A fool.That was precisely what he’d told Clara she’d been. He winced at the memory. He’d said that to push her away, but perhaps he hadn’t needed to be so cruel.
“I’m not afraid,” Roman growled.
Jeremiah held his gaze. “The letter,” he finally said. “It’s odd she called you Mr. Carlisle, considering I’ve heard her call you by your Christian name on more than one occasion.”
Roman looked at the paper again. Jeremiah was right. She’d addressed and signed her letter formally, as if they barely knew each other. Then again, hehadcalled her Miss Brown the other evening, hoping to indicate to her that whatever was between them was over. Perhaps she was only doing the same.
He didn’t know what to make of it.
“Is it real?” Jeremiah finally asked. When Roman gave him a questioning look, he added, “The letter.”
“I don’t know. It’s her handwriting, so I imagine it is.”
“Why wouldn’t she simply come here?” Jeremiah’s question—the same as Roman’s—lingered in the cool air. The setting sun cast the corral beside them in warm hues of pink and gold as something cold and terrifying settled in Roman’s bones.
“You don’t suppose . . .” he began. Had someone forced her to write this letter to lure him to the creek? Or was he reading too much into it?
Jeremiah appeared to be just as confused as Roman. “I don’t know, but you should go. Just be smart about it.”
Roman nodded. Jeremiah was right. Hoskins and Jones were men bent on revenge. He couldn’t imagine they’d want to harm Clara, but he also never imagined they’d track him down and destroy his livelihood. If they had her, it was him they really wanted. He’d arrive prepared.
“Get Benton to watch the place with you while I’m gone,” Roman said, the letter crumpling in his hand.
“You going to stop for the marshal on the way?” Jeremiah asked as Roman made his way to the door.
“No time.” If Hoskins and Jones really had Clara, Roman wasn’t about to detour up the hill to the hotel when he could be handling the situation. And if they didn’t, and Clara was alone by the creek waiting for him in defiance of everything he’d told her to do . . .
He’d never hoped so much for a defiant woman.
Chapter Twenty-two
THE MAN—JONES, THEother one had called him—smelled of stale whiskey and sweat. Clara sat as straight as she could on the horse to keep from touching him as they waited a distance away from the livery.
The sun had dipped below the horizon, hidden by the mountains, when they saw Roman leave.
“Suppose we didn’t need to bring her after all,” Jones said, his breath much too close to the back of her neck.
