Something rubbed against her leg. When she looked down, she found an orange cat twining around her ankle. The animal was bigger and healthier than the one Gray had plucked off the street—but then, months had passed.
Surprise pierced Sophia’s chest, so acute it was almost painful. “You kept her?”
The Reverend glanced down. “Of course.”
She sat back. Why was she so shocked? Because she’d taken the kitten’s absence as proof of his wickedness, the first time she’d sat here? “But…she wasn’t here. Last time.”
Gray chuckled. “She most certainly was. But so was Henry, and for whatever reason, Miss Margaret cannot abide him. She hides beneath the bed whenever he sets foot in this room.”
He even kept the name I chose. Sophia stared as the cat purred against her boot.
“Are you so astonished?” Gray asked.
“I thought…” She trailed off as Margaret wandered away.
“That I was too cold-hearted to take in a stray?” He sipped at his liquor until his cheeks flared brighter. “I wonder, kitten. What happened to you, once upon a time? Who ever dared to hurt you? Which callous soul convinced you that people are so invariably cruel?”
In the languid warmth of the lamplight, the question tilted her off-balance. Was that how she saw the world? A ring of truth echoed in his words, despite her impulse to deny it.
She picked at some imaginary lint on her dress. “I guess…it was my mother.” After all, why lie? To him, or to herself?
“Ah. The obvious choice.”
“She loved money more than me.” Sophia sighed as memory ebbed and flowed. Somehow, the thrall of the past lessened here, its raw pain dimmed by the rectory’s lullaby. “I mean, she wasn’t always that way. My father died when I was young, and my mother took care of me, for awhile. But it was hard for her, a woman in San Francisco with no husband and no trade. Life wore her down. Every year she was thinner. Every time someone evicted us, she fought a little less. Until one year she met Howard. That’s when everything changed.”
“Howard?”
“Some rich businessman. I don’t even know where his money came from. All I know is that he was married. But he set us up in a fancy hotel anyway, where he could visit my mother whenever he liked.”
Gray quirked an eyebrow. “How…sordid.”
She shrugged. “I didn’t mind. Not at first. I was just happy to have hot food in my belly and a bed I didn’t share with cockroaches.”
He shuddered.
“Except Howard started looking at me, too, soon enough. The older I got, the worse it became. Sly touches when he thought my mother wasn’t looking. Suggestions to meet him somewhere private. That sort of thing.”
Gray straightened, his eyes flashing steel. “Did he hurt you? Force you?”
“No. But I knew it was only a matter of time. So I asked my mother to choose. Howard, or me. I even told her why.”
He leaned in, rapt.
“I should’ve known better. Part of me knew she’d gotten used to being kept, that she’d never go back to the scraping and groveling she’d resorted to after my father died. But I asked her to choose anyway. I honestly hoped she’d pick me.”
“Kitten…”
Sophia cleared her throat. “It’s all right. I joined the circus, after that. That’s where I learned to shoot, and ride, and tumble, and it was good, for awhile.”
Empathy softened his gaze. “Merely awhile?”
“Yeah. Then I fell in love with Adrian.”
“Let me hazard a guess. He cast you aside, as well?”
She paused. Why was she telling him this? And why, instead of stirring old wounds, did every word seem to ease the ever-present ache in her marrow?
“You needn’t answer that, kitten. I don’t intend to pry.”
“No, it’s fine.” She plunged ahead, chasing the hovering promise in the air. If only she unburdened herself, the ghosts of the past might finally relinquish their hold. She could almost taste that freedom, that lightness of being. “Adrian threw me away, like you said. In the beginning, she said she loved me, that we’d build a life together. But a circus patron took a shine to her and Adrian took one look at all his jewels and silks, and…”
“She broke your heart,” he finished. Only that—no shock, no questioning Adrian’s gender, nothing but whisper-soft tenderness and an expression full of profound understanding. “My sweet kitten. Nobody has ever chosen you over money. Much to their loss.”
Sophia blinked. When he said it like that, a new truth emerged, shining like a forgotten ember amidst long-dead coals.
Maybe her mother and Adrian had simply been weak—and maybe, just maybe, their weakness had no bearing on her worth.
“I have a gift for you,” Gray said.
A sharp swell of pleasure pierced Sophia’s haze. Which was all wrong—she should’ve been gripped by dread. Or disgust. But the surge of anticipation tasted unmistakably sweet. “You do?”
He reached beneath the sofa and drew out a flat paper box, tied with a white velvet bow.
Just like that, her delight fled. Boxes like that appeared in Annie’s room in droves, always filled with pretty scraps of lace.
Sophia knew precisely which store he’d gone to. The shop window on Front Street flashed before her eyes, filled to bursting with those hideous satin negligees.
Turning away, she told herself she had no right to such lancing disappointment. “I don’t want that.”
“I meant what I said this afternoon. It would look absolutely fetching on you. I’d rather hoped you might wear it for me.”
To her horror, her voice thickened. “Do you have any idea how horrible you are? Just because I’m a fairy doesn’t mean I’m going to prance around in some tiny bit of nothing. I’m not a show horse. I don’t care how much you pay me.”
“Don’t you care to see it?”
“Go to hell.” She drained her brandy, blinking away moisture from the sudden sting. Just the liquor, not tears. She’d never cry over him, over her wasted confession. That would be lunacy.
“Kitten.”
Heading for the door, she tossed the crystal tumbler aside, not caring where it landed or whether it broke. “This was a mistake.” She whirled, poised to unleash a tirade. “Don’t you—”
Anger withered on her tongue.
He smiled, hopeful. One hand trailed a loosened ribbon, while the other upheld the open box. Inside, lamplight glistened on a leather holster vest.
The leather holster vest.
Her noisy swallow echoed in the silent room.
“I had it tailored, that it might fit such a delicate frame as yours.” He set the box beside the supper tray. “The seamstress thought me mad when I gave her the dimensions.”
Sophia could only nod. Of their own accord, her feet moved, then her hands. Supple leather glimmered against her fingers, the vest more beautiful in her grasp than it had been on display. “I…don’t know what to say.”
“You needn’t say anything.”
She stood stock still, assaulted on all sides by a bewildering crush of emotion. She couldn’t recall the last time anyone had given her a gift, and she’d never owned anything so fine. But she knew in her heart that Reverend Gray was a monster.
Unless…he wasn’t.
“Might you allow me the pleasure of seeing you wear it?”
Nodding mutely, she slipped the straps over her shoulders, then cinched the buckles around her waist. The fit was impeccable.
Gray stretched out on the sofa, hands behind his head. “And your revolvers?”
The idea of lifting her dress gave her pause—even if he’d seen it once already.
That had been before.
“Close your eyes,” she said. “Don’t look until I say so.”
“Very well.”
His golden lashes swept shut. Shimmying up her skirt, she pulled out the Colts, then thrust one into the vest. Even with its elongated barrel, the gun fit perfectly for a cross-body dr
aw.
The second revolver stayed in her hand. On silent feet, she approached the sofa, looking down. With his eyes closed, his face shone like a saint’s. He looked untouched, unguarded, like a man made new by the simple act of closing his eyes.
Nobody has ever loved me, kitten.
Her heart squeezed. Was it possible he wasn’t the beast he appeared? Could he be nothing more than a misguided boy who’d lived a cold existence—who’d only grown up crooked because nobody had cared enough to shape him otherwise?
Could he simply be broken, like her?
Reaching out, Sophia rested the Colt’s barrel against his heart. His shirt crinkled, the linen embracing the metal like a pale, grasping hand.
Gray’s eyes fluttered open. Despite the gun to his chest, his irises radiated all the warmth of a tropical sea. His voice grew husky—smooth and sultry as summer twilight. “You’re the most beautiful creature I’ve ever laid eyes on. Do you realize that?”
She steeled herself against the yearning those words evoked. “Tell me the truth.”
“I always do.”
“Did you mean what you said, about nobody ever loving you?”
His lips curved, but his gaze emptied, barren. “Yes. I’d rather hoped you might become the first.”
Her voice quavered. “Doubtful.”
“Kiss me or kill me, kitten. I cannot tolerate anything else for a moment longer.”
She hovered there until the Colt trembled. Pull the trigger, she commanded, but as ever, her finger disobeyed.
Gray made no move to defend himself. He lay beneath the quivering gun, his eyes deep wells of trust and desire, so blue she feared to lose herself in them. It was that look that undid her—the perfect acceptance, the hunger of it, as if she were flawless in his eyes, despite her ugly past. For a moment, a century, an eternal bright second, she believed his eyes were telling the truth.
She set the revolver on the table.
When she knelt, he drew her down, his chest rising and falling as fast as her own.
The first taste of his lips was delicate and sweet. She savored him, sampling the softness of his mouth until an electric pulse started up in her chest. He ran his fingers down her spine, pulling her close. Melting willingly, she let the sorcerous fire of his brandy taste engulf her.
A perilous hunger unfolded, commanding her to unknot the ascot at his throat, to unclasp the buttons concealing his chest. He responded by turning her beneath him, pausing only long enough to peel off his shirt. Pressing her into the tufted leather, he laid a heated kiss against the hollow of her neck.
A voice rang in her mind. This is wrong. But ravenous desire silenced any semblance of thought. She scrabbled at the buckles of her vest, frantic to shed any barrier between them.
He crushed his lips to hers and she drank deep, consumed by a single, driving need. A tiny whimper escaped as the firmness of his body surged against all her secret places.
But when she reached for his trousers, he pulled back, leaving her brimming with unquenched thirst.
His eyes burned with a strange light. There, she read yearning and disbelief and a shining edge of fear.
She stilled. “What is it?”
Lamplight illuminated every angelic plane of his face. He looked down as though he might devour her with his eyes, as though he’d never made love to a woman before.
“I’ve never made love to a woman before,” he said.
Sophia recoiled—he may as well have cut her with a knife. That voice of doubt leapt to life again, reminding her that this was all a game, one she hovered on the cusp of losing. “Get off.”
Startled, he obeyed.
Freed of his weight, she scrambled off the couch. Even a charlatan as adept as Gray couldn’t play a virgin—and no man who kissed that way could possibly be innocent.
Bitter laughter bubbled out as she rebuckled the holster vest.
“What are you doing, kitten?”
“What does it look like? I’m leaving. Your two hours are up.”
“Now?” he croaked.
She told herself not to glance back, but a moment later, she did anyway.
He knelt on the couch, golden hair askew, the scar on his side livid in the dim light. Every ridge of his body sketched heartbreaking lines.
“Is my inexperience truly so distasteful to you?” he said, almost pleading.
Anger expanded, spilling out. “That truth-bending act of yours is one thing. Then there are blatant lies. Really, do you think I’m stupid?”
“I think nothing of the sort,” he said, but the veneer of bewilderment he wore looked much too perfect to be real.
“Right. Find somebody else to con. I haven’t the faintest interest in playing your games anymore.”
Without another word, she stormed out into the placid indigo night. The empty streets offered no solace—only smudged violet shadows and the staccato beat of her boots against the boardwalk.
Her blood simmered, pulsing with its own heat. She hated him. Truly. Never had a man so infuriated her, and she detested herself for her unforgivable attraction. That desire served as nothing but a weakness.
Everything from his mouth was a lie. And he’d somehow tricked her into telling him everything—not just about the journal, but about herself.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Busy fuming, she didn’t see the cowboy until he stepped from the shadows. With his muscular frame and enormous Stetson, he blotted out the boardwalk.
“Ho there, little lady. Where you goin’ with all them guns? Thought this was a law-abiding country.”
The Texan rasp set Sophia on edge. She halted, struck by an indistinct surge of fear. If Gray played the angel, this man did the opposite.
She glanced around. Faint echoes drifted over the rooftops from Paradise Alley, but here, the streets lay in silent, muddy ribbons, unspooled and glistening beneath an amethyst sky.
They were alone.
“Who’re you?” she said.
Below the hat, an immaculate brown beard clung to a jawline that could cut glass. He rummaged into his weathered vest and pulled out a shining silver star. “U.S. Marshal.”
Sophia backed up, instinctively seeking the grip of a Colt.
He raised his hands. The metal star reflected the sky, glinting with purple fire. “Whoa. No cause for that. I’m just here lookin’ for someone. Maybe you can help me out.”
She left her hand where it was. If he tried anything, he’d earn a hole somewhere. “This is Canada. You have no jurisdiction here.”
“Well, you got me there. But this individual’s worth quite a bit to me. You give me information, there’ll be gold in it for you.” His roughened baritone raised the hairs on her arms. It provoked as much as soothed—the voice of a man accustomed to obedience. “I can show you. Or you fixin’ to shoot me?”
“Depends.”
Chuckling, he tucked the star away and withdrew a folded square. Paper hissed as he spread it out. A sketched face stared up from the page.
Recognition jolted through her, even as she caught sight of the Marshal’s eyes glinting in the shadows beneath his hat. Her blood turned to ice.
He grinned. “Know her?”
“I’ve never seen her before in my life.” Sophia pushed past, alarms bells clanging.
One brown eye, one blue.
Annie had been right, of course—Samuel St. Clair was handsomer than the devil. And just as easy to hate.
40. Annie.
The sight of Sophia leaving on the Reverend’s arm turned Annie’s stomach. Afterward, she still danced her Flame Dance, still sang her song, but everything went flat, as if Gray had sucked the color from life the moment he’d stolen her friend.
Why in Sam hell had Sophia gone with him?
When the music ended, Annie stomped off stage and made a beeline for the bar. Miners blocked her path, but she pushed through, her eyes fixed on gartered shirtsleeves and a long brown braid as Palmer followed her through the crowd.
&n
bsp; She threw herself onto a barstool. “I need whiskey, sugar.”
The Professor moved behind the bar. “How much?”
“How much you got?”
“Seven and one-third bottles here, twelve in storage out—”
“Christ. I don’t mean literally. I just mean…gimme a lot.”
Palmer selected a bottle from the shelf only he could reach.
Her spirits revived a bit. “You giving me the good stuff?”
Uncorking the whiskey, he set it down. “Yes.”
“And you ain’t even using a glass.”
“Would you like one?”
“Hell, no.” Holding his eyes, she upended the bottle, pouring a third of it down her throat in a violent flood of beautiful fire. Before the sunburst shine even whispered its soothing call, she made up her mind.
I’m gonna drink until I do something reckless enough to make me forget what I just saw.
Another gulp. Even after her eyes quit stinging and the burn faded, the urge to do something stupid swirled around inside her like bottled sunshine.
“Thanks,” she said. “Sometimes, I reckon you’re the only man in this godforsaken town who understands me.”
Palmer blinked. “But I don’t.”
“You do.”
“I don’t.”
She attempted to scry the unfathomable depths of his chestnut eyes, but a listing miner lurched into her, nearly knocking her from the stool. A meaty hand snuck in to cup her bosom.
Grabbing hold, she bent the miner’s fingers back. “Does it look like I wanna be groped?”
“Wearing that dress? Sure does.” The miner hiccuped and reached out again.
This time, Palmer’s hand clamped down, squeezing until bones creaked. “The lady said no.”
The miner whimpered. “Coulda fooled me.”
Palmer squeezed until sweat broke out on the other man’s brow. With a whine, the miner reclaimed his hand and fled.
Annie marveled. Palmer’s rough-hewn features didn’t change, but they smoothed somehow, made prettier by the incandescence of her gratitude. Or the whiskey.
“Why, Palmer, I’m touched.”
“I don’t like men who disrespect you.”
“Me neither. Luckily, you always set ‘em straight.”
The Wildflowers at the Edge of the World Page 23
