Caving into You (Love in the Old West series Book 1)

by Bess McBride

  “Oh!” Hilly replied. “I didn’t know that! I guess there’s a lot I don’t know.”

  “Yup, I think history has been changed a bit. I can tell from the books and newspapers I’ve read.”

  Hilly turned toward him quickly with a raised brow, and he chewed his lip. Careful.

  “Well, you know, living in this old town, a man can get confused as to what year he lives in. That and performing in the show three times a day.”

  “Three times a day?” Hilly almost squeaked. “You mean you have to take a ‘nosedive’ three times a day? That loud gunfight?”

  Clint chuckled, relaxing with her hand under his arm. It felt right.

  “Three times a day,” he grinned.

  They arrived at a small café which he knew the tourists didn’t crowd into like they did the larger saloons. He held the door open for Hilly, and they stepped in. Clint raised a hand to the grey-haired man, Pat, in the kitchen as he led Hilly to a table. Sharon, the waitress, raised an eyebrow when she saw him.

  “Hey, Clint, you’re here early. Are you having dinner now?” The silver-haired woman, wife of the cook, eyed Hilly with interest.

  Clint tried not to blush, but he had the worst habit of it. Even though the sun kept his skin brown, he couldn’t hide the redness.

  “Sharon, this is Miss...?” Blast it! He’d forgotten her last name. He gave Hilly a shamefaced inquiring look. He couldn’t just run around calling her Hilly. It wasn’t quite proper...even if he thought of her as Hilly.

  “Hilly Creighton.” She extended her hand and Sharon shook it.

  Clint pulled out a chair for Hilly, and she took the seat. He sat opposite her and removed his hat, settling it onto one of the seats between them.

  “Pleased to meet you, Hilly,” Sharon said. “What’ll you have?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Hilly said uncertainly. She turned to Clint. “Are you hungry?”

  “It’s a little early for me. I’ll just have coffee.”

  “Me too,” Hilly said. “I’m not hungry,” she added quickly as he looked at her with a question in his eyes.

  “Coffee it is,” Sharon replied. She stowed her pad in her apron and returned to the counter to fetch some coffee. She brought them two cups and left them alone.

  Clint tried hard not to stare at Hilly, but he couldn’t help himself. She definitely didn’t look like she lived in Arizona, with her fair skin. He was more used to women with skin weathered from the sun, at least in 1881. He wondered how she would survive in his time. Not at all, he suspected.

  He wanted to hear her speak. Her voice reminded him of something, but he wasn’t sure of what. Someone he knew? Someone he had known?

  “Where are you from, Miss Creighton?”

  “Seattle,” she said. “The Pacific Northwest.”

  That explained the fair skin. No, she could never survive the desert in his time. Not that it would come to that. He loved the sound of her voice—light, warm, fanciful. He wanted to ask her more, to hear her talk, but he wasn’t quite sure what to ask. There really wasn’t a safe subject. That’s why he had kept to himself since he had arrived. The fewer questions asked, the better off he had been. And now here he was, agreeing to have coffee with a gal who wanted to ‘interview’ him as if he had some knowledge of old Tombstone. Well, he did, but he couldn’t let her know. But he really couldn’t resist her. He had tried—for about two minutes.

  “Do I have something on my face, in my teeth?” Hilly asked. She covered her mouth, and Clint blinked.

  “What? Oh, no! Was I staring? I’m sorry. I was thinking about something else. Sorry.”

  Hilly’s charming blush receded, and she nodded. “So, do you eat dinner here?” she asked. “I wondered if these saloons and restaurants served the local people after the tourists went home.”

  Clint nodded sheepishly. “I do eat here...often. In fact, I don’t really cook for myself.”

  Hilly nodded. “Do you live near here?”

  Clint nodded again. All safe questions, so far. “Yeah, for right now. I’m living in a trailer in an RV park down the road. It’s got a stove and a mike-crow-wave,” he pronounced each syllable of the word carefully like he always did, “but I just don’t spend any time cooking with them.”

  Hilly gave him a strange look, and he pressed his lips together. What had he said?

  “I use my microwave all the time,” she said, “but I don’t like to cook either.”

  “You don’t?” Clint asked. “Are you one of these modern women who buys everything ready-made from the grocery store?”

  Hilly arched an eyebrow and stared at him evenly. “Wow, you’re really in character, aren’t you? ‘Modern women’? Well, I don’t like to cook, and I buy a lot of prepared foods, yes.”

  Clint leaned his elbow on the table and dropped his chin in his hand, more to cover his mouth than to rest. He could see he’d put his foot in it.

  “I didn’t mean to offend you, Miss Creighton. I’m sorry. Sometimes, dumb words just come out of my mouth.”

  Hilly’s face softened. “I’m sorry. It’s just...the ‘modern women’ thing got to me. It seemed like a very old-fashioned thing to say. It took me by surprise.”

  Clint nodded with a repentant grimace. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I know there are a lot of women who work and don’t like to cook. Even in my tim—” He stopped short. “Even where I come from.”

  “Where do you come from?” Hilly asked. Clint had prepared something for when people asked. His landlord at the RV park had asked, Sharon had asked, Larry had asked, his employers at the gunfight show had asked.

  “Oh, I grew up on a little ranch west of here. It’s gone now. My folks sold up.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Do you miss it? I hear something in your voice.”

  Clint cleared his throat. It was a lie. He’d grown up in Iowa on a farm, had moved West for adventure. Jimmy, his younger brother, had probably taken over the farm when his parents passed away. On his arrival in Tombstone—in 1880—he’d worked in a few of the mines. He’d managed to put together enough money to buy his own claim, and had just begun to work it when...

  “No, not really,” Clint said. “Ranching isn’t for me.” He changed the subject. “So, what about you? A writer, huh? What’s that like?”

  Hilly smiled brightly. “It’s nice. I make a decent living, and I have the freedom to come and go as I please. I didn’t always make money though, not in the beginning, but in the last few years, I’ve begun to sell better, so I’m happy. I hated being tied down to a nine-to-five job. I still work a lot of hours when I’m writing, but it feels like it’s all for me, not for someone else, you know?”

  Clint did know. He wasn’t sure how much longer he would have to stay in the twenty-first century, but he couldn’t possibly keep falling to the ground three times a day for the rest of his life. The mines had long since flooded and the land on which he had staked his claim now belonged to something called the Bureau of Land Management...the government. He needed to do something to build a future for himself...and maybe a family.

  “Are you married?” Hilly asked, as if she could read his mind. Had she really thought he would have coffee with her if he was married?

  “No,” he said with a wide smile. “I’m not.”

  “Never?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “Do you have family?”

  He shook his head again, this time more slowly. He didn’t want to think about that.

  “No, they’ve all passed, I’m afraid.”

  “Me too,” Hilly said quietly. “Well, except for my brother. My parents died in a car accident about a year ago.”

  “My sincerest condolences, Miss Creighton.” Clint watched her rub her arm and wondered about it.

  She caught his eye.

  “Hilly, please,” she said. “I was in the car...in the back seat. I broke my arm, but that was all.” She bit down on her lips before raising her cup to her mouth.
<
br />   “So that’s why you hold your arm?”

  She nodded. “Sometimes, I still have twinges. There were three different breaks.”

  “I’m surprised you have the use of it at all,” Clint murmured. He longed to reach across the table and run his fingers along her arm as if he could ease her discomfort, but he resisted.

  “Oh, the hospital was great! I couldn’t imagine dealing with something like that and not having good hospitals, doctors and pain medication. It really is healed, just a little bit tender. That will go away.”

  “I hope so,” Clint murmured. “But not the reminder, I guess?”

  Hilly shook her head. “No, never. Maybe that’s why I hold it, as if somehow I can protect my parents?” She gave a dry laugh and shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  Clint wished he knew her well enough to pull her into his arms, to kiss the top of her forehead and to tell her everything would be all right. But he didn’t know her well enough, nor did he know if things really would be all right. He couldn’t even help himself at the moment. And if truth be told, he had nothing to offer a woman besides empty words of reassurance. His job offered minimal pay, his trailer was too small to raise a family in. He had no land, no real home, and his own future seemed bleak. Who was he to offer reassurance?

  “Clint? Are you all right? I thought I lost you for a moment there. Come on, let’s switch the subject to something more interesting than my life. Yours!” Hilly’s bright smile lightened her face.

  Clint shook his head. “My life isn’t very interesting, I’m afraid. You wanted to know more about historical Tombstone? Mind you, I don’t know much more than what I’ve read.”

  Hilly tilted her head with a questioning look, but she nodded.

  “Yes, please.”

  Clint told her about the town’s beginnings as a mining camp and the growth of the town as silver and copper were discovered nearby. He briefly described The Cowboys and some of their encounters with the law, of rustling and robbing stagecoaches. He made sure that Hilly understood that they were a small group of mostly young men, and that Tombstone had many law-abiding citizens and businesses in its heyday.

  “I didn’t know all that,” Hilly said. “Tombstone has a reputation as a rough and ready Western town famous for shoot outs and killings, doesn’t it?”

  Clint nodded with a grimace. “Yeah, I noticed. I’m not gonna say there wasn’t some lawlessness and the occasional outbreak of gunfire on a Saturday night, usually stemming from some altercation in one of the saloons, but generally, Tombstone was a town like any other. Men, women and children trying to make a living in the desert. They went to church, to school, to work.”

  “Now that you mention them, what about the saloons?” Hilly asked. “I stopped by one saloon in town. That was pretty ‘busy’ if you know what I mean.”

  “Busy? Do you mean a lot of people? At this time of day, those were probably tourists.”

  “No, I mean, there was a bunch of memorabilia on the walls, pictures, lights, mementos, just stuff.”

  Clint nodded. “Oh, I know which one you’re talking about. Yeah, that one is kind of ‘busy,’ you’re right. That’s a good term for it.” He chuckled.

  “Wasn’t it owned by a prostitute or something? And what were the laws regarding prostitutes? It seems as if there were a lot of them.”

  Clint’s cheeks reddened. “Yes, I believe it was, but I really don’t think that’s a proper subject to discuss with you, Miss Creighton. I mean...Hilly.” He looked away out the window for a second. That sort of thing wasn’t talked about in mixed company. The proper ladies of the town did their best to ignore the matter.

  “Really?” Hilly asked.

  Clint turned toward her. Her eyebrows were drawn together as if in confusion. Had times changed so much? Was this sort of thing really discussed by ladies now? Over coffee? Clint cleared his throat.

  “Yes, I believe the saloon was owned by a ‘prostitute,’ as you say. You might have to ask someone else anything further on the subject. Maybe a woman might know.”

  Hilly’s lips twitched, and Clint was certain she was laughing at him. Since he’d been in the twenty-first century, he’d gotten used to being shocked at how modern-day folks talked and acted. In fact, he thought he had finally reached the point where nothing could shock him anymore. That television in his trailer sure didn’t worry about showing stuff he thought no decent women would want to see—from news programs to those strange ‘reality’ shows that seemed pretty unreal to him.

  But he really couldn’t bring himself to discuss the subject of prostitution with Hilly.

  “You really are old-fashioned, aren’t you?” Hilly chuckled. “Sometimes, I feel like you come straight out of the Old West.”

  Clint froze and held his breath. She couldn’t possibly know, could she?

  “Well, I’m not, Miss Creighton. I was just raised to treat a lady with respect, that’s all.”

  Hilly put her hand over her mouth as if to stop a smile. Clint fumed. She was laughing at him. He didn’t want her to think of him as a fool. And she was a little bit too close to the truth. Given time, she might possibly guess his secret. He pushed back his chair, grabbed his hat and stood.

  “Well, Miss Creighton, if that’s all you need from me, I’ll be going.”

  Hilly’s smile vanished. She jumped up.

  “Oh, Clint! I’m so sorry. Please don’t leave. I’m not making fun of you.” She shook her head. “No, I was making fun of you. I’m sorry. Please don’t go.”

  Clint looked down into her blue eyes, the crystal color now clouded. He couldn’t stand to see the shine leave her eyes. It wasn’t a good idea to stay, but he wasn’t sure he could bear never to look into her eyes again.

  He nodded and gestured for Hilly to sit down. Luckily, they were the only customers in the restaurant, so no one watched them. Sharon was in the kitchen with Pat.

  “I’m sorry, too, Hilly. I’m a bit touchy, I guess. But I still don’t want to discuss that subject with you. It just isn’t right. I think there are books on the matter, too, if you need to know more.”

  “I will. I’m sorry for teasing you, I really am.”

  “Well, we’re a sorry pair, it seems. Let’s shake on it and forget about it.” He held out his hand, something he had been wanting to do for a while. Hilly put her hand in his. Electricity seemed to run up and down his arm at her touch. The sensation was hypnotizing filled with images of Hilly at a desk, in the hospital with her arm in a cast, two older people who smiled at her with love. The sweet feel of her skin against his own made his heart pound in his ears. He forced himself to give her hand a gentle shake and release it.

  Had he really seen those images or had he just imagined them as she described? Hilly was actually the first woman he had touched in years—either in this time or his own—and his hand shook as he lowered it to his lap. He didn’t dare pick up his cup of coffee in case she saw.

  Hilly stared at her own hand for a moment as if she’d never seen it before. She blinked and tried to meet his eyes but looked down at her cup of coffee.

  Did she feel the same way as he did? Was it possible? What good would it do either of them? They came from very different worlds—different times. Heck, she wasn’t even from Arizona—let alone Tombstone. How could he see her again? How could he not?

  Chapter Four

  Hilly stared at her hand, still tingling from Clint’s touch. She had felt ‘transported’ in some way—to a past life that she had never lived. As if in some way, she could see Old Tombstone through his eyes. Dusty roads lined with wagons, dark mine shafts, faces of people she’d never seen before—one of a dark-haired young woman in an oval picture. She shook her head to rid herself of the images.

  And his touch! The warm thrill that had shot up her arm. She hadn’t come close to feeling this way in years, not since she’d first met her college boyfriend and fallen in love. She couldn’t even remember Rick’s face at the moment. That had been five
years ago. She hadn’t really met anyone since. The odd thing about writing romance novels was that one was often too busy writing to actually have a romance.

  Rick’s touch had been sensuous and fun, but hadn’t really approached the sensation that Hilly now experienced at Clint’s touch. Nor the images that had run through her mind.

  She looked over at Clint, who stared at her with the same look of surprise that she felt.

  “Ummm...” she began, unable to hold her thoughts back. “You’re going to think I’m crazy, but I saw images of the past when you touched my hand. I’m sure that’s just because we’ve been talking about it.” She avoided talking about the sensation of warmth she had experienced.

  Clint drew in a sharp breath and stared at her for a moment, his eyes guarded. What had she said?

  “Oh, never mind,” Hilly said hurriedly. “I’m sure that was all in my head. So, where were we? Ummm...tell me about Boot Hill. What do you know about that?”

  “It happened to me too, Hilly. The images. I saw you at a desk, in a hospital. I saw the faces of two older people who loved you.”

  “My parents,” Hilly whispered. She tilted her head. “What did they look like?”

  “They had gray hair. The man wore glasses, had sparse hair. The woman’s hair was cut short, like a man’s.”

  Hilly’s eyes widened. “That’s really my parents! How could you possibly see that?”

  Clint shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  She eyed him narrowly. “Do you have a history of clairvoyance or something?” She tried to smile but failed, finding it eerie that he had described her parents so accurately.

  “Do you mean...can I read minds?” Clint laughed nervously. “No.”

  Hilly shook her head with a puzzled expression. “Well, that’s so odd. With you, I saw a woman’s picture...you know...one of those old-fashioned oval pictures, like a cameo...the kinds that people used to send to each other when they got engaged?”

  Clint gritted his teeth and forced himself to speak evenly. She had seen into his past. Hilly was watching him carefully.