Bride of the Wolf. Susan Krinard
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Sean didn’t hate her. She was simply an obstacle to be removed. A woman who lied about her marital state must have secrets, and he intended to find them. He could beguile any woman he set his sights on, beautiful or ugly, old or young. Charm her into revealing her greatest weakness.
In the meantime, he would assign one of the hands to keep an eye on the woman—and on Renshaw. And he had to find and get rid of the will before he arranged for Jed’s body to be found. Jed had used a lawyer in Heywood once or twice to draw up contracts, and such a man might very well have handled the will, as well. Sean would send his most loyal sheep to look for the man. Then he would consider how to approach the lawyer without betraying an untoward interest in Jed’s posthumous intentions.
Plenty of ifs, and no guarantees. But Sean had never doubted his destiny. It was as inevitable as the sunrise.
He pulled Ulysses to a sharp stop before the Blackwells’ fine two-story house. He would not tell them the entire truth about his eviction from Dog Creek. Amy was very close to dropping from the vine into his waiting hand, and her parents were not far behind. A little finesse and he would simply increase their resentment of the man they believed had persuaded Jed to refuse their generous offer for Dog Creek, thwarting their ambition for undisputed dominance of Pecos County.
They didn’t know what ambition was.
Sean dismounted in an almost cheerful mood. As he ran up the steps to the wide, shaded veranda, the door opened and Amy walked out, dressed in a tight pink gown that must have come all the way from Paris.
“Sean!” she said. “I didn’t expect you this morning!”
He removed his hat. “Something has happened, Amy. I don’t like to trouble you, but—”
“What is it?” She hurried to meet him, gazing anxiously into his face. “Come inside and tell me at once.” She took his hand, and as she led him into the hall, Sean knew that he need have no more worries. When he had Dog Creek, he would have this woman. And when he had her, he would have this house and all the country from Dog Creek to the Pecos.
And when he was governor, Jed wouldn’t be the only one he left lying in the dry West Texas dirt.
Chapter Three
IF IT HADN’T been for the infant, Rachel wasn’t sure she could have done anything but stare and bawl like a child.
At first all she had noticed was the primitive look of the place—the ramshackle unpainted buildings, the piles of unrecognizable metal objects heaped around them, the barren earth beyond the single tree by the house and the meager stretch of green that marked the creek. Jedediah’s descriptions had always been vague, but she had pictured something very different. The house itself was far smaller than she had expected here in the West, where everything seemed so vast. There was no garden that she could see, no whitewashed fences, no evidence that anyone had ever attempted to make the house a home.
That is why I am here, she’d told herself. But then she’d seen the grim-faced man standing in front of the house, and she knew even before she had been introduced who he must be. When she had first looked into his lean, predatory face, she had known that this was a man capable of doing exactly what Sean McCarrick had suggested. His eyes—as much golden-green as gray etched steel that reflected light like those of an animal—emanated hostility as hot as the stark Texas sun.
Eyes that weighed her with a single glance and found her unworthy. A rival. A threat to his power. He had claimed he didn’t know about her imminent arrival, but of course he would have no compunction about lying to her if he had already tried to buy her off.
When he had said “So you’re Jed’s wife?” in such a sneering voice, she’d been almost certain that he meant to accuse her of deception. She had, after all, answered to Rachel Lyndon when the wagon driver had approached her in Javelina. Perhaps he hadn’t persisted in his challenge because he feared being exposed himself.
You are no less a liar just because he’s a liar, too, she told herself. But she had lied only because she had needed a reason for coming to Dog Creek after she’d learned that Jedediah was away. If her worst, most irrational fears were realized and he no longer wanted her, she would compel him to tell her so to her face. Unless and until that happened, turning back, even staying in Javelina, was not an acceptable option.
And if Jedediah had simply been detained on business, as Sean had said, he would surely understand her reasons for claiming a privilege she did not yet possess.
Rachel opened the door to the house, easing the infant into the crook of her arm as she pushed. She had no reason to disbelieve anything Sean had said; his interest in her seemed strictly and benevolently impersonal, and he had accurately predicted Renshaw’s reaction. If not for the baby, she would have deemed Holden Renshaw a thoroughgoing and unredeemable villain.
Yet when he’d held the child out to her and demanded that she help in that rough, deep voice, she’d been struck dumb as a lamppost. What sort of villain would bring a foundling home with him and express such concern about its well-being?
Glancing around the rustic parlor immediately inside the door, she saw that the chairs, like the table they surrounded, were handmade, simple and rough-hewn. She went to the nearest and sat, gently unwrapping the infant as soon as she was settled. Its skin was gray, its face far too thin.
It could not have been more than two months old. She cooed to it, waiting for it to open its eyes. Afraid, though she could see it breathing, that it might die in her arms.
A precious life. Small and fragile in body, just as she felt in her soul.
She lifted the baby so that its downy head rested against her cheek. A curled fist flailed, bumping her mouth. Alive. Wanting to live. Giving her the courage she so sadly lacked.
Whoever you may be, she told it silently, wherever you have come from, I am here to protect you.
Blue eyes opened. All babies had blue eyes at first, but this child’s were startling, as bright and intent as if they could focus on hers.
“Yes,” she murmured. “I see you.”
The baby—a boy, she saw, checking under his diaper—gave a gusty little sigh as if he understood. Nursery rhymes crowded into her head, pushing away her fear.
Once, she had sung such songs to the baby within her, certain he could hear her long before he was born. She had felt him move, kicking and punching as if to declare his coming independence.
Little Timothy had lived so short a time. Only long enough for her to sing a few verses of the song she loved most.
Hush little baby, don’t say a word,
Mama’s going to buy you a mockingbird …
The door opened, and Renshaw walked in with a pail in one hand and saddlebags over his shoulder. He set down the pail and moved past her to lay the saddlebags over a chair. In the pail, the milk steamed, fresh and pungent.
Rachel found her composure again and hugged the baby as if it needed protection from the very person who had found him. No one, least of all this man, would see her vulnerable.
“We will need something to feed him with,” she said briskly.
Without a word, Renshaw rummaged in the saddlebags and produced a bottle and several squares of white cotton fabric.
“Where did you get the bottle?” she asked.
“It was left with the kid,” he said. He went to the pail to fill the bottle, but Rachel stopped him with a cry of protest.
“Your hands must be clean,” she said.
He glared at her, though his face remained expressionless. He strode into the adjoining kitchen. A moment later she heard the squeak of a pump handle working and a gush of water.
Her heart was beating fast when he walked back into the