Rafe's Redemption by Jennifer Jakes Page B

to the hearth. “I brought your things inside. I hope nothing is ruined.”
    Maggie glanced to the soggy pile of leather. “Maybe I should look. I have several sketches in there.”
    “What are…sketches?” Little Owl whispered across the room.
    “I draw and paint pictures.”
    She unbuckled the flap and pulled her satchel from Rafe’s saddlebag. Everything felt dry, but she scurried to the table to check.
    “You never said you were an artist.” Rafe ambled to her side.
    Maggie tilted her head toward him. “You never asked.” She reached in for her paper. “A nd it didn’t seem impor—” She pulled the stack—a hand written, ink-filled stack—free from the leather.
    Her heart stopped, her stomach plummeting to the floor as her artistic dreams vanished.
    These weren’t her sketches.
    Rafe watched all the color drain from Maggie’s face.
    “What’s wrong?” He took the documents from her hand and a sick knot of guilt roiled through his gut.
    “These are Michael’s papers. My satchel must be with him.” Her hollow voice faded as she dropped into a chair.
    Rafe glanced at the legal papers, then to Maggie. Her blue eyes watered with unshed tears as she stared into the fire.
    “I’m so sorry.” Rafe knelt beside her. “When Zeke showed me your room, I took the first leather bag I saw.”
    “It doesn’t matter.” She scrubbed her palm across her eyes and sucked a deep, shuddering breath.
    Her choked dismissal flooded him with guilt.
    “No, Maggie. I really am sorry.” The sketches were the only thing she’d asked for that day. A nd he failed her.
    “I’ll buy you some more supplies once we reach the fort.” Somehow. He could sell something if he had to.
    “It’s not important.” She sniffled, then escaped to the fireplace. “Let me help you dish up supper, Little Owl.” Rafe moved into her chair and stared at the useless papers. He’d feel a hell of a lot better if she’d unleash that temper of hers on him.
    Cecil clapped him on the back on the way to the coffee pot, then sat across from him and shrugged.
    “Don’t worry. Maybe she can draw on those.”
    “I don’t know.” Rafe thumbed through them.
    Ledgers, contracts, and several scribbled notes. “I suppose she can look through them later. Maybe there are some blank sheets.”
    He gathered it all into a pile, then stopped and ruffled through the stack again. Something had caught his eye, danced in his mind. Something significant. It had been on one of the notes. He yanked the paper from the rest and scanned the words as a gnawing fear filled his gut.
    “Maggie, who is Mr. Bouse?” Rafe feared the answer, but he prayed this was a different man. If not, then everything changed. He couldn’t just put Maggie on a coach.
    He’d have to return home. To St. Louis. The last place he wanted to go. The last place he was welcome.
    “Phillip Bouse is our family attorney,” she called over her shoulder.
    The answer cut through him, the pain like a saber into his lungs. Bouse was also a close friend of his stepfather.
    “A nd Bouse negotiated the sale of the shipping company for Michael?” Rafe shuffled the papers. Where was that note?
    “Yes. He handles all our business. He always has.
    That’s why I have to see him immediately.” She walked to the table, her brows pinched together.
    Rafe pulled all the notes with Bouse’s signature and examined each one before passing them to Cecil. Maggie frowned, but Rafe had to be sure of what he’d read before he said anything.
    Cecil nodded, then gave a low whistle and pushed all the papers back to Rafe. He took a deep breath and stood.
    “You can’t see Mr. Bouse.” Rafe met her frown, ready for her argument.
    “Why not?”
    “Because he’ll kill you.”
    The words swirled in Maggie’s ears until the room started to spin. Weakness buckled her knees, and the spoon slipped from her fingers. The clatter echoed through the room along with Little Owl’s gasp.

    “What are you talking