lesson three years ago?
Three years ago, he’d come back to White Stone, proud of the man he’d become, not to visit his mother’s grave, but to see Rebecca. That’s when he’d found out she’d eloped with a stranger and was honeymooning in Denver. So, he’d tossed away the dreams of having the woman he’d always wanted but could never have and returned to what he knew: Lily and the army.
Damn it. He didn’t belong here—in this bed, this house, this town. And the sooner he left White Stone, the better.
The sound of footsteps padding down the hallway caught his attention. He heard Rebecca’s soft voice, couldn’t make out the words, but knew by the gentle timbre she was speaking to the boy.
“Mama, Mama.”
“I’ve breakfast to fix but I suppose I could use the help in the kitchen,” she said as she passed his closed door.
“Yes. Yes,” the child cried.
A moment of jealousy stabbed Cole. He’d never hear his son’s voice.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips as he tried to imagine the little fellow. He’d be about two now, nearing Mac’s size. Likely he would have stood tall, like Cole. He tried to picture the color of his son’s eyes, the texture of his hair and the size of his hands. How long had the boy lived? Where was he buried? Had he cried?
Cole groaned and rolled on his side and tried to stop torturing himself with questions that likely would never be answered.
Angry, he tossed back the covers, stood and strode naked over to his trousers dangling on the bedpost. He reached for the pants, then paused when he got a whiff of horse sweat a
nd campfires. No wonder Rebecca had turned her nose up at him.
Discarding the trousers, he reached in his saddlebag for his spare set of brown britches. They didn’t smell much better, but looked more presentable.
Cole dressed quickly. He strapped on his gun belt then retrieved Rebecca’s shotgun, now cleaned and oiled, from the top of a wardrobe.
As he strode down the stairs and hallway, Mac’s high-pitched squeal echoed from the kitchen. He crept down the hallway, close enough to see, but careful not to be seen.
Rebecca wore a dark-blue dress with a scooped neckline. She’d pulled her hair up into a loose topknot. Blond curls framed her face.
She had a rag in her hand. Mac sat in his high chair with a mound of mangled hot cakes in front of him. His face was covered with syrup. She leaned forward to wipe the boy’s face, but he tried to squirm away.
“Now hold still,” she said laughingly. “You look like you’ve been rolling around in flapjacks.”
The boy made a ruckus but when she pulled away the rag he grinned at her. Rebecca’s eyes were bright, her smile quick.
The smile transformed her face, erasing the worry lines on her smooth skin as if she didn’t have a care in the world.
That was the Rebecca Cole remembered—a happy, young girl, on the verge of womanhood, who always had a quick smile.
He tried to imagine the shape of her legs and the feel of her skin. His body hardened.
Cole took a step back, suddenly uncomfortable. She was beyond his reach now, and always. And there was no sense pretending otherwise.
He tightened his grip around the shotgun’s stock, wishing now he’d left town yesterday. He marched into the kitchen.
At the sound of his footsteps, Rebecca stood and turned. Her smile faded and the worry lines returned.
Cole held out the gun. “It’s clean. Ready to use now.”