Surrendered (Intrique Under Western Skies Book 2) Read online

  She froze in mid-stride. Not Smitty. An image of the tough, wiry cowpoke flashed in her mind. Smitty had guarded her when Rhyan’s enemies targeted her for pure spite.

  Smitty had taught her the workings of the ranch. Regaled her with stories of Indian raids and the hardships Rhyan’s grandparents had endured.

  The old codger was as tough as his leather chaps and as sharp as the whip he carried. She knew he’d contracted anthrax, along with two other ranch hands, but he’d survived other diseases, snakebite, even a lightning strike. He couldn’t be gone. Just like that.

  She whirled around to send Colt a stunned glance, trying to think of something to say, but all that came out was, “When?”

  “A few hours ago. He didn’t have any family, so he’ll be buried in the Sollano cemetery. That’s probably happening right now.”

  “Now? At this time of evening?” She took off toward her room. It wouldn’t take long to change into something more suitable for a funeral than the gray and ruby plaid day dress she wore. “I’ll have to go.”

  Colt caught up with her, hooking her by the arm. “You can’t go, Carianne. No one can, except Pastor Eckert and the gravediggers. That’s why he’s being buried so fast. They’re afraid he’s contagious.”

  He released her as she searched his face. “But that’s not right. A man who’s given so much to this ranch can’t be buried without a proper…good-bye. I feel I should do something.”

  “I feel the same way.”

  “We’ll have a memorial service Sunday. I’ll see Pastor Eckert as soon as I get to town.”

  “I’m sure everyone will be there. Maybe even Rhyan will go.”

  Rhyan. Why wouldn’t he go? True, she’d never known him to step inside a church, but he was different now, the circumstances different.

  Fresh grief over Smitty’s passing surged through her, and scalding tears threatened. This news would crush Rhyan too. Smitty meant so much more to Rhyan than to anyone. He’d take it hard, maybe even feel responsible. She’d already seen what guilt did to him.

  She spread her slender fingers and rubbed her palms together. “How does Rhyan handle grief?”

  Colt’s brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “What about when his father died? I know there was all that talk about Rhyan being responsible, but aside from that, how did he handle the grief?” She wanted to be prepared to help him through this.

  Colt flung out the hand that held his hat. “Not well. He didn’t want to see people and spent a lot of time in the music room, playing one thing after another for hours at the time.”

  “Is that what he did when his grandfather died?”

  “No, when his grandpa died, Rhyan rode over the ranch, going nowhere in particular, like he tried to cover every square acre of it. Sorry you’ll be left to tell him about Smitty.” Colt settled his hat on his head, and Carianne took it as a sign he was ready to leave.

  “It’ll be different this time. He was still an atheist when his grandfather and father died. It helps when you have the Lord to lean on.”

  Surprise registered in Colt’s features. He rubbed his neck. “I didn’t know Rhyan’d come to believe. That’s something I’d have noticed for sure. Rhyan wasn’t one to keep his beliefs hidden.”

  Colt didn’t know about Rhyan’s declaration of faith because she hadn’t had time to tell him, and she hadn’t seen much of Colt lately. He didn’t know about Rhyan’s and her marriage plans either, nor could she mention them now. Though she was bursting to tell someone.

  A sigh lifted her shoulders. Wedding plans would be postponed until Rhyan’s business was settled. He didn’t need any more complications right now. She was spiritual enough to know God controlled timing, but she was human enough not to like it.

  “Rhyan told me he believed in God right before he left on his business trip. He was sure he could work out his own salvation, as he put it. I’m certain he’ll attend Smitty’s memorial service.” Not only that, but when they started courting, he’d take her to church each Sunday. His fledging faith needed time to grow, his spirit fed. That was the job of the church—to feed the sheep.

  Colt shook his head like he still didn’t believe it. “That’s the best news I’ve heard, and we sure need some good news. Did you write to Ma about it?”

  Carianne smiled. “I did…right away. I knew how long she’d been praying.” She tucked a stray tendril behind her ear. “I wish she could come home. We need her—I need her.”

  “You and me both, but Cindy’s baby’s not quite two weeks old, and Chet’s back on the road. Ma’ll want to stay for a month or more. Ma likes time with her grandbabies.”

  “I gathered that much from her letters. I hope Rhyan stopped to see Emma, but I sent Mr. Walstein to meet him in St Louis. He’ll probably come straight home when he hears what happened here.”

  “He won’t have a good homecoming, will he?”

  If there was a smidgeon of annoyance about Colt, it was his perchance of stating the obvious. “No, he won’t, but who can say? This may be good for him. He’ll join the church, and the members will get to know him better, see that they’ve misjudged him in the past. God can take anything and turn it for our good.”

  Even though they’d moved to the door, Colt seemed loath to leave. His gaze fell to his boots. “The best thing I can see is there’s nothing to keep you two apart any longer.”

  “What do you mean?” She knew what he meant but wanted to hear it said anyway.

  “Everybody knows how you and Rhyan feel about each other, but you being such a strong Christian, we all knew it couldn’t go any further.”

  She nodded. Rhyan’s stubborn refusal to see God’s love—or hers—had cost her more pain than anyone could know.

  A toothy grin stretched across Colt’s features, and his deep blue gaze pierced her. “So you sent the lawyer down there to haul Rhyan back here?”

  His teasing caught her off guard for a moment. She slapped his arm. “I did not send the lawyer to haul Rhyan back, but I thought he ought to be forewarned.”

  Colt looked past her to stare at nothing in particular. “You know, when you first arrived, I thought you and me might have paired up, but it didn’t take long to see Rhyan had all your attention.”

  Her mouth fell open. The idea Colt thought of her in any way but a friend jolted her. “I had no idea. I…I’m flattered.”

  He chuckled. “You can’t blame me for hoping you might think me a better match.” He shrugged. “Don’t get me wrong. I love Rhyan like a brother, and I’m happy for him, but I don’t mind telling you, I was worried you’d overlook his beliefs. That would’ve been— Now it’s not a problem.”

  She wished she could tell Colt everything, but Rhyan’s proposal had to remain secret for the time being. She understood Rhyan’s reasons for secrecy. He didn’t want people thinking he had to offer her marriage because he’d compromised her. A sensible delay would prevent any gossip.

  Whether delayed or not, the hope of becoming Rhyan Cason’s wife never left her mind. A sly smile hitched her lips. “We’ll see what the future holds. Rhyan has a lot more on his plate than me at the moment. He’ll have to grow in the faith, as we all will because of this anthrax disaster. If there’s ever any reason for such tragedies in our lives, it’s to bring us closer to God.”

  “That’s the truth.” Colt opened the door with one hand while repositioning his hat with the other. “Let me know when Rhyan gets back. I want to offer all the help I can.”

  After he ducked out, Carianne ambled around the foyer, stopping at an ornate mahogany table. She rearranged the blood red, summer roses in an already perfect bouquet. The whole place was in perfect order, yet the house seemed listless, devoid of energy. As if its master had sucked the life out of it when he left.

  Smitty was gone too. News of his death and the listless house should have left her somber, but a bubble of happiness kept springing up.

  Rhyan was coming home.

  Chapter 2
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br />   Rhyan rented a horse and cantered along the residential streets until he spotted Chet and Cindy Gray’s house. A yellow clapboard, green shuttered bungalow behind a white picket fence. He swung out of the saddle and tethered the roan mare to the narrow porch rail.

  It took several raps of the knuckles before the door was opened by a woman who could’ve passed for a female replica of Colt Holloman. “Rhyan Cason, is that you? Come in. Mercy sakes, I haven’t seen you since my wedding day. You’re as good-looking as ever.”

  “Hello, Cindy. Congratulations on the new baby. Looks like you’ve been mighty productive.” He glanced to the two little boys, perhaps three and four years old, who clung to each other by Cindy’s skirt.

  They might have been Rhyan and his younger brother at that age. He hadn’t corresponded with his brother in over six months. How could children grow up so close and then drift so far apart in adulthood? Didn’t relationships mean more than that?

  Cindy laughed. “Joel, Kyle, this is Uncle Rhyan. He owns a big ranch you might get to visit one day.”

  “I hope you can do that soon.” He forced a chuckle. If he still had a ranch.

  They all trooped inside, and Cindy took his hat to hang it on a nob by the door. “Ma’s visiting.”

  He scanned the parlor’s comfortable furnishings. “I heard.”

  “We just got up from supper.” Cindy turned her head and shouted. “Ma, come see who’s here.”

  Emma came charging toward him with arms outstretched. “Cowboy.”

  He bent to hug her matronly form. She smelled of verbena with a bit of lemon, a familiar scent he always associated with Emma.

  “Carianne wrote that you might stop by, but I’d about given up hope.” Emma gave him an affectionate pat on the cheek.

  Her motherly welcome chased his worries away for the moment. “You know I wouldn’t leave town without seeing you, knowing you might not come home until you wore the new off that baby.”

  Emma chuckled and pulled back, her blue eyes twinkling as her gaze traveled the length of him. “Looks like you’ve lost weight, honey chile. Have you had supper?”

  “I haven’t lost weight, but no, I haven’t had supper.”

  “Come on in here. I’ll fix you a plate.” Cindy led the way to the dining room.

  Rhyan sat opposite Emma and propped his elbows on the crocheted tablecloth. “Actually I need more than supper. The hotels are full tonight and I need a place to stay.”

  Cindy placed a plate of ham, sweet potatoes, and string beans in front of him. “Of course we’ll put you up. Chet’s still on a freighting job. The boys can sleep with me tonight.”

  Aromas of home cooking wafted, reminding Rhyan how hungry he was. Glad to let the women do the talking, he concentrated on the food as they related the activities of the town, the boys’ antics, and a lot of other things that weren’t the slightest interest to him. He forced himself to listen because it kept out thoughts he didn’t want to deal with.

  Cindy ran back and forth refilling his glass with cold lemonade. On her final trip, she brought another plate with two biscuits, a tub of butter, and fig preserves. “We didn’t have dessert, but Ma’s biscuits beat anything.”

  “I can’t argue with that.” He broke one of the fluffy biscuits, slathered it with butter and preserves, and wolfed it down.

  As he reached for the last one, the oldest boy tugged his mother’s sleeve. “Ma, if Uncle Rhyan eats everything, there won’t be anything left for the dog.”

  Emma’s laughter pealed, and allowing the first bit of humor touch him since his devastating news, Rhyan smiled. He held the biscuit out to the little tow-head.

  Cindy scowled. “Go ahead and help yourself, Rhyan. That good-for-nothing mutt can catch a rabbit. He’s letting them get in my garden patch too often anyway.”

  “No, I like a man who’s willing to speak up for his friend.” Rhyan gave Joel a wink. “Keep it for your dog. If I ate any more I’d have to let my belt out, but it was delicious, ladies.” The chair legs scraped the floor as he pushed back from the table.

  Cindy ruffled the boy’s hair. “Well, I better go check on the baby.”

  “Bring the baby in here for Rhyan to see my beautiful granddaughter,” Emma called after her. She stacked the dishes and flopped back down in a chair. “I read in the papers where you got a retraction in the St Louis paper about that awful story accusing Carianne of—”

  He wasn’t surprised Emma couldn’t put it in words. The article was one of those salacious stories making it sound like Carianne was his mistress. Instead of being written up in one of the gossip rags as most innuendo was, it was reported in the legitimate news surrounding Senator’s Timmons’ murder. Rhyan had had to threaten a lawsuit to obtain the retraction.

  “It was my fault. I put her in that position.”

  “All I know is the idea they’d print such lies about that sweet little girl made my blood boil.” Emma hunched forward like an angry hen, then looking past him, broke into a grin. “Speaking of sweet little girls, here she is.”

  Without warning, Cindy lowered the knitted pink bundle onto Rhyan’s lap. He looked down at the tiniest bit of humanity he’d ever seen. The baby punched her fists, little bigger than his thumbs, as if she were ready to light into him. “This is Marty,” Cindy said.

  Rhyan scooped the bundle up to get a better look. “She’s a pretty little thing.” That was a stretch. Fine blond down covered an otherwise bald head, and her face scrunched as she blinked dark blue eyes. But her brothers were cute enough, so Rhyan figured Marty would lose her new-born ugliness before long.

  He pulled the little bundle to his chest. Until now he’d not given a thought this was a part of marriage. He and Carianne had never discussed children. What kind of father would he be?

  Baby Marty relaxed, staring at him as if fascinated, her rosebud mouth working into a crooked smile.

  Both women let loose with gales of laughter.

  Afraid to ask, he did anyway. “What’s wrong?”

  Emma pointed to her granddaughter. “That’s her first smile. I told Cindy just today if anyone could get her to smile, it’d be you. Never saw a female yet who could resist smiling at you, cowboy.”

  A chuckle rose in his throat. Who’d guess the little mite would lift his spirits? He could handle fatherhood with the right wife. Truthfully, he had no idea what Carianne thought of children, but if she could love him—and he knew she did—she’d have a mess of love left over for children. He touched the baby’s velvet cheek.

  Cindy hovered. “Here, let me take her and lay her back down. I wouldn’t want her to wet your nice coat.”

  As if suddenly reminded, Emma picked up a church fan and stirred the air. “Why do you even have that coat on, honey chile? It’s hot as Hades in here.”

  He hadn’t even noticed the heat, but tasted sweat on his upper lip. As soon as Cindy took the baby, he shucked out of the coat, draping it on the back of his chair. “Do you still have that newspaper?”

  “Sure do.” With a huff, Emma pulled herself up and ambled off somewhere to return within seconds with a folded newspaper. She dropped it in front of Rhyan. “It’s opened to the place.”

  He glanced down at the St Louis Republican, page three. The photograph of a smiling Carianne rested near the bottom. Never mind that the original story had been plastered across the first page of the Washington Post. Apologies and retractions were regulated to the most obscure place.

  The right words were there, but instead of giving him any reassurance, the article stirred his emotions—anger, regret, sadness. His faith was too weak, or maybe his faith was just pretense.

  Yes, he believed in God—a god who mocked him. Carianne would say all this new turmoil was Satan’s doing, but why did God allowed Satan to attack like a ravenous wolf before Rhyan had time to catch his breath from the last attack? Here he was, left to flap in the wind like day-old laundry. His rational mind wanted to understand, but understanding eluded him.

 
Cindy came back in, stopping to peep over his shoulder. “You missed all the excitement going on in Westerfield, didn’t you?”

  He stiffened. Did they know about the anthrax crisis? Walstein led him to believe that story hadn’t gotten out. “What do you mean?”

  “The murder, the trial. Who’d have ever thought a little place like Westerfield would have such goings-on?”

  “The excitement’s over. Mrs. Timmons was acquitted.”

  Emma fanned furiously, ruffling silver blonde wisps on a remarkably smooth forehead for a sixty-year-old. “I was glad to hear that. The sorry scoundrel got what was coming to him and good riddance. Mrs. Timmons ought to have been given a metal.”

  “Ma.” Cindy’s tone held more sarcasm than censure.

  “Carianne testified on Mrs. Timmons’s behalf,” Emma said.

  Rhyan sent her a sharp look. He’d left orders Carianne wasn’t to be involved, but this went to show how little influence he had. “Why was that necessary?”

  “Too many people were afraid to say anything, what with Timmons being a United States senator and all, but Carianne told the truth, all of it. They couldn’t do nothing but release Mrs. Timmons, although she admitted shooting the polecat.”

  He let his head hang back, his mood soured. An image of Carianne facing a mob of powerful lawyers and reporters sickened him. He’d run off to save her from scandal, but he’d left her to face them alone. He pictured the packed courtroom where she’d been forced to tell them about her time alone with him, spending the night together on the prairie, visiting his bedroom during the ball.

  Cindy took the newspaper and sat beside him. “I’d like to meet Carianne soon. She’s such a lovely young lady. Her eyes are so beautiful. What color are her eyes, Rhyan?”

  He cleared his throat. “They’re different colors. Green and brown and gold streaks.”

  “They’re hazel,” Emma said.

  Cindy giggled. “To you they’re hazel. To him, they have gold streaks. Maybe I’ll get to meet her at some ceremony soon.”

  “Soon would be my guess.” Emma had a pleasant laugh, as thick and slow as molasses from that little Mississippi town she came from, but at the moment, it irritated him.