Chapter 3
Three
Justice! The word burned a hot trail through Addie’s thoughts. Justice—nothing but an ideal. Some things couldn’t be erased by man’s determination. Only hell and God’s judgment would suffice.
She forced air into her strangled lungs. Knowing the hereafter provided retribution offered no comfort. It did nothing to ease the agony of this life.
Her fingers popped, and she forced her hand to uncoil. She must relax. Mother Stone had taught her to leave such affairs in God’s hands. “He is the righteous judge,” she often reminded Addie. “We need to trust Him. Rest in His love and care.”
Easy to say. Hard to feel, even though she believed every word. Believing and feeling, she’d learned, were not the same thing. Did not even dwell under the same roof.
A meal. These people needed to eat. Mr. Bertrand deserved more beans after his complaints, but Mother needed something gentler. As did Mr. Zacharius and Shorty. A soup would be better. If only she had—
The little storeroom. She’d seen the blankets. But there’d been other things there.
“I’ll see what else Shorty has in there.”
When she reached to pull the latch, Nash’s hand caught it and eased the door open. “I’m going to take a look too.”
She bent over and shuffled into the room.
Nash followed, a huff coming from him when his head encountered the low roof. He lifted the lid on the nearest crate. “More canned goods. Looks like mostly beans.”
“I guess we won’t starve but—”
He opened the second crate. “Well, well. What do we have here?”
She wanted to see what he’d found, but so little room existed except beside him.
Swallowing back reluctance, she edged closer until they crowded together.
She’d ignore him so she could assess the contents.
“Clothes? What’s he doing with all these?
” She removed the top item. “A suit jacket?” Setting it to the side, she looked at a number of articles.
“All fancy-dress clothes.” Surprise erased her caution. “Are these his?”
Nash’s eyes caught the faint light. “I don’t know who else’s they’d be. Our Shorty is a mystery.”
“I would have taken him for a woodsman. Nothing more.” She shook off her presumption.
“I should know better than to judge a person by appearances.” Mother and Preacher had drilled that into her.
They meant it in a charitable way. But Addie took it further, always cautious of the possibility of something dark and sinister beneath the surface.
“Let’s check the rest of these supplies.” Nash pointed toward the other crates.
His arm brushed her shoulder, and she jerked away and hurried toward the nearest box. Yes, he seemed like a kind man, but looks could be deceiving.
The lid came up easily, and she peered inside and broke into laughter. She lowered the lid before Nash saw the contents. “Guess what?”
His gaze went to the crate and then to her. Forgetting the low ceiling, he straightened and banged his head. He rubbed the injured spot and winked. “If I keep this up, I’ll be raising the roof.”
She widened her eyes. Even humor must not be allowed to overcome caution—nor a nice pair of eyes nor a generous smile.
“Let me guess. It’s more clothes. Fancy things.”
She shook her head.
“It’s not—” He shuddered. “Please, not more beans.”
“Yes. Mr. Bertrand will be so pleased.” The humor of their discovery filled her, and she laughed.
His chuckles rolled across the low ceiling.
“What’s going on in there?” The man in question called, annoyance sharpening his words.
Addie pressed her fingers to her mouth. “We shouldn’t be so pleased about his—”
“Comeuppance?”
Although neither of them laughed, they shared amusement in their quick glances.
“One more crate.” Nash nodded toward it. Being closer, he lifted the lid and dropped it again before she could peek inside.
She groaned. “Not more beans.”
This time, he shook his head.
“What?”
“You’ll never guess.” He kept his hand on the lid.
“Let me see.” She tried unsuccessfully to open it.
“Guess.”
Crossing her arms, she squinted at him. “You said I couldn’t.”
“You might try.”
She studied him. He teased her, and she liked it. Very well, why not enjoy the moment? “Snakes? Empty whiskey bottles? A rock collection?”
Each guess received a shake of his head.
“I give up.”
“You sure? There’s lots of things you haven’t suggested.” His arched eyebrows made her think he enjoyed this as much as she.
“Like what?”
“Did you say books?”
“You know I didn’t.”
He cocked his head toward the crate.
“Are you saying—?”
He creaked back the lid and waved his hand over the contents. “Books.”
She examined a few titles. Books on British history. A few works of fiction. “The book of peerage? Shorty becomes more and more of a mystery.”
“He certainly does.” Nash studied the spines of a handful of books, then returned them to the collection. “They will not feed us though.”
“I quite disagree.” She sniffed in a way she hoped sounded superior and not the effects of a dripped nose.
Lifting one of the thinner books, Nash pretended to bite it. “Nope. Don’t think I’d ever be that hungry.”
Amusement at his reluctant look rippled through her. “That’s not what I meant. But doesn’t the Good Book say, ‘Man shall not live by bread alone’?” She didn’t finish the verse.
“God’s Word is food for the soul.” His stomach rumbled. “Excuse me. I’m ready to enjoy beans cold from the can. Let’s go. Ow.” His head cracked into the ceiling again.
“I want to see what’s in the baskets on the shelves.” She edged past the crates to where she’d discovered the blankets and peered into a basket. “Just what we need.”
Rubbing his head, he joined her. “Potatoes.” They checked the other baskets and discovered carrots, onions, and turnips. “The man didn’t survive on beans alone.”
“I can make soup. Mother will like that.” She couldn’t carry everything and handed him a turnip and some carrots. Together, they returned to the main room. “We found more beans.” She waited for Mr. Bertrand’s complaints before she added, “And the makings of vegetable soup.”
Nash accompanied her to the cupboard and set down the vegetables. “What can I do to help?”
“Can you find a large cooking pot?”
“I’m sure I can.” He poked through the cupboards. “Will this do?”
“It will. Thanks.” He didn’t release it immediately when she tried to take it. Surprised, she raised her gaze to his. A smile warmed his eyes.
“No need to thank me. We’re in this together, and together, we will do the best we can.”
For the space of a heartbeat, Addie couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. His words felt like a promise. A promise? Why would she think that? He only meant being shut in with the others. Nothing more. But an ache as big as the moon and as cold as the rain outdoors hollowed out her insides.
No. It was hunger. Nothing more.
She had all she needed or wanted in helping Mother and Preacher Stone. Reaching out to meet the needs of others filled that emptiness and carried few risks at least to her heart. If you don’t have money, no one will rob you. And if you don’t open your heart to caring, it can’t be ripped to pieces.
Nash waited a moment, wanting Addie to smile again. But she took the saucepan and turned her back to him. Her lips had hardened into a harsh line.
A chill shivered across his shoulders. He’d enjoyed teasing her in the storeroom. Her eyes had sparkled. A smile curved her face. Her laughter had warmed him. Now it had changed—why? He could think of no reason she should suddenly find his presence objectionable.
But what more did he expect? They were strangers.
Once they reached Golden Valley, they wouldn’t likely see each other again.
He seldom needed to visit the mining town.
And she’d have no reason to venture to his ranch.
Building his herd, getting ahead by the sweat of his brow, provided him with all that mattered.
Frying onions scented the room. His stomach rumbled again.
He pilfered a can of beans from the cupboard and contemplated opening it and allaying his hunger.
Instead, he set it aside and crossed to the cot to look down on Shorty.
The whiskered man’s rough clothes hung from nails set in the wall.
They did not fit with the items in the storeroom. Who was he?
Ah. The mysteries of many who came West. Wanting to forget the past and live the life they’d chosen. One vastly different from the one they’d known.
Not unlike himself.
Mr. Bertrand complained about the poor quarters.
Mr. Zacharius wheezed as he sprawled over his arms on the table.
Shorty mumbled in his sleep. Mrs. Stone dozed with the blanket pulled to her chin.
Hawk hovered at the window, chewing on his lower lip.
No doubt, he was concerned about the coach and reaching his destination.
Nash’s gaze went full circle back to Addie as she prepared vegetables and added them to the simmering pot.
Caring for the others had fallen to her and him.
Working together would be fun. But equally important, it provided an opportunity to repay society.
Not that he’d done anything wrong, but the guilt of another’s actions never quite left him.
Hawk spun from the window. “There’s firewood in the woodshed. I’ll bring some in.” He shrugged into his slicker. A cold blast crossed the room as he left.
Addie’s gaze followed his departure. Then she brought her attention to Nash, a question in her eyes.
He lifted one shoulder. “He’s worried about the weather.” And the coach and the road and his passengers.
“Harrumph.” Mr. Bertrand’s snort jangled Nash’s nerves.
The man continued in the same sour note he’d used since the first moment Nash had met him. “He might put a little effort into our comfort.”
“We’re out of the rain. We’re warm. There’s food. We have much to be thankful for.” Patience softened Nash’s words. He had no intention of being drawn into Mr. Bertrand’s attitude. As if the world owed him something. It was too much of a reminder of—