Chapter 18

18

Finding his packhorse took less time than finding his equilibrium. Philip still felt a bit off-balance an hour later when he returned to the Bullock homestead.

Get your head on straight, Carmichael. You’ve played roles before.

He’d posed as an outlaw, a bank teller, a lumberman, and a handful of other characters during the course of his Pinkerton work. Disguises eased the gathering of intelligence and gave a detective access to people and places his badge wouldn’t. Shoot, he’d once spent a week impersonating a snooty manservant in order to search the house of a wealthy industrialist and uncover proof that the man had been embezzling his investors’ funds. If he could endure the awkward intimacy of helping a grown man dress, shave, and groom the hairs in his nasal passages, surely he could handle the pretense of having a wife for one night.

Yet when he’d donned those other identities, they’d been itchy and ill-fitting, like the Sunday coat and stiff leather shoes his mama had made him wear to church as a boy. He endured them as long as he had to, but the moment the iron grip of duty set him free, he shed the uncomfortable skin and rejoiced at leaving it behind.

Philip feared the role of Letty’s husband would sit far too comfortably on his shoulders. Battling his physical attraction to the woman was hard enough without throwing a fake marriage into the mix. He already struggled to keep a professional distance between them. Usually such distance was easy to maintain with his clients because he didn’t particularly like them. Self-important business moguls tended to look down on the hired help. Letty, on the other hand, acted as if she were being escorted by a friend of the family, not a paid bodyguard. She made an effort to get to know him, asked him questions about his work and family, and truly listened to his responses. She even offered bits of her own history in return.

When he’d seen her dangling over the edge of that ravine, something more than duty had launched him from his horse. Something that couldn’t be allowed to gain momentum, or he’d be the one taking a tumble—one he’d not soon recover from.

Dusk had settled over the cabin by the time Philip made it back to the clearing. Enough light remained, however, for him to make out the figure of Lincoln Bullock as the man exited the barn and gestured for Philip to meet him at the entrance.

“I see you found yer pack animal.” Lincoln strode forward and extended his hand. “I’ll look after him while you see to your mount.”

Philip handed over the lead line. “Appreciate it.” He dismounted and glanced toward the house. “Letty doing all right?”

It was only natural for him to be concerned. He’d been paid to guard her, after all. And if he kept reminding himself of that fact, maybe the professional distance between them would cease shrinking.

“Yep. Susanne had me set up the tub in our room and ordered your missus to take a nice long soak.”

That was not an image he needed planted in his brain. Heat flared around his neck and ears.

His host chuckled. “You ain’t been married long, have you?”

Philip ducked his gaze away from the knowing look on the older man’s face and used his horse as an excuse to move past him. “Nope.”

“Susanne won’t mind holding supper back for a bit if you want a turn with the bathwater when your woman’s through.”

“No, thanks.” Good grief! Was the man trying to torture him? “I’ll, uh, just wash up at the pump.” And hope that a dousing of cold well water put his thoughts back on the straight and narrow where they belonged.

Another chuckle echoed behind him.

Not helping, Bullock.

Philip clenched his jaw until he reached the tacking area of the barn. Thankful to have something else to turn his hands and mind to, he gave Steele his full attention as he unsaddled his mount and spoiled him with an extra-thorough brushing.

Fortunately, Lincoln quit both his chuckling and his discussion of bathing wives and worked in relative silence as he unburdened the packhorse and piled the supplies in a corner of the barn.

Steele’s steady presence combined with the repetitive motions of the currycomb proved soothing, and Philip soon felt more himself. He tossed a glance toward his host.

“How’s Dennis?”

Lincoln finished picking the hoof he’d been cleaning, then released the packhorse’s back leg and straightened.

“His mother has him in bed, surrounded by pillows.” The man’s teasing smile faded as he met Philip’s gaze. “You did a good job setting his arm. There’s quite a bit of swelling, but he can move his fingers, and the pain is manageable. Not sure I could’ve done what you did.”

Philip’s arm stilled its circular motion. “To be honest, I wasn’t sure I could do it, either. I broke my own arm as a boy and did my best to recall how the doctor set the bone. Pretty sure I had some help from upstairs, though.”

“My wife would agree with you.” Lincoln rested his arms on the packhorse’s back. “She’s a praying woman. Can’t say as I put much store in it myself. Always figured a man who waited on God to solve his problems was just lookin’ for an excuse to be lazy. But if the Almighty played a role in protectin’ my boy, I reckon a thank-you might be in order.”

Philip turned back to his brushing. “I imagine he’d be glad to hear from you.”

Lincoln snorted as he pushed away from the horse and positioned himself by the next hoof. “Been so long, he probably don’t even remember who I am.”

Philip stilled. “A father never forgets his children.”

Lincoln’s gaze turned in the direction of his house—and his boys. “No, I don’t suppose he does.”

****

Feeling slightly guilty for having soaked for so long, Letty hurriedly dried off and donned her underclothes. She took a few minutes to scrub the dirt from her blouse, split skirt, and stockings in the leftover bathwater. Washing up in the streams they’d camped near had allowed her to maintain a minimal level of cleanliness, but she wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity to freshen her clothes as well as herself. No lady wanted to smell of perspiration and horse when sitting down to dinner in company. Especially when that company included a rather handsome, heroic individual who’d likely forgotten what she looked like without her usual coating of trail dust. Why she wanted to remind him was a question she didn’t care to examine too closely for fear she’d discover she wasn’t quite as free of vanity as her grandmother had raised her to be.

She pulled her spare skirt and shirtwaist from her travel bag and frowned over the plethora of wrinkles. After shaking them out as best she could, she laid them on the bed and smoothed the fabric with her hands. A wry smile crooked her lips when the worst of the creases refused to yield. Nothing like a rumpled ensemble to keep a lady from thinking too highly of her appearance. Laughing softly at herself, Letty pulled on the clothes. Being clean and presentable would have to be enough.

Philip Carmichael might have demonstrated admirable heroic tendencies with his ravine scaling and feats of child saving, but her growing regard for the man need not turn her into one of those empty-headed misses who thought capturing a gentleman’s attention was the only way to prove themselves worthy. She had an uncle to thwart and a family legacy to protect. Gaining a man’s favor wouldn’t even make a dent in the worth-proving that lay ahead of her.

Taking her comb in hand, Letty attacked the tangles in her wet hair with vigor, wincing a bit each time her less-than-gentle strokes caught on a stubborn knot. She’d dallied back here long enough. She should be in the kitchen, helping Susanne with supper. With quick fingers, she plaited her hair and twisted it into a simple bun at the base of her neck. She’d taken to wearing her braid down while traveling to avoid the headaches of pinching hairpins as well as the increased speed it allowed for readying herself in the morning, but tonight called for a touch more formality. Once her hair was secured, she packed away her pins and comb, donned fresh stockings, and laced up her low-heeled riding boots. Gathering her wet laundry, she gave each item a final wring over the tub to ensure they’d not drip, then left the privacy of the bedroom to join the family in the kitchen.

Susanne spotted her the moment she crossed the threshold. “Well, don’t you clean up nice.” Her friendly smile instantly put Letty at ease. She gestured to a wooden contraption set up in the back corner on the far side of the stove. “Calvin helped me set up the clotheshorse. Hang up your wet things there. They’re sure to be dry by morning.”

“Thank you.” Letty sidestepped the hot stove, draped her laundry over the rack, then presented herself to her host. “What can I do to help?”

Susanne grabbed a stack of small plates and set them on the table beside a similar stack of bowls. “You can spread these around. There’s drinking glasses in the hutch there,” she said with a nod of her head toward a large, glassed-in cabinet on the far wall. “You’ll find spoons and knives in the top, right-hand drawer.”

Glad to have something to do, Letty set the table and filled each glass with water from a pitcher that sat on the counter beside the sink.

“I fed the boys while you were washin’ up.” Susanne lifted the lid from a stockpot that had been staying warm on a back section of the stove. The savory smells of chicken broth and stewed vegetables wafted through the room and set Letty’s stomach to growling. “Dennis was about tuckered out, and Calvin is always hungry. I thought it might be nice for the adults to have a quiet supper without the boys underfoot.” It also made it easier to fit around the table since there were only four chairs.

“That smells delicious,” Letty said as she rummaged through the hutch, looking for napkins.

“My ma’s chicken stew recipe. Goes perfect with the yeast rolls I got in the warmer.”

“Yeast rolls?” Letty inhaled deeply and caught a whiff of fresh bread, which only made her belly rumble louder. She met Susanne’s gaze. Her new friend’s dancing eyes had her pressing her lips together to stifle her laughter.

Susanne opened the overhead door on the stove and, using a towel to protect her hand, pulled out a tray of golden-brown rolls. “The boys already had a few, so no one will notice if another one disappears.” She grinned. “Though you’ll have to hurry. Your man rode in about fifteen minutes ago. I expect he and Lincoln to come through that door any minute.”

Her man.

Philip certainly wasn’t her man. He wasn’t her anything, really, except her guard and escort. Yet ever since he left to fetch their packhorse, she’d been unable to banish the possibility of him becoming more. Grandmother had warned her that the reading of fairy tales and novels could cause her to develop an overly romantic nature. Her run-in with the loggers had cured her of building up fantasies around men she’d never met, but Philip was different. She’d spent hours in his company, seen his character firsthand, even heard him pray. She hadn’t known him long, but she believed she was coming to know him well. And what she knew, she admired. Well, except the stubborn, highhanded parts. But even those were born from his desire to protect, not to subjugate.

Letty moved the rolls from the hot tray into a basket, covered them with a cloth, and placed them in the center of the table next to the butter crock. Best to practice resisting temptation on the small things so she’d have a better chance of resisting the larger things.

“No snitching?” Susanne teased.

Letty grinned. “Not yet, but I’m not sure how long my willpower will last.”

Thankfully, the sound of boots stomping on the back porch reduced the need for long-term restraint.

Mr. Bullock pulled open the door. “Susanne? I been braggin’ on your chicken stew to Carmichael.”

The men hung their hats on the hooks near the back door. Letty smiled shyly at Philip, noting that he’d washed and donned a clean shirt. He smiled in return ... until his gaze landed on her wet hair. A red stain spread around his neck, and he immediately diverted his attention to the table, offering a compliment on how good the food smelled.

She reached a hand up to check her bun. Had some of it fallen? Surely Susanne would have said something. Sliding a surreptitious glance toward the glass-covered hutch doors, she took a quick inventory. Nothing seemed amiss. Shrugging off his odd reaction, she took her place at the table, and soon the conversation with the Bullocks erased the awkwardness that had sprung up between them.

Letty helped Susanne with the dishes while the men had a final coffee and chatted about game trails and hunting in the area. Philip had an uncanny way of pulling information from people without giving away much of his own. Never once did he mention what direction they were traveling or where their final destination would be, only that they were on their way to visit family, and since Letty refused to leave her wolf behind, they’d been forced to stay off the beaten path.

She caught his eye after he made that explanation and raised a gloating brow. Let him try to deny that Rusty had been a good addition to their party, now.

Philip grinned with his eyes and gave a tiny dip of his chin, not enough for Mr. Bullock to notice as they continued conversing, but enough to convey his concession to the lady looking for it.

Chest filled with sweet satisfaction and something a tad bit warmer, Letty turned back to drying, only to find that no dishes remained.

“Better let these two get to bed, Lincoln. You’ve got an early morning fetching that doctor, after all.”

Mr. Bullock pushed away from the table. “That I do.”

Susanne untied her apron and hung it over the back of a chair. “I had Lincoln fix up the back stall for you two. Plenty of fresh straw and a couple quilts to keep the night’s chill at bay.”

“Thank you.” Letty did her best to fight off the blush that rushed to her cheeks.

No need to be embarrassed. They’d been sharing a campsite for the last several nights. Sharing a barn stall would be no different.

Only, when she and Philip made it to the stall in question, she discovered that all the fresh straw Susanne had mentioned wasn’t lying about ready to be conformed to separate sleeping areas. No, it had all been stuffed into a single tick mattress, prepared for a fictional married couple that didn’t exist.