Abbie's Outlaw. Victoria Bylin
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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.
Chapter Two
Calling himself a fool, John ran his fingers through his hair. What the devil was he doing holding Abbie’s hand? She wasn’t an elderly widow with gray hair and wrinkles. Touching her stirred up thoughts he didn’t want, and if her eyes were as honest as they had been in Kansas, she had wanted to slap him.
And with good reason. Just as he remembered, her fingers were strong and slender, perfect for kneading bread or massaging a man’s tired shoulders. She had done him that favor after a day of apple picking.
I’m beat. My arms feel like old ropes.
You worked so hard… Let me rub your shoulders.
He had slumped over the kitchen table, resting his head on his forearms as she’d massaged his neck. Her fingers had worked magic, and he’d offered to return the favor. Wisely she had turned her head, but not before he’d seen the discovery of desire in her eyes. Fool that he’d been, he’d taken it as a challenge.
Now, with the precaution he should have taken in Kansas, John kept the carpetbag between them as he led the way down the platform steps. He hated to ask questions about Susanna, but he needed information. “Do you know when your daughter left Washington?”
“About three weeks ago,” Abbie