Salvation in the Rancher's Arms. Kelly Boyce

      They rode in silence. Caleb tried not to think about the woman sitting beside him or how things were about to change for the both of them, whether they liked it or not, thanks to one man’s greed and desperation. There had been no reason for Sutter to put his ranch up that day, but the fool wouldn’t listen to reason. Now, here they were, trying to sort through the consequences. The buckboard crested a hill and in the distance he could see a small home. So small Caleb wondered how everyone fit inside. It must have made for some cramped quarters.

      Over to his right, a short distance away, were a few more outbuildings placed in what could only be described as a haphazard manner that made little sense. It was as if no forethought was put into where things should go. He noted a barn, two tiny cabins, one close to the house, the other closer to the barn, and a larger cabin further up the rise. As they drew closer, he picked out a chicken coop, a corral and a freshly tilled garden. Closer to the house, a gnarled oak crept upward toward the midday sky, the first hint of buds dotting its branches. Come summer, with the leaves in full bloom, it would cast a welcome shade across the narrow porch lining the front of the house.

      Despite the odd configuration of buildings, it was a pretty spot. Homey.

      He didn’t belong here.

      Next to him, Mrs. Sutter stiffened, the movement bringing her leg against his. A shock of sensation shot through him. He bit down on the sudden rush of unwanted desire. He should have taken care of that in Laramie, but Caleb had never developed a taste for whores. And he hadn’t the time to find himself a lonely widow.

      Until now.

      But this widow was strictly off limits.

      “Company?” He nudged his chin in the direction of the black horse tethered next to the porch. Something told him his day was about to become even more complicated.

      Mrs. Sutter spoke through gritted teeth. “Shamus Kirkpatrick.”

      It said a lot about the man that he had the audacity to show up the day after she’d buried her husband.

      “I could ask him to leave if you—”

      She cut him off, a frantic edge to her voice. “Don’t say anything about the deed. Please. The boys don’t know yet, and I need time to figure out how to tell them. I know this isn’t any of your concern but...” She sent him a pleading look. “Please.”

      He stared at her a moment, an unwanted need to protect her welling inside of him. He knew he would regret getting involved, but he couldn’t tell her no. Not when she was looking at him with those soulful dark eyes and one of her hands rested on his arm, a fact he was pretty sure she was completely unaware of.

      “Reckon I could do that.”

      Mrs. Sutter glanced down at her hand and snatched it back, curling the fingers into her palm and resting it against her belly, holding it in place as if she were afraid it might reach out voluntarily and touch him again.

      “Thank you.”

      Caleb nodded and pulled up on the reins, irritated with his reaction. The absence of her touch was far too noticeable. When they reached the house, he set the brake and jumped down from the buckboard, patting Jasper’s rump as he passed behind him. He’d kept Jasper tied to the back of the wagon for the ride up, letting the draft horse he’d purchased in Laramie do the work of pulling them. By the time he reached Mrs. Sutter, she was about to jump down. He reached up and grabbed her around the waist, lifting her to the ground.

      “I don’t need—” She didn’t have time to finish her reprimand before her feet hit the ground.

      “Nothin’ wrong with a man helpin’ a lady down.”

      She glared at him. It disturbed him how much he enjoyed it. So much so, he let his hands linger at the curve of her narrow waist. Once again he was struck by how small she was. One stiff mountain wind and she’d all but blow away. Yet he had no doubt her deeply rooted resilience would beat back the wind until it regretted ever making the attempt.

      Her hands curled into fists on his shoulders. Mere inches separated their bodies, and God help him but he liked the feel of her in his hands. He watched her swallow, avoiding his gaze.

      “You can take your horse down to the barn and stable him there.”

      “Think I’ll come inside first.”

      Her hands pushed at his shoulders and she slipped out of his grip, stumbling slightly before catching herself.

      “That isn’t necessary.”

      “I think it is.” He wasn’t about to let her face Kirkpatrick alone. The man would be less inclined to browbeat her for the money if Caleb was there, and if Kirkpatrick tried, Caleb would put a stop to it. His hand brushed his hip. He wondered how long it would be before he got used to not finding his Colt strapped there.

      She inched away from him and started toward the porch, keeping her voice low. “I appreciate your silence on the matter of the deed until I figure things out, but my business with Kirkpatrick doesn’t concern you.”

      Caleb shrugged and caught up with her on the step. “My house. My concern.”

      “Mr. Beckett—” But whatever admonishment she meant to deliver was lost as he opened the door and motioned her inside with a sweep of his hand. She shot him a glare as she marched past.

      He walked in behind her and turned his back away from the door. The house had a strange unfinished feel to it, as if whoever built it had given up partway through. The front room served as kitchen, dining room and sitting area with little room left over to maneuver. It held a cookstove, a kitchen table large enough to sit eight and a narrow cot that rested against the far wall. A door next to the cookstove exposed a narrow hallway he assumed led to a bedroom. The whole setup gave the house a cramped feel and he itched to set it right.

      The large black woman he’d seen at Sutter’s funeral stood, arms crossed, near the counter, her expression angry and apologetic all at once.

      Kirkpatrick set his coffee cup down with slow deliberation and rose from his seat to greet them, as if it were his kitchen they had walked into. Tall and broad, dressed all in black, he made an imposing figure. Caleb guessed him to be closing in on fifty, given the lines around his eyes and the threads of gray marring his coal-black hair. Though his smile was congenial, his eyes held the cold flatness of a snake’s.

      Kirkpatrick ignored him, addressing Mrs. Sutter. “Rachel.”

      Caleb didn’t much care for the familiarity the two shared. Instinct told him their relationship went beyond just being neighbors, and the notion disturbed him for reasons he chose not to explore too closely.

      Mrs. Sutter acknowledged Kirkpatrick with a short nod before conducting the introductions. “This is Shamus Kirkpatrick. Mr. Beckett is the one who brought Robert home.”

      Kirkpatrick nodded in his direction. “Much obliged,” he said, as if Caleb had done him a favor, then turned back to Mrs. Sutter. “We should talk.”

      “The woman just buried her husband, Mr. Kirkpatrick. I’m sure whatever business you have can wait a few days.”

      Mrs. Sutter’s back went rigid. He guessed the widow wasn’t used to having someone speak up on her behalf.

      Kirkpatrick’s pale eyes met his gaze. “Won’t take but a minute.”

      “It can wait,” Caleb repeated, more firmly this time. He would deal with her umbrage later.

      Kirkpatrick fell silent and tension smothered the air in the room. He turned to Mrs. Sutter and smiled. The gesture held no warmth. “Got yourself a new protector, do you now, Rachel? You certainly wasted no time. But, then again, neither did your mama.”

      Her swift intake of breath, as if the words had inflicted a deep wound, were all Caleb needed to end the conversation.

      “You’ll be leaving now.” He walked in front of Mrs. Sutter to get to the door, blocking her