Lucky Penny Page 8

  So where the hell had he met her? At a Denver community social, possibly, or at a cattlemen’s potluck? At shindigs like that, there were always a couple of punch bowls heavily spiked with booze. David could scarcely believe he’d offered a proper young lady alcohol at some forgotten public function. Paxton men didn’t prey on innocents. Ace had started drilling that into David’s head as he entered adolescence. Sadly, back in his early twenties while visiting Denver, David had been drunk so much of the time that the line between right and wrong had gotten very blurry.

  Brianna stood with one slender hand pressed to her waist, as if she had a stomach ache or something. He’d had a lot of different reactions from women in his time, but he’d never before suspected that his mere presence was enough to make a lady sick. Ignoring him, she fixed her gaze on their daughter. “Daphne, darling, can you run along and play for a while? Or better yet, perhaps this is a good time to practice your recitation. We adults need a moment to talk privately, please.”

  David gave Daphne a reassuring pat and whispered in her ear, “Remember the candy money? Now would be a good time to buy yourself a peppermint stick.”

  David set her on the floor. He straightened the rose-colored ribbon in her hair. The expression in her eyes told him without her saying a word that she was still worried about him leaving. “Do you, by any chance, like sarsaparilla?”

  “I love it!” the child cried.

  “Well, I’m fond of it, too. Later, we’ll go to the restaurant, and I’ll buy us both one.”

  Assured by the promise, the little girl bounced across the plank floor. The door crashed shut behind her as she ran outside. David settled a thoughtful gaze on the child’s mother. Damn, but she was pretty. David couldn’t deny that. But the possibility of a fractious disposition still couldn’t be ruled out. Even her speech, refined and laced with an accent he couldn’t quite pinpoint, screamed “proper.”

  “My dear sir,” she said shakily, her hand still splayed at her waist. “It appears you have traveled a very long way for absolutely no reason. We’ve obviously never met, and you have no obligations here.”

  When she said sir, it sounded like suh. Southern, maybe? Nope. David had been born in Virginia, and he didn’t detect a drawl. An Easterner, he decided. How he had hooked up with her, he didn’t know, but it didn’t matter. After seeing Daphne, he was convinced beyond any shadow of a doubt that he was her father.

  Just then a door at the rear of the shop swung open and a skinny woman in a scarlet dress emerged, accompanied by a faint smell of vegetable soup. David had seen some fair-skinned people in his day, but this gal looked as if she’d been dipped repeatedly in a bleaching agent, her skin, hair, lashes, and lips so white that the bright color of her gown was startling by contrast. Only her eyes—a dark, beady brown—saved her from being mistaken for an albino. Her mouth curved into an overeager smile as she greeted David.

  “My, my, it’s not every day we have a handsome stranger drop in.” She stepped forward, offering him a clawlike hand. “I’m the proprietress, Miss Abigail. It will be my great pleasure to assist you in any way I can.”

  David shook hands with the woman and resisted the urge to wipe his palm clean on his tan jeans after the contact ended. She was sweating like a horse that had been run too hard for several miles. Thwarted lust, or was she coming down sick? Either way, he wanted no part of it. Deliberately neglecting to introduce himself, David said, “Thank you for your kindness, Miss Abigail, but I’m here to speak with Mrs. Paxton.”

  Abigail’s eager smile thinned into a moue of distaste. She directed a glittering, resentful glance at Brianna. “I see.” Her bony shoulders lifted in a shrug. Then she jabbed a rigid finger at her employee. “You’ll not entertain men inside my shop, Mrs. Paxton. You may take your leave until your business with this gentleman is concluded, and I shall dock your wages accordingly for the time missed.”

  Brianna shot David an accusing look, then nodded in meek acquiescence to her boss. “I’ll be gone a half hour, no more.”

  “I’ll keep track of the time you miss, thank you very much,” Abigail flung back. Then, with a sniff, she disappeared and slammed the door behind her.

  David shot Brianna a commiserating look. “Well, now, she’s all-over unpleasant. Working for a termagant like her must be a constant trial.”

  “Positions of respectable employment for ladies are few and far between in Glory Ridge, Mr. Paxton.”

  “I know. You mentioned that in your letters.”

  She shot him a wary look over her shoulder before stepping through the parted curtain to collect her wrap. As she stooped over, the way she moved struck him as odd. There was no curve of her back, no dip of her head, and she bent slightly at the knees to prevent her posterior from protruding. That was a shame. The limp folds of her wash-worn skirt did little to hide her figure, and in his estimation, she had a very fetching backside.

  As she returned to the main room, she drew a tattered black shawl around her shoulders. Judging by her complexion, green eyes, and given name, David guessed her to be of Irish descent, and he found himself wondering if she had a temper as fiery as the shimmer of red in her hair.

  “Shall we?” she asked.

  David noticed faint blue shadows of exhaustion under her lovely eyes, which were the deepest green he’d ever seen. He knew from Daphne’s letters that Brianna turned her hand to any honest toil she could find in order to support their daughter, but judging by her appearance, she spent precious little of her earnings on herself. In addition to being rail thin, she wore a gown that was faded, badly worn, and too snug across the breasts. Her kid boots were old and battered. He had an awful suspicion that she slept little, ate infrequently, and did without other basic necessities. The very thought made him feel like a lowdown skunk. If not for him, she wouldn’t be in such a pickle.

  When they exited the dress shop, the breeze had picked up, and it had a sharp bite. Brianna clutched her shawl close and walked ahead of him along the uneven, sagging boardwalk until she reached a break between the buildings, whereupon she vanished into the narrow alley. David followed her into the shadowy chasm, where the weather-beaten structures on either side provided a windbreak. And a sound barrier. No passersby would overhear them, and he suspected that was why she’d chosen this secluded spot, despite her obvious wariness of him.

  She turned to face him, her countenance pale, her eyes gleaming with purpose. “You’ve made a huge mistake by coming here, Mr. Paxton. I told you in my last note that Daphne isn’t your daughter.”

  David tried to take a mental step back and keep his temper. He had seen the child in question, and if she wasn’t a Paxton, he’d eat his boots and have his hat for dessert. Still, he needed to hear the woman out. Having him show up unexpectedly had to be unnerving for her. One tryst, a resultant pregnancy, and so many years of separation didn’t make them lovers, close friends, or even acquaintances. He was, to all intents and purposes, a total stranger.

  “Look,” he said, trying to inject a gentle note into his voice, “I’m not here to cause you any trouble. I only want to do right by you and the little girl.”

  She blinked and, as if her lashes were attached to a drain-plug chain, all the remaining color slipped from her face. “Did you not hear me, Mr. Paxton? This isn’t about your doing the right thing. It’s a case of mistaken identity. You bear my husband’s name, but you are not my husband, and you are not Daphne’s father. Can’t you see that? You can’t honestly say you’ve ever met me before.”

  David bent his head and dug at the dirt with the heel of his boot, a habit of his when he grew angry or tense. It gave him a chance to think before he stuck his foot in his mouth. She looked scared half to death, and he sure as sand didn’t want to end this conversation prematurely by pushing her into a full-blown panic. From her standpoint, this might be a frightening situation. In custody suits, fathers, who had greater earning power, normally prevailed in court. Maybe she feared that he meant to take Daphne awa
y from her. David hadn’t come here to separate the mother from her little girl. The way he saw it, he was as obligated to Brianna as he was to Daphne. Hazel Wright’s appeal seemed dim by comparison to the very real need he saw here. He’d do whatever was necessary to make this right, and if that meant being saddled with a wife he didn’t love, so be it. At least she was easy on the eyes, and under better circumstances, she might even be congenial.

  “Like I said, I’m not here to do any harm.”

  She squeezed her eyes closed. When she lifted her lashes, David saw the shadows of anxiety and fear that darkened her irises. He regretted that, but what the hell was his alternative? After seeing Daphne, he couldn’t just ride away to spare this woman grief.

  “As I told you in my thank-you note, Mr. Paxton, my husband is a miner in Denver, not a marshal in an outlying town.”

  David dug a deeper hole in the dirt, wishing he were better with words. “No offense intended, ma’am, but I’ve searched high and low for another man named David Paxton in or around Denver. I’ve visited the saloons, the post offices, the assayers, and all the stores, searching the books for a transaction under his name. I’ve also interviewed countless people, hoping to find just one person who might remember him. Plain and simple, another David Paxton in that area simply doesn’t exist.”

  She looked as if she might faint. Her mouth compressed into a thin line. She weaved on her feet. David gripped her shoulder to steady her. She jerked and cringed from his touch.

  “That isn’t possible,” she told him. “I’m married to the man. I had a child with him. No more than a month ago, I received a letter from him, postmarked in Denver! He’s there, mining for gold, I’m telling you. Just because you didn’t locate him doesn’t mean he doesn’t exist. Why would I lie about such a thing?”

  David had no idea why she might lie; he knew for a fact only that she had. About a month ago, he’d spoken to the Denver postmaster at length. The man had a mind like a steel trap, took a personal interest in all his customers, and never forgot a name. If another David Paxton had posted a letter at his window at any time over the last few years, the postmaster would remember him.

  As if Brianna sensed that he didn’t believe her, she rocked forward onto her toes and extended her neck. “He mines in Denver, I tell you. In the gold fields! All of his letters have been postmarked there!”

  David didn’t want this discussion to get ugly, but Daphne’s sweet face kept swimming in his mind. Her resemblance to his mother was uncanny, and that birthmark on her neck was undeniable proof that his blood flowed in her veins.

  Trying to choose his words carefully, he replied, “The placer mining in the Denver gold fields petered out years ago. Only a fool would sift through that dirt now, trying to find enough color to amount to anything.”

  “Are you calling my husband a fool, sir?”

  Well, no, he wasn’t, at least not exactly. David was saying, as politely as he could, that her alleged husband didn’t exist. He looked deep into the alleyway, searching the shadows, wishing he could find answers there. “I’m saying no other David Paxton resides in the Denver area.”

  “Then maybe he mines somewhere else! Maybe he moved on!” she cried. “Maybe he only goes into Denver for the amenities, a hot bath, a good meal, and a night at a hotel. He enjoys a game of cards now and again, and also an occasional drink. A man can’t live his entire life working without taking a break now and then.”

  It appeared to David that she was doing pretty much that, toiling long hours with precious little rest. “The mining towns in the mountains west of Denver are well established with their own hotels, saloons, bathhouses, and postal services,” he informed her. “Why would a man travel clear to Denver when all the things you just mentioned are readily available in the town where he works? I’ll also add that I checked out those distant mining communities. Leadville, Central City. I even went as far as Summitville. There’s no record of another David Paxton ever having been in any of those places. Quite simply, the man doesn’t exist. Do you think I’d be here otherwise? That I’ve got a strange hankering to take on a ready-made family? I have a nice life in No Name—a job as the town marshal and a prosperous cattle ranch.”

  “Then go back to them!” she cried. “I didn’t invite you here.”

  “Yes,” he corrected, “you did. In dozens of letters written over the last six years, you not only invited me here, but you begged me to come.”

  She sank against the clapboard wall behind her. “Please, just go. Don’t do this.”

  “I don’t have any choice,” he replied.

  “Why?” she demanded, her voice rising to a shrill pitch. “Are you out of your mind? I guess I know who the father of my child is, sir, and you are not he!”

  “Then why did you send me those letters?”

  “I didn’t!” She practically screamed the words, then pulled in a gasping breath in an obvious fight for self-control.

  David was fast moving beyond diplomacy. “I’ve seen Daphne. That child is the spitting image of my mother. She even has the Paxton birthmark on her neck. Don’t stand there and deny she’s mine. I know better.”

  She laughed—a brittle, frantic little bleep of sound followed by a gulp that bobbed her pebble-size larynx. “You’re delusional. That spot on my daughter’s neck is not a birthmark.” She paused and her gaze shifted nervously. “Hot grease splattered from a skillet while I was cooking when she was just a baby. The burn left a scar.”

  David had interrogated too many people to be easily deceived. The hand she used to grasp her shawl had gone white at the knuckles. Instead of looking him directly in the eye, she kept her gaze fixed on the building behind him. He didn’t believe a word she was saying. Maybe he’d guessed right about there being a new man in her life and marital plans in the making. The unexpected appearance of her child’s father would sure as hell be a fly in her ointment.

  “Bullshit,” he shot back.

  She jerked at the word, which told him she was unaccustomed to rough language. Well, he was no longer in any frame of mind to mince words.

  “I know a Paxton when I see one,” he added. “She’s my kid, God damn it! And now you expect me to just walk away? Think again. You look like you haven’t had a decent meal in weeks. Your clothing is threadbare. My daughter would be wearing rags if I hadn’t sent money. Yet you stand there denying me the right to care for her—and for you?”

  “I’ve done the best I can by her! You have no right to criticize me or how I’ve provided for my child. You’re stepping beyond your bounds.”

  “I meant no criticism. Under the circumstances, I think you’ve done a swell job. But with my help you can do better.”

  “I don’t want your help.”

  “Not even if it makes things better for Daphne?” he thrust at her, and saw her flinch. He pressed his advantage. He had a feeling he wouldn’t get many of them. “Whether you want my help or not, Paxton men don’t sire children and then walk away. We’re honor bound to do right by the child and the mother. Get that straight in your head. Now that I’m here, I’ll by God not leave without my daughter.”

  She looked at him as if he were a five-headed coiled rattler. “Are you threatening me?”

  “Read into it what you like. I didn’t stutter my words.”

  Even in the dim light, tears sparkled like diamonds in her eyes. “You have to listen to me,” she said jaggedly. “You’re wrong, I’m telling you. My husband, David, was once a rancher here in Colorado.”

  “Where at in Colorado?” he broke in.

  She fixed him with a blank look. “It’s—um—a tiny place. I’m sure you’ve never heard of it.”

  “Try me.”

  She flicked the tip of her tongue over her full lower lip. “Taffeta Falls,” she blurted.

  David almost chuckled. Taffeta Falls? She was a dressmaker, so he supposed it followed that she’d draw from her ready store of knowledge when she lied. “You’re right. I’ve never heard of it.” Und
oubtedly because such a place didn’t exist. He gestured with his hand. “Please, do go on.”

  She drew up her shoulders, breathed deeply through her nose, and visibly collected her composure. “Where was I?”

  “Your husband was once a rancher here in Colorado near a tiny town called Taffeta Falls.”

  “Oh, yes, of course.” She drew in another breath before continuing. “I met David in Boston when he journeyed there to visit his relatives. After we married, I returned to Colorado with him. Shortly thereafter, he heard of the gold being found in Denver, and he set out to find his fortune. Not long after he left, I realized I was with child, and I was soon unable to do the work required to keep the ranch. The bank foreclosed. David didn’t respond to my letters or return to collect me. At that point, I was homeless, so I went back to Boston, prevailing upon David’s family to help me.”

  “You don’t have any relatives of your own?” David interjected.

  “No, I was left on the doorstep of an orphanage when I was an infant.”

  David filed away that bit of information for later.

  “After Daphne was born, I found that I missed the wide-open spaces of Colorado and responded to an advertisement in the Boston paper, applying for a job as a housekeeper and tutor in a widower’s home outside of Glory Ridge. I worked for him until three months ago, when he took a second wife.”