Free The Rustler by Linda Lael Miller Page A

lying about Christmas? Having to stay at school alone while everyone else goes home for the holiday season?”
    Charles’s mouth took on a grim tension. “It isn’t always convenient to have a ten-year-old underfoot,” he said. “Marjory’s nerves are—delicate.”
    â€œ Convenient? Charles, he’s ten. A child.”
    â€œMarjory—”
    â€œ Damn Marjory!” Sarah whispered furiously. She was in no position to anger Charles, given the shares he held in the bank, but her concern for Owen— her son—pushed everything else aside. “What do I care for the state of your wife’s nerves?”
    â€œThey’ll hear you,” Charles said anxiously, inclining his head toward the dining room. “Do you want the cowboy to know you gave birth to an illegitimate child when everyone in Stone Creek thought you were getting an education?”
    â€œOh, I got an education, all right,” Sarah said bitterly.
    Charles consulted his watch again. “I have to go,” he said. “I have paperwork to do, before tomorrow’s meeting.”
    Good riddance, Sarah thought. She’d gotten a reprieve, as far as the bank was concerned, but another part of her was alarmed. Was this “meeting” with the other shareholders? Several of them lived in Flagstaff, a relatively short train ride from Stone Creek. Suppose Charles had asked around town, heard about some of her father’s recent escapades, and made the decision to take over control? Alone, he couldn’t do it. With the help of the other shareholders, though, he could be sitting behind her father’s desk the morning after next.
    With the first smile he’d offered all evening, Charles ran his knuckles lightly down the side of Sarah’s face. “I’ll be back in a few days,” he said, as though he thought she was pining over his departure. “A week at the outside.”
    A week with Owen. A week to cover her tracks at the bank.
    She tried to look sad. Might even have said, “I’ll miss you,” as he seemed to expect her to do, but since she would have choked on the words, she swallowed them.
    He bent his head, kissed her lightly, briefly on the mouth.
    She stepped back, secretly furious.
    â€œStill the coquette,” Charles remarked smoothly. “You’re not fooling me, Sarah. I remember how much you liked going to bed with me.”
    Sarah’s cheeks pulsed with heat so sudden and so intense that it was actually painful. She would surely have slapped Charles Langstreet the Third across the face if she hadn’t known the crack of flesh meeting flesh would carry into the nearby dining room.
    â€œGood night, Mr. Langstreet,” she said.
    He grinned, turned, and strolled, whistling merrily, down the porch steps, along the walk, through the gate.
    Sarah watched him until he was out of sight, then turned and nearly collided with Wyatt, who was standing directly behind her.
    Her heart fluttered painfully. How much had he heard? Had he seen Charles kiss her?
    She could tell nothing by his expression.
    â€œI’d best be leaving, too,” he said. “I’ve got to count horses in front of saloons.”
    â€œWhat?” Sarah asked, confused.
    He chuckled. “Rowdy’s way of watching out for trouble,” he said, taking his hat from the coat tree. “Thank you, Miss Tamlin, for a fine evening and the best meal I’ve had in a long time.”
    Something tightened in Sarah’s throat. “If I’m to call you Wyatt,” she heard herself say, “then you must call me Sarah.”
    His smile was as dazzling as the starched shirt he’d put on to come to supper. “Sarah, then,” he said. The smile faded. “That Langstreet fella,” he began. “Is he…? Do you—?”
    â€œHe’s a business associate,” Sarah said. It was a partial truth, and she wondered if she ought to