The Scoundrel

More chortles. Daniel didn’t find this situation funny in the least. A child had attached itself to him—a child who appeared to know him. Experimentally, he took a step sideways. The boy trundled right in time with him. ’Twas like having a third boot. Or an extra arm. Or a squirmy, four-foot shadow. One that smelled like cabbages and surreptitiously wiped its nose on Daniel’s shirtsleeve.

Again he tried to wrench the boy free. This time, he accomplished a full three-inch space between them before the child locked his bony arms around as much of Daniel’s middle as he could reach and hurled himself forward once more.

Something inside Daniel lurched a little, as well. Most likely, it was the further settling of his dinner. But it felt a scant bit like some mush-hearted emotion…concern, maybe. Staunchly, he shoved it back. He placed both hands over the urchin’s ears.

“You’ll have to take him back,” Daniel commanded in a low voice. “This is a mistake. I can’t take delivery on a child.”

“He’s yours,” the stationmaster said. “Good luck.”

“He’s not mine.”

Several onlookers snickered. Exasperated, Daniel rolled his eyes. There’d be whispers now. By morning, rumor would have it that he’d fathered ten bastards between swallowing his morning coffee and arriving at the depot. That was the way of things in Morrow Creek.

Drawing in a deep breath, Daniel moved his hands away from the child’s ears. As he did, he became aware of the boy’s gritty, unkempt hair—and the striking disparity between his beefy hands and the child’s small head. Clearly, the boy was too helpless to take care of himself. He needed someone to watch over him. At least for tonight.

But it could not be Daniel. The notion was preposterous.

Who would place a child—however stinky, scrawny and troublesome—in the care of a renowned bachelor like him?

The boy shifted. From someplace within his bedraggled coat, he produced a packet of twine-wrapped papers. He let loose of Daniel’s belt just long enough to offer the bundle.

“I’m s’posed to give this to you.” His gimlet gaze latched on the stationmaster, who’d lingered to watch. “Only you. I rec’nized you from the picture my mama showed me.”

Daniel examined the boy’s defiant face. Though dirt-smudged, his features looked familiar. They looked…a little like his own. God help him.

Scowling, he accepted the papers.

The crowd pushed nearer. A deeper scowl sent them back again, affording Daniel room—and lantern light—to read. The moment he glimpsed the handwriting on the fine stationery before him, he knew nothing would ever be the same again.

Briefly, he closed his eyes. He’d need strength to confront the revelation awaiting him. Strength, and a goodly measure of whiskey, too. But since the whiskey was back in his old life—the life that included dancing girls, carefree days and no one watching him with hopeful, little-boy eyes—Daniel knew he might as well get on with it.

A minute later, he put his hand on the child’s shoulder. Ignoring the curious onlookers, he hunched low, so only the boy would hear him.

“Eli, you did a fine job of this. You should be proud, coming all this way on the train by yourself.”

Solemnly, Eli met his gaze. “I know. I won this coat playing marbles.”

After that, the truth was plain. Daniel could harbor no doubts at all.

Gently, he squeezed Eli’s shoulder. Then he addressed the waiting crowd. “This boy is mine,” he said gruffly.

New murmurs whisked across the platform. Daniel couldn’t be bothered by them. In truth, he’d never cared for rumors. He couldn’t be troubled even by those concerning him.

“Come with me, Eli. It’s time we went home.”

Chapter Two

Two months later

S arah Crabtree’s first proposal of marriage came between geography and literature during her inaugural year of teaching. She blamed it largely on student boredom and vowed to make her lessons more involving. The second came a year and a half later, coupled with a ten-year-old’s favorite frog and a promise to “study ’rithmatic harder.” She pinned her pretty pink gown for that one and vowed to dress more sensibly.

Neither of those proposals prepared her for the third one, though, which she received on a blustery afternoon in late October. For it, she could find no excuse at all…but she did promise herself to remember it. Because it came from the man she’d been sweet on for years, and it wasn’t likely to be repeated.

It started out innocently enough, after lessons had ended for the day. She’d just climbed on the schoolhouse ladder to shelve some books when her longtime friend Daniel McCabe strode in, filling the small timber-framed room with the scent of the outdoors, his loud footfalls and his undeniably masculine presence.

“That’s it,” he announced, stopping beside her ladder in clear exasperation. “I need a wife.”

I volunteer, she almost blurted.

No, that would never do. She’d hidden her feelings for too long now. She couldn’t go casting them about willy-nilly at the first opportunity. Clenching her hand on the next book, Sarah made herself affect an airy tone.

“My, my, Daniel. Those are four words I never thought to hear from you.”

“Well, you just did. I mean it, too.”

At the grumble he gave, Sarah chanced a downward glance. Yes, Daniel looked exactly as burly and wonderful as he always did. Also, fairly perturbed. The realization stifled the sigh she’d been about to unloose. Hoping to improve his mood, she tried teasing.

“You don’t fool me.” She moved down a few rungs, skirts swishing, for the next armload of books. “You’d as soon pluck out every hair on your head as settle down with one woman.”

“Hmmph. I think I’m doing that anyway. Maybe it’s time to get some help.”

“Help pulling out your hair?” Sarah grinned. “Grace would volunteer. Her ladies’ aid group is making hand-woven hair switches for convalescents this week.”

He stared, agape. Hiding her grin with a studious-looking scrutiny of the volumes in her arms, Sarah grabbed the ladder. She climbed higher. Sometimes she thought Daniel truly didn’t understand her sister’s altruistic nature. Many people did not.

“No. I want to keep what’s left.” Ruefully, he rubbed his scalp.

She caught the telltale motion and looked around for the one person who could always rile up Daniel McCabe. Little Eli was just visible through the schoolhouse window, hopping outdoors in the autumn-crisped grass.

Hmm. Perhaps Daniel had reached the end of his renowned patience. A child like Eli could do that to a person. The whole town had been predicting it since Daniel took the boy in.

He saw the direction of her gaze. Frowned. “Last month, Eli nicked penny candy from Luke’s mercantile. Two days after that, he let loose all of old lady Harrison’s chickens. It took her hours to find them all. A week ago, he got caught pulling the girls’ hair on the way home from school.”

“An eye for the ladies,” Sarah murmured. “Like father, like son.”

His sharp-eyed look stopped her. She didn’t know what he was so irritated about. Although Eli was the very image of Daniel himself, Sarah didn’t really believe all those rumors about Daniel having illegitimately fathered the boy. Daniel claimed Eli was his nephew, and she trusted him. He knew that. But whatever their relationship, the saying fit.

Daniel was a rogue. Eli was a rapscallion. They were a matched set, an ideal—if troublesome—twosome.

“Yesterday, he swapped my coffee beans for dirt clods,” Daniel went on, obviously too beleaguered to take exception any further. He strode across the schoolroom, past the desks and the children’s hastily pushed-in benches. “When I took a big slurp of the brew, he laughed his fool head off.”

“You couldn’t tell the difference?”

“Afterward, I could. And now.” His glare could have pierced the windowpane, it was so severe. Beyond it, Eli frolicked, unconcerned. “Another tussle at school. This is the third time this month.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Sarah said gently. Eli’s adjustment to life in Morrow Creek had not been easy—and it had not yet been fully accomplished, either. “I’ve been trying to help him. To help you both. You know I have.”

Daniel inclined his head, silently acknowledging the visits she’d paid to their bachelor house, the books she’d read, the meals she’d delivered courtesy of the Crabtrees’ cook. But he didn’t stop pacing—and he didn’t look much relieved, either.