Scandal at the Cahill Saloon - By Carol Arens Page 0,16

huddled together in the corner, apparently terrified of the glowering lawman. “For the employees. How to properly meet a respectable gentleman,” he added in the face of Bowie Cahill’s disbelief.

“Is this so, Annie?”

Cleve walked up to Leanna and stood beside her. He thought about clasping her hand in support, but brother Bowie’s gun wasn’t just for show.

“Why are you so determined to believe the gossip about your sister? These ladies—” Cleve indicated the fallen doves in the corner “—know the truth. Leanna has nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I’m not determined to believe anything. I just want Annie to tell me herself what’s going on.”

Massie took two steps toward Marshal Cahill.

“Miss Leanna saved our lives,” she declared. Cleve wanted to applaud her show of courage. It couldn’t have been easy for the former whore to stand up to a lawman.

Again, the twisting in his gut. If only Leanna had been able to save his sister. Maybe, though, no one could have. He sure hadn’t been able to keep her from running away from home with some man who had promised the moon and then—

“I suppose Van Slyck was lying about a kid?” Marshal Cahill looked as if he wanted to believe it, but Leanna had paraded through town with the child on her lap.

That one would be tough.

“What about the boy? Is he yours?” her brother demanded.

Ah, there was the Leanna he had come to admire in such a short time. She flashed to life, glaring a dozen kinds of defiance at Bowie.

“Bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh,” she admitted, her bearing that of a proud lioness. “His name is Cabe Cahill. Named after his uncles and Granddaddy Earl.”

“Who’s the father?” Bowie demanded.

Cleve presented a show of mild curiosity when in fact he wanted the answer to that question as badly as Bowie did.

“That is no one’s business but mine.” Leanna lifted up on her toes with her hands planted on her hips. She stared her brother down, glare for glare. “Don’t ever ask me that again.”

“Oh, hell, Annie.” Bowie shook his head, dragging one hand down his face. “Quin’s going to have a mouthful to say about you shaming the family name.”

“If you ever utter the word shame with reference to my son again, Bowie Cahill, I’ll slice up your tongue for dinner.”

She would, too—maybe not literally, but he wouldn’t want to be Bowie.

Hell, he didn’t want to be himself.

There was something that only he and Leanna knew. It is what he had come to Cahill Crossing to set straight.

He reached into his pocket to touch his sister’s letter.

The A in Cabe’s name was not a fill-in letter. It stood for Arden.

Arden Holden, Cleve’s late sister.

The woman who had given birth to Cabe.

Chapter Four

“Bowie.” Leanna clasped her hands at her waist, breathing deep and forcing her temper to cool. “This is Cleve Holden. He’s not the villain you mistook him for. I was simply giving the ladies an example of how not to act and Cleve was my model.”

“I’ll accept that for now,” Bowie said. “But he looked too comfortable in his part, if you ask me.”

“Well, I didn’t ask you.”

Leanna noticed Cleve glancing between her and Bowie with intense interest. Every now and again he opened his mouth, then closed it. His complexion looked flushed; frown lines sliced his forehead.

“A pleasure to meet you, Marshal Cahill,” he said.

Unless she missed her guess, and she doubted that she had, Cleve’s smile was forced.

Cleve extended his hand. Bowie looked him over, head to toe and back again. Her brother grasped the offered palm.

“If Annie claims that you are upstanding, I’ll accept that.”

“I’ll accept your distrust.” The handshake ended. “I had a sister once.”

Cleve’s voice cracked on the word once. More than likely his sister had passed on.

Poor Cleve! She wanted to offer a comforting gesture but he stepped away.

“You and your brother must have some catching up to do.” He nodded at her without a smile, then glanced toward the corner of the saloon. He tipped his hat. “Ladies.”

He stepped out of the front door and down the stairs, bracing his hat against the wind. A whistle blew, announcing the arrival of the train.

Once again, Cleve had gone without discussing the business that had brought him to her in the first place. Since she didn’t like wondering what it could be, she would make sure that next time nothing interfered with what he wanted to say.

Unless he had given up on the matter and was boarding the train.