Читать книгу Testing the Lawman's Honor - Lauri Robinson - Страница 7

Della Cramer pushed the clothespin down so hard it snapped in two. She caught one half, but the other flew across the yard, barely missing Deputy Monroe.

Too bad.

The man was a thorn in her side.

She cringed, knowing she hadn’t wanted the pin to hit him. Besides, Spencer was much too handsome to be compared to a lackluster thorn. A rose would be more just. But men weren’t compared to roses, and roses didn’t grow in her small piece of dry Kansas dirt, which was the problem. Spencer Monroe made her think of things that couldn’t be.

The deputy bent down and picked up the pin, but the gaze he held on her never wavered. Della’s heart leaped to pound near the base of her throat. She’d tried—for years—but couldn’t ignore the way he stirred her insides. Drawing a fortifying breath, she pulled away from his ink-blue eyes and turned to the couple beside him.

A chill stole her smile before it could form. Something in both Florie’s and Cord’s eyes said all wasn’t right in the world. Della pushed aside the sheet half pinned to the clothesline. “What’s happened?”

“Can we go inside, Della?” Cord pointed to her back porch. “We need to talk to you.”

Della’s heart landed near her toes, imagining the worst—something happening to her daughters. “The girls?”

“Anna and Elsie are fine, Della,” Spencer assured.

Relief was short-lived as Della’s next thought went to Otis, the man who’d been her family’s slave when she was a child and her most treasured friend ever since. She should have insisted he slow down, not work so hard at his blacksmith shop. He was getting too old to—

“Della,” Cord said. “This is about your husband.”

A swooshing sound echoed in her ears. “Isaac?” Her knees buckled.

Solid arms caught her, hoisted her into the air, and a command, “Get the door,” sounded.

Della recognized Spencer’s voice, but couldn’t muster up a protest as he carried her across the yard.

It had happened. Isaac was back.

Spencer laid her on the wicker sofa on the back porch, and Della, silently fighting the dread seeping into her bones, took a moment to rebuild her spirit before opening her eyes.

Florie stood next to her, holding a glass of water, eyes full of compassion. Della wanted to offer a smile, but her lips trembled too hard. She pushed herself up and swung her legs over the edge of the sofa, planting her feet on the solid floor. She’d known this moment would come. It had been like watching a storm brew on the horizon, knowing it would hit, but wondering how severe the damages would be when it did.

Suppressing the turmoil within, she accepted the glass. “Thank you.” After taking a sip, she set it down on the nearby table.

Florie sat, and wrapped a hand around Della’s. The silent gesture of support was endearing. Thankful she had such wonderful friends, Della asked, “Where is he?”

“I’m sorry to tell you, Della,” Cord said sympathetically. “Isaac is dead.”

Her lungs froze, like an iron fist squeezed them closed. Dead? How could that be? It had been five years since he’d been home—but dead?

The silence in the room became suffocating. Della managed to draw a breath, knew they waited for her to speak. “I see.”

That was a ridiculous answer. She didn’t see. She’d never seen what had made Isaac tick. She’d never understood him, not twelve years ago, and not now.

“His death occurred a few months ago, in New Orleans. He’s buried there,” Cord said. “I wired the authorities, and they confirmed the report.”

A strange numbness overcame her, as if she had crept into someone else’s body. Tears pressed at her eyes, and stung her nose, but neither an overflow of pain or sorrow nor the urge to cry, rant, or scream about the injustice of it all didn’t fill her. It had been so long since she’d seen Isaac, in a way she’d already mourned his loss, already grieved that her daughters would never have the father they deserved.

“Della—Mrs. Cramer,” Spencer said, leaning forward. “There’s more.”

She started to shake, and willed for the power to stop. “More?”

“There’s a man in town.” Spencer handed her a sheet of paper. “He brought this.”

The paper, thick and crisply folded, rattled and quivered between her fingers. Words, hereto and therefore, floated before her eyes. One word stuck, making her tighten her grasp and focus her vision.

“Eviction?” she whispered.

“The circuit judge is due tomorrow. We’ll have him review it.”

Della didn’t know who made the statement. Her mind couldn’t get past that one simply penned word. Eviction. “How can this be?”

“It appears Isaac lost your home in a poker game, and the winner—” Spencer pointed a finger at a name printed near the bottom of the page “—Mr. Lance Westmeier wants to claim his win.”

“Can he do that?” Della asked.

“I’m afraid so,” Spencer replied, “but we’ll have the circuit judge review it.”

Now the need to scream of injustice erupted, making her insides flare. It shouldn’t shock her. One of her greatest fears was Isaac returning and telling her he’d sold the house. He’d borrowed against it before, and she’d paid the debt—more than once over the years—but lost it?

Memories—old but powerful—bloomed inside her. Some people didn’t know how it felt to lose a home, but she did. Would never forget it.

Survival instinct, one that she’d learned early in life, made her spine stiffen and drew her to her feet. “Thank you for coming to tell me.”

“Della?” Florie laid a hand on her arm.

Della shook her head. It was all too much right now. But she needed to find the strength. She wouldn’t allow her daughters to experience the fear of not having a home.

“I need to…” The knots in her throat made speaking impossible. The paper slipped from her fingers. She had no idea what she needed, but she wouldn’t fall apart here. Not in front of Spencer. “Excuse me,” she muttered, hurrying from the room.

Spencer rose, the desire to follow Della had his feet moving. Cord, his best friend and boss, grasped his arm and shook his head.

The need to protest tore at Spencer. Della shouldn’t be alone but, he admitted to himself, she wouldn’t want him at her side. He bent down and picked up the piece of paper she’d dropped. He’d wanted to ball it into a wad and toss it across the office this morning and wanted to do so again now. Isaac Cramer had been a fool, but then all of El Dorado already knew that. The man had never worked a day in his life, yet had managed to swindle half of the town out of their hard-earned money.

Once again, the sickening guilt he hadn’t stopped Della from marrying Isaac years ago swirled inside Spencer like a dust devil.

“I’ll stay,” Florie said. “You two go back to the jail, see if there’s anything that can be done.” She leaned over and kissed her husband’s cheek. “Della needs some time to herself.”

The dust devil inside Spencer turned into a twisting ball of barbed wire. Watching Cord and Florie every day, with their love-filled gazes and tender touches, was like staring at a rainbow. Something he would never be able to possess.

“I’ll be back soon,” Cord said. “Don’t wear yourself out.” His hand went to rest on his wife’s stomach. “You’re carrying a precious bundle.”

Spencer’s ears burned and he pulled his gaze away. It wasn’t like him to gawk at intimate moments between married couples, but lately, an intense want had grown into a mountain he couldn’t ignore, and he caught himself imagining what it would be like to have what others had. He moved to the door, pushed it open and took a deep breath.

Remorse was a hell of a companion. One he’d had for twelve years.

He crossed the yard and stopped near the lone pine tree. The exact spot he’d told Della not to marry Isaac all those years ago. At twenty-two, he’d been young and stupid, thought she should listen to him just because and when she’d scoffed at him, said she was in love with Isaac, Spencer had done the one thing he regretted most in his life. He’d grabbed her and kissed her the way he’d seen men kissing harlots on the street. Her response had been a solid slap to his face.

Spencer blew out the pent-up air in his lungs. At times he still felt the sting of that slap. But more often, he recalled how her lips had been softer than he’d ever imagined and tasted like sweet, warm honey.

“What are you thinking?”

Spencer took off his hat and scratched his head, giving himself a moment before answering Cord.

Since the man knew him almost as well as he knew himself, Spencer didn’t mince his words. “I’m buying that house. Della and those girls aren’t going to be kicked out of their home.”

“You already offered Westmeier the money. He refused it,” Cord reminded as they started down the street.

Spencer’s steps grew more determined, as did his mind. “I’ll up the offer.” He had more than enough money to buy half the homes in El Dorado. The ranch he owned with his brother, the M & M, had flourished in recent years. Unlike most ranchers, they had decided not to crossbreed their longhorns and therefore hadn’t suffered as such. Their line was pure, and that meant every head brought a premium price. He’d been on his way to Texas to drive their original herd of longhorns to Kansas the night Della had slapped him. He’d left the next morning. The same day she’d married Isaac.

Spencer’s heels hit the dirt harder with each step. The years he spent pushing cows north had made him and Trig wealthy men. And five years ago, when Cord needed a deputy, Spencer, tired of eating dust, agreed to the stint. By then Trig had married Faith and the two of them were busy filling the main house with offspring. Spencer had built himself a cabin, and had the plans drawn up for a big house on the north end of the property, but had never gotten around to it. A single man didn’t need a big house.

A woman or two had caught his eye over the years, but not one of them had erased Della’s crystal clear green eyes and sunset colored hair from his mind, and therefore he’d settled to be El Dorado’s deputy, and Della Cramer’s friend. If you could call it a friendship. They were more like enemies that ran into each other in public and had to be cordial even though the tension between them was as thick as clay. All in all, it was draining and too complicated to fully understand.

He shot a glance over his shoulder, back toward Della’s place. He hadn’t liked Isaac Cramer, but he’d never wished the man dead. Matter of fact, there were times when he saw Della struggling to keep up with the boardinghouse that he’d cursed Isaac for not returning to El Dorado.

A new twisting set about inside him. Spencer recognized it, and tried to squelch it. Which was impossible. Hope was like that. It couldn’t be stopped. Like a sunflower growing where nothing else could, hope had a willpower beyond all else.

It was wrong, he knew it, yet the glimmer inside him said Della was a widow now, and maybe, just maybe, he could have a second chance.

He paused at the door of the marshal’s office, waiting for Cord to open it, and once again glanced down the road—to the patch of sunflowers swaying in the wind in front of Della’s porch.

“You coming?”

“Yeah,” he answered, following Cord through the door.

Otis Braun, with solid arms folded across his chest, sat in a side chair along the wall. The one-time slave was a good man, and the best blacksmith El Dorado had ever seen. With a solitary nod in greeting, Otis stood. “Here tell there’s a man claiming to own my Della’s house.”

“Word travels fast,” Cord said, moving to the desk.

“Is it true?”

A zip of fire shot up Spencer’s spine. The whole town would be talking by nightfall. “Yes, Otis, it is,” he admitted. The words left a bitter taste. Della didn’t deserve gossip, yet folks talked, and too often, about her. Mainly with sorrow at how Isaac deserted her.

“What you gonna do about it?” Otis asked.

Spencer walked to the little stove in the corner. The coffeepot gave a mockingly hollow clang as he set it back on the stove. Fitting. He probably clanged when he walked, too. This helpless feeling left him emptier than the pot.

“We’ll take care of it, Otis,” Cord said from across the room.

Spencer’s jaw locked tight. Cord was wrong. They wouldn’t take care of it. He, Spencer, would. He’d stood back all these years, never took a direct stance when it came to Della, but it was time. “Otis,” he said, “when Elsie and Anna stop by your place on their way home from school, keep them occupied for an hour or so.”

The man frowned. “Why?”

“What are you thinking?” Cord asked.

Spencer pulled out the paper he’d pocketed at Della’s place. “Westmeier wouldn’t take the money from me, but if Della has the money when the circuit judge reads this tomorrow, he may rule in her favor.”

Cord shook his head. “You’re not going to convince Della to accept that kind of money.”

Determined, Spencer shoved the note back in his pocket. “Oh, she’ll accept it all right, if it takes me all day, I’ll convince her of that.”

Otis stepped forward, blocking Spencer’s route to the door. “Deputy Monroe. I gotta warn you, my Della can be stubborn.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Spencer asked, his nerves eating at his skin.

Cord shook his head. “Spen—”

“I know what I’m doing,” Spencer interrupted. He stepped around Otis. “You just keep those girls from going home this afternoon.”

He left the office heading for the bank with his guts flipping as if he’d just swallowed a pot full of live minnows. Truth was, he’d rather go up against a gang of train robbers than Della, but it was time to face the facts…and the past.