Would he even care?
Taking a deep breath for courage, she knew one way or the other she had to tell him. Even an irresponsible scoundrel deserved to know he had fathered a beautiful little girl who wanted nothing more than to meet him.
“Just don’t hurt her,” she whispered. “Because if you do, I’ll kill you for it.”
O’Connell came awake slowly to the smell of bacon and coffee, and the sound of children laughing outside his door. At first he thought it was a dream.
How many times had he yearned to experience just such a morning?
Many more times than he could count.
“Catherine, do I need to set extra plates for whoever was at the door last night? I didn’t know if he, she, or them stayed, or what.”
He heard Catherine’s mumbled reply through the walls, but couldn’t make out any of her words.
All of a sudden the memory of the night before came crashing back through him.
It had been real. All of it. This was no dream. He was, in fact, sleeping in Catherine’s bed on Christmas morning.
O’Connell leaned his head back into the pillow as an overwhelming joy ripped through him. He felt like shouting or singing or doing something. Anything to celebrate such a glorious event.
Impulsively, he pulled Catherine’s pillow to him and inhaled the fresh sunshine smell of her. Intoxicated, he listened to the children sing “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” as someone jingled china and silverware.
“It’s not a dream,” he whispered.
He laughed softly as raw euphoria invaded every piece of him. He had his Christmas miracle.
Smiling, he rose from the bed and dressed, then made the bed up. Catherine had always complained he twisted the sheets into knots and she hated a messy bed.
This would be his gift to her.
He left the room warily and made sure no one spied him lest Catherine have some serious explaining to do. The last thing she needed was a tarnished reputation, and the last thing he needed was nosy questions he couldn’t answer.
He saw the stairs behind him and made like he was coming from one of the rooms upstairs.
As he drew flush with the kitchen door, he saw Catherine standing in front of the stove, frying eggs.
He delighted at her trim form. She’d left her hair long in the back with a braid wound about the top of her head to keep it out of her eyes. Her dark green dress hugged every one of the curves he had feasted on the night before. And a white shawl draped becomingly over her shoulders.
Never had he seen a more glorious image, and he wished he could stay here forever.
“Rebecca?” Catherine called, stepping back from the stove and looking out the doorway on the opposite side of the room. “Are the children still outside?”
“Making snow angels, last I saw,” a woman called as she came into the room. The petite brunette stopped dead in her tracks as her gaze fell to him.
Catherine caught the woman’s gaze and turned to face him.
“Morning,” he greeted them.
Catherine blushed, and he didn’t miss the light that came into the short brunette’s eyes.
“Morning,” the brunette said warmly, suggestively.
Catherine cleared her throat. “Rebecca, this is our visitor from last night.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Rebecca said. “Mister… ?”
“Burdette,” he said, falling into his most recent alias. “Tyler Burdette.”
He glanced to Catherine, who took his name in with a frown.
“I’ll just go set another place at the table for you, Mr. Burdette,” Rebecca said.
As soon as they were alone again, Catherine approached him, waving a spatula dripping with hot grease dangerously near his nose. “Tyler Burdette?” she asked in a miffed tone. “Is there something you need to tell me?”
That was a loaded question and he wasn’t sure how to answer it. Luckily another visitor, a man, spared him a few moments to think.
But to be honest, all he thought about was the fact that the distinguished-looking, gray-haired man spent a little too long staring at his Catherine.
“Miss Catherine?”
“Marshal McCall,” she said, stressing the title, no doubt for his benefit.
And it worked. O’Connell was immediately on guard.
By the look on the man’s face, it was obvious he wanted to ask Catherine something of a personal nature. Worse, the man stuttered and shifted nervously before he came out with, “I just came for my morning cup of coffee.”
O’Connell’s gaze narrowed. The damn man was infatuated with his wife.
He flinched as an image of her in the marshal’s arms tore through his mind.
Would the insults never cease?
As Catherine moved to fetch a cup of coffee, the marshal glanced to O’Connell. “How do?” he asked amiably enough.
“Just fine, Marshal,” O’Connell returned, trying to remain pleasant in spite of the urge he had to choke the man. “And you?”
The marshal frowned as he looked him up and down. “Don’t I know you from someplace?”
Probably from about a dozen or so wanted posters, but he didn’t dare say that. Instead, O’Connell shook his head. “I don’t know any marshals.” He made it his habit to avoid them at all costs.
“No?” the marshal asked. “You sure look familiar to me. You got any family in Reno?”
O’Connell shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of.”
He seemed to accept that. But still he took a step forward and extended his hand. “Dooley McCall.”
“Tyler Burdette,” he said, shaking his proffered hand.
“Burdette,” the marshal repeated. “Nah, I don’t reckon I do know you after all.”
Catherine handed the marshal his coffee.
“Thank you, Miss Catherine. I keep telling my deputies no one on earth makes a better pot of coffee than you do.”
“Thank you, marshal.”
O’Connell didn’t miss the blush staining her cheeks. For a moment, he had to struggle to breathe. How dare she blush at another man. So what if he had been gone five years, it still didn’t give her the right to do that for someone else.
She was his wife, not the marshal’s.
The marshal nodded, then took his coffee and left.
O’Connell wasted no time sneaking to the doorway to see the marshal sitting in the parlor with a paper, sipping his coffee as if everything were right in the world.
“What the hell is a marshal doing here?” he asked Catherine in a low voice.
She gave him a haughty glare. “He lives here.”
“Lives here?” he repeated.
“I run a boardinghouse, remember? He’s one of my regular tenants.”
“Why would you let him live here?”
“I don’t know,” she said sarcastically. “Maybe I like having him here because it keeps out the riff-raff,” she said with a pointed stare, “and he pays two months’ rent in advance.”
Catherine didn’t miss the heated glare Michael gave her. Licking her lips, she felt a wave of misgiving run up her spine. Michael was entirely too interested in the marshal.
Something was wrong.
“Are you wanted?” she asked all of a sudden.
He stared at her with those clear silver-gray eyes. “It depends,” he said in a serious voice. “I was hoping you’d want me.”
Her breath caught. Did she dare hope that he might actually be able to settle down with her and Diana?
“And if I did?” she asked.
He looked back at the marshal. “This is a bad time. I really need to leave.”
“Leave?” she gasped. “You can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because you just got here. You can’t just show up on my doorstep, roll around in my bed, and then take flight as soon as the sun comes up. I thought we had shared something special last night. Or were they all lies again?”
He winced as if she’d struck him. “I’ve never lied to you, Catherine.”
“No. But you lied to my boarder and housekeeper. Is that not true, Mr. Tyler Burdette?”
“I – ”
“Miss Catherine, Miss Catherine?” An excited boy came bursting through the kitchen with Pete’s saddlebags in his hands. The blond head bobbed as the kid jumped up and down. “I just found these outside by the front door, and look,” he said, flipping one open. “They’re filled with money! Can I keep it?”
O’Connell went cold as everything came together in his mind.
“I found this little orphanage in a town called Redwood,” Pete had said. “You’d probably like it a lot, Kid. It had a real homey feel to it.”
O’Connell cursed as his stomach drew tight. Pete knew. He had sent him purposefully to find Catherine.
Panic swept through him. That meant Pete wouldn’t be far behind. He had to get her to safety before his brother showed up and used her to drag him back into robbery.
But how? She’d never leave her business or her orphans.
“This is bad,” he whispered. “Real bad.”
Catherine looked into the saddlebags. “Where did this come from?” she asked the boy.
“I was told it was stolen from you,” O’Connell said as he double-checked where the marshal sat.
Looking up at him, Catherine frowned. “By whom?”
“Is it yours?” O’Connell asked, seeking to delay the inevitable explanation of how he’d come by her money. “Were you robbed?”
“Yes, we were. But how did you get it?”
So much for delaying the inevitable.
She looked at him sternly. “Did you take it?”
“No!” he barked. “How could you even ask that?”
“Well, what am I to think?” she asked as she set the saddlebags on the table and excused the boy.
She moved to stand just before him, hands on hips. “I thought I knew you, and yet every time I blink I learn something about you that scares me. Now tell me how it is you have my money.”