Melly, Unyielding (Lockets And Lace Book 4) Page 4

  He softened his voice. “I have no choice. I’m going to ride to the town and ask the sheriff to investigate this matter. I hope it is as you say and simply a misunderstanding.”

  “No, you can’t.” She held up a hand as if to hold him back. Her face tensed with nothing short of terror.

  He softened his voice. “Let’s get you out of there. But ...” He paused, knowing he had a hold over her. “If you keep withholding the truth, I will have no choice but to report this to the sheriff.”

  She sighed heavily. “That won’t be necessary.” Her face remained pinched and white.

  Thatcher gave a nod of relief. They had to leave now, before her husband returned. “Where’s the ladder?”

  “We don’t use a ladder. Hold on, and let me get my things.” She put a couple of items back in a carpetbag and then handed the bag up to him. He took it and laid it aside. “Now what?”

  “Move to the right and help me, please.” She pointed to the boards, and he noticed toeholds had been placed in them.

  Even now, they were almost invisible to Thatcher as she climbed nimbly. He grasped her hand and elbow to help her scramble over the top.

  She clung to his arm for a second, and her fearful eyes searched his. “Please leave before Oba returns.” She hesitated a second. “I’ll go with you, if you’ll just leave.”

  MELLY HEADED FOR THE cabin, her heart thumping in her ears, her cheeks burning. The cowboy waited outside when she went in.

  Why had she said she’d go with him? She didn’t plan to go with him, not now, not ever. She could never leave Oba. She stopped as a thought struck her. She’d pretend to go with him, lead him away. When she got a chance, she’d return to the cabin. Her hands shook as she searched for her meager belongings. She changed into a riding skirt she had mended many times.

  After she packed the carpetbag with her other dress, two aprons, her sleeping gowns, and undergarments, she remembered her locket and decided to wear it. Oba let her wear it sometimes. He kept it hidden it somewhere, but he never hid things very well. After a quick search, she found it in a small leather pouch hidden under his pillow. She fingered some of the other treasures before putting them back in the bag and tightening the drawstrings, replacing it under the pillow. But she hesitated, reluctant to leave.

  “Miss?” The man knocked on the door.

  When she didn’t answer, he entered. There was no escaping her impulsive words. Her only hope was to outwit him and return to Oba.

  The cowboy removed his hat and twirled it around and around in his fingers, not nervously, but as if his energy needed a way of escape. His presence filled the room in a way that Oba’s never had. Her hands trembled, and she clasped them together to still them.

  She moistened her lips. “Please understand. I know we need food, but Oba doesn’t have much. That’s where he went — to pick up supplies.”

  “Oba?”

  “Short for Obadiah. I don’t want to leave him short on food. He can’t even boil water.” She couldn’t leave him. Who would take care of him?

  He frowned. “It’s about time he learned.”

  “No, he’s too old for that.”

  “What are you proposing? You want to cook your husband a meal before you leave him?”

  “He’s not my husband.” She moved away. She would tell this man later. Right now, she did not want to speak of it. “But no, not cook. I meant that I’d like to leave all the food I have for him.”

  Thatcher frowned. “You want to leave food for a man who locks you away?”

  She ignored his question. “There are biscuits on the table if you want one.”

  He looked at the covered plate and lifted the cloth. “Do you mind if I take an extra one, for the road?”

  “Help yourself. And I have some apple jelly here.” She handed Mr. Rainer the jar, and he observed it, the sadness she’d briefly seen in the shack returning.

  “What’s wrong? You don’t like jelly?” she asked.

  “No, I do. My wife used to make apple jelly.” He smiled and added a generous amount to his biscuit.

  “Used to?” She closed the jar and set it back in the cabinet.

  “She died.” He took a bite of the biscuit and closed his eyes, a look of rapture on his face. “This is delicious,” he said, when he reopened his eyes.

  “Thank you. They’re better hot.”

  “I’m sure they are.” He gave her a crooked smile, a smile that sent her heart racing. A moment hovered between them, an emotion that left her yearning for his touch.

  She chided herself and tore her gaze away. “Let me check to be sure I have everything.”

  “We’d best be setting out. I’ll go saddle your horse.” He replaced his hat on his head and walked out.

  She felt suddenly bereft, the way she did when she had to snuff out the candle.

  She sighed heavily, tidied up the kitchen, returned for the carpetbag, and looked around the cabin. What would Oba do if he found her gone? Somehow, she’d get away and hurry back.

  After a moment, she opened the cabinet and took out the jar of apple jelly. Why not let the cowboy have it? Oba had never cared much for it anyhow.

  Chapter Seven

  Thatcher led Mrs. Jones’ horse by the reins, and Johnny Bell followed behind. The woman by his side made it feel if they were out enjoying the day. To have this woman beside him, after he had been alone for so long, felt strange. Strange, but also comforting.

  Years ago, he’d convinced himself he enjoyed his solitude, that he needed no other companion, certainly not a woman slowing him down. He still had a long row to hoe. But what choice did he have? This woman had clearly been in danger, and he had to do something.

  He stopped at the clearing, where he’d camped, to saddle Johnny Bell. Mrs. Jones obliterated any signs of the camp, as if it was a familiar thing, done without thought. After he secured his blanket behind the saddle, they started back to the trail. It was easier walking there, with less chance Johnny Bell would reinjure himself.

  After a few minutes, he threw her a sideways glance. “What’s your horse’s name?”

  The woman’s gaze flew to him, as startled as a bird in flight. “What?”

  “Your horse’s name?” He softened his voice, and she responded by relaxing her shoulders.

  “She’s not my horse. She belongs to Oba.” She glanced down, her lashes fanned against her cheeks.

  Thatcher kept his voice gentle. “She’s your horse now and needs a name.”

  She tilted her head to look at him through her lashes. “Does your horse have a name?”

  “He’s named after one of the best men I had the pleasure to serve with.” At his words, he straightened his stance, as if General Hood observed him.

  She looked confused for a moment and then spoke. “Oh. In the War, you mean.”

  “Yes.” His voice was terse, and his gaze swept over the area, not only to be sure all was clear, but to stop any questions, if she had any. Somehow, she didn’t seem the type to pry, but quiet and still. Not still, but with a contained energy, like a stalking cat, unmoving right before the kill. Most women would be chattering away like blue jays.

  He smiled to make her feel at ease before he spoke again. “Surely, you can think of a name.”

  She shrugged her slim shoulders. “I’ll call her Brown.”

  “Brown?”

  “She’s brown. It’s a good a name as any.”

  “True.” Thatcher fell silent, and they walked for a good mile before she spoke.

  “I suppose you need to understand more, about Oba not being my husband.”

  He nodded. Even if the preacher hadn’t married them, they could still be common-law married. “You did live in the house with him?”

  “Not like that.” Her cheeks turned red, and she looked away.

  “Is he kin?”

  “No. He took me in, you could say.” Her cheeks blazed red, and her eyes narrowed with a curious emotion he couldn’t quite place.

&nb
sp; His curiosity was piqued, but he didn’t question her more about the relationship. He changed the subject to save her further discomfort. “You said Oba would be gone six hours?”

  She shrugged a shoulder and then turned those mesmerizing eyes on him, the emotion only too easy to read — fear. Her voice, when she spoke, cracked. “In a situation like this, it’s possible he’ll return earlier.” She turned to the horse, letting her fingers trail along Johnny Bell’s mane, as they walked along.

  She could be right. A couple of hours had passed since Oba had left, so they didn’t have much of a head start. When he returned, the old man was certain to come looking for them, and the look on the woman’s face told him she was terrified. Thatcher didn’t doubt his own ability to protect them, but he wasn’t sure what Mrs. Jones’s reaction would be if he did.

  She’d left that man food. If she was afraid of him, why do that? He threw her a sideways glance. “We’re in a tough situation if you think Oba is on his way back. We have one horse and another one lame.”

  Her gaze met his. Although her face was pinched and white, she smiled. “Some rescue this is.”

  He tilted his head toward her and smiled back. “You claimed you didn’t need to be rescued.” He shook his head, trying to figure her out. “I have a lot of questions. Who is this man, Oba?”

  When she bit her bottom lip, the gesture drew his eyes. This woman’s beauty might ensnare him, if he wasn’t careful. What he surmised of her, little as it was, frightened him. The situation wasn’t something he wanted to get entangled in. He’d find the nearest town and leave her with a family, maybe a preacher and his wife.

  She touched his arm to gain his attention. Her warmth lingered even as she quickly withdrew her hand. “I can’t explain, not now.” Her worried eyes searched his.

  His heart constricted at the sadness he observed. He gave her a reassuring smile. “Are there any other families around? Any communities where we can seek shelter?” His voice was husky with some emotion he didn’t want to analyze.

  “I was never allowed to go with Oba. I know nothing of this area.” Her lips thinned until she smiled wryly. “To tell you the truth, I have no idea what state we’re in.”

  He grinned. “That makes the pair of us.”

  Her startled eyes widened. “What? You don’t know either?”

  “I was trailing a man. We started down in Mississippi, but that guy led me all over the place. With these tall trees, we could be near the Great Lakes. I’m not sure,” he finished lamely.

  “You started trailing him in Mississippi?” An eagerness sprang into her eyes. “My folks were from down South.” The emotion drained from her, but she continued speaking. “My father was a trapper in Louisiana, Mississippi, sometimes into Alabama.” Her wistful tone drew even more sympathy from him.

  He tamped down his feelings and cocked an eyebrow at her. “I’m from Alabama, at least I was before the War.”

  “Where are you from now?” Her eyes were alive with curiosity.

  “Nowhere.”

  Her shoulders deflated. “Me, too.” After a moment, she straightened her shoulders and gave him a level gaze. “Where are you headed?”

  He glanced at her, but her face only exhibited curiosity. “I’m not sure. I lost the trail.”

  They fell silent. Worry teased him. Obadiah was sure to catch up with them. Thatcher had no doubt the old man would come looking. He considered the possibilities. Somehow, they had to increase their speed.

  He sized up the woman beside him. “Can you ride?”

  She tilted her chin up a notch. “Yes.”

  “Good. I’m going to let you ride Johnny Bell.”

  “Your horse?”

  “Yes. Johnny Bell’s been lame, but I think he’s sound enough to carry your weight. I’ll ride the mare.”

  He stopped, and the horses came to a stop beside him. He moved to Johnny Bell and cupped his hands together, planning to help the woman mount. She ignored him and placed her foot in the stirrup and swung her other leg over in one easy motion. He gave her a nod of approval and went to the mare.

  They took off at a good pace and rode without speaking. After an hour, he had her stop and dismount for him to check his horse’s leg. Johnny Bell appeared sound, but he wanted to be sure.

  Mrs. Jones held the reins. When he finished and brushed his hands against his pants, she was looking at him with anxious eyes.

  She moved a step closer. “Are we heading west?” Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper.

  He moved toward the mare, turning away from the woman “No, east. Oba must have headed west. There’s not much in this direction, but we need to get as far away from that man as possible.” He threw her a quick glance over his shoulder.

  Thankfully, she’d moved away and was already settling in the saddle. With both hands on the pommel, she leaned toward him. “And then you plan to head south?”

  With one foot in the stirrup, he nodded, and then swung his leg over. He shifted his position, the leather saddle creaking. “Yes. We’ll find a family or maybe buy you a ticket, if they have a train station, send you wherever you want to go.”

  Her hand fumbled toward her skirt pocket, and fear filled her eyes. “You’re not going with me?”

  Her distress again constricted his heart. He ground his teeth. This woman was dragging up emotions he’d long buried, and he was having none of it. “No, I can’t. I’ve got to find the man I’m trailing, Berren.”

  She had retrieved her handkerchief, and now brought it to her mouth and then slowly pulled it away. “Berren? You’re trailing Berren?”

  He cursed himself for saying the name. “Yes. What of it?”

  “I know a Berren.”

  His heartbeat quickened. “Where have you seen him?”

  “At the cabin.” She still clutched the handkerchief, one thumb running along the lace.

  “When?”

  “A day ago? No, two.”

  He leaned forward in the saddle, toward her. “What’s his given name?”

  “Oba calls him Boyd.”

  His jaw muscle tightened, and the mare moved restlessly. He patted her neck. “Easy, girl.”

  Mrs. Jones pulled back her shoulders, her eyes narrowing. “If it’s Boyd you’re after, we’ll head west, if that’s the direction you believe he’s gone.” Her piercing glance bore into him.

  He removed his hat, raked his fingers through his hair, and then contemplated her for a moment. “Why are you so eager to find Boyd, Mrs. Jones?”

  The fire in her eyes grew in intensity. “Because he killed my mother, father, and brother.”

  He nodded, not surprised. “That man is dangerous.”

  “No one knows better than I.” The light, filtering through the canopy, reflected off the golds and copper in her hair, setting it aflame.

  “I’d rather put you on a train heading south.”

  “I have nowhere to go.”

  “You have no family at all?”

  Her eyes clouded. “None that I know of.”

  Thatcher considered his options. If he turned west, to go after Boyd, he’d put this woman in danger, but going east only led him farther away from his quarry. Maybe they’d run across a town before they caught up with Boyd. He’d leave her there, where she’d be safe.

  “We’ll turn and head west, if you’re game.”

  “I am.”

  He made the decision. “Let’s go.” He clucked his tongue, touched the mare with his heels, and she turned with little urging.

  This way would lead them toward Oba, and Thatcher was well aware of the danger. The hardened surface of the trail, half hidden though it was, provided them the safest passage, but would not provide any cover if they came across either Berren or Obadiah.

  But he had made the decision and now committed to it. They rode in silence. Thatcher listened intently, to hear the slightest sound. Once or twice, he held up a hand and brought them to a halt, but the forest remained eerily quiet.

  H
e continually scanned the road ahead. Every time they came to a curve, his breath hitched, and his hand automatically went to the butt of the rifle. Each time, the road ahead lay empty, no sign of anyone.

  He glanced at the woman riding beside him. “We’ll stop at the cabin, to see if Obadiah has returned.”

  She shook her head and then stopped and nodded. “If you think we need to.”

  “I do. You can wait in the woods, and I’ll ride down and check.”

  She shook her head again. “I don’t want to be alone.”

  “I’ll leave my rifle with you.”

  “No. I’m staying with you, Mr. Rainer. Obadiah will not harm me.”

  Thatcher raised an eyebrow.

  Her cheeks reddened. “I know all of this makes no sense. When we have time, I’ll explain, but I’m staying with you. You can’t stop me.”

  “It’s your decision.” He didn’t like it, afraid of how this woman would react if he had to kill the man. He cleared his throat. “There may be shooting involved.”

  “I know. I was looking out the window and saw Obadiah threatening you with his gun.”

  He tilted his head. “It may be more than waving a gun. Someone might get killed.”

  Her face remained grim. “Let’s hope it’s not us.”

  The image of her, down in that pit, looking up at him with those eyes, round and frightened, entered his mind. He shook his head to be rid of the thought and grimaced. To tell the truth, she’d probably been more frightened of him instead of that man.

  They drew closer to the cabin. His skin prickled with anticipation. He was certain as he pulled the mare to a stop, that something was amiss. “Maybe we need to lead the horses. Quieter that way.” He dismounted and loosely held the reins, sliding them through his fingers, and listening for any sound. He heard nothing.

  When Mrs. Jones slid from her horse, they crept forward. The horses picked up on their stealth and moved along as silently as they did.

  They arrived at the partially obstructed pathway that led to the cabin. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, as they continued on the path. He walked with his back straight, foolish though it might be.