Boots Under Her Bed

by Jodi Thomas

  “I have a plan.”

  “Oh. A plan. Well, that excuses everything.”

  He gave a long, labored sigh. “It excuses nothing. I’m all those things you said I was. But I’m not totally at fault,” he added with that engaging smile. “If you weren’t so damned beautiful I would be able to think more clearly.”

  Refusing to smile back, she cut a sliver of stewed carrot. “What about my vast intellect and confidence?”

  “That, too.”

  She popped the carrot into her mouth and studied him as she chewed and swallowed. “It’s not your ability—or inability—to think that should be of concern to you, Mr. Whitmeyer. It’s the foolish words that come out of your mouth.”

  “I know. I’m as dismayed about it as you are. And I’m really, really sorry.”

  How could he sound so contrite while his eyes danced with laughter? And why couldn’t she stay as angry with him as she should? “I tire of hearing your weak excuses,” she said, pushing her plate aside.

  “Then I’ll not tire you further by offering more.” He frowned at the remains of her luncheon. “Is that all you’re going to eat? I could order you a grape for dessert, if you thought that wouldn’t be too filling.”

  “What do you want?”

  Amusement changed to hard resolve. “To keep you safe.”

  “Then leave, and I shall be both safe and content. Or better yet, since I’ve quite lost my appetite, I’ll leave.”

  “You were finished anyway. An entire carrot. You must be stuffed.”

  Before he could come around to pull out her chair, she rose. “Good day.”

  “Rachel . . .”

  Head high, she swept dramatically from the room and into the lobby, then realized the last place she wanted to go was upstairs to her room. She had spent most of the morning there, after her last confrontation with Whitmeyer, pacing and wondering why she let the man upset her so. Refusing to be chased up there again, she stepped through the open doors onto the boardwalk. The glare was so bright it blinded her. By the time her eyes adjusted, he was beside her.

  “Are you crying?”

  “Of course not, you big dolt. It’s the sun.”

  “I thought perhaps you were upset by our little run-in.”

  “Upset? I’ll show you upset.” She reached for her over-and-under derringer, then realized she’d left her reticule in the dining room.

  “Looking for this?” He held up her bag by the wrist strap.

  She snatched it away.

  “And just so you know, I paid your tab.”

  She groped inside the purse.

  “You shouldn’t carry a gun if you’re not going to load it.”

  He looked in her purse? “It is loaded.”

  “Not now.” That smile again. “I may be smitten, but I’m not foolish.”

  Smitten?

  He laughed. “Surely you’re not that surprised. Especially after last night.”

  Horrified that he was about to further entertain the people already staring at them, she plopped onto the bench in front of the hotel and dug in her reticule for the bullets he’d taken from her gun.

  “May I join you?”

  “No.”

  He sat down beside her. “How long does it take to load one of those things?”

  “You’ll know shortly.”

  “Are they very accurate?”

  “At this distance, I pray so.” She slipped the bullet into the lower chamber, but before she could snap it closed, he reached over and rested his hand over hers. It was big and warm, the back of it lightly dusted with dark hair. The masculinity of it made her feel feminine and delicate—except for the pistol in her grip.

  “I hate when we quarrel, sweetheart.”

  “Then cease speaking. And I’m not your sweetheart.”

  “You could be.”

  “When pigs sprout wings.” A trite response, but she was too rattled to think up a better one. Shoving his hand away, she finished loading the pistol and slipped it back into her reticule.

  He was smitten?

  “I can’t believe you pawed through my purse,” she said.

  “Only out of concern for you.” He gave her an indulgent smile. “When I picked it up, I heard the clank of metal and wanted to make certain you hadn’t accidentally slipped the hotel silverware inside.”

  “Had they been a finer grade of tin, I might have. Especially the knife.” Narrowing her eyes in warning, she added, “In case someone steals the bullets from my pistol.”

  “Who would do such a thing?” he said and laughed. A wondrous sound that filled her heart.

  You ninny. Determined not to weaken in her resolve to keep this man at arm’s length, she abruptly rose. “I have to go.”

  “Where?”

  Away from you. “My room. I’m tired.”

  “Will you join me later for dinner?”

  Of course not. “When?” God. Did she really say that?

  “Six o’clock. Our usual table by the fire.”

  “Perhaps,” she said and fled before she did something foolish—like shoot him or simper like a schoolgirl, she wasn’t sure which.

  • • •

  RICHARD watched her race away, taking part of his heart with her. How had that happened? When had he become so besotted that he no longer cared what her hidden purpose might be, who she was in league with, or what her past was?

  He had to get control of himself. Finish the task at hand. And maybe then . . .

  He spent the afternoon walking through the town again, sent a wire back to Omaha City—still no news on the bank robbers—then stopped for a talk with the sheriff.

  He wasn’t the only one out and about; the old couple visited several of the abandoned shacks along the tracks, the farm boy took his chicken for an outing, and Harvey King sat in the lobby of the hotel, perusing a newspaper that was almost a month old. A slow reader, it seemed.

  After a trip to the washroom and a change of clothes, Richard returned to the dining room. Taking the chair facing the lobby, he watched for Rachel.

  She didn’t come, and by six thirty, he figured she wasn’t going to. It should have been a relief. Now he could put aside this obsession and attend to his business.

  Instead, he rose and left the dining room. But as he started up the stairs, he saw her coming down and stopped to watch her, his elbow resting on the newel post. She wore a pinkish dress that matched the guilty flush on her cheeks, and her dark, glossy hair was done up in curls that set off her beautiful turquoise eyes.

  When she reached the bottom step, he offered his arm and escorted her to their table. “I thought you weren’t coming,” he said, holding out her chair.

  “I wasn’t.” She sent a saucy smile over her shoulder that turned his thoughts into gibberish. “But then I changed my mind.”

  “Thank God for prerogatives.”

  The dining room filled quickly, the drone of so many voices lending a sense of privacy by making it harder for their conversation to be overheard. That pleased Richard. He wanted to focus on her, rather than worrying about what was going on around them.

  Their server came to take their order: buffalo steak for him, baked chicken for her, the vegetables of the day, which were the same as yesterday—green beans, carrots, and roasted potato wedges—and hot rolls with creamy butter.

  “Why didn’t you want to join me?” he asked after the server left.

  “It’s not that I didn’t want to.” She sighed. “But I’m not sure it’s wise for us to pursue this.”

  “This? Meaning my attraction to you?” There. He’d admitted it. Now he awaited her reaction.

  “Yes.” Color flooded her cheeks. She didn’t look at him. “And mine to you.”

  That stopped him dead. It was a moment before he could gather his wits to respond. “What’s worrying you, Rachel?”

  Finally, she looked up and met his gaze. “We just met. We scarcely know each other. Within a few days, we’ll part and never see each other again.
”

  “It doesn’t have to be that way.”

  “Doesn’t it?” She studied him for a long time, a small furrow between her dark brows. “Who are you, Richard? What do you do?” She spread her hands in a helpless gesture. “How can I trust a man of whom I know so little?”

  A dozen glib answers rose in his mind. But he sensed honesty would get him a lot further with this woman, and he respected that. “I’m Richard Whitmeyer and I investigate insurance claims.” He saw her surprise and gave a wry smile. “You were hoping for something more exotic, I suppose.”

  “Not at all. But I am surprised. You seem rather . . . flamboyant. I’ve always thought of insurance investigators as somewhat stodgy.”

  He had to laugh. “I usually am. Driven, in fact. But you’ve brought out a lighter side in me.” A happier side, he realized. He couldn’t remember when he’d smiled or laughed as much as he had with Rachel James. “Your turn.”

  “I’m Rachel James. Widow of four years. And I’m . . . ready to make some changes in my life.”

  An odd thing to say. From his perspective, her life seemed to be going well. She had money, beauty, intelligence, the instant admiration of any man in sight. What more could she want? “You said earlier you wanted to run your own business someday. What kind of business?”

  “I haven’t decided.”

  “You’d make an excellent headmistress at a finishing school,” he offered. “Or if that wasn’t exciting enough, you could put your vast experience with firearms to use by becoming a prison matron.”

  And there it was—that breathy laugh that made him want to keep teasing her just to hear it again.

  Their food came. He managed to eat it all even though he didn’t remember the taste of any of it. Around Rachel, he forgot everything—even why he was here in Laramie and what he had been sent to do. Just being with her opened his mind to other possibilities, other wants and desires. New ways of looking at his life. He had been alone too long, And the more time he spent in Rachel’s company, the more time with her he wanted.

  Soon—if his plan worked out the way he hoped—he might be free to offer her all the time in the world.

  • • •

  WHEN Richard looked at her like that, Rachel felt almost giddy. Nervous, shivery, and daring. What would it be like to feel those strong arms around her? Those lips on hers again? His hands—

  Her thoughts scattered when she saw Harvey watching them from a corner table. He gave her a sly wink, a crude reminder that she wasn’t here on holiday or at liberty to enjoy the attentions of a handsome man. She had a task to finish.

  Was he truly an insurance investigator? Or was that simply a ploy to discourage further questions?

  Appetite gone, she pushed her half-finished meal away.

  “Not hungry?” Richard studied her with concern. “Would you care to order something else?”

  “It was all delicious. I couldn’t eat another bite.”

  “Not even a raisin?”

  “Not even.”

  As he turned to signal their waiter, she wondered what she would do if Richard turned out to be their target. How could she watch such a strong, vibrant man brought low?

  Beyond the window, a light snow began to fall. She almost hoped it would develop into a blizzard that would keep them stranded here for a month. By then, Harvey would give up and move on, and perhaps she and Richard . . .

  “Shall we go into the lobby for a friendly game of draw poker?” he suggested. “I’m sure with the snow starting again, there will be others unwilling to go out who might want to join us.”

  She leaped at the suggestion, not wanting to spend the rest of the evening stuck in her room. “A fine idea. But this time, you really must try.”

  “I’m always trying.”

  She laughed. “I’ll not argue with you about that.”

  They found three more players—a married couple, who were visiting from Nevada, and Harvey King, who immediately jumped in when he heard Richard asking around in the lobby.

  Rachel hadn’t told Harvey that Richard suspected them of working together. She wasn’t sure why. But as she watched the two of them spar across the card table, she realized she was pulling for her dinner companion, rather than her partner. An indication of how far her loyalties had shifted in the few days she’d known Richard Whitmeyer.

  She also noted that this time Richard played in earnest, that intense focus on beating Harvey, rather than enjoying a friendly game. Even though they were only playing for chips, it seemed neither man could tolerate losing, although Richard hid his irritation better than Harvey. The tension built as Harvey’s losses mounted, until finally, the Nevada couple had had enough and excused themselves. Other players took their places and, seeing still more players waiting to step in, Rachel begged off, too. Richard immediately gave his chair to the old man in mourning—apparently his wife had already retired—and offered to walk Rachel to her room.

  She was aware of Harvey’s watchful gaze tracking them up the stairs, but by the time they reached the landing, he was once again engrossed in the game.

  Would Richard kiss her again? If he asked to come inside, should she let him? Thoughts muddled in her mind. Resolve warred with desire. She was beginning to suspect she was the brazen hussy he had once accused her of being.

  “Not a very friendly game,” she said, desperate to fill the silence as they walked down the hallway.

  “You can thank your friend for that.”

  “You were no better than him,” she chided, stopping beside her door. “And he’s not my friend.”

  “Then what is he?”

  “An acquaintance. Like you.”

  That intense look came over his face. “That’s all I am?”

  An unreasoning panic gripped her. She wasn’t ready for this. For him. With a trembling hand, she turned the knob. “Good night, Richard. Thank you for another lovely dinner.” And before she could change her mind, she opened the door and stepped inside.

  She stood in the dark silence of her room, her heart thudding against her ribs. What was she doing? What was she afraid of? That sense of panic came again, but for an entirely different reason.

  “Richard,” she called and flung open the door.

  He stood where she’d left him.

  “You didn’t kiss me good night,” she blurted out.

  “You didn’t give me a chance to.”

  They stared at each other. Five seconds. Ten. “Well?” she prodded.

  He stepped closer. Taking her face in his hands, he stared hard into her eyes. “I’m more than an acquaintance, Rachel, and you know it.”

  “Y-yes.”

  “Say it.”

  “You’re more.”

  A fierce expression swept his face, then he lowered his mouth to hers.

  It wasn’t a gentle exploration this time. This kiss was more of an openmouthed demand, filled with such need and emotion it left her weak yet yearning for more. When he finally lifted his head, she was up on tiptoes, leaning into him, and his hands were on her breasts.

  Breathing hard, he rested his forehead against hers. “Breakfast. Nine o’clock.” Releasing her, he gave her one last short kiss, then turned and walked away.

  • • •

  WHEN Rachel came downstairs the next morning after a restless night of lurid dreams and erotic imaginings, she found the lobby filled with milling people. Because Richard was so tall, his head rose well above most of the others, and when he spotted her on the stairs, he pushed through the crowd toward her.

  “What’s happening?” she asked when he stopped beside her.

  “We’re about to find out.”

  “Listen up, folks,” a voice called.

  Rachel expected it to be the conductor announcing that the repairs to the locomotive were complete. Instead, she saw the sheriff she and Richard had met on their earlier stroll through town standing in the dining room archway. Speaking loudly enough to be heard by those in the lobby as well as those at
the tables, he said, “Seems we have a thief.” He waited for the murmurs to die down before continuing. “Several guest rooms have been robbed, and Deputy Beemis”—he motioned to the man beside him—“will be searching your quarters for the missing items. Won’t take long.” At his nod, the deputy headed up the stairs.

  “Before you ask,” Rachel murmured to Richard, “I didn’t do it.”

  “That’s a relief. Glad you brought your wrap. Let’s go outside while they sort this out.” She let him help her into her cape, then lead her through the lobby. “It’s a beautiful day,” he said, pushing opening the door.

  It was a freezing day, and the glare was atrocious. But the cold helped chase away the cobwebs in her head, and the sun felt warm on her face. They settled on the bench outside the hotel, nodding politely to other guests wandering out of the lobby to stand, talking, outside.

  “This is all highly suspect,” she muttered, hunching into her collar. “And illegal. But I suppose a little thing like the Bill of Rights doesn’t matter out here.”

  “Actually, it’s the Fourth Amendment,” he said, idly watching the elderly couple from the train wander down the boardwalk. “And if they do find anything, it won’t be admissible at trial.”

  She squinted up at him. “How do you know that?”

  He shrugged. “Who do you think the thief is?”

  “You?”

  He flashed that dazzling smile. “Cranky, are we? Have a restless night?”

  She didn’t answer, hoping he would attribute the red in her cheeks to the ungodly cold.

  “What about those two?” He nodded toward the mourners. “Ever notice anything odd about them?”

  “The old folks?” Rachel watched them pause outside one of the abandoned railroad shacks at the end of the street, then disappear inside. A tryst? Sweet, but unlikely. “They seem nice enough. Sad, quiet, obviously devoted to each other. I think she has foot problems.”

  Richard looked at her in surprise. “Why do you say that?”

  “Her shoes are more like brogans. Sensible, but totally unsuitable with a dress.”

  “Have you ever seen her without that veil?”

  “No. Not even when she dines.” Rachel had never seen her without gloves, either. But such modesty wasn’t unusual in an elderly matron.