Her voice resonated. “I don’t care what my father signed. You took advantage of him. You?—”
The man’s low rumble interrupted her.
A door banged against the wall. “You have about as much sympathy as a tin can.”
“You have a week to come up with the funds, Miss Scott.”
The door slammed, and hard-soled shoes struck the plank floor like the rat-a-tat-tat of repeated gunfire.
Ben stepped into the hallway.
Cora Scott bounded toward him, wide-brimmed straw hat and strands of silky chestnut hair hanging loose around her slightly tanned face. She bunched a fold of her purple linen skirt in her hands on either side. Sharp blue eyes sliced into him. Her scowl could cook raw meat without a flame.
He jumped aside to avoid a collision. His breath caught in his throat as the door slammed.
Jeb had mentioned a quiet, thoughtful sister who liked to race across the prairie, climb trees, and laugh. Obviously, a lot had changed since he’d left home.
The middle-aged couple murmured. Down the hall, a red-haired man with whiskered jowls and a silk-covered barrel chest strode out of the office. A smirk contorted his lips. “Carter, send in the next one.”
Ben turned and reached for the door handle.
Already half a block away, Cora Scott marched down the mud-caked street, close enough to the middle that a man on horseback had to swerve out of her way. Her loose braid bounced against her back with each step. A fighter, no doubt, like her brother, except Jeb had been soft-spoken and even-tempered.
Ben followed at a distance but hung back beneath the awning of Miller’s Dry Goods as Miss Scott mounted a sorrel mare and rode off toward the edge of town. Head held high, shoulders thrown back, and gripping those reins like she was ready to whip somebody with them. But she had started her horse with a gentle click. The animal would not feel the brunt of her anger.
No use trying to introduce himself until she settled down. He scrubbed his hand over his jaw and headed for the livery stable. He’d rent a horse and ask directions. Somehow he’d help her. He’d keep his promise.
CHAPTER 3
The late-afternoon sun beat down on Ben as he neared the gate of the eight-foot-high cedar pickets that encompassed the Scott homestead, a half mile in from their land boundary marker. A double-log cabin sat atop a small rise. The thickest walled stable he’d ever laid eyes on and a few smaller scattered outbuildings populated the rest of the yard. No sign of anyone, not even a horse. He nudged his mount through the open lopsided gate with its bottom corner scraping the ground.
The roof of the log home had seen better days. Weeds grew up alongside the covered porch which stretched the entire length of the cabin. A limestone chimney rose out of each end, and a wide door barred the entryway between the two cabins. Jeb had talked of this place. Mr. Scott and his brother-in-law had built their home to be like a small fort in order to protect against Comanche and Kiowa raiding parties.
Someone had to be home. A trickle of smoke rose out of the chimney on the right, and the heavy shutters were open, welcoming the breeze into the house.
Crunch. Crunch. The sound drifted from beyond the side of the house. He nudged his horse left. Beyond the stables and whatappeared to be a smokehouse, with its blackened, windowless sides, Cora Scott stood in a plowed field striking the dirt with a hoe. A wide-brimmed straw hat shielded her face, but it was her, all right, same purple plaid skirt and blouse.
He directed his mare to the hitching post in front of the weathered porch and dismounted. A steady stream of breath leaked through his teeth. Had she received his letters? Was she still waiting for her brother to ride through that gate someday? Ben scrubbed his hand down his face and stepped toward the garden.
Thump. Thump. Miss Scott swung the hoe against the clumps of dirt. Alone and determined, working the land that she appeared to be in danger of losing. She stopped and swiped her forearm across her brow, her gaze landing on him.
Without taking her eyes off him, she unscrewed her canteen and took a drink. Her hoe rested against her shoulder, ready for use, as if he might turn out to be some creature in need of whacking. “There’s a water bucket back by the well, if it’s a drink for your horse you’re after.”
Pain crept up his left leg as he walked toward her. Over a year since the prison camps, his strength still lagged like a puny colt’s. “I’m looking for Miss Cora Scott.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You some Yankee, or one of Mr. Coffin’s agents? I saw you staring at me back there at the land office.” Her chin lifted. “You might as well head back to your horse. My brother’s around here with his rifle. I already had my say with Mr. Coffin.” A slight drawl flavored her rebuke. She positioned the hoe between them.
He halted a few feet away.
A murder of crows landed at the far end of the field and pecked at the loose soil, as greedily as the prison gangs at Andersonville snatched up everything of value in sight.
Words scraped his throat. “I was a friend of Jeb’s.”
Cornflower-blue eyes locked on to him. Beautiful eyes that tugged at him like an ocean current. “‘Was’?”
The crux of his message summarized in one simple word.Was. He nodded.
The fight faded from her expression. She wrapped her fingers around the hoe as if it were an anchor. “I’ve been expecting you.”
