Marshal of Hel Dorado by Heather Long Page A

his father’s
nature. He stored his freshly oiled and repaired saddle and bridle before
carrying the rest to one of the washing ponds. Hidden in a grotto of trees, he
stripped out of his sweaty clothes and dove into the water. He swam, listening
to the lazy hum of summer bees gathering and the occasional bird cry.
           The hum of life surrounded him on all
sides. Children playing at the cabins, women chattering as they tended to their
vegetable gardens and laundry, the men riding in or out on their way or coming
back from tasks that needed their attention.
           Farther away, horses nickered and whinnied
sunning themselves and grazing in their off hours. It was life at the Flying K
and it soothed the frayed edges of his temper. He soaped himself, paying
attention to washing all traces of sweat and dirt from his hair and face. He
needed a shave, but since there’d been no straight razor with the soap and
towel, he’d have to make do without one for now.
           He dried himself in the sun, dressing in
the familiar breeches and pressed shirts that his father expected at a meal
table before pulling his own boots back on. They were dusty, dented and worn
from use, but like the lack of a shave, they would have to do.
           At the main house, he dropped his dirty
clothes bundle in the laundry pile. He kept other gear here, so when he needed
to change to ride back to town, he would take those and pick up this lot on his
next visit.
           He finger combed his hair and walked
through the house to the dining room. He was tempted to check on Scarlett, but
the meal bell had already rung. By the second ring, he could kiss his hope of
food goodbye. His father waited a table for no one and if you weren’t seated on
time, you didn’t eat until the next meal.
           Still, it shocked him to walk into his
mother’s dining room with its imported English oak table and chairs, the fine
china carried by covered wagon from the sea ports in Charleston to find
Scarlett installed at his father’s right hand with Micah sitting in close
attendance on her right.
           At least he thought it was Scarlett.
           Her wild mane of red hair had been tamed
into an elegant pile on the back of her head.
           She’d traded her gingham shirt and boy
britches for a dress of green velvet, cinched tightly under her bosom and
displaying a healthy amount of creamy cleavage for admiration.
           But it was the smile, the wide open,
sunshine that lit up her face that struck him in the solar plexus. She was
looking at Jed with such a warm, good humor that he felt an uncomfortable tug
of an emotion he barely recognized souring in his belly.
           Jed noticed him before Micah or Scarlett
and jerked his chin towards the chair on his left.
           “Stop standing in the door like you need an
invitation, Samuel. Sit down. We’ve waited this meal long enough.”
           Much to his disappointment, Scarlett’s
sunny smile winked out as though smothered by dark clouds at Jed’s words. She
looked from his father to him before focusing on her plate. Red suffused the
pale skin of her neck and spread like a stain across the creamy, exposure of
flesh.
           Was she embarrassed that he caught her
enjoying herself? Good. The grumpy thought wasn’t at all like him, but he set
his hat on the stand to the right of the entranceway and walked around the
table. He was tempted to kick Micah out of his chair, but it wasn’t worth the
fight with his father to be so rude.
           Instead, he sat and nodded to Scarlett, as
polite as he could muster. “Pa. Micah.” But he didn’t say anything to her. She
was a prisoner dammit, not a guest and the last thing she should be doing was
sit down to a meal with his family.
           A boot caught his shin under the table and
Sam jerked his gaze to his father. He saw the warning in his eyes and sighed.
           “Miss Scarlett.”