Salvation in the Rancher's Arms(21)

Worst of all, he could not become quickly untangled without leaving her and her family at the mercy of this villain.

And that, he realized, watching Kirkpatrick ride off in the direction of his own land, was something he could not do.



Rachel dropped hard into the chair vacated by Kirkpatrick, her head collapsing into her hands. Part of her hated the way Caleb Beckett had stepped in and taken over. Another part of her was secretly relieved. Shamus’s barb about her mother had turned her tongue to lead. Usually his references to her mother were veiled, subversive, and made when only the two of them could hear, his little way of letting her know he had not forgotten. Today he had brought their secret into the open, with a stranger standing in the room. Humiliation had raced through her veins and stolen her voice.

“We’re in trouble, Free,” she whispered into the still silence of the room.

“’Cause of the debt?”

Rachel pushed herself to her feet and walked to the door, looking through the screen. Mr. Beckett was halfway to the barn with the buggy, but she didn’t expect he’d linger there for long. He still hadn’t told her his intentions and not knowing made a restless nest of eels roil in her belly. She placed a hand against it, hoping they would settle, but it did no good.

“He owns the land.”

She heard Freedom approach her. The older woman’s arms wrapped around her protectively. “Kirkpatrick don’t own anything, baby girl. We’ll figure a way out of this. You been tendin’ this land since you was Brody’s age, and ain’t no one goin’ to take that from you.”

Rachel shook her head, the reality of her situation pounding into her with each heartbeat. “Someone already has. Robert put our land up for collateral in a card game. He lost it to another man.”

Freedom’s head turned, following Rachel’s gaze toward the barn.

“Mr. Beckett?”

Rachel nodded.

“Oh, baby girl. What we gonna do now?” Freedom’s arms tightened around her, and Rachel was glad for their support.

“I don’t know, Free. Like you said, we’ll figure out something.” But what that something was, she couldn’t say. She was plum out of ideas. “I guess I best go talk to Mr. Beckett and try to figure this mess out.”

Rachel extricated herself from Freedom’s motherly embrace to head in the direction of the barn and an uncertain future.





Chapter Six

Rachel found Mr. Beckett in the barn pulling his saddlebags off the wall of the stall where he’d settled the paint he called Jasper. The draft horse was in the next stall over, munching on oats. Mr. Beckett slung the saddlebags over his shoulder and glanced at her when she walked in. At least this time she didn’t embarrass herself by dawdling in the doorway watching him like a love-struck schoolgirl. Still, the effect of his presence had not diminished. If anything, it grew each time she saw him. The man had the annoying ability to muddle her thinking, and she didn’t like it one bit. Right now, she needed all her wits about her.

“You come all the way down here to scold me for kickin’ that mudsill out of your house?”

Rachel was certain she detected a sparkle in his eye, but it must have been her overtired mind imagining things. Mr. Beckett did not strike her as the sparkling type. She pursed her lips and took in a deep breath, letting it out slowly in the hope it would lessen the sway the low cadence of his voice had over her. It did little good. She cursed her body’s weakness, wrestling with the fear Kirkpatrick was right—she was just like her mama.

“I came here to determine what your intentions are.”

“My intentions?” One eyebrow arched and disappeared beneath the low brim of his hat.

Rachel lifted her chin, determined to keep a businesslike manner. “Mr. Beckett, you own my land. I have the boys, Freedom, my hands, and they all need considering. I need to make arrangements as to where they are going to go and how they are going to live. If it doesn’t tax you overly much, perhaps you could let me know how much time I have to accomplish that before you send us packing.”

“And yourself?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Mr. Beckett let his saddlebags slide down his arm to the floor. She wondered what kind of life a man led where he could contain all his worldly possessions within the confines of two saddlebags and a bedroll strapped to the back of his horse.

“You’ve listed everyone under the sun and how you have to make arrangements for them. Where do you fit on that inventory of bodies?”

He shifted his weight and leaned against Jasper’s stall, looping an arm over the low wall and crossing his feet at the ankles. His lean form was relaxed, yet she couldn’t shake the impression that it could change in a heartbeat.