Kathryn Albright - The Angel and the Outlaw

When she had done as he asked, he stepped up to the counter. He would settle the cost of the toy, but he’d have to omit an item or two from his list. How could he salvage her birthday after this?

The woman in yellow stooped to pick up one last fragment of china and the body of the doll. She placed them next to his parcels.

“Miss Houston, you don’t need to clean up,” the clerk said. “You’ll cut yourself.”

“You frightened the girl.”

Her reproachful voice held a hint of soft Midwestern twang.

“She should sweep the entire floor for her punishment,” Morley said.

Stuart pressed his lips together, checking his urge to hit the man. “I’ll take care of my girl. You just mind your store.” He looked over his stack of supplies and removed the canned beef and fresh bread. He could hunt rabbits and quail as usual. And there was always fish. They’d make do with the tin of crackers. It would last longer than the bread, anyway. Stubbornly, he kept the six candy sticks. “Now what is my total with the doll?”

While Morley tallied the order, Stuart found himself watching the woman, surprised she had spoken in Hannah’s defense—and a little suspicious, too. She strolled to the yard goods, smoothing her hand across one piece of fabric and then another.

She must have felt him staring. After a glance in his direction she looked away, but her cheeks flushed pink. She selected two bundles of yarn and set them on the far end of the counter. The scent of honeysuckle wafted over him, feminine, inviting. How long had it been since he smelled anything other than the brine of the ocean?

“You aren’t charging full price for the doll, are you Terrance?” she asked.

Mr. Morley stopped his tallying and frowned over his glasses at her.

“Part of the fault lies with you,” she continued.

“That doesn’t excuse the cost.”

“But you startled the girl. If you’d asked her to put the doll down rather than speaking so sharply, she wouldn’t have dropped it.”

Morley caught Stuart’s gaze. “Three dollars, Taylor.”

The clerk’s attitude disgusted him. The sooner Stuart got out of here, the better. He counted out the money and dropped it on the counter then picked up the box of supplies. The doll he left behind purposely. To have what was left of it would only distress Hannah.

He packed his saddlebags, and then helped Hannah onto Blanco. Despair knifed through him at the silent shaking of her shoulders. She had dressed so carefully this morning, had been so excited about this trip into town, and it had ended in a nightmare. Stuart’s stomach knotted. He couldn’t do anything about other people. They were cruel. Hell, life was cruel, but somehow he’d make it up to her.

A flash of yellow in the doorway caught his eye. He glanced up to see the woman watching him. He didn’t quite know what to make of her. In the end she’d been kind, and so he tipped his cap to her.

She acknowledged him with a nod, her gaze steady.

Anxious to put the town and its people behind him, he led Blanco home. The bustling sounds of the harbor grated on his ears. The silence that shrouded them daily at the lighthouse would be safe—safe for him and safe for Hannah. No one and nothing would bother them…nothing but the never-ending quiet.

“Your yarn, Miss Houston.” Terrance Morley leaned on the wooden counter and smiled—a smile Rachel could easily mistake for a leer if she gave room to the thought.

“Thank you, Mr. Morley.”

“It was Terrance a moment ago.”

“Yes, well. It was a bit presumptuous of me.”

“But you’ve been coming in here for over two months now. I’d like you to use my given name.”

“Oh,” she said, not particularly thrilled with what others might read into the familiarity. “I’m a little uncomfortable with that.” Her position as the new schoolteacher in this small town hinged on the degree of respectability she could maintain. At her interview with the school board she had downplayed the last few years she’d spent at the mining camp where coarseness and crudeness frequently overpowered a gentler nature. Instead, she had reframed the questions to answer them from her earlier life when she’d helped at the one-room schoolhouse in Wisconsin.

She picked up the yarn and turned to go, but stopped when she saw the broken doll. The head was shattered. No amount of gluing could repair it. Fingering the mint-green satin dress and miniature crinoline, she thought of the girl’s sad face. The wrinkled, too-small dress, the small hole in one stocking below the knee, all spoke of a girl with no mother to do for her. Rachel knew what it was like to live without a mother. At least she’d been lucky to have known hers for the first fourteen years of her life. How lonely the girl must be on the peninsula with no one but her father.

Since she’d moved to town two months ago, she’d heard stories of him. How he kept to himself and was unfriendly toward the townspeople. She didn’t know what to believe and most likely shouldn’t listen to half of it.

Still, she’d expected someone much older to be the town’s enigma—someone grizzled, with bushy brows and an irascible nature. At most, Taylor must be all of thirty years—or perhaps thirty-five—for he had the solid, filled-out look of a man. His clothes were simple, serviceable—a faded blue chambray shirt, slightly snug across the stretch of his shoulders, tucked into canvas pants, and scruffy boots that passed for comfortable on his feet. A thick wisp of dark-brown hair fell across his temple and had obscured his scar until he purposely exposed it for her.

It was a hideous scar—puckered and red. She wondered how he’d really gotten it. Amanda said he’d been struck with a red-hot fire poker when he escaped from prison. That was ridiculous, of course. The lighthouse board would never have hired a convict. Since coming to town two months ago, Rachel had heard other stories about him as well, enough to know that no one knew anything definite about him at all.

Besides, it wasn’t the scar that drew her, but the intensity of his blue gaze. When he’d stopped no more than a foot from her in the doorway she’d scarcely been able to breathe.

No, he wasn’t her idea of a light keeper at all.

Rachel jerked open the oven door and pulled out the roast.

Finished. Except for the gravy. Lamb wasn’t her favorite dish, but she couldn’t very well serve rabbit or fish tonight—not with company coming.

Reverend and Emma Crouse rented two rooms to Rachel and her brother, Caleb, on the condition that they would help with odd jobs around the place. That usually meant cooking for Rachel, and tending the horse and small carriage house for Caleb. Of course, four dollars a month from Rachel’s teaching salary also helped cover their rent. Reverend and Emma Crouse were in their late sixties and ready to slow down a little. Staying with such an upstanding couple had helped with her acceptance into the community. One couldn’t be too careful that way, especially after the years she’d lived in the mining camp. The roughness of the camp had rubbed off on her and try as she might to put it all behind her, unfortunate things would spring out of her mouth—or show up in her actions.

She pushed a strand of damp hair from her forehead, then leaned across the small table to open the window. A cool evening breeze swirled in heavy with the scent of brine from the ocean. Looking out into the early evening, she wondered what the light keeper and his daughter would be eating tonight. The two had been in her thoughts throughout the day, popping in unexpectedly.

She hadn’t liked Amanda’s attitude or Terrance Morley’s for that matter. Maybe what they said about the light keeper was true. Perhaps he was a criminal. But even so, the girl—Hannah, he’d called her—should not be condemned along with the father. The man obviously cared for his daughter or he wouldn’t have protected her from Terrance’s tirade. There must be something good in him.