Kitabı oku: «Abbie's Outlaw»
With a wry smile he said, “Don’t let the collar fool you. I’m as low-down as ever.”
“Somehow I doubt that.” As her eyes softened with the caring he remembered from Kansas, she raised her hand as if she wanted to touch him, perhaps to make sure he was real. John avoided her hand with a shrug, but their gazes stayed locked and held tight.
They were left alone in the crowd. Both dressed in black, Abbie and John seemed cold to each other, but he wasn’t fooled. The coals in his kitchen stove had looked dead this morning, but they were banked and smoldering on the inside. If he poked them, they would flare to life. John couldn’t stop himself from remembering that he and Abbie had started a fire in Kansas. All sorts of things had burned between them, including the bedsheets….
Praise for Victoria Bylin
“This is an author who writes with heart, and articulates
well a clear understanding of human feelings and frailties
that readers should totally enjoy.”
—Historical Romance Writers Review
Praise for previous titles
West of Heaven
“The hero, definitely alpha male and code-of-the-west
cowboy, provides wonderful appeal, as does the heroine
and her orientation to family values. This story proves that
love is salvation from death and its worst griefs.”
—Romantic Times
Of Men and Angels
“An uplifting tale of a spiritual woman,
who’s deeply human, and the flawed man she loves.
It’s evident that Ms. Bylin writes from her heart.”
—Old Book Barn Gazette
“Deft handling makes the well-tarnished Jake
a man to admire.”
—Romantic Times
“Of Men and Angels is the perfect title for a perfect book.
The characters are wonderfully human and well rounded,
and the story is an exciting, heartwarming and spiritual
tale with a magnitude of emotion.”
—Romance Reviews Today
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Abbie’s Outlaw
Victoria Bylin
MILLS & BOON
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To Michael… Beloved husband, you are mine!
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
Chapter One
Midas, New Mexico
June 1887
When the Reverend John Leaf saw Abigail Windsor standing at the top of the train steps, dressed in black and shielding her eyes from the noonday sun, he knew that all hell was about to break loose. He’d made a million mistakes in his life and had made amends for all of them—except one. Now that mistake was coming to light in a way he had dreaded for years and deeply feared.
His eyes stayed on Abbie as she scanned the crowd. Lord, he thought, she looked awful in black. The girl he remembered had insisted on wearing pretty colors in spite of the gloom in her life. He remembered her best in a coppery dress that brought out the highlights in her hair. He also remembered her wearing nothing at all, which was a problem for a man who’d sworn off women entirely.
He’d never been inclined toward marriage or children of his own. The Leaf family curse ran thick in his blood, and he’d rather die than pass it on to an unsuspecting child. Certainly not to a son who would grow up filled with hate or to a daughter who would go through life lonely and crazed like his own mother had.
But if the letter he’d received from a girl in Virginia was true, he’d done exactly that. The hairs on John’s neck stood on end as he remembered opening the envelope with Silas’s handwriting on the front. On a single sheet, his friend had written, “This came for you. Godspeed.”
Along with Silas’s note, John had removed an expensive linen envelope addressed to him in a schoolgirl’s cursive. The address was brief: “Mr. John Leaf, Bitterroot, Wyoming.” Beneath the two lines she had written, “Please forward.” John had peeled off the wax, unfolded a sheet of stationery and started to read.
Dear Mr. Leaf,
My name is Susanna Windsor. If you are the same John Leaf who left the Wyoming Territorial Prison in April of 1881, please write to me at my school. I believe I am your daughter.
Regards.
John had stared at the words in a fog. The girl had said just enough to scare the daylights out of him without revealing anything about herself. The address she had supplied was for a girls’ academy in Virginia. He’d never been east of the Mississippi and didn’t know a soul who had, at least not someone who could afford a fancy private school. The original postmark was two months old. He figured the envelope had been sitting in the Bitterroot post office for weeks before Silas went to town where the postmaster must have given it to him.
John had spent a wretched night remembering dozens of women he’d barely known and one he’d almost taken to Oregon. He’d also sat at his desk with his head in his hands, praying that the poor girl had made a mistake. He was obligated to reply to her letter, but who was she?
He’d gotten his answer the next morning when Justin Norris had delivered a telegram from the girl’s mother.
We have urgent business. Will arrive in Midas on the California Ltd. on June 3rd. Abigail Windsor nee Moore.
It had taken him a minute to put the pieces together. The stuffy-sounding Abigail Windsor was Abbie Moore, the girl who had threatened to shoot out his kneecaps, then fed him supper because she’d felt bad about it. They had spent two weeks together, alone on her grandmother’s farm, and nature had taken its course.
John’s stomach tied itself into a knot. He wanted a drink, but he had consumed his weekly shot of whiskey the previous night in a vain effort to forget about what had happened on their last night together. To his shame, John had ridden off and left Abbie alone to clean up the mess.
Now that girl was a woman and standing in the doorway of the train, scanning the crowd from beneath the brim of her black bonnet. Needing to greet her but not ready to face the needs of the day, John watched as she pressed her lips into a tight line and scoured the crowd with her eyes. Her chest swelled as she took a breath and then blew it out in irritation. That gesture gave him comfort. She was probably upset with him for not meeting the train. They’d both be better off if she stayed that way, so he rocked back on one heel and waited.
To his surprise, her eyes locked on someone in the crowd and turned murderous. Following her line of sight, he saw a boy with the gangly posture of adolescence pushing through the throng. The kid had a bigger head of steam than the train and was barreling straight at Emma Dray, the mayor’s daughter and a member of John’s congregation. The matrons in his church had picked this young and pretty woman to be his wife, much to John’s irritation and Emma’s ill-concealed delight.
Emma was waving at someone across the platform when the human cannon ball clipped her elbow and knocked her off balance. John had no desire to catch Emma, but what choice did he have? With two quick strides, he came up behind her and clasped her arms until she was steady on her feet.
When the boy glanced back, John gripped his thin shoulder and hauled him up short. Keeping his voice neutral, he said, “What’s your name, son?”
“I’m not your son.” When the kid’s voice cracked from bass to soprano, John held in a grin. He remembered those painful days between boyhood and being a man, and this young fellow had a face full of pimples to go with his resistant vocal cords.
John took the boy’s attitude in stride. He liked bratty kids. Some of them spelled real trouble, but most were either neglected or mad at the world, feelings he understood. Knowing that too much kindness made angry boys even more rebellious, he made his voice as grim as charred wood. “It’s most definitely my business, son. You owe Miss Dray an apology.”
Emma looked down her nose. “He certainly does. He wrinkled my dress.”
Leave it to Emma to carp about nonsense. The boy’s conduct needed to be addressed, but any fool could see he’d been cooped up on the train and needed to blow off steam. Ignoring Emma, John said, “So what do you have to say?”
The boy managed an arrogant scowl. “She’s fat and slow. She should have gotten out of my way.”
“Well, I never!” huffed Emma.
“Trust me,” John said pointedly. “In about five years, you won’t think Miss Dray is fat.”
When a blush stained Emma’s cheeks, John wished he’d been more careful in his choice of words. He’d meant to remind the kid that he was still a boy. Instead John had reminded Emma that he was a man. If he knew her mother, he’d be paying for the slip with unwanted invitations for the next six months.
Before the boy could reply, the crowd shifted, revealing Abbie hurrying in their direction. She was lugging a satchel with one hand and using the other to hold her skirt above her ankles to allow for her angry stride.
At the sight of her high-button shoes, John felt his heart kick into double time. If it hadn’t been for another pair of boots, they might never have met. His gaze rose to her face where he saw her high cheekbones and small nose. Her hair was pinned in a stylish coiffure but slightly disheveled, as if it were rebelling against the black hat holding it in place. Her cheeks had flushed to a soft pink, and her eyes were glued to the boy in John’s grip.
“Robert Alfred Windsor! Don’t you dare take another step!”
Because of the feathers poking up from Emma’s hat, Abbie hadn’t seen John’s face. She focused on Emma as she dipped her head in apology. “I’m so sorry. We’ve been on the train for twelve days and he’s—”
John stepped into her line of sight. “Hello, Abbie.”
“Johnny?”
“I go by John now,” he said. “Or Reverend.”
“Reverend?” Her gaze dipped from his face to his clerical collar.
The only thing John liked better than fighting was shocking people, and Abbie’s gaping mouth said he’d done just that. But her expression also made him aware that time had marked him. His nose had been broken twice, and he had a scar below his right ear. He also had a lump on his jaw from the saloon brawl he’d broken up last night.
Young Robbie wasn’t the only male who liked to fight. Right or wrong, John enjoyed knocking sense into men who deserved it. Last night that man had been Ed Davies. The fool had lost his pay in a poker game and then gone after the winner with his fists. John had given him a “do unto others” lesson and then stuffed a sawbuck into his pocket so he could take care of his new wife until payday.
When Abbie realized she was staring, she jerked her gaze away from his. “It really has been a long time.”
All those years ago, he had heard her voice before he’d seen her face. It had been whiskey-warm and it still was, but her eyes had changed. Instead of a girlish curiosity, her gaze had an edge. Maybe it was worry for her daughter that made her irises flash, or perhaps she, too, was reliving the afternoon they’d met.
He’d found her sitting in the dirt with a twisted ankle, leaning against a broken wagon wheel and aiming a pistol at his kneecaps from beneath the buckboard.
“Put your hands over your head and stand where I can see you,” she had ordered.
With a devilish grin, John had complied, then he’d raked her body with his eyes one glorious inch at a time.
As the memory of that day hit hard and fast, Judas-down-there began to stir, demanding to know if Abbie’s lips were still as soft as the rest of her. A trickle of sweat ran down John’s back, soaking the white shirt he wore beneath his preacher’s coat. A man couldn’t help his bodily reactions, but he had a choice about what came out of his mouth. Trying to lighten the mood, he fell back on the words he often used when old friends discovered that Johnny Leaf, hot-shot shootist and ladies’ man, had turned into the good Reverend John Leaf.
With a wry smile, he said, “Don’t let the collar fool you. I’m as low-down as ever.”
“Somehow I doubt that.” As her eyes softened with the caring he remembered from Kansas, she raised her hand as if she wanted to touch him, perhaps to make sure he was real. John avoided her hand with a shrug, but their gazes stayed locked and held tight.
Before he could figure out what to say, a delicate cough called his attention to Emma. He had hoped to keep his meeting with Abbie private, but Emma’s presence ensured the entire town would know the details by nightfall.
Nodding in Abbie’s direction, he made the introductions. “Emma, this is Abigail Windsor. She’s visiting from Washington. You’ve already met her son.”
Emma’s eyebrows arched. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Windsor.”
“The pleasure is mine,” Abbie replied with a warm smile. “Please, call me Abigail.”
Emma had an annoying habit of fluttering her eyelashes and she did it now, looking straight at John. “Mother and I would love to have you all for supper.” Turning to Abbie, she asked, “How long will you be here?”
John was curious as well.
“Just a few weeks.” With a dip of her chin, Abbie indicated her mourning clothes. “The Reverend and I have an issue to settle concerning my husband’s estate, and then my son and I will be going home.”
“Maybe we could plan for Sunday?” Emma said.
Or maybe next year, John thought, after Emma had found a husband. Shaking his head, he said, “Thanks, but I doubt Abbie is ready to socialize.”
When Abbie gave a demure smile, Emma excused herself, leaving John and Abbie alone in the crowd. They were both dressed in black and seemed cold to each other, but John wasn’t fooled. The coals in his kitchen stove had looked dead this morning, but they were banked and smoldering on the inside. If he poked them, they would flare to life. John couldn’t stop himself from remembering that he and Abbie had started a fire in Kansas. All sorts of things had burned between them, including the bed sheets.
Damn, he needed a smoke. But first he had to get Abbie and her son settled at the Midas Hotel. He was about to suggest they retrieve her baggage when she glanced at Robbie who was watching steam billow from the locomotive. It rose in clouds that dissipated to nothing, a reminder that fires burned themselves out.
Seeing that her son was distracted, she turned to John. “Do you know why I’m here?”
“Not exactly.” Keeping his voice level, he stuck to the facts. “Your daughter wrote to me at an old address in Wyoming. A friend forwarded the letter.”
Abbie blinked to hold back tears. At the same time, she squared her shoulders. “Susanna ran away from home. I know from her best friend that she’s looking for you, but the train ticket she bought went only as far as St. Louis. The detective I hired said you lived in Midas, but he didn’t tell me anything else. I was hoping she’d already arrived.”
John’s blood turned to ice. “Judging by the letter, she thinks I’m in Bitterroot. It’s a hellhole.”
“Dear God,” Abbie gasped. “That must be where she went.”
The terror in her eyes sent a knife through his gut. Needing to offer comfort but afraid to touch her, he jammed his hands into his pockets and looked for a shred of hope. “Who’s she traveling with?”
“No one,” Abbie said in a shaking voice. “I’m scared to death for her.”
John knew how she felt, not because he’d ever been a parent, but because he’d been on the wrong side of the law. Not all men were honorable and neither were all women. “I’ll do everything I can to help,” he said.
Surprised by the depth of his worry, John sucked in a lungful of air and ended up with train exhaust coating his throat. Abbie’s gaze locked on his face. She had a way of willing people to feel things and John had that sensation now. Was she hoping he’d want to be a father to the girl? God, he hoped not.
Or maybe she’d assume he’d want to hide his sinful past. Given his calling, that guess was reasonable but miles from the truth. The whole town knew he’d lived on the wrong side of the law. He’d done time in the Wyoming Territorial Prison in Laramie for his part in the Bitterroot range war, and he was still roundly hated, especially by Ben Gantry. As for thieving, whoring, gambling, drinking and other manly what-not, well, what could he say? A long time ago he’d done it all—to the best of his ability and as often as possible.
Those days were long past, but they had left habits he couldn’t change. He still had an edgy need to see around corners and through walls. It was as much a part of him as a hungry stomach, and he had that need now. Keeping his voice low, he said, “I have to know, Abbie. Is she mine?”
Her eyes turned into gentle pools. “Does it matter?”
“No,” he replied. “I’ll help you no matter what. I just thought I should ask. If I have an obligation—”
“You don’t,” she said firmly.
John knew a half-truth when he heard one. She hadn’t denied his blood ties to the girl, only his responsibility for raising her. He wasn’t inclined to let lies fester, but he wanted to believe what Abbie had implied. As the circumstances stood, Susanna was the daughter of a congressman, not the bastard child of an outlaw. For Susanna’s sake and his own peace of mind, he decided not to push the issue right now.
“It’s best for everyone that she’s not mine,” John said. “I’ll send a wire to a friend in Bitterroot. In the meantime, let’s collect your baggage and get you settled at the hotel.”
He lifted the carpetbag from her hand. The suitcase wasn’t heavy, a detail that surprised him considering the length of her journey, but Abbie grimaced as the weight left her grasp. Trying to appear casual, she rubbed her shoulder.
John knew about old injuries. He’d gotten tossed off a mustang and twisted his knee. It still pained him in cold weather. “Are you all right?”
She dropped her arm to her side as if he’d caught her stealing. “Of course. I’m just stiff from the trip.”
Maybe so, but most people didn’t groan after toting a valise. To escape John’s perusal, she turned to her son just as the train whistle let out a blast. She jumped as if the warning had been for her.
“Robbie?” she called. “It’s time to go.”
The boy stepped to his mother’s side, giving John a chance to think as he guided them across the platform. Children didn’t run away from home without cause, and women didn’t travel cross-country with featherweight luggage unless they had nothing to put in it. And how had she gotten a bum shoulder? She had secrets, he was sure of it.
As the sun beat down on his back, he felt the heat of the summer day building inside his coat. But more than the noon sky was making him sweat. Abbie Moore was as pretty as he remembered. They possibly had a child together—a troubled girl who had been as desperate to escape her life as John had once been.
Like father, like daughter. The thought gave him no comfort at all.
Damn it! Abbie never cursed out loud, but she had learned that anger made her strong and tears didn’t fix a blasted thing. Never mind that she had good cause to cry her eyes out. She had been praying for days that Susanna would already be in Midas. She had even dared to hope that Johnny Leaf had welcomed his daughter into his life.
But that hadn’t happened. Instead Abbie’s hopes had been dashed to pieces. Susanna was still hundreds of miles away, and the Reverend John Leaf clearly loathed the idea of fatherhood. Judging by the aloofness in his eyes, he wasn’t going to change his mind. That coldness hadn’t been there when they had met in Kansas, but the command in his voice was all too familiar.
Let me take off your boot.
No, I’ll do it.
He’d gripped her foot and worked the laces, peeling the leather down her calf without a care for her modesty. He had inspected her ankle with tender fingers, announced that she couldn’t walk on it and scooped her into his arms. The memory fanned embers that had long since died, reminding Abbie that her heart had turned to ash—except where her children were concerned.
Thoughts of Susanna and Robbie made her pulse race with another worry. A Washington attorney intended to turn Robert’s estate over to Abbie’s father. If Judge Lawton Moore controlled her finances, he’d force her back to Kansas. The thought was unbearable. She didn’t care about herself, but her father would scorn Susanna because of her birth and favor Robbie because he was a boy. Abbie clamped her lips into a line. Damn Robert for his deathbed confession. Abbie had learned from her daughter’s friend, Colleen, what he had said. I’m sorry, Susanna, but I couldn’t love you. You’re not mine…
That was true, Abbie thought. But neither did her precious daughter belong to John Leaf, at least not in a way that mattered. Blood meant nothing if it didn’t come with love.
I love you, Johnny…
Don’t say it.
Abbie swallowed back a wave of anxiety. They had been rolling on a blanket in tall grass, feeling each other through their clothes. He’d cut her off and rightly so. She hadn’t known a blasted thing about the ways of men. But she did now. Hell would freeze before she’d marry again. The attorney had given her that option, but it didn’t bear consideration.
As they neared the baggage area, the Reverend’s baritone broke into her thoughts. “Do you see your trunk?”
“Not yet,” she replied.
He fell silent, giving her a chance to count off the days of the trip. She had paid dearly for the express, but the train had been delayed twice, leaving her twenty-six days to find Susanna and arrive in Kansas as expected.
She had so much to lose—her home, her friends, a decent upbringing for her children. Since Robert’s death, Abbie had been renting rooms in her town house. One of the benefits was a houseful of friends, including Maggie O’Dea who gladly shared her wisdom. The other reward was money for Susanna’s education. Robbie had a trust fund, but Susanna had nothing. More than anything, Abbie wanted to give her daughter the choices she herself never had, and that meant having an income of her own.
At the thought of Susanna, Abbie glanced at John. He was standing tall with his hands in his coat pockets, chatting with Robbie about locomotives. Still trim and loose-jointed, he’d changed very little over the years, at least on the outside. His eyes were still piercing and dark, and though he wore his hair shorter, he still had the look of a man who resisted haircuts. Abbie couldn’t help but notice the shaggy strands brushing past his collar. The slight curl matched the bit of Susanna’s baby hair she kept in a locket.
Whether the Reverend liked it or not, one glance would tell him he had a daughter. Abbie was thinking about John’s reaction when Robbie pointed to the baggage car. “I see our trunk. It’s in the back corner.”
“That’s it,” she replied. For her son’s sake, she tried to sound cheerful, but the sight of that battered case filled Abbie with an old rage. As a bride-to-be, she had packed her things in a shiny new trunk and left home to marry a man she had never met. Today the trunk had as many scars as she did. And instead of new clothes, it held garments that belonged in the rag bag. She hadn’t bought a new dress in years and her underthings were pathetic.
Sealing her lips, she prayed that John wouldn’t notice her shabby clothing. It shamed her as Robert had intended. Her husband had pinched pennies until the Indian heads screamed, and so had Jefferson Hodge, the executor of his estate. As the porter carried her trunk down the gangway, Abbie relived the day she had asked Hodge for an increase in her household allowance.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Windsor,” he had replied. “Your husband stated you weren’t to be involved in financial matters. I’d be pleased to transfer authority to your father or you could marry again. A woman with your sensitive nature needs a husband.”
Sensitive nature? Abbie had nearly called the man a pig. A long time ago she’d been softhearted about life, but Robert had brutalized that hopeful girl until she’d shriveled to nothing. At the thought of her marriage, Abbie wanted to snort.
Duty…honor…obey…
Her father had used those words when he’d put her on the train to Washington to meet her future husband, but the only promise that mattered now was the one she had made at his grave. She had endured her last beating, told her last lie about bumping into doors and put up with a man in her bed for the last time. God spare the fool who dared to touch her now—she’d cut off his manhood with rusty scissors.
As the porter dropped her trunk into the pile of luggage, Abbie caught a whiff of the Reverend’s starched collar. She hadn’t missed the heat in his eyes, as if he knew what she looked like naked. Which he did. Or more correctly, he knew what she used to look like.
As the porter walked away, John stepped to her side. At the same time Abbie turned. As her skirt brushed his pant leg, an old friction rippled down her spine. The scent of bay rum filled her nose as well, shooting her back in time to a dusky Kansas sunset. With a gleam in his eyes, he had matched his mouth to hers. When she’d stood there like a fence post, he had brushed her bottom lip with his thumb and grinned.
You’ve never done that before, have you?
I have so.
With who? Some kid with pimples?
Rakish and hungry, he’d kissed her again, long and slow, until she had clutched at his back and arched into him. He’d been twenty-one years old and looking for a good time. She had been seventeen and more naive than a baby chick. She’d also been angry with her father and aching with awareness, and she’d loved every rebellious inch of Johnny Leaf.
Until her brother barged in on them.
Until she discovered she was carrying his child.
Until her father had bribed Robert Windsor to marry his ruined daughter.
The jingle of coins called her gaze back to John who had extracted a quarter from his pocket and was pressing it into Robbie’s hand. “Ask the kid in the red shirt to take the trunk to the hotel. His name’s Tim Hawk. You can ride with him if it’s okay with your mother.”
Robbie jumped at the chance. “Can I, Ma?”
“Sure,” she replied.
Abbie watched her son with mixed emotions. She loved him dearly, but Robert Senior had spoiled him rotten. At best, his behavior these days was unpredictable. At worst, it bordered on criminal. A conductor had caught him stealing an orange on the train. To fill the silence, she turned to John. “He’s had a hard time since his father died.”
“It has to be rough for you, too. Losing a husband is hell on earth.”
Abbie sealed her lips. What would the good Reverend say if she told him that she had come to believe in divorce and thanked God every day for her husband’s death?
When she didn’t reply, John took her gloved hand in both of his. “I’m truly sorry, Abbie. Death is always hard, but it’s worse when it’s sudden.”
She felt his fingers through the black silk, warm and strong against the bones of her hand. She understood that he was a minister now, and that holding a widow’s hand was second nature to him, but that same hand had once touched her breasts.
The memory brought with it a surge of heat, a melting she hadn’t felt in years and never wanted to feel again.
Being careful to hide her traitorous response, she withdrew her fingers from his. No way was she going down that road again.
“Thank you for your concern.” Stepping back, she stared at her trunk. If the good Reverend came any closer, she’d use those rusty scissors in a heartbeat.
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