Читать книгу: «Wolf Creek Father»

This book is for Colt Garrett Cleaves, my red-headed, never-walk-when-you-can-run, daredevil, two-year-old great-grandson whose infectious smile and cheerful disposition lights up everyone’s world. Love you bunches, baby boy!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Bible Verse

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Dear Reader

Questions for Discussion

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Wolf Creek, Arkansas—1886

Sheriff Colt Garrett sat behind the desk that faced the jail’s front door. His chair was cocked back on two legs and his booted feet rested on the desk’s scarred top. Hands laced behind his head, he stared in moody contemplation at the rough-sawn wood of the ceiling.

He was in the doldrums and his life was in a rut. Ever since Ellie Carpenter had told him there was no sense in taking their fledgling relationship any further than the friendship they shared, his life had settled into a grating sameness. A few words and poof! Another potential wife was gone, a reminder that change could happen fast and without warning, something he’d forgotten in the years since his wife, Patrice, had been taken from him.

Though he’d be the first to admit that he was not suffering from a broken heart over Ellie’s rejection, he’d looked forward to the time he spent with her. Now his days had settled into boring predictability. He felt like some of the older folks in town must feel. They had their set routines and heaven help anyone who disrupted them. Except Colt wished something would happen to shake up the even tenor of his days. He came to work, ate lunch at home, the café or Hattie’s, and then went home, slept and repeated the sequence day after day.

There hadn’t even been any major crime lately to take his mind off things—not that he was complaining about that. The robberies he’d dealt with in the spring had seen one of his friends injured and another wrongly incarcerated. No, Wolf Creek didn’t need any more crime. It was just that he was lonesome, as lonesome as the rain crow outside his open window sounded.

He hated going home and having no one to share the ups and downs of his day with except a couple of kids. Not that he didn’t love them. He did. But he wasn’t too proud to admit that he not only wanted a wife, but also needed one. His kids needed a mother. Cilla was growing up, and more and more Colt felt that a woman’s influence was essential. What did he know about young girls on the verge of womanhood?

Brady needed a mom to kiss his cuts and scrapes, and he himself...well, he was tired of trying to deal with problems he had no earthly idea how to solve, so he supposed he could add that he was an ineffective father to his general misery.

He wanted to hold hands with a woman as they walked along Wolf Creek. Wanted to have someone listen as he talked about his day, and he wanted to hear about hers. He wanted someone next to him at night. He wanted a wife.

Since taking the sheriff’s position more than a year ago, he’d courted a few of the town’s single ladies, but the relationships had reached a certain point and fizzled out, and pickings were mighty slim in a town the size of Wolf Creek.

To top it all off, Ellie had flat-out told him that part of his problem was that whenever he showed interest in anyone, his two children launched an all-out campaign to sabotage the courtship. She’d been the recipient of some of their ploys, and that, along with her own reasons for not becoming more involved, had ended that!

He was so caught up in his unhappiness that the turning of the doorknob didn’t register. Not until the sound of the door slamming and someone stomping across the room penetrated his reverie did he lower his arms and his gaze to see what was afoot.

He was shocked to see Brady and Cilla’s teacher bearing down on him, her bosom heaving as if she’d run for several blocks. Miss Grainger’s sassy little chipped-straw hat sat cockeyed on her head, and a lone fabric rose dangled over one eye. Her freckled face was as red as the hair scraped back into a severe bun atop her head. One curling, recalcitrant strand trailed down one cheek and onto her shoulder. She was squinting at him as she neared the desk, but even though her eyes were narrowed to mere slits, there was no mistaking the fury blazing there.

What now? Putting on his most professional mien, Colt swung his feet to the floor and sat up straight, as befitting his station. He offered her a friendly smile, which fled when the usually polite teacher slapped something onto the desk with a gloved hand. He stared down at the mangled item. Hmm. Gold wire and a round piece of glass with a webbing of cracks that looked as if a spider had been plying its skill.

He glanced up at the squinting Miss Grainger and back at the object. Glasses! He was looking at a pair of beyond-redemption eyewear. The metal frames were crunched, one lens was cracked and the other missing completely.

He was about to ask her what on earth had happened when a familiar feeling sent his stomach into a sickening lurch. His mind whispered that while he might not know what had happened, he was pretty sure he knew who had done the deed.

“Well?” the teacher snapped. “Aren’t you going to say something?” Her usual warm contralto was shrill with outrage.

Resisting the urge to bury his face in his hands, Colt looked up at her with a puzzled expression as fake as the roses adorning her bedraggled headpiece.

“Uh, what happened to your glasses?” he managed to say, after swallowing a lump the size of Texas.

The petite, plump teacher placed her palms flat on the desk and leaned toward him, her crocheted reticule dangling from her wrist. “Your children happened!” she spat out. “They accosted me!”

Colt’s heart sank, but he sat even straighter. This young woman—obviously too young and inexperienced to be in charge of a classroom of children—had just accused his two offspring of a disgraceful act. Parental outrage kicked in, erasing the fact that Miss Grainger had only confirmed his own suspicion that Brady and Cilla were responsible for the damage he was looking at. Never mind their guilt or innocence. This woman had verbally attacked his children! Flesh of his flesh. Blood of his blood. It would not do. It would not do at all.

“Perhaps you should explain yourself, Miss Grainger,” he suggested through clenched teeth. “Tell me what happened to put you in such a snit.”

“Snit? Snit?” Her eyes widened and her voice climbed at least two octaves. Then she squeezed her eyes shut, drew herself up to her full height—all of five feet and maybe an inch or two if he had to guess—and took a deep breath, trying to regain control of her emotions and her temper.

When she opened her eyes, it was a toss-up as to whether it worked or not. The heat of battle still smoldered there.

“By all means, Sheriff,” she said in a well-modulated, low-pitched voice, taking care to enunciate each word with utmost care. “I am in a snit, as you put it, because I was assaulted by your...your hooli—” Her mouth snapped shut and she pressed her lips together to keep from crossing the invisible line of civility. “Your children in the mercantile.”

Colt bolted to his feet, mimicking her stance. He leaned across the expanse of the desk, his tawny eyes as narrow as hers as they faced each other almost nose to nose. He was a tall man, with more than enough muscle to make most men back down, and he possessed a ruthless expression he could muster in a heartbeat. Many a lawbreaker and bully had been known to tremble before the combination.

Pint-size Miss Grainger didn’t budge an inch.

“Now see here!” he growled. “Those are pretty harsh words. How can two kids, age seven and twelve, assault a grown woman?”

Still regarding him through narrowed eyes, she spluttered, “Brady...p-pushed me.”

Was it Colt’s imagination or was there a hint of trembling in her voice?

“Your children, sir, are a menace to polite society, and I begin to fear that much of the fault must be laid at your feet.”

“My fault?” Colt exploded. He told himself that his thunderous response was a normal reaction to this...this mousy little...twit speaking about his precious children in such a derogatory way. Miss Grainger’s eyes widened in sudden fright and her face paled, making her freckles stand out against the chalky whiteness. Colt suspected he’d overreacted.

Not very professional, he chided himself silently as they stood glaring at each other. He’d always prided himself on his professionalism, but this woman rubbed him the wrong way. Always had, though he had no reason why.

Okay, Colt. No more yelling. He had a reputation to maintain, after all. But dagnabbit, it was a blow to his image that she stood there so defiant and unafraid. He decided to try “the scowl” once more.

He folded his arms across his chest and fixed her with another intense look. As he let his gaze bore into hers he couldn’t help noticing that her eyes, an unusual sherry-hued brown, were set beneath delicately shaped eyebrows a couple of shades darker than her hair and framed by thick, curly lashes. The hazy, almost unfocused softness he saw in them belied her anger, and went a long way toward cooling his.

She licked her lips in a nervous gesture, drawing his gaze to her mouth. Funny. He’d never noticed just what a nice mouth she had, maybe because more often than not her lips were pressed into a prim, no-nonsense line. Now, all moist and soft-looking, she gave the impression of a woman who had just been well and soundly kissed, though it was hard to imagine any man being interested enough in the fiery-haired, fiery-tempered teacher to do so.

Colt reined in his thoughts. No way did this termagant have any softness. Kissing her would be like kissing a board. No, a wildcat, maybe. He gave his head an imperceptible shake and straightened, breaking the strange spell that seemed for a moment to bind them.

In response, she blinked and squared her shoulders, drawing attention to the rows of ruffles marching down the front of her pale yellow shirtwaist, intended no doubt to disguise her plumpness.

“Yes, um, your fault,” she reiterated, but she sounded vague, as if she’d lost her train of thought. Then she raised her chin, mustering her indignation once more. “As I have said on more than one occasion, your children are out of control. I have requested time and again that you do something about it, but this time I demand that you take them in hand.”

The words themselves condemned and challenged, but her voice seemed to have lost some of its sharpness. She had told him more than once that Brady and Cilla were disruptive in school. Now with Ellie’s newest accusations echoing through his mind, he realized it was time he stopped delaying the talk he should have had with them long ago and get to the bottom of things. Just one more thing a woman would be much better at handling.

Still, it didn’t sit well that she’d gone from asking to demanding that he take charge of his children, but it was plain to see that there was no getting around this latest transgression with one of his glib apologies and a promise to “take care of it.” He sighed and waved a hand toward the chair across from him.

“Have a seat, Miss Grainger,” he offered, struggling to make his tone professional and conciliatory. “I need to hear your version of what happened before I decide on a course of action.”

Regarding him with more than a little suspicion, she perched on the chair’s edge, almost as if she were readying herself to jump up and flee should the need arise. Her back was ramrod-straight, and her rounded chin was lifted to an angle just shy of haughty. Her gloved hands clutched the small drawstring purse resting in her lap.

Colt took his own chair, pressed the tips of his fingers together and, resting his elbows on the wooden arms of the chair, pressed his tented fingers against his lips while he regarded her with an expression of polite inquiry.

“Why don’t you start at the beginning, Miss Grainger,” he suggested, happy to hear that he sounded more or less like his usual controlled self.

Looking a bit taken aback by the sudden change in his attitude, Miss Grainger blinked again, cleared her throat and began with a bit of hesitation. “I, uh, went into the general store to pick up the Earl Grey tea Mr. Gentry had specially ordered for me.”

Tea! What sort of red-blooded American drank tea instead of coffee? Colt wondered. He managed to hold back a disgusted snort—just. Still, he noticed that she, too, sounded more like the concerned schoolteacher he’d dealt with so often the previous school year. He rotated his hand at the wrist, indicating that she should continue.

“I saw Brady and Priscilla at the counter,” she told him, leaning forward. “They seemed to be trying to decide what kind of candy they wanted. I smiled at them and asked Brady how his summer reading was going and if he thought it was helping him be better prepared when school took up again.”

Colt felt a jolt of guilt. Brady was falling further and further behind in all his subjects, and Miss Grainger seemed to think it was because his reading wasn’t up to snuff. She’d called Colt to a meeting before school let out, suggesting that he not only encourage his son to read during the summer, but also that Colt spend time each day working on it with him.

Brady had been furious. So had Colt. When he’d expressed his displeasure to Ellie and suggested that perhaps her sister wasn’t the teacher everyone thought she was and that maybe she was picking on Brady, Ellie had told him in no uncertain terms that her youngest sibling was very qualified and pointed out that the suggestion had nothing to do with “picking” on anyone. Instead, it demonstrated her concern over Brady’s continued lack of progress.

Put in those terms, Colt had bowed to the teacher’s wisdom. Now, faced with the upstanding Miss Grainger and the look of expectancy on her face, he realized that he’d been more than a little lax carrying out her request. His only excuse was that Brady’s reading was pure torture for them both, not something he wanted to do at the end of a hard day. It was the sort of thing a wife should contend with.

If he had a wife.

When he made no comment, she continued. “Brady became very...agitated and told me he hated reading, and that it was summertime and he had no intention of doing schoolwork when he was supposed to be having time off from it. I suggested that it was for his good and explained that reading can be very pleasurable. I told him that when a person reads he can go anywhere, be anyone and do anything within the pages of a book.”

“And?”

“He told me that if it was so much fun, for me to do it, and he wished that I would go somewhere and not give him any more grief.”

Colt dragged a palm down his cheek.

“Since it was clear that I was getting nowhere with him, I told him that his attitude was very disappointing, said goodbye to him and Priscilla and walked away. As soon as my back was turned, he raced out from behind a row of shirts, screaming something about always disappointing people, and flung himself at me.”

Colt stifled a groan. Though Brady did have a temper when he was riled, it was hard to imagine him actually attacking someone. Surely Miss Grainger was exaggerating.

“I wasn’t expecting to be assaulted,” she said, the look in her eyes suggesting that her temper just might be on the rise again. “I lost my balance and fell to the floor. My head just missed a counter, but I fear my hat was not so lucky. It was knocked off in the fall, and the hatpin almost ripped the hair from my head.”

So that was why the strand of hair was hanging loose!

“My spectacles fell off, too.”

Her voice rose as she listed her grievances. She held her palm toward him, showing a tear in her glove. “If I weren’t wearing gloves, I’d have splinters in my hands from trying to catch myself. As it is, one of them is ruined.”

Colt ignored her ruined glove. His attention was caught by the anger that had returned to her eyes during her recounting of the story. This newest fiasco was worse than he’d imagined, but how could he be sure she wasn’t embellishing the tale for her own benefit?

“And where was Cilla while all this was happening?”

“Standing to the side smiling, as if the whole thing were vastly amusing. Then she walked over as if she planned to help me up and deliberately stepped on my glasses and my hat. It was new,” she added, almost as an afterthought.

Whoa, now! Colt knew his kids could be ornery. They were not the kind of children who were seen and not heard, and they were certainly not the kind adults seemed to find endearing, but these accusations were beyond anything he’d been told before.

Talking back and playing practical jokes on occasion was one thing. Not good habits, to be sure, but still a far cry from the physical harm of which Miss Grainger was accusing them. Colt clenched his teeth, a muscle in his cheek knotting as his own resentment mounted.

“Now see here, Miss Grainger,” he said, leaning forward and pinning her with another fierce frown. “Those are pretty severe allegations. How can you be so sure that what Cilla did was deliberate? Did you stop and consider that maybe it was an accident?”

Miss Grainger looked positively incensed. “Not deliberate?” she cried, leaping to her feet. “When a person looks you in the eye and saunters along as if they haven’t a care in the world, and makes certain that you can see everything they are doing, I would say it is deliberate. So, severe or not, my accusations are true, Sheriff Garrett. What happened was in no way an accident.”

Colt pushed to his feet. Once again, they glared at each other over the expanse of his desk. “Maybe you just don’t like my children,” he said.

“And maybe you are so busy making excuses for them and being the big bad sheriff and single man about town that you are blind to their faults. Children need parents invested in their lives, Sheriff Garrett. They need boundaries. They ache for boundaries. Perhaps you should try being a father instead of a friend. They need to be brought up, not just allowed to grow up.”

The indictment had the ring of truth that hit Colt like a blow to the solar plexus. “Now, just you hold on a minute! You’ve gone too far.”

“On the contrary,” she retorted. “I’ve not gone far enough. Consider this a warning, Sheriff Garrett. Either you get your children in hand, or I am leaving Wolf Creek.”

“What?”

“L-e-a-v-i-n-g. I’d rather resign my teaching position than deal with your children for another year.” She stalked to the door, wrenched it open and turned in the aperture. “I expect you to have my spectacles replaced at your earliest convenience. And a new hat and pair of gloves would not come amiss.”

With that, she slammed the door behind her.

Colt watched her stomp down the walk, conflicting emotions darting through him. Anger, guilt and worry for certain. And just a hint of something he couldn’t put his finger on. It felt a little like grudging admiration.

* * *

Shoulders back, chin high, Allison stalked down the street and turned the corner. Only when she was confident she could no longer be seen from the sheriff’s office did she release the fury, uncertainty and misery that had driven her to a showdown. Waves of self-reproach swept through her.

With a little groan of shame, she ripped off her damaged glove and used it to blot at the tears that slipped down her overheated cheeks. She had acted in the most amateurish way possible. Never in her life had she talked about and accused children the way she just had! The fact that what she’d said was true did not give her license to indulge in such an unladylike, unprofessional and peevish manner.

A sound that resembled a strangled laugh escaped her. Dear sweet heaven. Had she really left Colt Garrett with the ultimatum that he gain control of his children or she would quit her teaching position? She’d been fortunate to land her position in Wolf Creek, and she had no idea where she would go or what she would do if the sheriff called her bluff.

Never mind calling your bluff. When he tells the mayor what happened and word gets around town, you won’t have to quit—you’ll probably be fired. The thought was like a slap in the face. What parent would want a woman with so little control instructing the town’s children? She gnawed on her lower lip and dabbed again at her eyes. There was no helping it. She must confess to the mayor what she’d done before he heard it elsewhere.

Her shoulders slumped in dejection. She liked it here. She didn’t want to leave, though she’d spent much of the past few years moving from place to place after begin jilted by her lifelong love. Growing up a pleasingly plump redhead with freckles had not been easy, not when her sisters, Belinda and Ellie, were both not only pretty, but also sweet and good. Though everyone said Allison was just as delightful and nice, when compared her to her beautiful sisters, she had always come up short, feeling as if she were somehow a shoddy replica, second-rate and inadequate.

Her sisters were exotic hothouse orchids; she was the spinster, the wallflower—her name for herself—the one who went unnoticed or was asked to do the tedious tasks no one wanted to undertake. She was the one asked to watch the children while others indulged in the entertaining activities. She was the one to pick up the slack wherever or whatever it happened to be.

She found scant consolation in the knowledge that the dictionary said that the upright, woody stems of wallflowers gave them strength, resiliency and tenacity, enabling them to thrive on cliffs, rocks and walls. Though many would consider those wonderful traits, they were hardly the qualities men found attractive.

Ellie and Belinda were beautiful; Allison was robust. Ellie and Belinda were accomplished in many areas; Allison was adequate. Except when it came to her vocation. At teaching, she excelled.

In fairness, her sisters had done their utmost to try to make up for the unfair comparisons, and Allison felt no hard feelings toward either of her siblings...at least not once she gained adulthood and was able to put her feelings of inferiority into proper perspective.

Jesse Castle had been her anchor, her friend, her playmate, her other half since they were children. A bit of a bookworm himself, he’d understood and accepted and loved her for who she was, not for how she looked. They’d been just two months from their wedding day nearly ten years ago, when he’d taken her aside and told her that he was terribly sorry, that he loved her dearly, but that he was not in love with her. He had fallen for pretty, vibrant Callie Boxer, who’d come to spend the summer with her grandmother. He wanted to make his life with her.

Allison hadn’t been just shocked; she’d been devastated. Shamed. Embarrassed. Since childhood, everyone had taken it for granted that she and Jesse would marry and spend the rest of their lives living out a happily-ever-after fairy tale.

Feeling his rejection as if it were the weight of the world, she had cried the entire summer and shut herself off from everyone but her family. She’d spent her time at the park or a hidden corner of the parlor reading Miss Jane Austen’s novels over and over—which infuriated Belinda, who claimed doing so was comparable to wearing a hair shirt.

In many ways, the stories were painful to read, but at the same time a tiny part of her battered heart clung to the nebulous hope that perhaps someday she might find the happy ending she so desired.

Feeling that her only chance at marriage was gone and harboring the outlandish notion that she could run from her heartache and shame if she only ran far enough, Allison mapped out a course for her life that would satisfy her as well as give her something at which she excelled. Something that would enable her to provide for herself and thus to need no man.

She would become a teacher. The best teacher ever. Through the years she had moved from job to job and town to town in an effort to put distance between herself and her heartache, only to realize that it followed her wherever she went.

She hadn’t exactly blamed God for what had happened, but she wasn’t on the best of terms with Him, either. Then, a couple of years ago, Belinda had grown weary of Allison’s refusal to let go of the past and had taken her to task for continuing to wallow, as she so indelicately phrased it, in her unhappiness.

She’d said that yes, Jesse was a nice enough young man, but he had not been perfect, nor had God thrown away the mold after creating him. There were thousands of men out there just as kind, just as understanding, and equally willing and capable of loving her. And, she’d added, there was one special man out there who would sweep her off her feet and make her forget Jesse Castle ever existed. Furthermore, Belinda told her in no uncertain terms, Allie should be thankful that she had not married Jesse and then discovered that he didn’t love her as he should.

Belinda also lectured at length about how Allison clung to her grief, using it as a shield to protect her from further hurt, and how she refused to allow the Lord to work in her life to ease the pain of her loss and bring her peace.

Belinda believed that Allison had adopted the notion that if she didn’t allow joy and happiness into her life, it could not be snatched away from her again. Her sister had finally convinced Allison that she should embrace life and everything it had to offer, even if it did cause occasional hurt. Experiencing down times, sorrow and pain, only made the good times sweeter.