Page 19 of Cloaked in Beauty

“The heading-out part sounded good. Let’s focus on that.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He dipped his chin and touched the brim of his hat, then finally started moving his feet.

He kept his hands raised for the first twenty steps or so, as if she had a gun trained on his back, then finally disappeared into the forest. Knowing precisely where the fallen tree lay, she jogged through the trees on a path parallel to the one he would take and spied on him.

Sure enough, he took off his buckskin coat and draped it over the log before mounting a waiting horse—a beautiful gray with a black mane and tail. The stranger didn’t search the trees for signs of her, just rode away without a backward glance.

Her gaze returned to the coat as curiosity swelled in her breast. Letter or no letter, she really ought to learn what she could about the man. He could be the greatest danger she’d faced since the fire in Houston.

8

The temptation to look over his shoulder was so strong, Philip had to clench his jaw to keep his chin aimed forward as he rode away from the secluded homestead. The detective inside him writhed at the idea of leaving his quarry behind. He’d found the Radcliffe heiress! Not a shred of doubt clouded his mind on that score. Yet finding her only fulfilled half the mission. Getting her to Houston in one piece was the main objective, and he’d not accomplish that feat without the lady’s cooperation. Giving her the freedom to choose whether or not to accept his escort provided the clearest route to gaining her trust. Too bad it also carried the biggest risk.

She could reject him. Especially if she ignored the letter. Or worse, she could pack up what few belongings she possessed and make a run for it.

Philip reined Steele to a walk as he found his way back to the rutted path that wound through the forest, heading back toward Queen City. He scanned the area for a place where he could keep watch for the station agent’s wagon without being seen. Spying a stream, he followed it around a bend and dismounted.

“This is a good spot.” He patted Steele’s neck. “Plenty of water. A bit of grass. Go ahead and get comfortable. Don’t know how long this will take.”

He reached for the canteen attached to his saddle and drank in a healthy gulp before tying the flask back down. Then he opened his saddlebag and pulled out his field glasses. He walked around to the front of his horse and gave the command for him to stand, then dropped the reins to ground tie him. Steele might move about a little to take a drink at the stream or nibble on some grass, but he’d not wander off. Even if Philip’s reconnaissance lasted multiple hours. Which it might.

He had no idea how long the doctor’s visit would last, but he was pretty sure the girl wouldn’t make a move until she knew how her grandmother fared. Hopefully, her curiosity would get the better of her while she waited for the men to leave, and she’d read the letter of introduction her mother had written. Would Miss Radcliffe recognize her mother’s handwriting after all these years? Or would she assume it was some kind of trick perpetuated by her uncle?

Philip found a place to sit where he could lean against a wide tree. With the trunk blocking him from the west, he’d be invisible from those traveling east on the road, but once they passed, he’d gain a clear view of them. Hopefully, his field glasses would allow him to peer into the wagon and determine if they carried a pair of stowaways in the bed. If he found no evidence of the women, he’d circle back to the cabin for a little surveillance. Make sure little Miss Radcliffe didn’t scurry away under cover of darkness.

Her wolf might make spying a bit tricky, though. Did he roam the woods at night or stay close to the cabin? Hopefully, he was more pet than wild and wouldn’t be prowling the woods tonight.

What kind of woman kept a pet wolf anyway? A grin tugged on the corner of his mouth as he pictured her in his mind’s eye. A feisty one, apparently. She’d stood among the pines with a strength that mimicked the trees around her. Legs braced for battle. Ferocity shooting from her gaze. Knife wielded with the confidence of one who knew how to use it. Loyal beast snarling at her side. She’d made quite the imposing figure. One that had caused him a momentary lapse of wits.

He’d known she was nearly twenty-one, but for some reason—perhaps because Mrs. Radcliffe had spoken of her daughter more as the child she remembered than a woman grown—he’d been expecting to encounter a sheltered, innocent miss like the one he’d beheld in the last photograph, not a grown woman brimming with courage, intelligence, and determination. She’d stolen his breath. The photographs had prepared him to meet a pretty young girl, not a stunning woman. The sepia-toned images had utterly failed to capture her vibrancy. Especially that hair. Deep auburn. Like burnished copper. Her hood had hidden most of it from view, but the wind had caught a thick lock and blown it about. When a stream of sunlight found it, hair he’d thought to be brown from a distance turned into a deep mahogany.

Philip frowned as he dug out a rock from under his hip and made his seat more comfortable. He’d had no business talking to her. Not today of all days with her grandmother ill. He’d simply meant to scout the area and confirm that the woman of the woods was in fact Scarlett Radcliffe. Even with the urgency of his mission pressing down on him, he’d known better than to approach his target while she was experiencing what had to be a personal crisis. She might be losing the only human connection she had in the world. The fear and uncertainty brought on by such an occurrence would naturally heighten her suspicion of strangers. The timing could not have been worse. Yet when that wolf of hers caught his scent, he’d been left with no choice but to reveal himself.

He prayed she’d read the letter. Everything hinged on her willingness to trust him.

****

Letty sat at the base of her lookout tree, her attention back on the cabin and her grandmother where it belonged. She draped the stranger’s coat over her lap and began to rummage through the pockets. One by one, she laid out each item she found in a semicircle on the ground around her folded legs. Not many clues for untangling the stranger’s identity. A handful of loose change totaling a dollar and thirty-five cents. A white cotton handkerchief, free of any adornment. A bit of jerky wrapped in brown paper, making her think he was a man who spent a lot of time in the saddle. A leather wallet carrying an odd set of slender metal tools. A small pocket New Testament, its leather cover worn along the spine and pages crinkled enough to testify to regular use.

Then, of course, there was the letter. Housed in a plain white envelope with no name or address to identify its intended recipient. The stranger had insisted it belonged to her, yet she’d made a point to empty every other pocket before finally slipping it free of the pocket in the coat’s lining. Setting the coat aside, she placed the letter in her lap and smoothed a hand over it. Her heart pounded in an odd mix of anticipation and dread.

There could be only one explanation for how a man she’d never met was certain that this letter belonged to her. He must have seen the photographs Grandmother had sent. The ones Mother took to the judge to keep Uncle Drake from claiming Letty’s inheritance.

Every year, a photographer friend of Mr. Darby came to town and took her photograph down by the bayou. No names were exchanged, and Grandmother paid him handsomely for his willingness not to ask questions. She also paid for the glass negative, so she could ensure no proof remained behind for anyone to discover. If the man who belonged to this coat had seen the photographs, he must have been sent by her uncle.

So why hadn’t he snatched her up on the spot? He could have easily overpowered her. Rusty might have made him leery, but the stranger had been wearing a gun. He could have dispatched her canine guard with one shot and her with a second. Uncle Drake wanted her dead, after all. Dragging a corpse back to Houston would be easier than transporting a live captive. Just toss her in a pine box and put her on a train. So why hadn’t he?

She reached for the New Testament lying in the pine needles beside her and stroked her fingers down the front of the cover. Was this why he hadn’t killed her? Was he a man of morality? A man who feared God more than his employer? But if he was a godly man, why would he work for a scoundrel like Drake Radcliffe?

Letty rubbed her temple. All these questions on top of her worry over Grandmother’s health were making her head throb. Rusty rubbed his head against her arm as if he sensed her need for a friend. She stroked his ears for a minute, then turned her attention back to the envelope.

Could she trust what was written inside? The man had obviously wanted her to read it. Was it a deception or a way for her to discover the truth?

For pity’s sake. Why was she letting a simple piece of paper intimidate her so? She’d faced down a pair of interloping loggers with guns. Found her way to town and fetched Mr. Darby. She could be decisive when called upon.

But could she be discerning?

Living a sequestered life left her with no experience to draw upon when it came to deciphering a person’s motives. How many times had Grandmother warned that unscrupulous people would try to take advantage of her once she returned to society? People would hide their true colors behind honeyed words in order to win her trust. Was that what this stranger was trying to do?