Boots Under Her Bed

by Jodi Thomas

  “What are you doing still up?” he asked.

  “I had to step out for a moment.” She made a vague gesture in the direction of the convenience, then realized it was at the other end of the hall.

  He didn’t seem to notice. “I’m glad I caught you.” Stopping beside her, he smiled, showing those fine teeth and a faint shadow of new stubble on his chin. She had forgotten how big he was. He swallowed the light and blocked most of the hallway with his wide form, giving no chance of escape, should she want one.

  Which she didn’t.

  “I saw the conductor,” he said. “The axle is delayed. We won’t be departing for several days. I thought perhaps we could meet for breakfast in the morning then take a stroll through town. There’s not much to see, but you might enjoy the local shops. Say . . . nine o’clock?”

  It was only because she needed more information—not because the idea of spending more time with Richard Whitmeyer added an odd jump in her heartbeat—that she nodded. “A walk sounds lovely. But nine thirty would be better.”

  “Nine thirty it is.” His grin broadened, left deep creases down his cheeks where those dimples hid.

  Having that smile and those deep-set brown eyes fixed on her with such intensity made Rachel feel a bit breathless. “I look forward to it.” She turned toward the door.

  A touch on her shoulder brought her around again. “About that kiss . . .”

  She tried to speak, couldn’t, and cleared her throat. “Mr. Whitmeyer—”

  “Richard.” He stepped closer.

  She stepped back, her heels thumping against the floor molding.

  Looming over her, he braced one hand on the wall above her head. “You did lose,” he reminded her.

  “Which allows you a question. No more.”

  “A question you never answered.”

  “Yes, well . . .” Her words trailed off when he lifted a hand to cup her cheek. His palm was cold against her heated skin, his fingers so long his thumb brushed her temple and his fingers reached around to the back of her neck.

  “One kiss, Rachel.” He bent lower, his breath fanning her eyelashes. “That’s all.”

  “I . . . I . . .”

  “Say yes.”

  She couldn’t. But she did manage a breathless nod.

  His lips brushed hers—softer than she expected—still cool from his walk. She tasted coffee, smelled wood smoke and damp wool on his jacket, felt the tip of his tongue trace the seam of her lips.

  Her legs trembled. Her pulse thundered in her ears. Long-dormant hunger drew her closer until she felt the heat of him against her breasts.

  He didn’t rush, didn’t press for more, and because he handled her with exquisite care, as if she were something precious and rare, she was helpless against him. A yearning built within her, spread through her veins like warm honey. It had been too long since she’d been kissed . . . and never this way.

  Reason returned when she ran out of air. “M-Mr. Whitmeyer . . .”

  “Richard.” His lips left hers, moved up to her cheek.

  “This is unseemly. What if someone—”

  “Shh.” His mouth came back to hers, trailed gentle kisses from one corner to the other.

  Why was it suddenly so hard to breathe?

  Those long fingers slid into her hair. “Ask me inside.”

  “Inside?”

  She felt his smile against her lips. “Your room. For starters.”

  “Oh. Oh!” She jerked back, but the warmth of his big body still surrounded her, fueling desires she hadn’t felt in too long.

  He straightened. His hand fell away. “Rachel,” he chided softly.

  A tempest of conflicting emotions raged through her. She shouldn’t be doing this. She shouldn’t feel this way. He was a stranger to her. Possibly an enemy.

  “Good night, Richard—Mr. Whitmeyer.” And before he weakened her further, she opened the door and slipped inside.

  Good heavens. Heart drumming, she sagged against the door as his footfalls faded down the hall. What had come over her? She was a thirty-year-old widow, not some simpering schoolgirl overcome by her first kiss.

  She lifted trembling fingertips to her lips, her senses still reeling with the scent of him, the taste of him. Of Mr. Whitmeyer. Richard.

  Who was he? And why was he pursuing her? On impulse, she flung open the door—maybe to ask him that—or maybe to kiss him again—or even to ask him inside. But the hall was empty. Both relieved and disappointed, she shut the door.

  Now, more than ever, she needed to know everything about him—why he was here, who he was looking for, and who his employers were, assuming he truly had employers.

  A day and a half. That was as long as she’d known him, yet in that short span of time he had awakened urges and thoughts she’d put aside four years earlier when she’d laid Charlie to rest. Even now, her knees felt weak and desire pulsed through her, liquid and low.

  And if he got in her way? She pressed a palm over her racing heart. She had no choice. She would do what she had to do.

  • • •

  AT nine o’clock the next morning, Richard was sitting at the table he had shared with Rachel the previous night, nursing regrets and his first cup of coffee.

  He hadn’t slept well. Thoughts of Rachel had plagued him through the night. Had he truly pushed her up against the wall like the prostitute he’d once thought her to be? It was humiliating. An indication of how far he had drifted from his purpose. But when he’d come across her outside her door and she’d lied about where she’d been—the water closet was at the opposite end of the hall from where she had been coming—he had been angry and confused. And disappointed.

  Still, there was no excuse for it. This wasn’t his first time around a pretty woman. Even one as mysterious and alluring as the widow James.

  Beyond the window, morning sunlight made the icicles hanging off the depot roof sparkle like cut glass and turned the snow piled alongside the tracks into glistening mounds. The glare off all that snow and ice was a stab in his eyes.

  The dining room slowly filled. He recognized several fellow travelers. The elderly couple from the train sat in a dark corner, the old man hunched over his plate, his wife slipping food under her heavy mourning veil. The farm boy sat alone, hiding toast in his pocket, probably to take back to the chicken. Two other tables were occupied by people he didn’t recognize, but he surmised by their familiarity with the servers that they were Laramie residents.

  Movement drew his eye and he looked out the window to see Rachel daintily picking her way across the slushy street between the depot and hotel. Today, she wore a blue dress under her cape, and a jaunty bonnet with trailing ribbons that caught in the morning breeze and were probably a perfect match to her beautiful blue eyes.

  What had she been doing at the depot?

  And not alone.

  A man moved from the rear of the depot, walked quickly past the siding where their disabled passenger cars sat while the locomotive was in the machine shop awaiting repairs, and disappeared into the Western Union office next door. Richard could tell by the satchel hanging from his shoulder it was Muttonchops.

  A terrible certainty gripped him. After seeing King come out of her room yesterday, then learning the latest news from Omaha City last night, and now seeing them both leaving the depot at the same time this morning, he could no longer discount what was obvious. Rachel and King were working together.

  Damn.

  “Am I late?”

  He looked up to see Rachel approaching. Cold had turned her cheeks pink. Her eyes sparkled, and her smile was as dazzling as the snow. She was so beautiful it made his chest hurt.

  Rising, he pulled out her chair. “No, I’m early.” Returning to his place across from her, he studied her while she gave her breakfast order to the server. The pale purple smudges beneath her eyes told him she hadn’t slept well, either. Not surprising, considering the way he had forced himself on her in the hall, and the dangerous game she was pl
aying with King.

  “I saw you coming out of the depot,” he said after the server left.

  “Yes, I wanted to see if they’d had any more word on how the repairs were going.”

  “In a hurry, are you?”

  She gave him a smile that didn’t quite reach her lovely eyes. “Actually, I’m enjoying the respite from the constant jarring.”

  While she filled the silence with idle chatter, he contemplated the best way to broach the subject of his boorish behavior. If he was ever to learn what she and Harvey King were up to, he had to keep her trust. Besides, he owed her an apology. “Rachel,” he said when she paused for breath, “about last night . . .”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “But I—”

  “No, truly. Don’t mention it. It was simply a regrettable incident that is best forgotten.”

  Forgotten? He doubted he would ever forget the feel of those soft, plump lips moving against his. “I wouldn’t say ‘regrettable.’ Forward, perhaps. But I have no regrets that I kissed you, Rachel.” In fact, even as he sat here offering excuses for his poor behavior, the base part of his mind was devising scenarios where he could do it again. “But I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard. You deserve better. I apologize for frightening you.”

  “You didn’t frighten me. I don’t scare that easily.”

  Bravado? Or an invitation to try again? Hope soared.

  Breakfast arrived. While he waited for the server to set their plates before them—one poached egg, toast, and tea for her; three eggs, beefsteak, potatoes, toast, and coffee for him—he tried to pull his errant thoughts back on track. “I wonder what Muttonchops was doing at the depot,” he asked after the server left.

  “Muttonchops? Are you referring to the man with the bushy sideburns?”

  He nodded. “Harvey King.”

  She took a sip of tea and returned the cup to its saucer without a sound. “I don’t know why he was there.”

  She was smooth. No doubt about it.

  While they ate, Richard went back over the information he’d received in answer to his wire the previous night. No identity on the bank robber yet, but they suspected the culprit hadn’t been acting alone. A witness mentioned a man with heavy sideburns and a bushy mustache who had been in the bank around the time of the robbery in the company of an attractive, dark-haired woman . . . although the witness wasn’t sure if they had been in before the robbery, or after.

  An apt description of Harvey King and the woman Richard couldn’t stop thinking about. A feeling of melancholy moved through him. Ah, Rachel. If only you were the woman I wished you were.

  • • •

  RACHEL was relieved when breakfast was over and she was no longer subjected to Richard Whitmeyer’s intense scrutiny.

  Something had changed since that unfortunate scene in the hallway. Unfortunate in the sense that it had kept her awake half the night. And that Richard Whitmeyer was the last person with whom she should be contemplating a dalliance. And if Harvey King found out, he could end her chance to build an independent life. If she had any true remorse about the events of the last few days, it was that she hadn’t said no when she’d first been approached about taking part in this wretched undertaking.

  “Shall we take that walk now?” Mr. Whitmeyer asked her.

  Looking up, she met his eyes and wondered, as she had a dozen times since the night before, what might have happened between them had she not chosen the path she was on or had he been less secretive or had she been more willing to act on the feelings he had triggered with that amazing kiss.

  Would anyone ever know or care if she took him to her bed? It wasn’t as if she was an untried virgin. Was she expected to go the rest of her life without the touch of a man?

  The day was fine, if cold, and the stroll through town didn’t take long. They met the sheriff, visited a couple of shops, stopped by the newspaper office for the latest edition. Despite its progressive attitudes—Laramie was the first city in the country to seat females on a jury or allow women to vote—the town wasn’t an especially thriving community. Most of the businesses catered to the railroad: rolling mills, a tie treatment plant, various rail yards and machine shops. But the setting was lovely—lofty mountain ranges on either side of a broad, high plain with a river running through it. Far different from the farmland of Nebraska where she and Charlie had struggled to carve out a life.

  “How long will you be staying with your sister in California?” Richard Whitmeyer asked, jarring her back to the present.

  “I haven’t decided.” Hopefully, if things went well, she wouldn’t be going to California at all. “Have you ever been there?”

  “I have. Several times. An interesting place.” He shot her a speculative look. “Since I have no set plans, perhaps I’ll accompany you there.”

  She stumbled to a stop and peered up at him. “Why would you do that?”

  “Why not?” Reaching out, he brushed a trailing ribbon from her shoulder, then stroked the tips of his fingers up to that dip where her jaw joined her neck.

  She shivered.

  He saw, and smiled. “A woman as beautiful as you shouldn’t be traveling alone.” Dropping the newspaper onto a nearby bench, he took her hand, placed it in the crook of his arm and started them walking again. “Then, too, I’m hoping if I stick around a little longer, you might change your mind.”

  “About what?”

  “Me. I’m not your enemy, you know.” He gave a crooked smile that brought a catch to her throat. “And I’m not giving up on you.”

  Addled, she followed where he led, Harvey’s words echoing through her mind: Until we know who he is and why he’s trailing after you like a hound on a scent, be careful. If he gets too close, you know what to do. We’ve come too far to go back empty-handed.

  “Why would you be my enemy?” she asked once she was sure she could keep her voice steady.

  He was slow to respond, and when he did, he looked straight ahead, rather than meeting her gaze. “Sometimes people get themselves into trouble. Do things they oughtn’t or find themselves caught up in something from which they see no escape.”

  Rachel frowned up at him. “And you think I’ve done that?”

  “If so, I can be your way out.”

  Way out of what? “I don’t understand.”

  He stopped and faced her, his expression grim. “I know about you and Harvey King.”

  She stiffened. How had he found out? And what did he think he knew?

  “I don’t understand the hold he has over you,” he went on, “or what you’ve done. But I can help you.”

  “Help me? How?”

  A sad note came into his voice. “I can let you walk away.”

  “From what?”

  “Harvey King. Whatever the two of you are mixed up in.” He made a restless motion with one big hand. “With your quick mind and physical assets you could start over anywhere, doing whatever you wanted.”

  Rachel pressed her free hand to her forehead, so confused she didn’t know what to think or what he was talking about or how he knew the things he did. “But I am doing what I want. I chose this.”

  When she saw his face harden, understanding dawned. With it came relief that he had reached the wrong conclusions, then hurt that the conclusions he had reached were so insulting. She snatched her hand from his arm. “First you accuse me of being a—a—prostitute! Now of being in some sordid relationship with Harvey King. What have I done to make you think me so lacking in character?” When he opened his mouth, she held up a hand. “No, don’t answer. I don’t want to know. Nor do I want your concern. I don’t need saving by you or any other man!” Whirling, she charged down the boardwalk.

  She had thought he was different, that he admired an independent spirit. But it seemed Richard Whitmeyer was like every other male, preferring women to be meek and biddable and content to live in the shadows of the men who ruled their lives. Well, she had done that. She had put her life in the hands of a kind,
gentle, well-meaning man and had nearly starved because of it. No more. From now on, she would order her own future, Richard Whitmeyer be damned.

  Fine words. Then why did they bring so much pain?

  Oh, Richard. Why couldn’t you be the man I thought you were?

  “Rachel,” he said, coming up behind her.

  She continued walking.

  “Rachel, wait.” He touched her arm.

  Horrified that she might burst into tears, she jerked away. “I have nothing more to say to you, sir. Do not approach me again.”

  This time when she walked on, he didn’t follow. But she could feel his gaze boring into her back as she crossed the street and went into the hotel.

  • • •

  RICHARD slumped onto the bench in front of the mercantile. Hell.

  Lifting a hand, he pinched the bridge of his nose. What was it about the confounding woman that kept him so off balance he lost all reason? He hadn’t meant to accuse her of a liaison with King, only to let her know he suspected them of working together, then gauge her reaction. Instead, he’d blundered again. Now, if she truly was in some dishonest scheme with Muttonchops, they were forewarned. If she wasn’t, he’d ruined any feelings she might have had for him. And what if she was being led into some nefarious scheme by Harvey King? How could he help her when she wouldn’t even talk to him?

  He wasn’t usually so inept. Another unsettling indication of how easily he lost focus when he was around her. Hell.

  He spent the rest of the morning on the bench, watching passersby and pondering what he should do. Then it came to him. The perfect plan that would ensure his success and still keep Rachel safe.

  Rising from the bench, he walked quickly down the boardwalk.

  • • •

  JUST after noon, Richard Whitmeyer came into the hotel dining room, walked directly to Rachel’s table, and asked if he could join her.

  “No.”

  He sat down across from her. “I’m sorry.”

  She looked up, tried to mask a sudden rush of . . . something. “Sorry for what? Being high-handed? Irritating? Wrong? An utter buffoon?”

  “Yes.”

  She took a bite of potato and slowly chewed. “You don’t look sorry,” she observed after she swallowed. “In fact, you look rather pleased with yourself.”