Her Cold Revenge

Chapter 8

By the time Grace and Reverend Byington returned to town with the widows from the surrounding areas, Grace had already selected the perfect cabin. She bid farewell to the preacher and the women, then made her way to the general store for supplies. But as she walked through the door, she collided into someone. Someone tall, tanned, and muscular, with beautiful dark eyes and a broad-brimmed hat that contrasted with his buckskin clothing . . .

"Joe?"

When he grasped her arm to prevent her from falling, Grace's breath caught in her throat. Being so close to him, feeling the warmth of his touch, brought back a rush of memories that set every nerve tingling. But as soon as he realized it was her, Joe's eyes widened and he flinched. He yanked back his hand as if he'd been bitten by a snake. Then he brushed past her without a word.

So he did hate her? Grace felt as if her insides were shriveling.

She turned and stared after him. What was he doing in Bisbee?

"Joe, wait," she called. He stopped but didn't face her.

"What?" His voice had a rough, harsh edge.

"C-can we talk?"

"About what?"

His clipped tone made it clear he had no interest in speaking to her and that the burning questions in her heart were better left unsaid. Still, she couldn't let him walk off without at least trying to explain. She marched down the sidewalk determinedly, her boots clunking on the wooden planks, and stepped in front of Joe, forcing him to look at her.

But then her bravado waned once again. "Uh . . . wh-what brings you to Bisbee?"

"Getting supplies."

The stiffness of his mouth and the way Joe avoided her eyes only made Grace ache for him more. "Oh? Reverend Byington said you bought supplies for the Ndeh last week. They ran out already?"

Joe's cheeks flushed and shifted from side to side. "Um, no. Not exactly."

What did that mean?

"It's just that . . . well, I needed supplies for myself." He shuffled his moccasins on the wooden sidewalk.

He couldn't buy those supplies in Tombstone?

Joe shouldered his heavy pack and stared off into the distance. His face was almost as crimson as the bandana around his neck. "I needed some time alone, so I planned to go camping," he continued with a glance at her.

As his expression ran through a whole range of emotions, Grace's heartbeat doubled.

"Well, I should be going-"

She placed a hand on his arm. "Joe, please . . . don't go. Can't we talk, just for a moment?"

"Nothing to talk about."

The hurt that lay behind his words cut her to ribbons. She hadn't meant to hurt him, but how could she convince him of that?

"Couldn't we go into the saloon and get a drink? Then you can be on your way."

"Right now?"

Was it her imagination, or did he sound hopeful?

"Yes. I can come back later to buy my supplies."

Joe shrugged, clearly working to seem indifferent.

When they were settled at a table with a bottle of sarsaparilla, Grace reached across the table and tentatively set her hand on his. He stared down at it as if he couldn't believe it was there, but he didn't move his hand away.