Chapter 2 #2
Guilt settles in my chest as I take in the man’s height and solid build, and before I can stop myself, my thoughts drift to Levi. To what he looked like. My late husband was a good man. Not the most handsome nor the sort women whispered about, yet he possessed a kind, stable, and loving nature.
That should have been enough. It was enough.
So why does this feel wrong? Why am I measuring anyone against him at all?
I lift my gaze again, only to find the man’s eyes briefly on me before they return to my sister.
My fingers curl into the fabric at my side, and I look down, suddenly aware of the dirt smeared across my skirt and the damp water stain darkening the fabric.
A tight knot of embarrassment coils in my gut—until that strange sensation ripples along my skin again, drawing my attention back to him as he speaks with Nina.
Nina pours the last of her water into the trough and answers him. “No, sir. We’re not lost. We’re right where we ought to be.”
I empty my bucket, step aside, and let Tumbleweed and Frostbite drink. Facing the man again, I see he’s stepped off the porch, the raised wooden platform that stretches along the row of buildings. It forms a continuous walkway through the town, linking each storefront.
“What business do you have in Gravers Junction?” he asks, pushing his hat back, revealing more of his face.
The late sun catches the brim as he folds his arms across his chest. His gaze settles on Nina.
Of course it does. Her sharp cheekbones, icy blue eyes, and pale hair are so unlike the majority of folks born and raised in Billingsworth County with brown hair and eyes, and simple faces.
The local men in town are always drawn to my older sister. She’s just never drawn to any of them.
A crawling sensation prickles to life and the roughness of sand stirs like bracelets turning around my wrists. My heartbeat thuds against my ribs.
“Nina,” I whisper. I don’t know why the phenomenon that afflicts me reacts to him, but I don’t like it.
She draws herself up straight. “We’re looking for a man.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “And what do you plan on doing to this man? I may be of service, depending on what you have in mind.” His smile widens, and he winks.
The nerve of this man. I’m torn between slapping him for speaking so boldly to two women and the unexpected curiosity to learn more about him.
The gritty phenomenon continues to caress my wrists, and I realize it’s a quiet reassurance that he’s not dangerous. For a split second, I appreciate its presence, but then I remind myself that whatever that woman inflicted on me is unnatural, and I want it gone.
I dip my chin and lean forward, my voice hushed, and with a sharp tone I tell him, “Sir, you are mistaken. We are not that kind of women.”
He laughs even louder. Arms still crossed, he shakes his head. “No, I figured you weren’t the working type.”
“I’ll have you know we are hard workers. We manage a farm—” Nina clarifies, but I grab her shoulder and turn her away and whisper, “That’s not the kind of work he means.”
“What?” she asks with apparent confusion, then catches my wide-eyed glare and my pointed finger directed at the area between her legs.
Her face shifts in shock as comprehension clicks into place.
She gasps and abruptly faces him. Wriggling her hands out of her riding gloves, she fumes over each word as she says, “I should come over there and slap you.”
His brows rise, and his smile widens. “Lady, if you slap me, I won’t hesitate to return the gesture. And mark my words, you’ll enjoy my kind of slapping.”
Both of us gasp. My voice jumps out sharper than I intend. “I demand you withhold your inappropriate thoughts right now.”
“You demand, huh?” His brows hike and he shakes his head, then with a more serious tone, he reiterates his initial question. “Tell me again. What business do you have here?”
“As I was saying,” Nina continues, taking a small step closer, “we’re looking for a man who may have lost a wife. Are you missing one of your local women?”
Cocking his head, he shifts his weight to the other foot before answering. “All our married women are here and accounted for. You must be mistaken.”
“No,” Nina insists. “The woman said he’d be here.”
“And I’m telling you there’s no man in this town missing his woman.” Any pleasantries he had moments ago are fading fast.
Nina looks to me, and she’s just as unsettled as he is. “Tell him, Bex. Tell him about the woman and her message.”
I tip my sunrider hat off my head, letting the leather straps catch at my neck. I try to swallow, but my throat has gone dry.
“Bex, go on,” Nina says, her tone sharpening with impatience.
The man looks a little older than Nina, perhaps a year or two.
Then again, looks lie. His eyes are steady and kind—more concerned than anything.
No hint of malice. Strangely, the sand continues to ease my thoughts about him being a threat, even though he was insulting us with inappropriate behavior not moments ago.
Fine, I think to the mysterious phenomenon that has become my skin. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. Now, please be still. The sensation of its existences comes and goes, and when it’s not stirring, my skin feels normal.
Dammit. Enough beating around the bush. I need to relay this message and find a damn remedy so we can get back to our normal lives.
“Who are you really here to see?” he asks, focusing his gaze on me.
For now, we have to trust this man. Lifting my chin, ready to face whatever happens next, I say, “I need to speak with Maureen O’Callaghan.”
The moment I say her name, his curious expression shifts to a hard, defensive one.
As though I spoke something forbidden. He slowly uncrosses his arms, and I watch as his right hand drops to his firearm, holstered at his belt.
He doesn’t draw it, but his hand suggests he’s prepared to use it if needed.
His dark glare remains locked onto me. “You’re here for Mrs. O’Callaghan?”
“Who is Maureen O’Callaghan?” Nina’s whisper is barely audible and carries an edge, as if she’s just uncovered a deception. I can’t blame her. I kept the real recipient from her, but what’s done is done. And I need to speak with Maureen.
“I thought we were here to see a man—the woman’s husband?” Nina moves so she’s standing in front of me, but I step around her.
“Is she here?” I hold the man’s glare.
His right hand flexes, fingers wrapping around the handle of his pistol. “I see what’s going on here,” he finally says, shuffling closer. His boots kick up dry dirt with each step. “You’d best tell me real fast who sent you and why. Otherwise, things are going to get real ugly for you two.”
A glint of light catches my attention, and I look up to the roof of the building next to the inn.
There’s a man with a rifle aimed at us. Nina rapidly taps my shoulder and points over to where the mutt was barking earlier.
There’s another shooter, this one a redheaded woman, and she’s holding two pistols, pointed in our direction.
“Whoa,” I say. “You can’t go around just shooting people!”
“Who sent you?” He says each word with a deliberate and final tone.
His gaze darts between me and Nina while he waits to see who will crack.
He steps closer, and we both shuffle in the dirt, keeping a respectful distance from him.
Though the distance between us means nothing to a bullet.
“Was it Cletus?” he shouts, then rambles off more names.
“Or Helena…or Ambrose? Or—or… Please tell me you weren’t sent by Henrik or Santana.
” His hand moves from his gun up to the front of his vest.
“Are they death drinkers?” the redheaded woman shouts from the corner of the inn. “Garrett! What are we doing?”
I stare into Garrett’s narrowed eyes and try to understand why he thinks we’re the threat. He reaches into the front of his vest and withdraws what appears to be a whittled stake.
“I won’t ask again. Which Graveyard outfit do you work for?”
Too many names. Too many assumptions. And now he thinks we’re working with outlaws? How dare he! I nearly march up to slap the foolishness out of him, but something tells me he wouldn’t take it playfully this time. He seems perfectly serious about ending us in the middle of this dusty nowhere town.
“Garrett. That’s what they called you, right?” When he nods, Nina gestures to her dress and then mine before continuing to say, “Do we look like we’re working for an outlaw gang?”
“Oh, I ain’t falling for that again. Santana’s a sneaky bastard. Wouldn’t put it past him to send a couple of fine ladies to slit our throats and drink us dry while we sleep!”
“How dare you!” I can’t hold my tongue any longer.
“I don’t know what kind of women you’re used to out here in Graveyard Territory, but we are not from here, and we surely don’t intend to”—I lower my voice, as if the words themselves might shame me—“maim anyone in their sleep. And we certainly didn’t ride all the way out here to drink your bar dry! ”
“Drink our bar dry…” he echoes, brows pinching and nose wrinkling up as if he’s just got a whiff of something foul. “What in all the hells are you talking about?”
Nina lifts her hands in a peaceful gesture.
“Listen, mister, I think there’s been a misunderstanding.
We don’t know who or what you’re talking about.
We’re from western Billingsworth County and we’ve been riding three days to deliver a message I thought was meant for some woman’s husband”—she fixes a hard stare at me—“but apparently, we’re here to speak with a Miss Maureen O’Callaghan.
If you’d kindly take us to her, and maybe offer a proper guest room for the night, we’ll head home in the morning. ”
His posture eases, though he keeps the whittled stake clutched tight.
“You’re not from Graveyard?”
“No,” Nina states, her shoulders slumping and her face conveying a desperate plea. “A woman showed up on our farm, bleeding badly, and before she died, she gave my sister here a message meant for—”
“Maureen. Right. I heard ya.” Garrett nods once.
“She ain’t gonna like it, but I’ll take you to her.
” He turns, then pauses and faces us again.
“If you’re trying to pull the wool over my eyes, I swear I’ll run ya through myself.
Don’t matter how pretty you two are.” Then to the man on the roof with the rifle and the woman behind us with two pistols he shouts, “Stay on guard. I’m taking them inside the inn to talk with Maureen. ”
The mysterious sand along my arms momentarily stirs gently against the fabric of my dress. I’m still trying to understand what its movements mean, but right now it seems calm, content with the outcome. I choose to believe that means we’re safe for the moment.
After I deliver the message, I hope this Maureen woman can grant me a cure, ridding me of this unnatural condition, so I can then return to my normal, boring, and safe farm life.