The Marshal's Surrender (Holidays in Mountain Home Book 3) Page 3

  Seeing Luke and Effie together had to hurt.

  Noelle watched a few minutes more as Gus and Luke unloaded the sleigh, unhitched the team, led them into the barn, and stowed the sleigh. It couldn’t be easy for Luke to bring his wife and daughter to the house, considering Gus might be here.

  But Luke, by nature, would be worried about his wife, baby, and aging parents. He’d worry about Noelle, too. This was about safety in numbers, not about the past.

  “Noelle?” Ma asked, catching her unaware.

  “Yes?”

  “Who’s out there, dear? You’re most distracted. I called you twice.”

  “It’s Luke. He brought Effie and the baby. I think they’ve come to stay.”

  “Good. That’s good.”

  No, it wasn’t, but Noelle wouldn’t argue the point.

  “Mix up two pans of cornbread, will you?” Ma wiped her hands on her apron and headed to the back porch to greet Effie.

  Noelle busied herself with the cornbread. She greeted Effie warmly, kissed the babe on her forehead, and slid the pans into the oven just as the men came in to wash their hands.

  Talk focused on the rotating schedule of night watch, including breaking the ice on the herd’s troughs, pitching hay, and guard duties.

  “You’re as welcome as the flowers in May,” Ma assured Effie, “as is my granddaughter.” Ma had claimed the baby, allowing Effie to remove her coat and hat. “What will you do about the shop, so close to Christmas?”

  “I don’t know how long we’ll stay, so I brought a few things with me to work on. Perhaps Noelle can help me here.”

  Noelle hugged her sister-in-law and employer. “You know I will.”

  “I closed the shop early tonight. I have three women tending the shop tomorrow. I left instructions for finish work and deliveries.”

  Noelle nodded, then busied herself setting the table.

  The baby fussed. Effie took a seat out of the way and prepared to nurse her daughter beneath a blanket for modesty.

  The men came in, tossing ideas about, answering Luke’s questions, and Noelle’s eyes were drawn unerringly to Gus. She couldn’t help sensing the discomfort Gus and Effie must both feel—Luke too, certainly.

  She’d so hoped the intervening year would lessen the pain. When would the torch Gus carried for Effie wane?

  How could Noelle possibly compete?

  She couldn’t…not when Effie, an ethereal blonde, dimpled, and beautiful was in the same room.

  Gus loved her.

  “Take your seats, everyone.” Ma told the young boys to slide around and take the seats in the back. “Luke, bring in the chair from the office, will you?”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  When everyone had taken their seats and talk still focused on the Ruffian Gang, Ma clapped her hands, effectively silencing them all. “We’ve had quite enough talk of this for one night. It’s supper time, and I want peace at my table.”

  Several seconds of silence passed. Pa chuckled. Luke nodded, agreeing with Ma’s request.

  Pa asked a blessing on the food. Ma and Noelle carried the big pot chicken and dumpling soup to the table and ladled up servings. Noelle cut the cornbread and set the platter in the middle of the table.

  “Pass the butter, please.” Luke reached to take the butter dish from Gus, and passed it to Dallas.

  The conversation resumed, but this time, the easy talk focused on plans for Christmas.

  How could anyone make plans? Wouldn’t they have to wait and see how things progressed?

  Noelle blinked, realizing she stared at Gus…had been staring at him for several minutes.

  Embarrassed, though no one seemed to have caught her mooning over the sheriff, she busied herself with her soup and a bite of bread.

  She couldn’t help but notice Gus ate his meal with ravenous intent. He seemed completely at home.

  She’d long believed he stayed away because being near Effie meant too much pain over lost dreams. He’d been quite vocal over how he’d been in love with Effie half his life and still was.

  Ma served seconds. The plate of bread went around the table another time. And Gus, much to Noelle’s surprise, seemed completely indifferent to Effie’s presence.

  Could he be as comfortable as he seemed?

  Was it possible his heart had healed? Could it be he no longer pined for Effie?

  Sure enough, Gus ate without a care. He didn’t so much as glance in Effie’s direction.

  How often had she imagined what it would be like if he came to call on her? She’d imagined him at this table, having supper with her family.

  She’d not seen Gus and Effie in the same vicinity for a full year. A lot could happen in a year. Much could change, including Gus coming to terms with Effie’s choice. He’d had twelve long months to accept the situation.

  Perhaps Noelle was the one who believed him still attached to Effie when…could it be?…he wasn’t as captivated as she’d feared.

  “Mrs. Finlay?” Gus spoke to Mother, thank goodness, rather than Effie. “This is the best cornbread I’ve had in ages.”

  “That’s Noelle’s doing. Fine cook, isn’t she?”

  “Indeed, ma’am.” Gus winked at her then, his beautiful gray eyes twinkling. For her. “Well done, Noelle.”

  A blush started beneath the collar of her plum suit and rushed all the way to her hairline. “Thank you.”

  That wink had her seeing things in a most optimistic way. Did she dare confess her feelings?

  Frightening as the circumstances were that brought Gus into her home, she couldn’t bank on him staying longer than the two days he’d promised Pa.

  This was her chance. Her first in the past year.

  If not now, when?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  After supper, Gus took the map Luke had brought in from town into the office and shut the door. With the house full of people, he needed a quiet place to think.

  He unrolled the map, turned it right-side up, and smoothed it open on the desktop.

  He found a pencil and added an X and notation for the Kennedy farm incident, then much further north, the burning of Mrs. Boczowski’s home.

  He stared at the journaling of events he already knew too well.

  What was he missing?

  Deep rumbles of male laughter came from the front parlor. Floor boards sounded in the hallway as someone walked past. The clatter of dishes carried from the kitchen.

  The noise of a full house distracted him in the way only a bachelor who lived alone could comprehend.

  Never before had he had such difficulty piecing together the clues, discovering who the culprits were and what they wanted. So far, all he gathered were random disturbances.

  The gang’s attacks were on the rise and increasingly more violent. The worst both occurred today.

  Doubt ached in the pit of his stomach.

  What did it mean?

  Understandably, a green lawman would be perplexed.

  But him? He hadn’t been bewildered by a case in years.

  Embarrassing. The Ruffian Gang had to be laughing their patooties off.

  Outside, winter wind swept past, needling the house with shards of ice. The wind tinkled against the window. He’d bet the gang wasn’t camping out. Not in this weather. They had to have a hidey-hole. Somewhere warm and secure. Like this family home—snug as can be.

  He imagined the Finlay’s house was precisely what a family home was supposed to feel like.

  Comfortable. Secure. Filled with love.

  Precisely what he’d hoped to buy for himself when he’d spent his savings on Mayor Abbott’s mansion.

  What a waste.

  A soft knock came at the door. Noelle entered and leaned back against the closed door. “Mind if I join you?”

  He smiled at her. “Not at all.”

  She approached, but only halfway into the little room. “What are you working on?”

  “Adding today’s attacks to my map.”

  “May I
see?”

  “I’m not nearly the artist you are.”

  “No matter.” She smoothed the corner of his map flat, took in the details.

  They stood side by side at the desk, focused on the butcher paper.

  Through her eyes, the notations must look a mess. Nothing was spaced to scale, nothing made much sense.

  Standing this close, he couldn’t help but notice what a little mite she was. Barely reached his shoulder. Slender too. Wouldn’t take much to sweep her up in his arms.

  She’d been lucky to be on horseback when she ran into the Ruffians.

  Not for the first time, his heart squeezed with something akin to panic. He hadn’t panicked, not once in all his years as a U.S. Marshal. He didn’t like the idea of panicking now. Only old ladies panicked. Panicking was too much like a fit of vapors. Far too granny-like for a lawman.

  August Rose did not panic.

  She opened her mouth as if to speak, but turned back to the map.

  He grabbed the desperately needed distraction. “Go on. Say it. I draw like a toddler.”

  She grinned. “That comparison never crossed my mind.”

  “Something’s on your mind.” Maybe she’d seen what he couldn’t. “Speak up.”

  She opened her mouth again, but whatever it was, she couldn’t make herself say it.

  “I know. The Kennedy place isn’t that close to the river. My scale’s nonexistent.”

  That made her laugh.

  He liked making her laugh. Especially after the day she’d had.

  Maybe he could do something right.

  “Tell me.” He nudged her with his elbow.

  “It’s nothing.” He might not be able to find the Ruffians, but he had no trouble noticing the trembling of her fingers. She tried to hide the shakes by clasping her hands together but not quick enough.

  He ought to stay on task, but how could he, with her in the room?

  “I’d say it’s something. You’re shaking. You want to talk about it?”

  “Most of the occurrences have been on the north and east, haven’t they? Does that mean they’re hiding out somewhere on the north-east side of the valley?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “I think that’s not what’s on your mind. ‘Sides, I suspect they’re focusing their attentions to the north and east in an attempt to lead us astray.”

  “Oh.”

  He faced her then, leaned against the desk, and stared her down. She wouldn’t look him in the eye.

  He wanted to touch her chin, turn her to look at him. But that seemed a little aggressive. The poor girl had lived through a nightmare. If she wanted time to collect her thoughts, the least he could do was let her think.

  Seconds passed. The fire in the hearth crackled. The window at her back reflected the firelight, her slim figure dwarfed by his much larger frame. So tiny and defenseless. He could only imagine how threatened she felt that morning, watching the villains slit that cow’s throat.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” she whispered. “We’re all glad you’re here.”

  He didn’t understand women. All of ‘em in the Finlay household had already thanked him. ‘Bout a hundred times.

  Once seemed adequate.

  What was he supposed to do besides keep repeating himself? “You’re welcome.”

  She continued twisting her little hands into a knot. Whatever she had on her mind, she still hadn’t said it.

  Maybe she didn’t like the shocking differences between their sizes. Maybe he scared her.

  “You want to sit down?” He fumbled for the desk chair, realized it must still be in the kitchen where Luke had carried it for supper, like his mama asked him to. “I definitely want to sit down.”

  He opted for the sofa where Noelle had curled up with her mother just that afternoon.

  But Noelle remained standing.

  Good manners dictated he stand as long as she stood, but something deeper prompted him to stay right where he was. The poor girl was having a hard time spitting something out and having him towering over her wasn’t helping.

  “I…uh—” She gestured vaguely, her hand still shaking.

  “If I knew what you were trying to say, Miss Noelle, I promise I’d do what I could to make it easier on you.”

  She giggled, nervousness shading the musical notes.

  “I gather you’re scared, and it’s perfectly all right to be scared.” Ladies had that privilege. Lawmen, though, were expected to be tough, immovable, granite in the face of fear. “Is that what you’re saying to me, Miss Noelle? ‘Cause it looks like you’re saying one thing and meaning another.”

  Her cheeks pinked and she wouldn’t look at him.

  “Shoot. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. My mother would tan my hide.”

  “No apology needed, Sheriff Rose.”

  “Call me Gus.” She’d always called him Gus.

  “Of course. Gus. I’ll leave you to your work.”

  “Stay.” The word tumbled out of his mouth without warning.

  She blinked at him. “Why?”

  I need you.

  You need me.

  Neither seemed like a good idea to say aloud.

  “Something important hides on this map. I know it.” He tapped his chest with his fist, indicating that elusive sense inside that told him plenty. “I can’t make hide nor hair out of the Ruffians’ pattern. Maybe—’cause you know the area well—you’ll see something I can’t.”

  She blinked, doubt lingering in her cinnamon-colored eyes.

  “Maybe your artist’s sense will be too offended by my crude drawing…”

  Doubt fled as she smiled. A gift, that smile.

  “…but maybe, just maybe, that artist’s eye will see something I can’t.”

  She nodded.

  “Willing to stay and give it a try?”

  “Yes.”

  The following afternoon, Gus walked through the Finlay ranch house, double-checking doors, and ensuring Noelle remained in the close company of at least two family members. Less than twenty-four hours since he’d agreed to Phil Finlay’s demands, and already the walls were closing in.

  “You’re baking Christmas cookies,” Gus asked Mrs. Finlay, “at a time like this?”

  She didn’t look up from her floured rolling pin or the sweetly fragrant gingerbread dough. “Christmastime is special in this family, Sheriff. I will keep it as normal as possible.” Her voice constricted, betraying tears she fought to contain.

  He clenched his jaw and fought the urge to swear. He never did know what to do with crying women. He pretended not to notice, grabbed a coffee cup from the drainboard and filled it with brew.

  Behind him, she plunked down her rolling pin. “Those men,” she enunciated with stark clarity, with disgust etching each syllable, “might terrorize, torch houses, slaughter animals—”

  The woman was strung tighter than a granny’s corset strings.

  Not good.

  “—but they cannot steal Christmas.”

  He sipped at the steaming Arbuckle’s, regretting the casual question about baking Christmas cookies. Who knew this homey, warm, delicious-smelling kitchen was dangerous? He’d walked into a battle and hadn’t even known it. He needed to skedaddle.

  “And,” she pointed a flour-dusted finger at him, “you’d be wise to do the same.”

  “Yes ma’am.” What other answer was there, though he detested Christmas?

  “Wash your hands.” Caroline Finlay left no room for argument. “You and Noelle will finish cutting these cookies and get them in the oven. I’m going upstairs to lie down.”

  The older woman had already untied her apron and thrust it into his hands.

  Oh, no. Nuh-uh. No way would he wear a frilly calico apron.

  “Put it on.” Caroline paused to wipe her hands on a kitchen towel.

  Gus stood, an apron strap hooked over his finger, as if it were a live rattler. He needed to mask his distaste better,
for Caroline saw right through him.

  “You’re intolerable, Mr. Rose—”

  Him? She was the one ordering him about, her good mood long gone.

  “—and this home needs more Christmas spirit.” She gasped, clutched her forehead as if a headache pounded there. “And I’m tired.”

  Of that, he was certain.

  He balled up the apron and tossed it onto a chair. “Go lie down. Cookies can wait.”

  She narrowed her eyes into the glare he imagined all—O.K., most—mothers fine-tuned long before their first child was knee-high. That look conveyed a whole lot of don’t you sass me. “You’re living in my house, eating my cooking, ensuring my daughter…”

  And just like that, the woman’s composure crumbled like her extraordinary butter cookies he’d enjoyed just last night. Her shoulders sagged. Tears welled in her eyes. Laughter lines about her eyes and mouth seemed to deepen and fill with the kind of anxiety only a mother could understand—a mother who loved her children with wholehearted devotion.

  Not that he understood from personal experience.

  “I thank you for every meal, Mrs. Finlay.” He held up both hands, as if gentling a terrified animal. Frantic women were dangerous.

  He watched the starch settle in her spine as she rose to her full height…almost reaching his shoulder.

  “This is my kitchen, my home, Mr. Rose.”

  “Yes ma’am. That it is.”

  “That is my blue-ribbon gingerbread on that cutting board.”

  He didn’t dare glance at the confection, though it did smell mighty fine. He had the distinct impression this conversation didn’t have a thing to do with that prize-winning cookie dough or even the cookies themselves.

  “Noelle is my daughter.”

  The vehemence in her tone took him back. What did the woman mean by that? Of course Noelle was hers. Like mother, like daughter. Both had a gift for saying one thing and meaning another. He never did figure out what Noelle had tried to tell him last night.

  He waited, sure this lecture had to be headed somewhere and he’d best hold on for the duration.

  “She’s been through quite enough, wouldn’t you say? She needs normalcy, a touch of homemade Christmas joy, and I aim to see she gets it—you, too, Sheriff, ‘cause it’s plain to see you haven’t had nearly enough reason to celebrate the season.”