Rough Wrangler, Tender Kisses Read online

  “He will get well,” she whispered fiercely to herself. Yet a tiny voice of doubt still drummed in her heart: Then why do you feel this icy sense of dread?

  She fought to silence that voice. Wade was fighting for his life and she would fight to believe in him. Hope is what he needed now, hope and a reason to live. She must give him both.

  “Wade. I know you can hear me,” she whispered. “I’m right here, and I won’t leave you. We’re going to live together on Cloud Ranch until we’re very old and gray and we can’t even remember our own names. Until we can’t remember how to saddle a horse or how to match up our boots. But we’ll remember our love for each other. We’ll always remember that.”

  Sweat poured down his face and he shifted restlessly in his sleep, then he seemed to sink deeper, a moan rasping in his throat.

  He didn’t once open his eyes.

  Caitlin caressed his hand. Closing her eyes, she prayed.

  “She will not leave him.” Francesca shook her head. “It is always the same, she sits there, she watches him. Soon, the doctor will need to visit her,” she fretted.

  “Don’t you worry about that, Francesca.” Clint pushed back his chair from the dining-room table. “We’ll carry her into the kitchen if we have to.”

  She nodded approval at this and scurried off to the kitchen as Clint glanced over at Nick. “It looks like our big brother found himself a woman as stubborn as he is.”

  “No doubt about it. Now if only he’d use some of that damned stubbornness to lick this thing.” Nick rubbed his bleary eyes. He hadn’t slept more than an hour or so at a time since the day Wade was shot. “You know if I’d only gotten there a few minutes sooner. I’d been trailing Biggs for days. Had figured out that the son of a bitch had been using the handle of Sheriff Piltson. But I couldn’t catch up to him in time—”

  “Good thing you got there when you did,” Clint cut him off. “No use whipping yourself over it now—what’s done is done. But the least we can do is haul that woman of his out of there and make sure she gets some food into her.”

  Nick paced around the dining-room table and nodded. “You’re right. He’d have our hides if we let anything happen to her. Wish you could have seen the way he looked at her, Clint. The few times I saw them together the sparks flew like someone tossed a mess of lightning into a prairie fire.”

  “Then we’d best take care of her.” Clint headed to the door, followed by his brother. “Why don’t you bring her downstairs and make sure she eats and I’ll keep an eye on Wade. Maybe if I sing to him, he’ll wake up. He always hated my singing.”

  Nick groaned. “That’s ’cause it sounds like braying.”

  “Then maybe it’ll penetrate that thick skull of his and he’ll wake up just so he can throw me out of there.” Clint spoke lightly, but his face was grim and drawn as he mounted the stairs.

  Nick too struggled to maintain a stoic countenance and to rein in his emotions as he returned to his brother’s sick-room. Neither of them could contemplate life without Wade—losing Reese had been bad enough. Wade had to pull through this—but if he didn’t wake up soon, the doc didn’t think he’d wake up at all.

  The house was quiet, eerily quiet. From the window in Reese’s study, Caitlin watched Becky and Dawg beneath a pine tree. Becky was seated upon the grass, weaving a dandelion bracelet for Wade. Dawg’s head rested on her lap. It was a peaceful scene.

  But she’d heard Becky crying in her room the previous night, and left Wade’s side briefly to go to her.

  “I don’t want Wade to die!” Becky sobbed.

  “He won’t die. He’s strong. He’ll come back to us.”

  “Promise?”

  She hugged her sister close. “I . . . can’t promise,” she managed to say in a calm tone, marshaling all her resolve. “But I have faith. You must have faith, too, Becky. Try.”

  “We lost Mama and Papa—and you lost Reese. It isn’t fair.” Her sister’s cracking voice and tear-streaked face cut at her heart.

  “No, but life isn’t always fair,” she replied quietly. “I guess that’s something we just have to learn, Becky. And keep on hoping for the best.”

  “Wade is the best. The best, the kindest, the handsomest.” She gazed earnestly at Caitlin. “If he gets well, are you going to be better friends with him? Nicer to him?”

  Caitlin kissed her cheek. “You could say that. I’m going to marry him.”

  Now, seated in the leather armchair where her father had worked and planned and devoted his energy to making Cloud Ranch a success, where he’d reveled in the glorious view and smoked his cigars and taught Wade all about ranching, she thought of how her life had changed since she’d come to Cloud Ranch, of how she had changed. And Wade was at the center of all that. So was this place, this house, and this magnificent land.

  Before her were spread the letters she’d found the night of the May Day dance, the night Wade had been shot. They’d been retrieved from her reticule in Drew Raleigh’s buggy, but she hadn’t even thought about them—until today. After Clint and Nick and Francesca had all ganged up on her and forced her to go downstairs to the kitchen and eat a sandwich, she’d remembered the letters and brought them in here to read.

  It seemed only right.

  She hadn’t thought her heart could grow any heavier, but it did as she reread the words of her own younger self—hopeful, eager, yearning to know her real father, the man her mother had left behind. But it was when she read Reese’s letters to her that a huge knot seemed to form inside her chest and the pain was almost more than she could bear.

  My dear daughter Caitlin,

  I know you must not remember me, but I have never forgotten you. You were a baby in my arms and I rocked you to sleep night after night. There were songs I used to sing to you—sitting in my study, gazing out at the stars. Whenever I sang, you’d smile at me as you were falling peacefully asleep.

  I know that you’re a great big girl now—seven years old. I’d like to visit you—and bring you back here to Cloud Ranch for a spell. It’s beautiful here and I think you’ll like it. We could get to know each other again. And we could have a picnic down by the stream in back of the house, and take a ride up into the mountains, and I’d introduce you to all our horses. I’d pick out the nicest, prettiest one for you to ride.

  How does that sound? If you want to come, write me and tell me and I’ll arrange with your mama for a visit. I’d ride all the way across the desert and the plains and the mountains to get you. Because I love you, Caitlin honey. You’re my little girl and no matter how far away you are, you’ll always be my little girl.

  Love,

  Your papa.

  There were others like that—written a year later, two years later. Each one proclaimed Reese’s love. Each one was like a knife through her heart, but the pain was somehow sweet, achingly sweet.

  It seemed real at last. Her father had loved her, wanted her, and tried to be a part of her life. He’d never forgotten or given up on her—even after all these years of unanswered letters, unanswered hopes.

  Even when he’d been dying, he’d thought of her. He’d found out she was in trouble and had made certain she had a home—and someone to look after her.

  Wade. The toughest, kindest, most courageous, and trustworthy man he knew.

  The man she had grown to love with all her heart. If only Reese could know . . .

  She felt he did. She hoped he did. But there was something she needed to know. Who had kept her and Reese apart all these years? Who had hidden both sets of letters? And then, at the May Day dance, given them to her—all of them?

  She rubbed her eyes even as she heard a step in the hall.

  “Caitlin, dear?” Winnifred Dale peeked her head around the door. “Francesca told me you were in here. May I come in?”

  “Of course.”

  Winnifred’s brows were knit with worry. “How is Wade?”

  Caitlin sighed. “He’s the same. But I . . . I think he may wake up today. I
was just about to go back upstairs—”

  “I won’t keep you then. I just brought over a pot of stew—Francesca took it to the kitchen. I remember from the times I ate supper here that dear Wade was always partial to stew. Now, Clint, he liked fried chicken best, and Nick loved ham with that ginger sauce Francesca prepares, but Wade . . .”

  Her voice trailed off. “What is it? What are you looking at, dear?”

  A sliver of ice trickled down Caitlin’s spine. “You had dinner here often—with my father?”

  “Often? Well, I wouldn’t say that—but—on occasion. We were very good friends, as I told you.” Winnifred tucked a strand of toffee-colored hair behind her ear.

  “But . . . only friends . . . all those years?”

  “Yes, that’s right. Only friends.”

  “He was a handsome man,” Caitlin said slowly, her gaze flicking momentarily to the photograph of Reese, Wade, Clint, and Nick. “He was kind, and big-hearted— and generous. The kind of man any woman might easily fall in love with.”

  “Well, yes, I suppose so.” Two bright spots of color appeared on Winnifred’s cheeks. Her hands fluttered up to her throat and then back to her sides again. “I mean, Reese and I enjoyed each other’s company. We always got along well—never once had an argument, but . . . well, everyone in Hope and the whole valley knew he never stopped loving your mother. Not for a moment. Everyone knew it, and certainly I did too—so naturally I never—”

  “You never let yourself fall in love with him?” Caitlin’s knees were shaking as she came around the desk. She paused before Winnifred, staring searchingly into the other woman’s eyes. “But a person can’t stop herself from falling in love, Winnifred,” she said softly. “It just happens. Isn’t that what happened to you?”

  For a moment the other woman just gaped back at her, her expression frozen. Then, suddenly, Winnifred’s face seemed to crumple.

  “Yes. Yes, child—I . . . loved him. How could I not?” she whispered. “He was the finest man I ever met.”

  The room whirled. Caitlin took a step back to clutch the side of the desk and steady herself. “Is that why you kept his letters from me and mine from him?” she whispered. “I don’t understand.”

  “Letters? I never—I don’t know what you’re talking about, dear.” Then her gaze fell upon the letters scattered across the desk, the pink ribbon curled alongside them, and she went pale as stone.

  “Tell me the truth, Winnifred. It’s time.” Caitlin struggled against the surging anger and confusion that filled her. “These are the letters. Someone returned them to me at the May Day dance. It was you, wasn’t it?”

  For a moment, Winnifred looked as if she was going to flee, to whirl about and actually run through the hall and out the door. Fear and mortification warred with each other in her sweet, kindly face, then she gave a moan and her hands lifted to cover her eyes.

  “Yes, Caitlin. You’re right. Oh, how I’ve wanted to tell you from the start—and yet I dreaded your finding out. You must hate me.” Her voice throbbed with anguish. “I hate myself.”

  Caitlin struggled to remain untouched as the woman began to sob. Silent anger filled her—and with it, confusion. “Winnifred, just tell me why. Did you really think a little child was a threat to you—to whatever you hoped Reese would feel for you?”

  “You don’t understand, Caitlin. You just don’t understand.” Gasping, agonized sobs tore from Winnifred’s throat. She pulled her hands from her eyes and came forward, tears streaming down her face as she reached out desperately toward Caitlin, but Caitlin quickly stepped back, behind the desk, struggling to maintain her own fragile self-control.

  “He yearned for Lydia to return.” Winnifred’s shoulders shook with sobs. “He spoke of it, he told me he dreamed of it. He kept hoping that once she learned Cloud Ranch was a huge success—and becoming more so all the time—she’d come back to him. And so would you. He dreamed that you’d all be a family again, along with the boys . . .”

  She drew in a great shuddering breath, ignoring the tears splashing down her cheeks, and continuing in a rush. “I knew he wrote to you. He told me about it, that he intended to invite you to the ranch for a visit. He brought the letter to me in the post office. You have to understand, Caitlin—I had hopes—such lovely hopes—that if Lydia didn’t come back, he might someday begin to care for me. Not as much as I cared for him, I didn’t dare hope for that—but a little, even a little, would have made me so happy. Do you understand, Caitlin?”

  She peered at the girl, who stood stock-still, listening to every word. Caitlin forced herself to speak, her own voice choked.

  “No, I don’t understand, Winnifred. But go on—the least you can do now is explain.”

  “I was afraid that if you came to the ranch, perhaps Lydia would come too. That she would indeed see what a success Reese had made of Cloud Ranch, and that she’d decide to return to him. And she didn’t deserve him, child, not a whit!” She spoke in a quavery rush. “She deserted him when things were hard, and I didn’t want to see her come waltzing back into his life only when he had proved himself—”

  “She was married to another man by then,” Caitlin interjected coldly. “Happily married. She loved the life that Gillis Tamarlane gave her.”

  “I didn’t know all that. Besides,” Winnifred murmured through eyes still wet with tears, “how could she love that other man—truly—when she could have Reese? No one could be as fine and giving and gentle . . .” She broke off with a gasp. “She had only to come back and—” Winnifred yanked a lace-edged handkerchief from her reticule and wiped at her wet eyes. She was trembling all over as she tried to regain control of herself.

  “I . . . took that first letter, Caitlin. I’m so sorry. But . . . I was afraid if you received it, and decided to come to Cloud Ranch, that Lydia would follow, that I would lose any hope of Reese turning to me. After all, she was a great beauty and I . . .” She closed her eyes, her voice growing lower, more dejected. “I had my regrets, after I took the letter. It was wrong, I knew that, but I . . . I hid it, kept it, and never told Reese what I’d done. And when you didn’t answer him, he was devastated.” She drew in a deep, shuddering breath and her eyes opened, fixing themselves in desperation on Caitlin’s face.

  “Then, some months later, you wrote to him. The same fears struck me—and in addition, I worried that he might be suspicious if he learned you’d never received his letter. So I kept your letter too. And then all the rest that followed, from each of you. I intercepted them all.” She clutched the handkerchief so tightly, her knuckles turned white. “Once I began, I was afraid to stop, and always, I kept hoping . . . hoping . . . You see, if he had only come to love me, just a little, and we had married—I would have sent for you then, child, I swear it!”

  Caitlin could only stare at her in stunned, dazed silence. “Do you know what you’ve done, Winnifred?” she asked at last. “How you made me hate him? How it wounded him when I never came here in the end, before he died—because I thought he had never ever wanted me?”

  “Yes,” the woman whispered, and began to sob again. “I know. I’ve regretted it—oh, I cannot tell you how I’ve regretted it. And it was all for nothing, because Reese never turned to me, never once even thought of me . . . that way. I was only his friend. Good, reliable, steadfast Winnifred.” She shook her head as bitter tears flowed. “He was so blind in his love for Lydia and in missing you that he never once saw how I truly felt.”

  Caitlin felt bile in her throat. She stared at the woman she’d met on her first day in Hope, the woman she’d thought she knew. Yes, good, reliable, steadfast Winnifred. She’d never seen more than that—but of course, there was more than that. People were complicated. Good and bad mixed together. Only a few were all evil—like Dominic Trent and Hurley Biggs. Some, like Wade, were good down to the depths of their soul. But so many fell in between—flawed, imperfect people who sometimes made terrible mistakes.

  “I finally couldn’t stand it any lon
ger. The guilt, I mean.” Winnifred crumpled the wet handkerchief in her hand and looked pleadingly at Caitlin. “I brought all the letters to the dance, and put them into the folds of your shawl. I wanted you to have them, to understand how much he loved you. I was afraid you might suspect me, might ask questions and pursue the matter, but I took the risk, Caitlin, so that you’d finally know.” Her tone was low, desperate, and weary. “Does that . . . count for anything, child?”

  “Yes, Winnifred, I suppose it does.” Still too stunned to even know what more to say to her, Caitlin shook her head. “But if you’re asking my forgiveness—”

  “No, no. I’m not. I don’t expect that.” Winnifred twisted the handkerchief in her hands. “Just understanding. If—if you can. And peace. I hope that knowing will give you some peace about . . . him . . . and that maybe now you finally . . . finally can forgive Reese.”

  Winnifred Dale turned and ran from the room.

  Caitlin couldn’t move. Her throat ached. She stood there for she knew not how long, then she suddenly went to the front door, stepped out onto the porch, and kept right on walking.

  Chapter 31

  The sun broiled down as Caitlin stood beside Reese’s grave. She’d sworn never to come here again. But that was before she knew the truth.

  “I wronged you, Papa,” she whispered, her throat tight with grief. “Perhaps it wasn’t all my fault—but I should have known somehow, deep inside, that you hadn’t abandoned me. It’s too late now. I wish . . .” She swayed a little as emotion welled up in her. “I wish I could do it over, that I could see you one more time.” Her voice cracked. “That we could have spoken, understood each other. And I wish I’d come to you when you sent for me. But I hardened my heart,” she said softly. “And you never did.”

  She sank down suddenly beside the grave, kneeling alongside the headstone. “Please forgive me,” she whispered.

  The tears began to fall and she couldn’t stop them. But it didn’t matter. She was rocking back and forth as the sun beat down, her mind filled with dim memories of a big man holding her in his arms, of a low, loving voice, of laughter and warmth, of the scent of cigar smoke . . .