Salvation in the Rancher's Arms(20)

Her hands curled into fists on his shoulders. Mere inches separated their bodies, and God help him but he liked the feel of her in his hands. He watched her swallow, avoiding his gaze.

“You can take your horse down to the barn and stable him there.”

“Think I’ll come inside first.”

Her hands pushed at his shoulders and she slipped out of his grip, stumbling slightly before catching herself.

“That isn’t necessary.”

“I think it is.” He wasn’t about to let her face Kirkpatrick alone. The man would be less inclined to browbeat her for the money if Caleb was there, and if Kirkpatrick tried, Caleb would put a stop to it. His hand brushed his hip. He wondered how long it would be before he got used to not finding his Colt strapped there.

She inched away from him and started toward the porch, keeping her voice low. “I appreciate your silence on the matter of the deed until I figure things out, but my business with Kirkpatrick doesn’t concern you.”

Caleb shrugged and caught up with her on the step. “My house. My concern.”

“Mr. Beckett—” But whatever admonishment she meant to deliver was lost as he opened the door and motioned her inside with a sweep of his hand. She shot him a glare as she marched past.

He walked in behind her and turned his back away from the door. The house had a strange unfinished feel to it, as if whoever built it had given up partway through. The front room served as kitchen, dining room and sitting area with little room left over to maneuver. It held a cookstove, a kitchen table large enough to sit eight and a narrow cot that rested against the far wall. A door next to the cookstove exposed a narrow hallway he assumed led to a bedroom. The whole setup gave the house a cramped feel and he itched to set it right.

The large black woman he’d seen at Sutter’s funeral stood, arms crossed, near the counter, her expression angry and apologetic all at once.

Kirkpatrick set his coffee cup down with slow deliberation and rose from his seat to greet them, as if it were his kitchen they had walked into. Tall and broad, dressed all in black, he made an imposing figure. Caleb guessed him to be closing in on fifty, given the lines around his eyes and the threads of gray marring his coal-black hair. Though his smile was congenial, his eyes held the cold flatness of a snake’s.

Kirkpatrick ignored him, addressing Mrs. Sutter. “Rachel.”

Caleb didn’t much care for the familiarity the two shared. Instinct told him their relationship went beyond just being neighbors, and the notion disturbed him for reasons he chose not to explore too closely.

Mrs. Sutter acknowledged Kirkpatrick with a short nod before conducting the introductions. “This is Shamus Kirkpatrick. Mr. Beckett is the one who brought Robert home.”

Kirkpatrick nodded in his direction. “Much obliged,” he said, as if Caleb had done him a favor, then turned back to Mrs. Sutter. “We should talk.”

“The woman just buried her husband, Mr. Kirkpatrick. I’m sure whatever business you have can wait a few days.”

Mrs. Sutter’s back went rigid. He guessed the widow wasn’t used to having someone speak up on her behalf.

Kirkpatrick’s pale eyes met his gaze. “Won’t take but a minute.”

“It can wait,” Caleb repeated, more firmly this time. He would deal with her umbrage later.

Kirkpatrick fell silent and tension smothered the air in the room. He turned to Mrs. Sutter and smiled. The gesture held no warmth. “Got yourself a new protector, do you now, Rachel? You certainly wasted no time. But, then again, neither did your mama.”

Her swift intake of breath, as if the words had inflicted a deep wound, were all Caleb needed to end the conversation.

“You’ll be leaving now.” He walked in front of Mrs. Sutter to get to the door, blocking her from Kirkpatrick with his body. He didn’t know what that reference to her mother had meant, but he wasn’t about to stand around and let the man land another verbal strike. With one swift shove the door flew open. “I’ll see you out.”

He followed Kirkpatrick, leaning his hip against the porch railing to ensure the man had no intention of lingering. Kirkpatrick untied his horse from the hitching post and swung up into the saddle, settling himself before looking down at Caleb. “You’d best not get yourself involved in this, Beckett.”

Caleb raised an eyebrow at the threat.

“I guess I’ll be the judge of what I should and shouldn’t get myself involved in.” Not that he had much of a choice. Like it or not, he was involved.

He’d grown careless. Ignored his instincts that Mrs. Sutter was a danger he would do better to avoid. But his reaction to her had hit him unaware and now, in the span of a day, he had become entangled in her life.