He stepped closer; only the unlocked door separated them. “You never imagined you’d have a saloon brat sleeping under your roof, did you Rebecca Sinclair Taylor?”
His bitterness surprised her. A denial sprang to her lips, but she caught herself before she spoke it. She deserved his wrath, if not for snobbery then for deceit.
Mac’s laughter echoed through the house. He sounded close. Afraid he’d come thundering down the stairs, she opened the door and stepped outside to put a barrier between the boy and Cole. “Don’t be silly.”
He smiled, or rather snarled. “Since I arrived in White Stone, I’ve felt real unwelcome.”
Rebecca dug her fingernails into her palms. “There was a time when you stirred up a lot of trouble.”
“A lifetime ago.”
“Folks have a long memory in White Stone.”
He pinned her with his gaze, again the hunter closing in on his prey. “So it seems.”
Inches separated them. The smell of whiskey and an earthy masculine scent filled her senses.
She didn’t dare ask what thoughts lurked behind his dark eyes. Guilt welled inside her. “I’m sorry I didn’t have better news for you about your son.”
He stepped back. “Me, too.”
Grateful for the distance between them, she stepped away from the door. “I’ve got work to do. If you’ll excuse me?”
He looked past her and saw the luggage. “Going somewhere?”
“A little spring cleaning.”
“It’s nearly July.”
“I’m late.”
His gaze shifted back to her. Seconds passed like years. Then he pushed past her into the house, his shoulder brushing against hers. Every muscle in her body constricted.
He acted as if he owned the place. He pulled off his hat. “The house was half built when Ma and I moved to White Stone. I used to sit for hours and watch the workmen craft this house.”
Rebecca followed him. “I wouldn’t know. Papa left me in Chicago until the house was finished.”
He smoothed a gloved hand along a strip of chair rail molding. “Shame. It was a sight to behold. The men who built this place were artists.”
She glanced up the stairs, her nerves stretching tighter by the minute. Stay upstairs, Bess and Mac.
“I never would have imagined you’d have turned this place into an inn,” he said.
She let her own bitterness show. “My husband didn’t leave me much choice.”
He stared at a delicate blue-and-white vase sitting on a cherry side table. “Still, with all the money your pa had, I’d figured you’d be fixed for life. Your daddy was a king in these parts.”
“My husband took all of it.”
“So you opened your house up to strangers?”
She blinked at his implied criticism. “Like I said, I didn’t have a choice.”
He frowned and took a step toward her. He stood so close she could feel the heat of his body. “You ever worry about having strangers sleeping under your own roof? There’s no telling what could happen to a woman alone with a small child.”
The top of her head barely reached his shoulders, making her feel small and vulnerable. She’d never worried about boarders in her house—until now. “I’ve never had trouble before.”
“Then I’d say you’ve been lucky.”
“I do screen my guests.”
“That so?” He sounded amused.
Anger ignited, making her forget her fear. “I don’t have to explain myself to you, Mr. McGuire.”
“You got a gun?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Do you have a gun?” he replied as if talking to a child.
“Yes.”
“You know how to use it?”
“It belonged to my father and it’s old.”
“That mean no or yes?”
Frustration ate at her. “My safety is none of your concern, Mr. McGuire. My son and I got along just fine before you came to town and we’ll do just fine after you’re gone.”
A flash of fire sparked in his eyes. He obviously wasn’t used to hearing no. “I’m making you my business.”
“I don’t want to be your business.” She walked to the front door and opened it. “Do us both a favor and leave now, Mr. McGuire.”
“Not until I see the gun. I want to make certain you know how to use it.”
“I don’t want your help.”
“Too bad, you’ve got it.” He tossed his hat on a Hepplewhite chair, staking his claim.
She was ready to scream with frustration. Then she heard the squeal of Mac’s voice upstairs. “What if I promise to take the gun by to Sheriff Wade later today and have him take a look at it?”
He didn’t budge, as immovable as the Rockies. “Better to take care of it now.”
His tone brooked no arguments and Rebecca realized if she were to get rid of him, she’d have to let him look at the gun.
“I keep it under the stairs.”
Wordlessly, he watched her walk to a small hatchway and kneel in front of it. She could feel Cole loom over her, waiting.
She reached for the old latch and to her frustration couldn’t open it. She shook it, rattled it, but it didn’t relent.
Then Cole’s strong hand brushed past her. Gloved fingers nimbly flicked up the latch and the door swung open.
“Thanks,” she murmured.
“Anytime.”
From the darkened alcove she retrieved the double-barreled shotgun, covered in dust and cobwebs. Bits of rust marred the barrel her father had always kept well oiled.
He removed his gloves, tucked them in his belt, and then reached for the gun. His fingers grazed hers. Her skin tingled and burned. She quickly straightened, stepped away and rubbed her palms over her skirt.
He studied the gun with a frown. “You’re right. It’s old. And in bad shape.”
Rebecca felt slightly embarrassed as if the sewing circle had called and found breakfast dishes still in the sink. “It’s been in the closet since my father died.”
Cole shrugged. “I’ve got oil in my saddlebag. Once I’ve bedded down my horse and settled in my room, I’ll see to cleaning it right away.”
Rebecca willed her hammering heart to slow. He possessed an energy that rattled her senses. “But I thought if I showed you the gun, you’d leave.”
“I’ll be needing that room now.”
Her breath caught in her throat. “Seth’s rooms are cheaper.”
“I like it here better.”
Bess called down the stairs. “Rebecca, everything all right down there? I thought I heard a m
an’s voice.” She stopped halfway down the stairs when she caught sight of Cole. “Cole McGuire.”
Recognition flickered in his eyes. “Mrs. Gunston,” he said softly.
“It’s been a long time.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She glanced at the shotgun in his hand and then at Rebecca. “What’re you doing with that?”
“I suggested Mrs. Taylor keep the gun handy.”
“Mr. McGuire was concerned about me accepting strangers into my house,” Rebecca said.
Bess grimaced. “I won’t deny, I’ve worried about it a few times, myself.”
Rebecca groaned, “Bess, please.”
Cole smiled. He had her. “Mrs. Taylor, you should be grateful you haven’t had trouble here before. Maybe it is a good thing I’m staying on for a while.”
Bess coughed. “You’re staying? Here?”
Rebecca shot her friend an overbright smile. “That’s right, Mr. McGuire will be needing a room.”
Bess looked as if she’d swallowed castor oil. “How nice.”
The thunder of tiny feet echoed in the upstairs hallway and before either Bess or Rebecca could stop him, Mac appeared at the top of the stairs.
Alert, Cole’s gaze shot up, pinning the boy. His expression remained cloaked, but Rebecca sensed he took in every detail about the child. Mac stared back, blatantly curious, then he stuck his thumb in his mouth.
Father and son stood only a dozen feet from each other and neither knew it. Shame rushed through Rebecca even as she prayed Cole didn’t sense his connection to Mac.
Bess looked at Rebecca. Her expression screamed, “Tell him”. “I thought I’d take Mac for a walk. It’s such a pretty day.”
The boy rolled onto his belly and slid backward down the stairs, thumping nosily over each polished wood stair.
Cole moved back, giving the boy extra room to run past him to Rebecca. Mac clung to her skirt and stared at him. The boy pointed at the shotgun. “Gun.”
The edge of Cole’s mouth kicked up. “You know that guns are dangerous?”
Mac nodded.
Cole knelt down and held the shotgun out. “You can look at it if you like. Just don’t touch it.”
Rebecca held Mac back. “I don’t want him near that gun.”
“It’s best to tell the boy about dangers than to shield him from them.”