Abbie's Outlaw. Victoria Bylin

about if you mind your manners?

      She should have slapped him, but instead she had teased him with a smile and finished going through the clothes. She had kept a few things for herself, and he’d wondered why she would want such rags.

      Lying in his bed, John closed his eyes and tried not to think about buying Abbie pretty dresses. Instead he dwelled on his own misery and realized he was thirsty. He reached for the pitcher of water only to discover it was empty. He’d have to pull on his pants and pump some in the kitchen.

      Groaning, he swung his legs off the mattress, reached for the trousers he’d tossed on a chair and pulled them up, leaving the top button undone so the waistband wouldn’t chafe the wound. Because he had houseguests, he put on the white shirt he’d worn yesterday and buttoned it halfway. Walking down the hall gave him a new sympathy for Doc Randall and his bad knees. Every step sent an ache through John’s bones, but he made it to the kitchen where moonlight was pouring through the window.

      After blowing out a breath to steady himself, he took a drink straight from the spigot and then moved the pitcher into place. As the stream of water hit the pewter, he heard a match strike. A lamp flared in the darkness.

      “John? Are you all right?”

      Abbie’s voice sounded as soft as the silk nightgown he’d just been remembering. It had taken a week of talk, but she’d put it on for him. It had clung to her curves and been warm to his touch. He didn’t dare look at her now. If she was dressed for bed, he didn’t want to know.

      “I’m all right,” he answered, still filling the pitcher. “I just needed some water.”

      “Let me do that.”

      She came up next to him and reached for the handle. As she worked the pump, her loose hair brushed her shoulders. Backlit by the lamp, it made him think of the embers left by a dying fire. He couldn’t stop his gaze from dipping downward. Mercifully, she was covered from head to toe with a robe. It had once been pink, but time had leached away the color and worn the garment to bare threads.

      Why was a congressman’s wife wearing rags? Even in private, it didn’t make sense. He wanted to ask her if she needed money, but it wasn’t any of his business. He also wanted to buy her the fancy wrapper he’d seen in the dressmaker’s window last week. It was emerald silk and embroidered with lotus flowers. It would match her eyes and shimmer on her skin. Hellfire! How did a man stop thinking such thoughts? Irritated, he focused on the stream of water filling the pitcher. When it was full, she set it on the counter.

      “That should do it,” she said. “Can you carry it?”

      Of course he could, but his feet seemed to be glued to the floor. This kitchen had always reminded him of the one in Kansas where she’d cracked eggs into a pan for his breakfast. He remembered watching her wipe down the counter with a dish towel, just as she was doing now. He hadn’t grown up with those feminine touches, and he’d been fascinated by her womanly ways. One thing had led to another, and he’d taken her to bed both in spite of her innocence and because of it.

      Knowing that some confessions were best made at night, John sought her eyes. “I’d like to talk to you.”

      Looking up, she said, “Is it about Susanna?”

      “No, it’s about us.” He put his hand on hers to stop her from wiping the counter. He wanted her full attention because he had no desire to repeat the conversation. “I want you to know I’m sorry for what happened in Kansas. I had no business taking advantage of you.”

      He waited for her an answer, but the silence thickened until it felt like humid air, almost visible and too heavy to breathe. If she had nothing more to say, neither did he, so he released her hand. “I won’t bring it up again. I just wanted you to know I’m sorry.”

      Anger flashed in her eyes. Good, he thought. He deserved a cold shoulder, but instead of calling him a cad, she gripped his elbow. “I’m not the least bit sorry. Do you want to know why?”

      The question sent a blast of fever through John’s veins. He knew the answer—he’d known since he’d read Abbie’s telegram. “She’s mine, isn’t she?”

      Abbie nodded slowly. “Very much so.”

      “Why did you imply otherwise at the train station?” he asked.

      “I needed to think things through. Besides, you’d made it clear that being a father wasn’t something you wanted.”

      He couldn’t deny the truth of her words. “Does Robbie know?”

      “Not yet. I’ll tell him everything after things are settled with Susanna. You’re going to love her, John. She’s smart and funny and full of mischief. She’s so much like you—”

      “Don’t say that.”

      “But it’s true.”

      John hadn’t told a living soul about the curse that ran in his blood. He’d poured his guts out to the Almighty and felt the touch of grace, but not even Silas knew about the night John had left home for good. He sure as hell wasn’t going to burden Abbie with the truth of that day.

      John would never forget Isaac Leaf’s last words. Like father, like son. No kidding, he thought. Ugly inclinations still burned in his blood. Given a choice, he’d be drunk off his ass right now. He’d be at the saloon smoking cigars and playing poker. He’d be undressing Abbie with his eyes and taking her to bed.

      The fever ripped through him, causing his side to ache and his head to pound. If he didn’t sit down, he’d fall over, so he pulled a chair out from the table and lowered himself into it. “This can’t be,” he managed to say.

      “But it is.” Looking determined, Abbie pulled out the chair next to his and sat down. Her eyes filled with a love that shamed him. “You’re great with Robbie. Won’t you give Susanna a chance?”

      “I can’t.”

      “Why not?”

      Because I’m dirt. I’ve stolen, murdered and maimed. I’ve kicked dogs and stomped on ants. God forgive me, I’ve killed children…

      How could he explain that ugliness to Abbie? She may have lost her temper a time or two, but he doubted she had ever wanted to choke the air out of a man’s lungs. Nor did she have a string of enemies who wanted to see her suffer.

      John gave her his hardest stare, the one he saved for his blood-and-guts sermons about Old Testament battles and the sacrifice of the cross. “I don’t want her in my life, Abbie. I have my reasons.”

      The pity in her eyes said she was unimpressed. “What you want doesn’t matter. I can’t make you love Susanna, but I can make sure you don’t hurt her.”

      He felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. He would never hurt a child, especially not Abbie’s daughter. But someone else hadn’t been as careful with the girl’s feelings. John pushed back in his chair. “How did she find out about me?”

      A shadow fell across Abbie’s face. “Robert told her the night he died.”

      “What a godawful shock.” John flattened his palm on the kitchen table. “Tell me the rest.”

      “After he was elected to congress, Robert thought you’d try to blackmail him. He kept a file on you. That’s what he gave Susanna.”

      John’s heart plummeted down a rabbit hole of regret. Abbie’s marriage must have been a nightmare and he’d been the cause. “Did he know about the baby when you married him?”

      Abbie lowered her eyes. “Yes, but he didn’t know about you until later. It’s not important how he found out.”

      John knew a lie when he heard one. It was very important, otherwise Abbie wouldn’t have mentioned it. Later he’d ask for the details, but the night was already too raw so he focused on Susanna. “Why do you think Robert told her?”

      “Who