“Milly,” her sister murmured, her tone mildly reproachful. “We shouldn’t make Mr. Brookfield feel unwelcome. We haven’t even given him a chance.”
So Miss Matthews could be prickly. This rose had thorns. Then he heard his words as she must have heard them, and he realized how offensive his half-formed idea of meeting the lady and her associates merely as a lark before settling down to a dreary job was.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean it to sound that I was merely looking to amuse myself at your expense, ladies. I…I truly was impressed with your initiative, and decided I wanted to meet you.”
His reply seemed to mollify her somewhat. “I see,” she said, studying him. Her eyes seemed to look deep into his soul. “You’re British, Mr. Brookfield?”
Nick nodded. “From Sussex, in southeastern England. But I’ve been in India the past decade.”
“I—I see,” she said again, seemingly uncertain what to do now.
Nick was increasingly aware of their audience hanging on to every word. “I—that is, I wonder if we might speak privately?” He couldn’t think properly with all of them staring at him, let alone produce the right words to keep her from dismissing him out of hand.
Suspicion flashed in those changeable brown-gold eyes. For a moment Millicent Matthews looked as if she might refuse.
Nick added the one word he could think of to change her mind, and infused it with all the appeal he could muster. “Please.”
She glanced at the others, but they were apparently all waiting for her to decide, for no one said a word or twitched a muscle.
“Very well,” she said at last. “We can step outside for a moment, I suppose. Sarah, will you take over the meeting? If you’ll follow me, Mr. Brookfield…” She led him down the hall past the sanctuary.
Pushing open the pecan wood door, he walked outside with her, around the side of the church past a small cemetery and into a grove of venerable live oak and pecan trees behind the church. Fragments of old pecan shells crunched under their feet.
It was pleasantly cool in this sun-dappled shade, though the heat of the afternoon shimmered just beyond the influence of the leafy boughs. Insects hummed. A mockingbird flashed gray, black and white as it flitted from one tree to another. A curved stone bench curled around half of the thick trunk of one of the trees, but Millicent Matthews didn’t sit down; instead, she turned to face him.
“Mr. Brookfield, before we say anything more, I feel compelled to point out that I’m merely the one who composed the advertisement. There are several other ladies to choose from, as you saw. I assure you, it’s quite all right if you find you prefer another of them…”
So she had a sense of fair play and generosity. Nick liked that about her. But somehow he knew her suggestion was something he didn’t even want to consider. It was incomprehensible how he could sense that already, but there it was.
“I know you will find this difficult to believe, since we’ve only just met, and we really don’t know each other at all,” he said. “I can well understand that it appears I’m making a snap judgment, and perhaps I am, but I would like the opportunity to get to know you better. I—I find you very attractive indeed, Miss Matthews, and that’s the simple truth—”
He broke off, somewhat nettled as he noticed she appeared to have suddenly stopped listening. “Miss Matthews…”
“Ssssh!” Millicent hissed, suddenly holding up her hand.
Then he realized she was listening to something beyond the trees, up the road. Then he heard it, too, the pounding of hooves coming closer and a voice calling “Miss Milly! Miss Milly!”
“That sounds like Bobby…what can be the matter?” She jumped up, her brow furrowed, and began running toward the front of the church. Nick followed.
Just as they reached the road, a lathered horse skidded to a sliding stop in front of them and a wild-eyed youth jumped off, keeping hold of the reins. The other ladies, doubtless hearing the commotion, poured outside, too.
“Miss Milly! Miss Sarah! You gotta come home quick! There was Injuns—Comanche, I think—they attacked, and I think Uncle Josh is dead!”
Chapter Three
“Indians? Josh is dead? We have to get back there!”
Nick saw the color leach from Millicent Matthews’s face until it was white as sun-bleached bones. He stepped quickly forward to catch her, but although she trembled, she stood firm. It was Sarah, her sister, who swayed and might have gone down if one of the other ladies had not moved in to hold her up.
“Sarah! Are you all right?” Milly asked, rushing forward to her sister, whom the other woman had gently assisted to the ground before starting to fan her face.
“Yes…I think so…everything went gray for a moment…” Sarah said. “I’m all right, really, Caroline. Help me up.”
Still pale but obviously embarrassed at her near-swoon, she scrambled to her feet.
“We’ve got to get home!” Milly cried, now that her sister was standing. Her gaze darted around until it settled on a wagon whose horses were tied at the hitching post next to his mount, then back to her sister. “Sarah, come on, let’s get you into the wagon—” She braced her sister with an arm around her waist.
Caroline said, “I’ll help you get her into the wagon and go home with you. Dan, you run down and tell Pa and the sheriff to round up the men and come out to the Matthews ranch. And bring the doctor, just in case…. Quick, now!” she added, when it seemed as if the lad would remain standing there, mouth agape.
Then Milly seemed to remember him. “Mr. Brookfield, I’m sorry…I have to go. I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to—that is, perhaps one of the other ladies…”
“Oh, but I’m coming with you,” he informed her, falling into step next to her as she and the other woman helped Sarah walk.
“Really, that’s awfully kind of you, but it’s not your trouble. There’s no telling what we’re going to find when we get there,” she told him, as if that was the end of the matter. Her eyes went back to her sister as the other woman clambered into the bed of the wagon and stretched an arm down to assist Sarah. “Careful, Sarah…”
“Which is exactly why I’m going,” Nick said. “There’s no way on earth a gentleman would allow you to ride alone into possible danger. There might be savages lying in wait.”
She looked skeptical of him and impatient to be off. “Thank you, but I’m afraid you don’t understand about our Comanche—”
He saw how she must see him, as a civilized foreigner with no real experience in fighting, and interrupted her with a gesture. “I have a brace of pistols in my saddlebags,” he said, jerking his head toward his horse. “And I know how to use them, as well as that shotgun you have mounted on the back of your wagon seat. Miss Matthews, I have served in Her Majesty’s army, and I have been tested in battle against hordes of murderous, screaming Indians—India Indians, that is—armed and out to kill me and every other Englishman they could. Let me come with you, at least until the men from town arrive.”
His words seemed to act like a dash of cold water. “A-all right,” she said, and without another word turned back to the wagon. She climbed with the graceful ease of long experience onto the seat and gathered up the reins. Before he could even mount his horse, she had backed up the wagon and snapped the reins over the horses’ backs.
Milly’s heart caught in her throat as the wagon round ed a curve and she spotted the smoke rising in an ominous gray plume over