Abbie's Outlaw. Victoria Bylin

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      “Robbie?” she called. “It’s time to go.”

      The boy stepped to his mother’s side, giving John a chance to think as he guided them across the platform. Children didn’t run away from home without cause, and women didn’t travel cross-country with featherweight luggage unless they had nothing to put in it. And how had she gotten a bum shoulder? She had secrets, he was sure of it.

      As the sun beat down on his back, he felt the heat of the summer day building inside his coat. But more than the noon sky was making him sweat. Abbie Moore was as pretty as he remembered. They possibly had a child together—a troubled girl who had been as desperate to escape her life as John had once been.

      Like father, like daughter. The thought gave him no comfort at all.

      Damn it! Abbie never cursed out loud, but she had learned that anger made her strong and tears didn’t fix a blasted thing. Never mind that she had good cause to cry her eyes out. She had been praying for days that Susanna would already be in Midas. She had even dared to hope that Johnny Leaf had welcomed his daughter into his life.

      But that hadn’t happened. Instead Abbie’s hopes had been dashed to pieces. Susanna was still hundreds of miles away, and the Reverend John Leaf clearly loathed the idea of fatherhood. Judging by the aloofness in his eyes, he wasn’t going to change his mind. That coldness hadn’t been there when they had met in Kansas, but the command in his voice was all too familiar.

      Let me take off your boot.

      No, I’ll do it.

      He’d gripped her foot and worked the laces, peeling the leather down her calf without a care for her modesty. He had inspected her ankle with tender fingers, announced that she couldn’t walk on it and scooped her into his arms. The memory fanned embers that had long since died, reminding Abbie that her heart had turned to ash—except where her children were concerned.

      Thoughts of Susanna and Robbie made her pulse race with another worry. A Washington attorney intended to turn Robert’s estate over to Abbie’s father. If Judge Lawton Moore controlled her finances, he’d force her back to Kansas. The thought was unbearable. She didn’t care about herself, but her father would scorn Susanna because of her birth and favor Robbie because he was a boy. Abbie clamped her lips into a line. Damn Robert for his deathbed confession. Abbie had learned from her daughter’s friend, Colleen, what he had said. I’m sorry, Susanna, but I couldn’t love you. You’re not mine…

      That was true, Abbie thought. But neither did her precious daughter belong to John Leaf, at least not in a way that mattered. Blood meant nothing if it didn’t come with love.

      I love you, Johnny…

      Don’t say it.

      Abbie swallowed back a wave of anxiety. They had been rolling on a blanket in tall grass, feeling each other through their clothes. He’d cut her off and rightly so. She hadn’t known a blasted thing about the ways of men. But she did now. Hell would freeze before she’d marry again. The attorney had given her that option, but it didn’t bear consideration.

      As they neared the baggage area, the Reverend’s baritone broke into her thoughts. “Do you see your trunk?”

      “Not yet,” she replied.

      He fell silent, giving her a chance to count off the days of the trip. She had paid dearly for the express, but the train had been delayed twice, leaving her twenty-six days to find Susanna and arrive in Kansas as expected.

      She had so much to lose—her home, her friends, a decent upbringing for her children. Since Robert’s death, Abbie had been renting rooms in her town house. One of the benefits was a houseful of friends, including Maggie O’Dea who gladly shared her wisdom. The other reward was money for Susanna’s education. Robbie had a trust fund, but Susanna had nothing. More than anything, Abbie wanted to give her daughter the choices she herself never had, and that meant having an income of her own.

      At the thought of Susanna, Abbie glanced at John. He was standing tall with his hands in his coat pockets, chatting with Robbie about locomotives. Still trim and loose-jointed, he’d changed very little over the years, at least on the outside. His eyes were still piercing and dark, and though he wore his hair shorter, he still had the look of a man who resisted haircuts. Abbie couldn’t help but notice the shaggy strands brushing past his collar. The slight curl matched the bit of Susanna’s baby hair she kept in a locket.

      Whether the Reverend liked it or not, one glance would tell him he had a daughter. Abbie was thinking about John’s reaction when Robbie pointed to the baggage car. “I see our trunk. It’s in the back corner.”

      “That’s it,” she replied. For her son’s sake, she tried to sound cheerful, but the sight of that battered case filled Abbie with an old rage. As a bride-to-be, she had packed her things in a shiny new trunk and left home to marry a man she had never met. Today the trunk had as many scars as she did. And instead of new clothes, it held garments that belonged in the rag bag. She hadn’t bought a new dress in years and her underthings were pathetic.

      Sealing her lips, she prayed that John wouldn’t notice her shabby clothing. It shamed her as Robert had intended. Her husband had pinched pennies until the Indian heads screamed, and so had Jefferson Hodge, the executor of his estate. As the porter carried her trunk down the gangway, Abbie relived the day she had asked Hodge for an increase in her household allowance.

      “I’m sorry, Mrs. Windsor,” he had replied. “Your husband stated you weren’t to be involved in financial matters. I’d be pleased to transfer authority to your father or you could marry again. A woman with your sensitive nature needs a husband.”

      Sensitive nature? Abbie had nearly called the man a pig. A long time ago she’d been softhearted about life, but Robert had brutalized that hopeful girl until she’d shriveled to nothing. At the thought of her marriage, Abbie wanted to snort.

      Duty…honor…obey…

      Her father had used those words when he’d put her on the train to Washington to meet her future husband, but the only promise that mattered now was the one she had made at his grave. She had endured her last beating, told her last lie about bumping into doors and put up with a man in her bed for the last time. God spare the fool who dared to touch her now—she’d cut off his manhood with rusty scissors.

      As the porter dropped her trunk into the pile of luggage, Abbie caught a whiff of the Reverend’s starched collar. She hadn’t missed the heat in his eyes, as if he knew what she looked like naked. Which he did. Or more correctly, he knew what she used to look like.

      As the porter walked away, John stepped to her side. At the same time Abbie turned. As her skirt brushed his pant leg, an old friction rippled down her spine. The scent of bay rum filled her nose as well, shooting her back in time to a dusky Kansas sunset. With a gleam in his eyes, he had matched his mouth to hers. When she’d stood there like a fence post, he had brushed her bottom lip with his thumb and grinned.

      You’ve never done that before, have you?

      I have so.

      With who? Some kid with pimples?

      Rakish and hungry, he’d kissed her again, long and slow, until she had clutched at his back and arched into him. He’d been twenty-one years old and looking for a good time. She had been seventeen and more naive than a baby chick. She’d also СКАЧАТЬ