Autumn Sage

by Genevieve Turner

  “Yes.” The marshal didn’t move to reassure or distract her—he simply let her absorb that, and she was grateful for it.

  She stared at the paper for long moments. She’d never thought they could use the newspapers against her. There was only one opportunity for her to strike back—on the witness stand.

  “You’ll have to help me prepare,” she said finally. “For the trial.”

  He straightened. “I told you before, I’m not a lawyer.”

  “But you interrogate people.”

  “That’s different. Lawyers manipulate emotions—of the witnesses and the jury. I merely extract the information I need.”

  “Extract. That’s what a dentist does with a rotten tooth.” She wouldn’t let him unsettle her with such macabre terms.

  “Many of the people I track are quite rotten.”

  She’d no doubt of that; certainly McCade was corrupted to his very core. “Then treat me like one of them.” She leaned forward, let her voice tilt toward imploring. “Treat it like one of your worst interrogations. So I can be at least a little prepared.”

  He sighed, then rose and grabbed a chair, setting it in the center of the room. He gestured for her to come over to him. He indicated that she should sit in the chair, not quite moving quickly enough out of her way, so that his pant leg brushed against her skirts, pressing her petticoats against the length of her legs. A caress that wasn’t a caress, which made her shiver.

  An accident, no more.

  She sat and watched him pace before her.

  “A trial such as this, with a witness unable to testify and the tangled politics involved—I’ve never witnessed such a thing,” he warned. “I don’t know what the defense attorney might ask—or what the judge will allow him to ask. You can’t count on Halstead to object if the defense attorney asks something he shouldn’t.”

  “What will they ask about? Besides what happened during the attack?” Despite what the newspapers had printed, she’d lived an unobjectionable life.

  “How you met Sheriff Obregon,” he ticked off, “what your plans were for marrying, what happened at the fight at the dance, how Obregon carried out his duties, what role your family played in all this…” He took a deep breath. “Any number of things.”

  “They’ll ask about my family?” There wouldn’t ask about her mother, no way that they would know…

  “What might the rest of your family not want brought up in court?” He was suddenly tense. He stopped pacing, set his hand upon his thigh. The light trailed across the scars there as he flexed his hand.

  “It just seems odd they would ask about my family,” she said as carelessly as she dared. “They had nothing to do with any of this.”

  “Lawyers don’t always care about the straight progression of facts. They’ll meander if it means they’ll win the jury over.” He hesitated. “It might help some if you were less…”

  “Less what?” she demanded.

  “Less strident.” Was that actually a hint of color in his cheeks? “More… yielding.”

  “You mean put on a simper and flutter my eyelashes?” Something that felt remarkably close to betrayal turned in her stomach. “Tell the truth, but lie about my basic nature as I do?”

  He tugged at his cuffs, adjusted his collar. “Juries tend to like people they can pity. With your demeanor, it’s difficult to pity you.”

  “Good. I don’t want anyone’s pity.”

  But his words placed a worm inside her skull, turning and turning with what he’d said. She thought of Joaquin, lying there in his bed, grievously wounded, waiting for her to bring him news of the trial.

  She so wanted it to be good news.

  What did it matter if she put on a show for the jury? If she played the fluttering, helpless female for once? If they won the case—if McCade was punished—wouldn’t that justify some playacting on the witness stand?

  There was one small problem: She’d never in her life attempted to simper or flutter or any of that nonsense.

  “I know you don’t want pity,” he was saying, “but perhaps think on what I’ve said.”

  She would. She had a brief thought of practicing her simpers with him—but that would go over about as well as this courtroom playacting had.

  Besides, she didn’t want to simper for him. She wanted to be her usual reserved, private, prickly self. And sharpen her tongue on him as often as she liked, while he watched her with those quicksilver eyes…

  He’d stopped speaking and was staring intently at her. She had the strangest thought that he was imagining her sharpening her tongue on him.

  Nonsense. He was merely waiting for her to reply.

  “I shall think on it, thank you,” she said briskly. “I find it hard to believe this is anything like one of your worst interrogations. What do you do when you want to break a man? Shove a kitten in his lap?”

  The marshal actually allowed his lips to twitch. “I don’t want to interrogate you.”

  “It’s only playacting. Exactly what you wish me to do on the stand.”

  “When I interrogate someone, I’m not pretending. To pretend to inflict hurt upon you”—he adjusted his collar again—“is beyond my abilities.”

  She studied him as he began to pull at his cuffs, staring quite intently at them as he did. Her own wrists began to itch.

  “You’re right,” she said slowly, “you don’t make a very good lawyer. This was a foolish idea of mine. I won’t trouble you further about it.”

  She rose, lifted the chair—and froze when his hand settled over hers.

  “I can carry it,” he said gently.

  She held on to the chair for a moment too long, the feel of his hand over hers something she didn’t want to give up.

  But of course she must.

  She released the chair and stalked back to the sofa, picking up a newspaper to hide behind.

  “You’ll do just fine during the trial,” he called after her. “There’s no need for nerves.”

  She snapped off the couch, her temper flaring. Before, he’d said that she must be flattering, false—and now he said she’d do just fine?

  She didn’t want this counterfeit assurance from him—she’d prefer his impassivity.

  “I know that,” she retorted. “I know that it’s all up to me, that I mustn’t be nervous or I might fail. I know all that.” She clenched her fists, letting her feet carry her back and forth.

  His look was long and considering, his hands heavy on the chair back. “You are a magnificently difficult woman, Señorita Moreno.”

  A laugh burst from her throat, just the one. “You give the most unusual compliments, Marshal Spencer.”

  “You deserve the most unusual compliments.”

  Did he really mean to compliment her or was he only trying to calm her? After all, a man might speak sweet nothings to even a horse to calm it.

  But it had worked—she wanted to sink down on that chair he was holding, pull him down next to her, to feel the solid bulk of him against her side. Not that the two of them would fit on that chair. She’d have to sit on his lap…

  His eyes caught hers and held—and she knew he meant it as a compliment. The seconds stretched into minutes as her heart thrummed slowly, echoing in her ears until there was only his gaze and the sound of her heart between them.

  Just as she was ready to move toward him, to reach for him, he blinked.

  They both looked away, trying to make space for what had happened. She laced her hands together and squeezed, willing her composure to return. Somehow his presence turned her temper mercurial. It was the strangest thing.

  He cleared his throat. “My mother enjoyed meeting you yesterday. And your mother as well.”

  She sank onto the sofa, her anticipation ebbing. “My mother enjoyed it too. It was very kind of you to bring her. I know you dislike social occasions.”

  “It was no difficulty.”

  “It’s clear you’re very protective of her.” She meant it as a compliment, but
his eyes flickered the barest fraction and she knew she’d hit a soft spot. Again.

  “What son isn’t protective of his mother?” He drew it out as if to put an edge on it. One to warn her away.

  He’d have to do better than that to unsettle her. “Of course,” she allowed. “Yet you also claim to be unsentimental.”

  “Shouldn’t a man care for his mother in her elder years?”

  “Yes. But it’s more than that, and I think you know it.” She wouldn’t allow him to hide his affection for his mother behind aloofness—he could confess something to her for once.

  He didn’t answer, only stared her down. She waited him out, a trick she’d learned from him.

  Eventually he sighed and she swore she heard the cracking of his reserve in it. “I don’t know why you think you are entitled to the information”—his mouth went blade-flat—“or why I am even telling you, but yes, I am exceptionally protective of my mother. Nothing else in this world commands that same force of feeling. I have seen nothing yet in this life that deserves it, except her.”

  Something sharp twisted in her chest. “She deserves it because of your father? Because of how he treated the two of you?”

  She couldn’t quite believe she’d done that, but she couldn’t snatch it back.

  His face sagged, a wash of pale green coming across it, and nausea rose sympathetically in her own stomach.

  “What do you know about him?” His voice was deep, harsh, and he was rising then, his length unwinding over her—the brute had returned.

  “I—” She licked at her lips. “I don’t know anything, really.” Her cousins’ gossip of yesterday seemed obscene in light of his reaction. “You and your mother—you both have scars. I’ve seen that before… in my students.” She took a shaky breath, wanting to flee—both from him and to him.

  He closed his eyes, and she could see him reaching for that reserve of his, shrugging his shoulders into the mantle of it.

  “Of course,” he murmured. “Of course you would see it.” His eyes opened, and for half a moment she feared he might sway—but that was ridiculous. He was always still and strong and uncaring, wasn’t he?

  “She deserves this… this regard,” he said roughly, “because she is good and kind and true. But most especially because of my father. A lady as great as she deserved so much better.”

  Melancholy flowed through her, making her seasick with the roll of it, knowing that whatever his father had done to make him this way, it must have been terrible.

  “Didn’t you deserve better, as well?”

  His mouth twisted. “Whatever I’ve received in this life, it’s been more than I deserved.” She wanted to protest at the bitterness there, but he kept on. “So now you have my secret.”

  Yes, she did. But she’d never dreamed that prying a confidence from him would be so painful. For both of them.

  “You have many secrets of mine,” she pointed out. “You know that I didn’t love Joaquin, and I’ve never told anyone else as many details of the attack.”

  He walked over to the window, giving her only his back to study. “It’s a strange sort of intimacy that’s been forced upon us, isn’t it?” He linked his fingers behind him, clamping them together.

  “I am sorry.” She’d hurt him with her probing—the agitation in his fingers proved that. “This wasn’t my choice; none of it was.”

  He crossed to her then, capturing one of her hands within both of his. They were so large, so encompassing. And so gentle as well.

  “You misunderstand me. I esteem you greatly, perhaps second only to my mother.” The flash of his smile was brief enough for her to have imagined it. “I understand that you wish to see only the back of me. To have no further reminders of what happened. To forget that you were ever humbled and vulnerable. But I wish only to see you safe.” His fingers flexed, drawing her hand closer into the embrace of his. “I know that my presence distresses you, but it’s only for a little while longer.”

  She blinked dazedly, that smile still flashing behind her eyelids. “It doesn’t distress me,” she got out. “Your presence.”

  “You certainly give that impression.”

  “I am frustrated,” she confessed. “And angry. I do wish to leave all this behind. You, unfortunately, are the easiest target for my ill feelings.”

  But she didn’t feel ill just now, with her hand in his and his gaze so intent on hers.

  She felt unsettled, peculiar, but not distressed.

  “I’m glad to hear it. I’m always happy to be a target for such a worthy lady.”

  He released her hand and she clasped hers together, trying to hold in the sensation of his skin on hers.

  He did nothing so foolishly sentimental, reaching instead for his pocket watch. “Your family ought to be back soon.”

  If she needed more evidence that he was unaffected by what had transpired, it was there in his prosaic tone.

  The sounds of a carriage came from the front of the house, both of them looking toward it.

  “That must be them,” she said.

  “Shall we go see?” It sounded as if he wanted something to occupy him. Something other than sparring with her.

  “Yes, let’s.” She could use a moment away from the strange tension in this room herself.

  They went side by side through the hall, their shoulders almost brushing in the small passage. Yet she didn’t feel crowded by him. Rather, he took up exactly the right amount of space—the space right next to her. Foolish, such thoughts. But they wouldn’t be chased away.

  When they opened the door, there was no carriage out front. She stepped just outside the door, looking about. “I suppose it wasn’t them.”

  He came out as well, maneuvering himself so that he was between her and the street. “No, it wasn’t. We’ll have to head back inside.”

  She took a step backward, the better to turn toward the house, but his expression arrested her. It was expectant, as if he were waiting for her to declare something. Or waiting for himself to come to some conclusion.

  She was puzzling over this so deeply it took a moment for her senses to register the first gunshot.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sebastian acted entirely on impulse, without the barest moment of conscious thought.

  Before the second shot was fired, he had her on the ground, safely pinned beneath him. Something strong moved within him as the second bullet whistled overhead. The thing traveled with the force of an ocean wave, but he pushed it away before he could give it a name. Now was not the time to lose control of himself.

  The sounds of the others on the street running for cover were dim to his ears. His focus was solely on her, her limbs tangled with his, her chest moving beneath him, the wash of her breath into his neck. After the space of ten breaths without any more gunfire, he slowly raised his head to see her face.

  Her expression was stiff as a mask, her breathing unnaturally regular, and deep within her eyes he saw a flicker of panic. But only a flicker.

  He had to admire her resolve. Given what she’d been through, she had more cause than most to fall apart—but she never allowed those lesser emotions through.

  If he were a better man, he might let that admiration bloom into something deeper, something like…

  He didn’t dare finish that thought. She was a witness, and someone had just tried to kill her. That was all that mattered now—that and his duty to her.

  Her silence was an implicit affirmation of her trust in him. Lord, but he prayed he could live up to that trust, that he would see her safely through this, unlike the last time she’d been in danger.

  Her hair brushed against his cheek as he leaned into her ear. “When I let you up, duck your head and run into the house. As fast as you can.”

  She gave a quick nod and tensed beneath him as she prepared to run. He didn’t bother telling her to keep away from the windows. She was quick enough to know that.

  He levered himself off her, twisting to face the street, tr
ying to glimpse the gunman as he did.

  Señorita Moreno was up and in the house quick as a flash, obeying him to the letter. He sighed as the weight of her safety lifted from him.

  Using the brick gatepost for cover, he scanned the street carefully, making pass after pass with narrowed eyes, looking for anything suspicious.

  Only rattled pedestrians and spooked horses. Nothing sinister. Nothing that could have harmed her.

  “What was that?” a heavyset man called to him, no doubt thinking the badge on Sebastian’s chest meant he had some answers.

  “Gunshots,” he answered. “Did anyone see who fired?”

  He searched the faces turned to him, looking for any flicker of guilt.

  No one replied.

  Stupid of him, to linger with her on the doorstep like a lovesick suitor. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  One last searching look, and then he was turning back to Don Enrique’s house.

  He ought to be thinking of going to the police or of heading out to search for the gunman. But all his mind could summon was that flicker of panic in her eyes. The image drove him into the house in search of her, in search of reassurance.

  He found her in the parlor, pacing in front of the hearth.

  At the sight of her arms wrapped so tightly about her, that tidal wave of sensation hit him once again, almost driving him to his knees. He stumbled forward under it and did something he hadn’t done in ages—he caught her up in his arms.

  Her head nestled just under his chin, her breath sending eddies of heat washing along his neck. She placed her hands between them, set against his chest, on either side of his heart. Strange to hold a woman again after all this time, to wrap his arms around another being simply for the physical pleasure of it.

  No, not pleasure. This wasn’t like any embrace he’d shared with a woman before. This was for comfort, reassurance.

  He allowed himself to relax. She was safe, nestled here with him. The sensation rose again, and this time he allowed it, the first time he’d felt something without trying to suppress it in over thirteen years. The emotion surged fast and sharp as a flood, filling him up to his throat. He couldn’t name it, but namelessness didn’t prevent it from existing.