In Honor's Defense Read online

  “Glad to hear it.” Grimes slipped a key from his pocket, unlocked one of the desk drawers, then reached inside. “I understand you take half your fee up front. I can write you a bank draft—”

  Luke waved his hand and cut off the rancher’s words. “We can see to that later this evening. I want to get started while there’s still a few hours of daylight left.”

  Respect lit Grimes’s gaze as he straightened away from the desk. “I’ll have Quincy ready your horse. You’ll want to start with the eastern fence line. The cattle have been grazing in the southeast pasture the last couple of weeks.”

  Luke appreciated the information, but he wouldn’t be riding the fence line today. “I’ll check the fence first thing in the morning,” he said. “I think I’ll pay a call on your neighbor first.”

  He intended to take Nate Baxter’s measure. The boy might be young, but right now he was Luke’s only suspect. And if Luke knew anything from his own tarnished youth, it was that angry boys were capable of inflicting man-sized damage when they put their minds to it. And unfortunately, the more they inflicted on others, the more harm they did to themselves in the process. A harm they tended not to recognize until it was too late.

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  Luke held Titan to a walk as he turned up the Baxter drive. A small, white clapboard house waited for him at the end of the rutted road, but Luke was in no hurry to get there. He scanned the yard, counting three small outbuildings and a windmill. Outbuildings might be a tad generous. There was really just the barn. The other two structures consisted of a chicken coop and an outhouse. Necessary, but not exactly impressive. No evidence of crops or herds, as far as he could see. Baxter obviously hadn’t made his living off the land. He must have worked in town. He might have cattle or goats grazing somewhere distant, but with no bunkhouse, smokehouse, or sizeable stock pen in evidence, it wasn’t likely.

  Unlike at the Triple G, no greeting party came out to meet him. Not even a dog. It could be no one was home. According to Grimes, Nate still lived here. An aunt had come to stay with the boy after his father died. Grimes didn’t recall much about the woman beyond the fact that she existed and she refused to sell the Baxter land to him.

  Since no uncle had been mentioned, Luke figured she was probably either a widow or a maiden aunt, most likely in her forties, judging by her nephew’s age. An image of Miss Prucilla Andicott rose in his mind, bringing on an involuntary shudder. She was a pinched-lipped shrew who had dressed in black from head to toe. She believed her mission in life was to point out the shortcomings of the people around her and report them to those best able to correct the problem. And since Luke had excelled in shortcomings as a boy, he had drawn the wasp’s attention on a regular basis. He’d felt the sting of his father’s strap after every encounter with the old biddy. If Nate’s aunt was anything like Miss Andicott, Luke could understand why the boy might want to lash out with vandalism. Perhaps the Triple G simply had the misfortune of being the nearest available target.

  That was if the boy was the one responsible for the pranks. Luke wouldn’t presume. Once a kid garnered a reputation as a troublemaker, it often didn’t matter if he’d done a deed or not. He still bore the blame. By the time Luke had reached Nate’s age, he’d long given up on protesting his innocence for offenses he hadn’t committed and instead collected blame like badges of honor. If no one was going to believe he hadn’t done something, he might as well get what he could out of the situation and pad his reputation.

  When his inspection of the house provided no proof of current occupancy, Luke began plotting alternative methods for intelligence gathering. If his conversation with Nate had to be delayed, he’d see that the trip wasn’t wasted. A fellow could learn a lot about a man—or a boy—by snooping around in his barn and peering through windows.

  He’d best make sure he truly was alone first, though.

  Luke dismounted and patted Titan’s neck. “Keep watch for me, boy.” The animal had keen hearing and a sensitive nature. Luke had learned to trust his horse more than himself when it came to detecting unseen trouble.

  He took a few steps toward the house and called out in a loud voice. “Anyone home?” He strolled a few paces to the right so he could see down the east side of the dwelling. “Hello?”

  Titan stomped his front hoof. Luke turned at the sound and caught the twitch of the sorrel’s ears.

  Luke’s right hand moved to his holster and hovered in readiness as he approached the house more directly. “Nate? Miss Baxter? Anyone home?”

  “Help!”

  The cry was muffled. Barely audible. But he heard it.

  Luke drew his revolver and climbed the porch steps. The wood creaked beneath his weight. “Do you need assistance?”

  Before reaching for the front door, he took a moment to peer through the two windows on either side. Faded curtains hung in each, but enough of a gap existed between the panels to allow him a partial view of what appeared to be a parlor on the right and a bedroom on the left. No evidence of movement in either.

  “I’m coming in!”

  He fit his hand to the knob and eased the door open, keeping his body behind it as much as possible as he crossed the threshold gun-first.

  “In here!” The voice sounded louder but still muffled.

  Then something banged deeper inside the house.

  “Please. Hurry!”

  More banging. Or pounding. Like fists on a wall.

  “Where are you?” Luke picked up his pace yet still moved with caution, leaning inside every doorway to scan each room as he passed, making sure no surprises lurked behind sofas or beneath beds.

  “Kitchen.” The voice was high-pitched. Could be a woman. Or a boy. “Cellar. Please. Let me out!”

  Definitely female. Luke jogged the last few steps into the kitchen. As soon as he ascertained no threat waited for him, he holstered his weapon and looked for a root cellar. The banging drew him to a spot near a pinewood hutch, but all he saw was an empty table.

  “In here. Please!”

  Luke crouched down and peered at the floor. There. A square outline where the floorboards had been cut to make a door. A door that just happened to have the pedestal of a table planted on top of it.

  Someone had trapped her in there deliberately.

  Grabbing the edge of the oval table, Luke shoved it aside and reached for the door. It nearly caught his chin as it flew open. He dodged backward, almost getting hit again when a woman’s head and shoulders popped out of the hole like the clown from a jack-in-the-box. Her appearance startled him nearly as much as the suddenness of her arrival.

  This was no prune-faced maiden aunt. The woman in the floor had the unlined skin of youth, her complexion creamy and smooth. Brown doe eyes blinked up at him as she adjusted to the light. She sucked in deep breaths, her chest rising and falling beneath a pleated ivory blouse as she worked to get her bearings. One slender hand moved to rest against her collarbone beneath a jet-black mourning brooch, her fingers trembling. Thick ropes of brownish-black hair sat piled atop her head like a royal coronet, a few haphazard tendrils falling loose around her ears. As she moved, different strands caught the sunlight, blazing for a heartbeat like burnished bronze before submerging again into the backdrop of deceptively ordinary coffee-colored braids. Wide, dark brows slashed across her face with a strength that seemed at odds with the shy way she ducked her chin.

  “Here.” He wiped his palm on his trouser leg, then extended his hand to her.

  Her cheeks reddened. “Thank you. I . . .”

  She didn’t finish her sentence, but she did fit her hand to his and allow him to help her climb out of the cellar. Although, judging by the speed with which she vaulted up the ladder, his help probably wasn’t necessary.

  Once she had both feet on the kitchen floor, she did an odd little dance, shaking out her skirt with all the vigor of a dance-hall girl, minus the high kicks. Next, she turned in a circle, brushing at her sleeves, bodice, and backside as if she’d just rolled down a leafy hillside and was trying to dislodge collected debris. Finally, she straightened, running her hands over her face and neck before tentatively meeting his gaze.

  “Did I get them all?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Luke had not a clue what she was talking about, but she seemed to need reassurance, so he offered it. With authority.

  A relieved sigh slipped past her lips, and he assumed he’d done the right thing. All those years of hangin’ out with Wallace must’ve taught him a thing or two about dealing with women after all. Dealing with, but not understanding. He was still as ignorant as ever in that department. The lady in front of him looked perfectly tidy. Nothing had fallen from her during her odd little jig, so he had no idea what she’d been trying to rid herself of. Hopefully she’d refrain from asking him anything else. He had no desire to look the fool in front of her.

  She dipped her chin, aiming the crown of her head at him. “Are there any in my hair?”

  Luke swallowed. So much for avoiding further questions. At least there were implied instructions this time. Examine her head. That he could do. Not that he knew what he was searching for, but he’d give it a go.

  He didn’t even have to bow his back to do so. She was tall for a woman, her forehead level with his chin. Most women failed to reach his shoulders.

  As requested, he dutifully scanned her noggin. It looked like a female’s head ought. Hair. Pins. Some kind of elaborate braid circle. Nothing that didn’t seem to belong.

  “All clear.” He might not know what he was looking for, but he knew better than to let the troops sense uncertainty. Confidence bred confidence.

  “Thank heaven. I swore I could feel them crawling all over me while I was down there.”

&nb
sp; Bugs. The truth of his mission finally crystalized in Luke’s brain. He’d been looking for bugs. Good. His report had been accurate, then. No creepy-crawlies anywhere on her person.

  “My imagination probably got the better of me,” she admitted as she raised her face, “but it was too dark down there to know for sure.” She smiled softly as she lifted her chin, and something tightened inside his chest.

  Odd. Usually when he met an attractive woman, the electricity that zinged through him was purely visceral. This was . . . different. Probably because she was different. Not exactly pretty. Her brows were too thick. Her nose a tad long and turned up at the end. Her figure tall and willowy. Not many curves or even much meat on her bones. Yet when she looked at him with that small hint of a smile, something about her drew him. Made him feel . . . comfortable. Like he didn’t have to try to impress. He could just be himself in her presence. He’d never felt that way around a woman in his life.

  Luke cleared his throat. “Are you hurt?” It felt good to be on the shootin’ end of the questions.

  She shook her head, color rising in her cheeks again. “No. Just embarrassed to be caught trapped in my own root cellar. You must think me the veriest fool.”

  “Not as big a fool as you must think me if you believe I could hold you responsible for that predicament.” Luke crossed his arms and raised a brow. “You might’ve managed to drop the door on top of yourself on the way down, but unless you can move furniture with your mind, someone else dragged that table over the hatch and trapped you inside.”

  “Yes, well. I still should have known better.”

  “Because your nephew pulls stunts like this on a regular basis?”

  “No!” Her outrage had more bristles than a washerwoman’s scrub brush. “Nathaniel has never done anything like this . . .” She pressed her lips together.

  Before.

  The word hung unspoken in the air between them. She, not wanting to admit that her nephew had actually perpetrated the deed, and he, hearing the admission anyway.

  Luke appreciated a good prank as much as the next fella—had pulled more than his share in his youth—but this crossed a line. Trappin’ a woman. Leaving her helpless. Even if the only danger she faced was from imaginary bugs crawling on her, that didn’t mean something worse couldn’t have happened. Snakebite. A fall from the ladder. Or, God forbid, fire. She would have suffocated in there.

  “It weren’t right, trappin’ you in there.”

  “No, it wasn’t.” She crossed the room and positioned herself in front of a worktable with a lumpy brown mass in the center that had to be the ugliest loaf of bread he’d ever seen. “But no harm was done. I’ll deal with my nephew as I see fit. He’s really none of your concern, Mister . . . ?”

  “Davenport. Luke Davenport. And actually, he is my concern.” Luke uncrossed his arms and relaxed his stance, making an effort to appear harmless. She didn’t look convinced. Luke bit back a sigh. “Is Nate around?”

  Any remaining gratitude in her gaze faded behind an increasing wariness. “You know my nephew?”

  Luke shook his head. “My new employer, Oliver Grimes, mentioned him. Said he might have some information that could be helpful to my investigation.”

  “Investigation?” She reached for the table behind her. “Are you some kind of lawman? Because Nathaniel has done nothing wrong.”

  Interesting that her mind immediately jumped to wrongdoing.

  “No, ma’am. I’ve been hired by Mr. Grimes to look into some cattle rustling at the Triple G.” He smiled at her, hoping to put her at ease. It worked for Wallace, but he must be doing it wrong, ’cause the filly in front of him looked anything but easy. Her gaze kept dodgin’ to the window and the back door. Thinking about makin’ a run for it? Or worried good ol’ Nate might return and have to face up to his misdeeds?

  Luke didn’t know much about women, but he was pretty sure throwin’ accusations around about their young’uns bein’ involved in unsavory activities wasn’t the best way to secure their cooperation. It’d be best if he downplayed his suspicions.

  “Since the two of you are neighbors,” Luke said, keeping his voice nonchalant, “Grimes thought Nate might have seen something to give us a clue about who the guilty party might be or how they’re getting onto the property unseen. That’s what brought me to your door today. I was hoping to ask the boy a few questions.”

  Her grip on the table let up a bit. “I see. I doubt Nathaniel will be much help, though. He’s only a boy.”

  Luke shrugged. “Boys still got eyes. And something tells me Nate’s not the type to sit at home in his room. He’s more of an explorer. Am I right?”

  She didn’t answer, but the truth radiated from her eyes. Nate was a wild one.

  “Miss Baxter . . .” Luke frowned. “It is Miss Baxter, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Damaris Baxter. I’m sorry. I should have introduced myself earlier.”

  Luke grinned. “When, exactly? During your escape from the cellar or in the middle of defendin’ your nephew?”

  Her gaze dropped to the floor, but a shy smile winked at him. “I suppose these aren’t exactly ordinary circumstances, are they?”

  “No, ma’am. But it is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Baxter.” Luke fingered his hat brim. He probably should’ve taken it off entirely at some point, but it seemed silly to do it now when their visit was nearing an end.

  “Likewise, Mr. Davenport.” She pushed away from the table and extended her hand. “And I really do appreciate you coming to my rescue. Thank you.”

  He clasped her hand, her fingers slender inside his oversized mitt. He lingered an extra heartbeat, enjoying the feel of her hand in his. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d touched a wo—

  “Let go of my aunt, mister, or I’ll blow ya to bits!”

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  Nathaniel!” Damaris couldn’t believe her eyes. Where had he gotten a rifle?

  When she’d moved into the house, she’d found her brother’s shotgun and pistol along with a stash of ammunition in a gun cabinet in the master bedroom, but she had locked that up tight and hidden the key in her jewelry box on her first night. Guns might be normal in Texas, and she supposed they even had their uses when it came to snakes and coyotes and other uninvited creatures, but having them in the house made her uncomfortable. So she’d draped an embroidered dresser runner over the glass front of the cabinet and pretended it was a thin armoire.

  She hadn’t told her nephew about the key. But then, Nathaniel wasn’t holding his father’s shotgun. He was holding a rifle. One she didn’t recognize.

  Mr. Davenport released Damaris’s hand and turned slowly to face her nephew, keeping his hands away from his body. As he turned, he stepped sideways, drawing the aim of the gun away from her.

  “Nathaniel,” Damaris said in the most soothing voice she could summon, “Mr. Davenport is no threat to me. We were just talking.”

  Her nephew hid his emotions well, but she knew he must be terrified. Surely he’d never held a gun on another person before. Especially not a person of Mr. Davenport’s intimidating size. Why, the man looked like a dime novel hero come to life. His stature and musculature dwarfed the boy.

  “Please, Nathaniel. Put the gun down.”

  Her nephew didn’t even glance her way. His full attention centered on the stranger in their kitchen. And while it touched her heart that Nathaniel was trying to protect her, she couldn’t escape the feeling that he was the one in need of protection. She took a step toward him, but Mr. Davenport motioned with his hand for her to stay put. Instinct told her to obey. He seemed the type to know what to do in situations involving guns and boys eager to prove their masculinity. Since her knowledge and experience in those areas wouldn’t fill a thimble, she opted to follow his lead.

  “Your aunt’s right, Nate.” The words oozed from Mr. Davenport like melted butter. Calm. Smooth. Completely unruffled. “I mean her no harm. You neither.”

  Nathaniel shifted his feet. His eyes darted from Damaris back to their guest. The gun started to drop as if the weight was taking a toll on his arms, but he jerked it back up in an instant and pointed it straight at Mr. Davenport’s chest.

  “Don’t move!”