He cleared his throat, needing to break the strange tension between them. She’d always had the power to do that. Entrance him until everything else but the two of them faded away. “I’m sorry about what happened to your pa.”
He’d wanted to write. Composed the letter a dozen times over in his head. He knew Bertram would get it to her, but everything he came up with sounded trite and lacking. In the end, he’d left it alone, knowing she didn’t want to hear from him either way.
“When they brought your father home I made sure they did right by him. Buried him next to your ma like he’d asked.”
She nodded, the only hint she’d heard. She didn’t look at him. Her small fist clenched and unclenched in the folds of her skirt. The wool shawl had slipped from her shoulders and pooled around her hips. She shivered.
“It’s cold out here, Meredith. Why don’t you come back to the office? I’ll put a pot of coffee on. It’ll warm you up.”
She sniffled and glanced up, her gaze hitting somewhere over his shoulder. When she spoke, her voice was thin and reedy, her throat stripped raw from crying. “I’ve tasted your coffee.”
“My abilities have improved.” One golden eyebrow arched upward. “Slightly,” he amended.
Her gaze dropped to the flowers in his hand. “Why did you bring those?”
He lifted the small bundle and searched for the right words to make her understand, make her hate him a little less. “I knew you’d want to see her grave taken proper care of. And I figured if you were here, you’d put the flowers on yourself.”
She reached up and tucked her hair back into place. He wished she hadn’t. He loved seeing it down. His fingers itched to run through it. He swallowed. No, up was definitely better. Safer.
“So you’re my proxy.” The idea sat with discomfort on her furrowed brow.
“Guess so.”
She was silent a moment, then her chin tilted upward. The formality returned to her voice and he could feel the distance between them grow. “Thank you for that.”
“No need.” He figured he owed her that much. Given how he’d failed her on so many levels, this small gesture was almost laughable but he didn’t want her gratitude. He didn’t deserve it. He bent and replaced the old flowers with the new. When he was done, he took a chance and issued his earlier invitation once again. “How about that coffee? You can tell me if my skills have improved.”
She pushed herself up in one swift movement, the crumpled, crying mess he’d come upon already a thing of the past. In her place, stood the determined, confident woman he’d come face-to-face with yesterday. He barely had time to get to his feet and no time at all to hold out a hand to aid her. By the time he found his own footing, she was busy dusting off bits of grass and dirt that clung to her skirts.
“As it turns out, that was my next stop. I mean to speak to Bill Yucton.”
“Meredith...”
Anger spiked the color in her cheeks and her hands twitched where she’d pulled her shawl tight against her chest. “Don’t you Meredith me, Hunter Donovan. What I do is no longer your concern. You lost that right a long time ago.”
Exasperation filled him. “I’m not trying to tell you what to do,” he said, but she wasn’t interested in listening. She’d gathered her skirts in one hand and brushed past him, following the path back to town. “Dammit.” He tossed the old bouquet to the ground and stalked after her.
“Don’t try and stop me,” she warned, keeping her gaze fixed straight ahead.
“I’m not trying to stop you. I’m trying to warn you!” Lord help him, had she always been this stubborn?
She stopped suddenly and he had to practically dance a jig to keep from barreling into her. “Warn me about what?”
He danced around the idea of telling her what Yucton had said to him. Could she have a piece of the puzzle without even realizing it? Maybe, but he was still reluctant to involve her.
And he definitely didn’t want to tell her the whole truth. That he hadn’t wanted to send her away. That he’d regretted his decision the moment the stagecoach had pulled away from the station. She had enough to contend with right now and what would it matter anyway? What was done couldn’t be undone. Still, if she knew something...
“Have you ever heard of the Syndicate?”
Her nose crinkled in confusion and for a fleeting second the girl he used to know surfaced from beneath the finery once again. “The what?”
He had his answer. Guile and deception had never been a part of Meredith’s makeup and though she now wore fancy dresses and had the lofty manners to match, he’d bet his last dollar her insides remained the same, even if her heart had changed. She didn’t know the first thing about this mysterious Syndicate both McLaren and Yucton had mentioned and he wasn’t about to inform her. Not that he had much to tell her. Either way, the less she was involved the better. Abbott might be dead but the promise Hunter had made him still stood. Whether he liked it or not.