Stacey Kayne - Bride Of Shadow Canyon

He couldn’t fight his laughter. “Don’t worry,” he said, handing her the plate. “We’ll find a way for you to earn your keep.”

He read her startled response before she said the words.

“I am not a—”

“That’s not what I meant. You’re Elizabeth’s sister for cryin’ out loud. Just what kind of a bastard do you take me for?”

“I just—”

“Thought I’d take advantage of a woman stuck in my care. Well, sugar, I’m not in the practice of badgering women with unwanted advances.”

“I didn’t intend to be insulting,” she said. “But I know you don’t believe me. I’m not a prostitute.”

Jed held her angry gaze, wanting to press her with questions about the man chasing her, but now wasn’t the time. She didn’t trust him. And at the moment, her word didn’t carry a whole lot of weight.

“Why won’t you believe me?” she demanded.

“Did you lie to your sister about living in Kansas?”

“Only because I was—”

“Did you lie to her about running a boardinghouse?”

“Yes, but—”

“If you’ll lie to your own sister,” he continued, talking over her, “why should I expect you to be truthful with me? I read your letters, Rachell.”

That seemed to surprise her. “Your sister thought the information may be of some use, but we both know those pieces of paper were full of nothing but fabricated stories.”

He saw the anger growing in her eyes, but continued anyway. “I’ll tell you what I do know. You dress like a saloon girl, you admit to working in a saloon, and you’re on the run from a man who either believes you belong to him in a personal manner or views your absence as a profit loss. Now, you can shout innocent songbird all you like, but I say…if it walks like a duck and talks like a duck—”

“I am no more a duck than I am a prostitute!”

“Fine. Sing for me.”

Her eyes popped wide. Her posture stiffened. “What?”

“You say you’re a songbird. Prove it. Let’s hear the voice that drives a man to send a posse across the country just to keep you in his saloon.”

Seemed a fair enough request to him, but judging by the burning rage in her glare, she didn’t agree. The three words that exploded from her mouth confirmed that notion.

“Go to hell!”

He didn’t need this aggravation. “Eat your supper. You have dish detail. There’s water on the fire.” He turned away, grabbed his saddlebags and slung them onto his shoulder. Reaching into one of the pockets, he pulled out one of his shirts and tossed it onto the blanket next to her. “See about working that into some sort of bonnet. Your nose is already starting to peel.” He dropped a rawhide pouch on top of the ivory shirt.

Stunned by his sudden change from hateful to considerate, Rachell watched him grab his rifle and head toward the river.

Now, why did he have to do that? She didn’t want to accept anything from a man who thought she was a liar. Her stomach churned loudly as she eyed two fish fillets, three biscuits and half an apple. More than she’d eaten in a week. That too surprised her.

Most folks attempted to starve her, judging her appetite by her size, but she was certain Jed had given her exactly half of all the food he’d prepared. The succulent aroma tortured her senses. Hungry enough to eat her boots, she broke off a piece of fish and popped it into her mouth. She shuddered from sheer delight. He’d seasoned it—with lemon juice and salt.

After spending a week eating mostly dust and a bit of dried beef, she was certain no finer tasting food had ever touched her tongue. The man knew his business when it came to cooking. She wondered if there was anything he couldn’t master. The probable answer to that question sent a frown sliding across her face.

Pompous know-it-all.

For all his skill and know-how, Jed Doulan was positively infuriating.

After eating and doing the chores he’d assigned her, Rachell sat by the fire, stitching the fabric she’d cut up with the shears she’d found in the leather pouch, and intermittently looking at the bedroll spread out on the other side of the low flames.

I don’t need his lousy blankets, she told herself, trying to ignore the cold shivers shaking her body. She and Titus had slept outdoors without such comforts plenty of times in the past five years, although, she’d been smart enough to keep her hair dry and had been wearing more than one thin layer of cotton.

Things just seemed to keep going from bad to worse.

Her life had been a downward spiral since the age of eleven, the day her father had stuck her on an eastbound train. His departing words often played in the back in her mind.

For once in your life, Rachell, try to do as you’re told and stay out of trouble.

Good advice she hadn’t quite mastered. Here she was, in the deepest trouble of her miserable life. Miss Abigail had depicted her future as one of a penniless spinster. A wide smile of satisfaction would surely stretch the old woman’s wilted lips if she could see her now. Her headmistress had been nothing short of elated when she’d informed Rachell that, due to her father’s untimely death, she was being sent back to Louisiana, straight into a war.

Had it not been for her second cousin and childhood friend, James Carlson, she would have been arrested for treason the moment she was escorted off the train by two Confederate officers. Instead, she’d been pulled into James’s arms and kissed flush on the mouth.

The tension she saw behind his dashing smile was enough to keep her from questioning his strange welcome. Only when they were alone, after a rushed wedding ceremony, did she learn that her father had been hanged for treason after her brothers had joined the Union army, and she was suspected of conspiring with the north, passing them information. James had vouched for her, insisting she’d been his loyal intended.

The following day, James had taken her to see another old friend. Titus.

Rachell choked on a sob as the vision of his dashing smile flashed in her mind. Tears scalded her cheeks. She could still feel his strong embrace closing around her as she leapt into his arms. In that moment, she’d felt a true sense of homecoming. James instructed Titus to take her back to the Carlson estate and watch over her until he returned, warning them that the news of their marriage hadn’t been well received.

James had severely understated his family’s animosity toward her. They’d merely tolerated the presence of a Yank’s daughter. James had only managed two brief visits over the next year, until his older brother Malcom had returned home, informing her that her husband was dead. Both of her older brothers had already been reported as casualties to the North. A week later, Malcom cornered her in the stables, claiming he would take over James’s husbandly duties. Titus came to her aid, knocking him out with the back of a shovel.

They had to leave.

They’d stayed constantly on the move. Singing had always paid far better than the seamstress work she sometimes took, and though Titus hated her being in the saloons, he couldn’t deny they needed the money. If she hadn’t been in those saloons, she never would have found her sister.

It was their plan to go to California, but progress was slow. They’d been saving to purchase supplies for the trip. When she took the job with Maxwell Sumner, she’d hoped it would be her last. They’d been so close, intending to leave within the week. But they had stayed too long and Titus paid for their mistake.

Pain surged through her as she remembered his strong body sprawled on the back stoop of the apartments, his blood pooled around him. She must have been in shock, or she never would have allowed Maxwell to lead her into his private upstairs office. In the four months she’d worked at the Nightingale Saloon, she’d never been up there. Her attention had immediately fixed on an enormous portrait hung behind his desk. A woman with auburn hair, green eyes and pale skin lounged on a green velvet couch. Her scarlet dress resembled the gowns Maxwell had given Rachell for her shows. She had immediately asked who the woman was.