Rocky Mountain Redemption

“Yes, my wages.”

When she absently set a hand to the locket, she caught herself, suddenly wishing that she’d never been given the gift.

She lifted her head from the pillow and fumbled for the clasp. If it belonged to Ben Drake, then she’d promptly return it because the lovely piece of jewelry had obviously never belonged to her. Or Max.

His brow furrowed. “What are you doing?”

“I’m giving this back.” She steadied her fingers enough to undo the clasp. “Like you said, it belongs to you.”

His hands lightly grasped hers, stilling them, his face a mask of confusion. “No. Please, don’t take it off, Callie.”

She couldn’t move, couldn’t look at him. Inside she was in an all-out war for control. She was deeply hurt, betrayed by Max, though he was six months gone. And Ben wore self-assured confidence like some fine evening coat fitted to a T. Yet he showed concern and compassion.

“It’s not mine,” she declared, weeding out any sign of self-pity from her voice. “It never was and I—”

Her words died on another violent fit of coughing that paled all others. It wrenched her chest, her shoulders, her head. Every muscle convulsed.

She was barely aware as Ben slipped an arm behind her shoulders. She felt his strong arms cradle her as he whispered soothing words while she fought to gain her breath. When he pulled her closer to himself and wedged another pillow behind her head, his warmth seeped into her. And much needed relief slowly settled over her as he lowered her to the pillow.

“That really didn’t sound good.” Ben hunkered down to eye level with her. “At all. I’m very concerned.”

“I’ll be fine,” she rasped, with painful effort.

She wasn’t sure if her throat felt like it was closing up because of her cough and sore throat or the emotion his tender care evoked. For the first time in a long time, she might be experiencing what it was like to have someone care about what happened to her. To care for her.

But how could that be? Max had done nothing but speak ill of his brothers—especially Ben.

She pushed away from Ben, thinking about how Max must’ve been wronged and how things could’ve been so different if only…

The bitter sense of betrayal and pain and unfulfilled dreams stripped her bare. There was no way to change the past, but she could be unwavering in her quest to carve out a future of her own making.

After she’d paid off the debt.

Her eyelids drooped heavily, blatant fatigue demanding every bit of her attention. She could barely hold a coherent thought, but as she drifted closer to the blessed brink of sleep, Ben’s face flashed in her mind.

He deserved the truth about his brother. Especially if she was going to be working for him. It was only right.

Forcing her eyes open, she yawned. Coughed. “I need to tell you something if I’m going to be working for you,” she managed, her words sounding far away, though Ben’s presence felt almost as near as her next, ragged breath.

He leaned in just a bit closer.

“That woman Max ran off with…that was me. I’m your brother’s wife.” She gripped the sheet as she worked down another painful swallow. “I was married to Max.”

Ben’s strikingly handsome features creased in a disturbing wash of pain and anger. “Was? What do you mean, was?”

She quickly stuffed down the raw emotion. “Max was shot in an alley for double-dealing. He died six months ago.”

Chapter Three

The news of Max’s death echoed in Ben’s head like a gunshot in a deep mountain canyon. He’d not heard one thing. Not one thing.

When Callie had uttered the words a few hours ago, his emotions had warred between deep anger and grief. The death was an utter waste of a life so young.

And a mark of shame for Ben.

If he’d been able to turn his brother around, Max might still be here.

Ben let out a stuttering, remorse-filled sigh. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath, and tried to relax his tight muscles, calm his beating heart, but it seemed useless. His entire being had been drawn into a knot of unrest and regret in hearing the news.

He would’ve questioned her further had she not drifted off to sleep. He wanted some proof of marriage or of Max’s death, but the longer he sat here staring at her—his brother’s widow, a young woman whose brow even now furrowed in pain—the more he questioned his need for evidence.

He didn’t know one thing about Callie. Had no reason to trust her. Still, she didn’t strike him as someone who’d lie about something so severe.

Ben had a volume full of unanswered questions regarding his wayward sibling. Twice as many misgivings. If he could learn even a little about what had transpired in the past seven years, then maybe, just maybe, Ben could put to rest the painful remorse.

He doubted he’d ever find peace about certain things, though. With Max dead, there were some bitter words Ben had said that could never be taken back: that Max was good-for-nothing, a stain to the Drake family name and the worst of scoundrels. Sitting on this solitary side of things, he had no idea what kind of damage the last words he’d said to Max could’ve done.

The shameful memory pierced Ben like buckshot, shredding his already shaky confidence. In the past six months his assurance in his work as a doctor, and his trust in God, had been dealt some rough blows.

First, he’d been unable to help his brother Joseph after an accident that left him blind. Ben had doctored him to the point that Joseph demanded to be left alone. The sleepless nights Ben had spent worrying, praying, and reading anything that might be a key to Joseph regaining his sight had been to no end.

He swallowed a thick knot of guilt. The inability to produce a winning outcome did something to a man who was supposed to be an instrument of healing in God’s hands.

Then his brother Aaron had been dealt a double blow when his newborn baby and his wife died within a day of each other. Complications of childbirth. Ben had done everything he knew to change the course, but it hadn’t been enough.

And now this.

Surely, had he done things differently with Max, spoken some sense into him, things would’ve turned out differently.

He blinked hard as he stared at Callie, asleep and burrowed in a thick cloud of blankets and pillows. The frown that had creased her brow had smoothed out to reveal a feminine softness. And the stern, unrelenting purse of her lips had relaxed to render a full pout that made his mouth tip in an unprovoked, tired grin.

For a petite little thing, no more than five feet, two inches tall, she’d put up quite a fight. The bold determination he’d seen in her eyes and stubborn set to her jaw belied her small stature.

She’d felt alarmingly thin in his arms when he’d cradled her limp body and settled her in bed last night. He’d removed her cold, damp dress, its tattered hem caked with snow, to make her more comfortable. But her lightweight undergarments did nothing to conceal the fact that this woman probably hadn’t seen a decent meal in a very long time. And they did nothing to hide her undeniable, womanly curves.

Forcing his thoughts elsewhere, he snapped open his pocket watch, flicking a glance at the hour. It was already nine o’clock in the morning, and though he’d dozed a time or two in the chair beside her bed, Callie’s ragged breathing and rattled cough had kept him on the alert.

While he switched out the warm oil of camphor–soaked compress at her chest, he realized that as much as he didn’t trust her, he felt drawn to this young woman. Wanted to make sure she received the best care he could provide.

Bracing his forearms on his legs, he monitored her breathing, watching her chest rise and fall in small breaths. All the while wondering what he was going to do with her once she was well. If he didn’t give her the job would she hightail it out of Boulder?

It was painfully apparent that she needed help.

And it was no secret that he desperately needed an assistant. But was he willing to hire a young woman he had a deep interwoven history with, yet, until a few hours ago, had never even met?

Ben quietly crossed to the bedroom’s lace-draped window and peered outside through the cloudy panes. The snow had finally tapered off to a light dusting of flurries that glistened like tiny diamond chips in the morning sun. He squinted against the stark brightness, his eyelids drooping over his eyes, weighted by fatigue and by the bright glare spilling into the room.

Kneading his forehead, his thoughts strayed to the past seven years. They’d tracked Max down several times, finding him in saloons, slouched at gaming tables like some permanent fixture. Though Ben had never met Callie—didn’t even know her name—Max had lamented about how he’d needed to play the tables to keep his demanding little woman clothed in finery and frills.