Forever in My Heart Read online

  Connor nodded. He pulled the clothes out and began stripping. "Buck, get two horses anyway. Dancer and I'll be able to travel faster if we're on fresh mounts and Tuck's animal will do better without a rider. I'll switch horses just before we reach the cabin."

  Buck ran off, his long-legged, loping stride getting him to the stables quickly. Patrick pushed up the brim of his dusty black hat, revealing a fringe of bright red hair. With the shadow lifted from his face there was a sprinkling of freckles visible across the bridge of his nose. "You want us to come? Watch your back?"

  Connor looked to Dancer. "Do we need that?"

  The prospector shook his head. "My plan only calls for two. While Connor's distractin' I'll be reactin'."

  Luke, who rarely smiled, thought that was worth a small grin. He dropped from his perch and scooped up Connor's discarded clothes and tossed them over the corral rail. "I don't mind being your flank."

  Connor pulled on Tuck's shirt. "Thanks, but not this time, Luke."

  Luke nodded, his gray eyes serious. He saw the tautness of Connor's jaw and recognized his friend's need to do this thing on his own. He leaned against the corral and deftly caught Connor's hat as it came sailing toward him.

  Connor put on Tuck's hat, tugged on the brim, and turned to Dancer. "Is this going to fool him?"

  "It don't really matter, does it? I reckon you'd come anyway."

  "You're right."

  Dancer studied Connor thoughtfully for a moment. "Then there's something else you should know," Dancer said. "Maggie's pregnant."

  In the same breath that Connor was calling Dancer a bastard, he was drawing back his fist. Luke intervened, blocking Connor's punch with his forearm.

  Dancer stood his ground, rubbing his jaw as if he'd been hit anyway. His lopsided grin pulled his face grotesquely and whitened his scars. "I'm flattered," he said. His high-pitched laughter crackled. "Damn me if I ain't flattered."

  "What are you saying?"

  "Isn't it obvious?" Luke asked, letting go of Connor's arm. He looked at Patrick and Ben, who were nodding. Dancer was waiting expectantly for Connor to comprehend what everyone else knew. Luke grew impatient. "It's your baby, Connor."

  "That's not possible, she—" Connor didn't finish his sentence. Buck was coming toward them with the horses. "Let's go," he said tightly, strapping on his gun belt. He gave Dancer Tuck's Remington rifle. "Don't give me a reason to regret not using that on you." He tugged the reins of the bay sharply and didn't look back to see if Dancer was following.

  * * *

  Maggie rocked slowly. The floor made a steady creaking sound against the chair runners that she found soothing. Throughout the day she had looked up from her sewing to glance out the window. On this occasion a firefly glowed. Then another. She judged there was little more than an hour's daylight left.

  She was actually surprised to be alive. Once Tuck and Dancer left she thought Freado would kill her, in spite of his instructions to the contrary. When he didn't, she began to hope, and now that twilight was settling it seemed cruel that he had allowed her that. Maggie thought that if it hadn't been for her baby she might have simply begged him to kill her hours earlier and stop torturing her with the possibility.

  Freado jerked his Colt in her direction. "You want to stop that?" he snapped.

  Although Maggie's heart was slamming against her breastbone, her features were composed as she raised her face. "Stop what?" she asked.

  "That goddamn rocking! Stop it or I'll—" He pulled back the hammer on his revolver.

  Maggie set her feet flat on the floor and the creaking stopped. "Should I sit somewhere else?" she asked. "You told me to sit here."

  "Sit there—only don't rock."

  It was virtually impossible to do. She went back to her sewing, but in a few minutes she was rocking again. The blast from Freado's gun propelled Maggie out of the chair. Wood splintered as a bullet sheared one of the rocker's curved runners, tipping it to one side.

  Maggie's hand went over her heart as she tried to contain the beat. Her sewing dropped to the floor. She opened her mouth to call him every vile name she could think of.

  "Save it," he said, putting the Colt away. "I got a wife, I heard it before. Now sit."

  Color returned to Maggie's face slowly. She stooped to pick up the baby clothes and saw her hands were trembling. "I have to use the privy," she said quietly, mustering the threads of her dignity.

  "Again?" His tone indicated complete disgust.

  "I'm pregnant," she said. "I have different needs than you."

  "All right," he said sourly. He pushed away from the table and opened the back door. He waved his arm, indicating she should precede him.

  "You don't have to come with me," she said.

  "I think I do."

  And that was that, Maggie thought. She had made more trips to the privy than she needed to, hoping that just once he would let her go on her own. It hadn't happened yet and it wasn't going to happen this time.

  Freado escorted her to the privy, waited outside while she relieved herself, and followed her back to the cabin.

  "Now sit," he said.

  "I want to make some tea," she said, picking up the kettle.

  "Then you'll be wantin' another trip outside. I know how it works."

  "Let me make it for you," she said. Her wide green eyes implored her captor. "I need to be busy."

  Freado impatiently raked his curly hair with thick fingers. "All right," he said. "Make the damn tea."

  "Will you fire up the stove?"

  "Oh, for God's sake," he said, frustrated. "This is why I didn't want no dinner. Too much fussin'. Do it yourself." Instead of returning to the chair he had occupied most of the day, Freado sat on the narrow bed where Maggie slept. He had a good view of the creek through the window, and he could still see Maggie at the stove. In a little while he lost interest in Maggie's activities as the fireflies began to blink in ever increasing numbers.

  Maggie tried to ignore the relentless approach of night as she prepared Freado's tea. She listened for the sound of riders instead.

  "Here it is," she said, coming toward him with the steaming mug.

  Freado held out his hand, palm up, indicating she should stop. "Just put it on the table," he said. "I don't want you spillin' it on me, and it's too damn hot to drink right now."

  Maggie very nearly screamed her frustration. Some of the intense feeling showed on her face.

  "D'you think I didn't know you had a plan?" he asked. "Now sit, dammit."

  She sat. The rocker was tilted at an angle that made her back ache. Maggie swept her sewing from the table onto her lap and tried to clear her mind of all thought. When Freado's harsh voice pulled her to the present, she had no idea how much time had elapsed since she sat down.

  "Looks like no one's comin'," he said, getting up from the bed. He walked to the door, opened it, and leaned against the frame. "And that doesn't look good for anyone, does it? Tuck's either dead or he run off with the gold himself. Maybe he 'n Dancer cut a deal and decided to leave us both in the lurch. Don't see how it matters to you, though. I'm gonna have to kill you either way."

  Maggie forgot what she was doing. She clutched the nightdress she was stitching and pricked the heel of her hand with the needle. At her slight cry, Freado turned away from the door.

  "What the hell's wrong with you now?"

  Maggie sucked on the injured area and said nothing.

  Freado kicked the door shut and sat on the bed again. "Hell of a thing to have to do since you ain't done me a moment's harm." His abrupt yawn was incongruous with the murderous talk.

  It took a great effort of will on Maggie's part not to allow her eyes to stray to the mug on the table. She lowered her injured hand slowly and watched Freado with greater interest. His eyes seemed vaguely out of focus and there was a thin line of beaded sweat above his upper lip.

  They heard the approach of a single horse and rider at the same time. Their heads swiveled in the direction of the
window simultaneously.

  "I'll be damned. It's Tuck!" Freado jumped to his feet. And promptly dropped to the floor as if he had been felled by a woodsman's ax.

  Maggie didn't hesitate. Scrambling from the rocker, she grabbed Freado's gun, drew back the hammer, and held the Colt in a tight two-handed grip.

  Several long minutes passed, then the cabin's front door was pushed open slowly.

  Chapter 11

  Connor shouldered the door when it wouldn't open more than eight inches. Under his force it budged another two. Something was braced at the bottom of the door, holding it in place. Knowing the risk, he began to squeeze himself through the opening.

  Maggie's extended arms trembled under the weight of the Colt. Freado's body blocked the door. She saw a faded denim-clad leg step inside.

  "Stop right there."

  For a moment Maggie thought it was her own terrified voice that had given the order. The hoarse, raspy quality was exactly as she imagined her own might be. Then she realized the voice had come from behind her, not through her.

  "Maggie, put down the gun."

  It was Dancer! She was afraid to turn around, afraid it was some horrible trick. She gestured with her gun toward the intruder at the front door.

  "Put the gun down, girl, afore you shoot someone."

  Maggie responded to the patience and firmness in Dancer's tone, dropping the gun beside her on the table just as Connor pushed his way into the cabin.

  "Oh, my God." Maggie knew it was her voice this time. She sat slowly, her legs no longer able to support her, as Connor lowered his gun. Her hands moved to rest on her belly, not so much in an attitude of protection as with the intention of hiding her pregnancy.

  Connor's features were rigid. When he spoke, it was as if he were biting off the words and spitting them out. "So there is a baby."

  His scorn lashed Maggie. She actually flinched under the cold, steady stare of his black eyes. The muscle that worked in his jaw underscored his tension and anger.

  Off to the side, Dancer watched the interplay with interest. He leaned the Remington against the wall. "You two ain't fit to be left by yourselves. No tellin' what you might say."

  "Stay out of this, Dancer," Connor said.

  Dancer rubbed his jaw. "Seems like I'm the one that invited you." He pointed to the unconscious miscreant on the floor. "First things first." He walked over to Freado and hunkered down. Placing his hand on the robber's neck, he searched for a pulse. "What did you give him, Maggie?"

  Thankful for Dancer's question, she pulled her eyes away from Connor. It helped to think about what had already happened rather than what was going to happen. "Corn poppies," she said. "In some tea. He's not dead, is he?"

  "No. Just out cold."

  "I didn't even know he drank the tea. I let him think I meant to scald him with it and he made me put it on the table. I didn't see him take it. Is he going to be all right?"

  Dancer and Connor exchanged glances. "Help me get him out of here, would you, Connor?"

  Connor bent and took Freado by the shoulders.

  Dancer got the feet. They lifted him together and moved out the door onto the porch. "You want to take care of him?" Connor asked. "Or do you want me to?"

  "I'll do it," Dancer said. "Let's get him on his horse. I don't want to do it where Maggie can hear the shot."

  They slung Freado's body over his saddle, and Dancer gave the horse a hard swat on the rear. Freado's gelding ambled off in the direction of the creek. Dancer mounted his own horse and followed.

  Connor returned to the cabin. Maggie was standing by the window where she had been watching them. She turned when Connor came in. "What's Dancer going to do?" she asked.

  "Escort Freado off his land."

  "Shouldn't we report this to someone?"

  "The law, you mean? Someone like your brother-in-law?"

  "Yes."

  "There isn't a lawman within fifty miles of here."

  "So he goes free."

  Connor merely shrugged. "Do you really want to talk about this?"

  Maggie hardly knew what to say. She shook her head, not certain she wanted to talk at all. "Would you like some tea?" she asked nervously. When she saw Connor's mouth lift in an amused, cynical grin she realized how inane the question was, how it must have seemed to him. "Just tea," she said. "I wouldn't put anything in it."

  "Just tea, then."

  Maggie went to the wood stove, added some kindling to the glowing embers in the firebox, and stoked the fire. "You can have a seat," she said. When he didn't move immediately, she added, "It makes me uncomfortable with you standing there like that."

  Connor removed his hat and tossed it on the bed. He ran a hand through his hair. Pulling out one of the chairs, he straddled it. "This better?" he asked. He noticed that Maggie was worrying her lower lip as she nodded. He couldn't guess the number of times he'd pictured that little fretful, thoughtful gesture in his mind's eye. "What happened to the rocker?"

  Maggie set the kettle on the stove. "That man Freado shot it."

  "Why?"

  "He couldn't stand the sound it made when it was rocking."

  Connor thought about that and his brows drew together. "You were sitting in it when he splintered the runner?"

  "Well, yes," she said. "Otherwise it wouldn't have been making any noise."

  Connor regretted allowing Dancer to mete out Freado's punishment. He swore feelingly under his breath. "I should never have let you come here," he said.

  "You couldn't have stopped me." She stood on tiptoe, stretching to reach the mugs. Maggie set them aside while she prepared the tea for the strainer. "What happened to the other one?" she asked. "How did Dancer get away?"

  "Tuck got careless," Connor said.

  "He's dead, then."

  "Yes."

  Maggie was silent as she poured boiling water over the strainer and let the tea steep. She watched the liquid change slowly from clear to caramel color then added a dollop of honey to both mugs. She carried Connor's to him and set it on the table, then she went back to the stove to get hers, choosing to drink it standing up and keep her distance. "I'm not sorry Tuck's dead. He would have killed Dancer."

  "But..." he said. He could almost hear her thoughts, they were so clearly expressed in her eyes, in the small vertical between her brows, in the way her lower lip was once again tucked between her teeth. "But you wish Dancer hadn't come for me."

  Maggie ducked her head, not able to meet Connor's frank stare. The evening was still warm but Maggie's hands were cold. She wrapped her hands around her mug and lifted the steaming tea toward her face. "I didn't want you to know," she whispered, anguished.

  "That's obvious," he said coldly. "You would have been willing to lose your life and the baby's rather than look to me for help. Thank God Dancer didn't see it the same way."

  "I took care of Freado. We didn't need you."

  "You were resourceful, and you were lucky, and if you hadn't been, you can be damn sure you would have needed me." Connor wasn't aware of when he had come to his feet, only that he was standing now. His left hand was on the top rail of the chair, his fingertips pressed tightly to the wood. "How dare you not tell me about my baby. How dare you let me think you aborted my child!"

  Her voice trembled. "My baby," she said. "My child."

  "No, dammit! Ours!" Seeing Maggie flinch, he visibly reined in his anger. His voice was low and tight. "Of all the words I would have used to describe you, selfish bitch didn't figure into them until now."

  Maggie gasped at the hard, hurting judgment.

  "No," she said softly, achingly. "That's not who I am. I was trying to do right by everyone."

  "Convince me."

  It was the arrogant challenge in his tone that set Maggie on edge. She lifted her face and glared at him. "I don't have to explain myself to you."

  Connor came around the table. Maggie darted to the back door, flung it open, and ran outside. She veered away from the path that led to the privy
and sprinted toward the hillside and the sheltering pines. The full moonlight revealed a fallen log blocking her way and she prepared to jump. Her feet rose—and didn't touch down again.

  Connor caught her as she rose in the air and hauled her against him, dangling her several inches above the ground. Maggie had to brace herself by putting her arms around his neck; his hands were secure on the small of her back.

  "Maggie," he whispered hoarsely.

  She burrowed against him, pressing her face into the curve of his neck. His breath was warm on her ear as his mouth settled near her temple.

  "Maggie," he said again. "Don't run from me. Don't ever run from me."

  She tried to shake her head and sucked in a sob instead. She felt herself being lowered, but her arms didn't move from Connor's neck. One of his hands left her back and touched her nape, then buried itself deep in the strands of her hair. He stroked her, supported her. He let her soak his shirt with her tears. He absorbed her fear, her pain, knowing that he had contributed to both.

  "I couldn't... couldn't take those pills," she said, her voice breaking. "I couldn't get rid of the ba... baby. I couldn't have done that."

  Connor simply held her. "But... but you were right... I'm a selfish bi... bitch. I didn't—"

  "No," he said gently. "I was wrong. I'm sorry I said it, Maggie. I was wrong."

  She sniffed inelegantly and smiled against him. "We never agree on anything."

  He set her away from him. Moonlight washed her fine-boned features. Connor rubbed at the tear tracks with the pad of his thumb. "Let's go inside," he said.

  Maggie nodded, sniffed again, and gave Connor an embarrassed, watery smile. She let him slip his arm through hers and escort her back to the cabin. This time when he pulled out a chair, it was for her. He pressed her into it.

  "When did you eat last?" he asked.

  "I had something at noon. I wanted to fix some dinner but Freado wouldn't let me. He didn't want the fussing." She found a handkerchief tucked in the sleeve of her pale rose overblouse and wiped her nose. "It's been a trying day."