Silence crashed into the cabin. Viloula's mouth dropped open at the blatancy of the lie.
"She thinks we're stupid," Mose hissed, his eyes narrowing.
Lainie struggled to hold back a smile. "Why, Mose, I would never think that."
"You're white," he said, taking a threatening step toward her.
"Am I?" One dark black brow winged upward in silent question.
Mose stopped.
Purty studied her, his smile flattened now. "I knowed a whore once in Abilene. Her daddy was black as night, and she was pale as you or me, Mose."
Mose turned slowly to Viloula. "You're one of us, Viloula. You backin' her story?"
"Yes," was all Viloula said, but it was enough. Lainie
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knew that the men couldn't question the old woman. As Mose had said, she was one of them.
"You told her about us?" Purty asked.
Viloula nodded. "She left Seattle just two weeks ago. I meant to meet her in de Flats�but she ran into you boys instead."
Lainie looped her thumbs through her belt loops and grinned. "It was quite a piece of luck."
Viloula shot her an irritated look.
The frown on Mose's face was so deep and dark, it looked as if he were standing in shadows. He watched Lainie's every move, studied her, but he didn't say a word.
"Can I get you boys a cup of coffee?" Viloula said, gesturing toward the stove.
"Naw," Purty said, "we got to divide up the loot from the robbery."
Lainie gave him a broad smile. "An outlaw's work is never done."
Purty shook his head. "Lordy, you shore got a mouth on you, lady."
Viloula elbowed her, hard. "She get her mout' from her papa. He was a slick-talking shoe salesman from Detroit."
Purty grabbed Mose by the arm and maneuvered the bigger man out of the cabin. Killian waited, watched them go, then he turned back to the women.
"That was a hell of a performance," he said in a soft voice. He leaned against the doorjamb, one leg crossed over the other. To all outward appearances, he was relaxed, calm. But Lainie wasn't fooled. There was a tenseness in his body, a dangerousness in his eyes. He reminded her of a coiled snake, all sleek, contained power, waiting to strike.
"Maybe it's not a performance." She gave him a superior
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sniff. "It's genetically possible, you know. In fact�"
He grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her toward him, lifting her off her feet. "Don't make that mistake, Lainie."
She tried to sound cocky. "Wh-What mistake?"
"I'm not stupid."
Their gazes locked. Lainie felt a strange sensation move through her body, not quite fear, and yet close to it. Whatever it was, she'd never felt it before. It made her heart pump harder, made her breathing speed up. Slowly, still staring down at her with a look so hot, she felt singed, he let her go. Casting a disgusted look at the tarot cards heaped on the table, he turned away from her. At the door, he stopped. "I'll expect you back in my cabin in fifteen minutes for supper."
"Yes, master."
Without another word, he left.
Lainie stood there, unblinking, staring at the closed door, wondering what it was he'd made her feel for that second, why her body had reacted so sharply. After a long while, she felt Viloula's gaze on her back, pointed and intense. She turned toward the old woman, and immediately wished she hadn't. There was a small, knowing smile on her puckered lips.
She said a single phrase. "Soul mates."
"Soul mate schmole mate," Lainie said for at least the third time since leaving Vi's cabin. Sure, he seemed a little ... familiar. So what?
The last thing she needed was a soul mate. She stood outside Killian's closed door, staring at the wooden planks bound together by weather-blackened leather. The latchstring hung limply alongside the door, its edges frayed by years of heavy-handed use.
Somewhere a bird chirped, and it was an absurdly normal sound. She inhaled deeply, smelling the sharp, coppery scent of dust and the lingering remnant of woodsmoke.
He's your soul mate, she told herself for the hundredth time since leaving Vi's.
Yeah, and I'm Julia Roberts.
She knew she should believe in what Viloula had told her. In for a penny, in for a pound. If she could believe that she'd turned on her computer and zapped back in time one hundred years, certainly she could stomach the thought that someone back here had called to her, maybe even loved her.
Not.
She shook her head, smiling sadly at the irony. A romance author who didn't believe in love. Judith would be appalled.
Maybe once, a long time ago, she'd believed in that kind of emotion. Maybe once she'd even believed that if love existed, it would find its way to her. But those days, those naive days, were long gone and couldn't be resurrected. Now the only love she believed in was a mother's love. That was something tangible, something immutable and powerful and unconditional. She loved Kelly, and Kelly loved her.
It was enough for Lainie; it had been from the moment she'd conceived Kelly. She didn't need a soul mate. Didn't even want one. Besides, with her luck, he'd go out for a pack of smokes and she'd see him next on "America's Most Wanted."
The thought made her smile. Whatever Mr. Macho was to her, soul mate or fiction or somewhere in between, she didn't care. She had all the emotion she could handle in her life right now. She didn't need a soul mate.
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Feeling stronger, she yanked on the latchstring and shoved the door open. The first thing she noticed was the mouthwatering scent of simmering meat. Her empty stomach rumbled loudly as she went inside.
A single lantern sat on the rickety table, creating a pocket of light in the dingy interior. The bed was a shadow in the corner, noticeable only by the paleness of the sheeting in the meager light.
"You're back."
Lainie started and spun around. Killian was standing to her left, behind the arc of the door and against the wall. He stood in front of a tall, narrow bookshelf, one hand poised against the books, as if he'd been just about to withdraw one.
She gave him a snide look. "Just about to read Crime and Punishment!"
"Why? You want to borrow it?"
Lainie couldn't help herself. She smiled. And it felt good, damn it. After all the doom and gloom and grief and fear, it was nice to find something to smile about. "What are you doing here?" she said, moving toward him. "Aren't there banks that need robbing?"
He backed away from her, and she sensed fear in him. He didn't want her to get too close.
Now she was sure they were soul mates.
She looked at him, really studied him in a way she hadn't before. Before, all she'd seen was the man she created in her book; anything more or less than that, she'd discounted. Now she really tried to see the man himself.
He stood against the bookcase, one booted foot resting on the lowest shelf. One hand, lean and long-fingered, lay splayed against the hard curve of his thigh. The cotton shirt, once white and now a battered, over-washed shade of gray, hung limply on his broad shoulders,
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the collar gaped to reveal a plunging vee of black chest hair and tanned skin. Dusty black wool pants hugged his legs and dragged in frayed edges across the top of his boots.
He filled the corner of the cabin, and not only by sheer physical size. He was a presence somehow, a man one would have noticed in any setting. A man's man; a woman's fantasy. Long, unkempt hair the color of old steel brushed well past his collar, curled in a silver fringe at his shoulders. His face was tanned and lined by years beneath a hot sun; it was a face with character. But even with all that, it was his eyes that moved her most profoundly. Everything else about him, she expected�still more than half believed she created. But not those eyes. There was something in his gaze she wouldn't have put there, wouldn't have imagined, and she didn't know what it was.
She couldn't deny that right now, looking at him, she fe
lt something. She didn't think for a second that it was a leftover cosmic love or anything, but it was definitely something.
Frowning, confused, she moved toward him. She came to within inches of him and stopped, staring deeply into his eyes, wondering if it would be like that scene from Heaven Can Wait when Julie Christie saw the soul in Warren Beatty's eyes.
Their gazes met, held. Deep in his brown eyes, she saw her own reflection; beyond that, she saw a spark of barely contained fear. He flinched.
For a second, maybe more, she forgot to breathe. She gazed up into his life-lined face and felt�absurdly�as if she'd finally come home.
"What are you looking at?" he asked.
You. She wanted to say the word casually, toss it to
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him as if it meant nothing, but she couldn't. Her throat felt thick and her breath was coming too fast.
Suddenly everything Viloula said made a horrible, frightening sense. He did seem familiar to her, and more than that, he felt important. Her mind seized on a dozen moments, snippets of time that drew them together. They were little things, barely grasped and quickly lost, but they meant something to her; the way he'd looked at her when he'd untied her hands, the strength he'd given to her on the ledge, the sadness in his eyes when he spoke of Emily.
She opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out. She didn't know what to say, or how to say it.
"Don't look at me that way."
She heard the scratchy, gravelly sound of his voice and knew that he'd felt it, too, that unbelievable spark of possibility.
Fear slid down her back. She wrapped her arms around herself and backed away from him. Suddenly she didn't want to be this close to him, didn't want to feel anything for him.
All this crap about soul mates would only screw her up and mess with her mind. She had to remember, always, that Kelly was her sole priority. She could have loved Killian since Cleopatra rode the Nile and it didn't mean squat. All that mattered was getting home. And he was either with her or against her. Period. And now was the time to find out which it was.
"Viloula told you I was telling the truth," she said.
"So what? The woman believes in gnomes and fairies and trolls."
Lainie didn't laugh. "I need you to help me get to Fortune Flats."
He flinched. His eyes narrowed, but not before she
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saw a glimpse of some dark inner torment. "I don't care what the hell you need."
She frowned. He looked ... scared. But that was ridiculous. What did he have to be frightened of? Slowly, watching him, she moved closer. "Are you going to take me to Fortune Flats?"
"No!" His sudden roar echoed in the small, dark cabin, seemed absurdly out of place. Almost as if she'd struck a nerve with her quiet request.
She knew she should let it go, but she had a little strength right now, and a lot of desperation. He was the only way out of this hellhole; without him, she might never see Kelly again.
She looked up, saw again the raw pain in his eyes, and it moved her, made her feel as if she understood him just a little. That dizzying sense of deja vu came back, harder, stronger, as if they'd stood like this before, squared off and hurting, neither one able to reach out.
He grabbed her, yanked her toward him, and gave her a hard shake. "Quit looking at me like that." His voice was low and gravelly. "I can't help you."
"Killian�"
He pushed her away from him and spun away, pacing the small cabin. His every footstep was a pounding hammer of sound that rattled the floorboards.
She watched him, not knowing what to say. A sinking, panicked feeling clutched her insides. She wanted to reach out, to say just the right thing that would make him change his mind, but she couldn't think of anything except why! Why are you so unwilling to help me?
"Sit down," he said abruptly. "Supper's ready."
Lainie noticed the settings on the table for the first time. She walked over to the rickety wooden table and
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sat down, staring down at the bent, dented tin fork and scratched blue metal plate.
A strange, almost nostalgic emotion moved through her at the sight of the table. It was so damned ordinary. And yet ... so different. It was a stupid thing to realize right now, and had no bearing whatsoever on her situation, but no man had ever cooked for her before.
She scooted closer to the table, pressing her hands into her lap. She wasn't sure what to do right now� was she supposed to offer to help, or sit here like a bump on a log? What?
He appeared beside her, as if drawn by her thoughts. He plopped four steaming potato wedges on her plate, then forked a thick steak beside it. The aromas combined, threw her back in time for an instant, reminded her of a dozen ordinary, everyday moments she'd spent huddled with Kelly in their quiet kitchen.
Killian clanged the pot on the side of the table and settled across from her.
They sat there, neither looking up, neither speaking. Silence threw its thick, awkward net across them, drew them close and yet kept them strangely distant. The scratching whine of tin tines on metal plates underscored the quiet, gave it a melancholy edge.
Lainie slowly cut her steak, focusing on the ordinariness of the task. Taking a bite, she stared down at her plate, chewing as quietly as she could.
"You really have a daughter?"
She was so surprised by the question that she dropped her fork and jerked her head up. "Yeah."
He smiled, but it looked forced and stiff. "That's pretty hard to believe. You don't seem too ... motherly."
The statement hurt. She gave him an equally stiff smile. "You don't need anything special to be a mother, Killian, trust me. Rabbits eat their young."
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He stared at her, an unreadable emotion in his eyes. "I guess not ... if someone would let a kid smoke at eleven."
She froze, stunned by the intimacy of the insight. Her hand shook a little and she clenched it. She tried to glance away from him, but she couldn't. He was looking at her with a sadness, an understanding that shouldn't exist. It was a look that said he knew, that he'd somehow seen more of her than she'd wanted to reveal. "Yeah, well," she mumbled. "I'm not that kind of mother."
She watched him, waiting for him to say more, but he didn't speak again. He looked down and started eating once more. She did the same. After a while, the heaviness in the air started to seep away, melt into an almost companionable silence. She felt�crazily�as if they'd done this before.. . .
When she was finished, she pushed back in her chair and got to her feet. Across the table, he did the same. Without looking at each other, they started to clear the dishes away.
They both reached for the pan at the same time. Their fingers brushed. Lainie felt the heat of his skin against hers. She stiffened and drew in a sharp breath. Her head snapped up, their eyes locked.
For a split second she looked into his eyes and felt as if she'd known him all her life. She knew she should let go of the pan, fling her body backward, and get away from him. But she couldn't move. "Help me," she murmured in a quiet, trembling voice. "Take me home.. .."
Her jerked away from her. The pan clattered to the table between them, splashing cloudy water across the splintery wood. Staring at her, his eyes darkened by some pain she couldn't begin to understand, he backed away.
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"Wait," she whispered. "Please .. ."
Suddenly a gunshot blasted through the night.
Killian squeezed his eyes shut. "Thank God." His voice was scratchy and raw and tired-sounding.
She glanced at the window where a bustling stream of shadows scudded past. "What is it?"
"The party's starting." He reached for a whiskey bottle from the supply crate. "Whenever we bring back a haul from a job, we get drunk."
She felt the moment's connection with him fade away, as if he were moving farther and farther away from her, though he hadn't taken a step. The loss of that second, that feeling, was sharper and more painful than she
would have thought possible.
Get a grip on yourself, Lainie. She straightened her shoulders and tilted her chin, wiping the sadness from her face with an ease born of practice. She'd let him see too much, had given him too much power.
But now it was over. She'd thrown away her pride and asked him for help . . . begged him ... and it hadn't worked. She had her answer. An unequivocal no.
A sinking sense of regret settled against her heart, made her chest ache. Why had she expected anything else?
He set the bottle down on the table with a sloshing clank and turned away from her. "Come on. Let's go."
She stood her ground. "I am not going to a party where drunk men carry loaded weapons."
He turned slightly. His shadow engulfed her, cut off the meager warmth of the lantern light. "I'm not going to leave you here alone."
"Then stay with me."
He flinched at her softly spoken words. "I could tie you to the bed."
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The gaze she gave him was steady. "Yeah, you could."
He leaned toward her, close enough to touch. She smelled the smoky scent of his shirt, felt a whisper of his hair against her temple. "If I leave you alone, will you try to escape?"
"What's it to you if I do?"
He drew in a sharp breath. His eyes narrowed. "You're not going anywhere." Spinning on his heel, he stalked to the door and swung it open, yelling Skeeter's name.
Within seconds, the scrawny cowhand skidded up to the door, an empty whiskey bottle dangling from one fist. "Yes sir, boss." He gave a wobbly salute.
"This lady's my . . . guest for the evening. Stand outside the door and guard her."
Skeeter frowned. "But the party, boss. Mose and Purty 'n the boys are shootin' up the drinkin' tent and chasin' after some o' them whores we brung up from Carson City."
"Sounds lovely," Lainie said loudly, craning around to see Skeeter better. He stared at her like a stuck pig. Then, slowly, he frowned.
"All right, boss. I'll stand here."
Killian started to head for the door, then stopped. Slowly, almost as if he didn't want to, he turned and looked back at her. Then, with a bitten-off curse, he grabbed his hat and pushed through the door. It slammed shut behind him, leaving her alone once more.
She sighed and slumped on the bed, burying her face in her hands. Emotions mingled with facts and swirled around in her head until she was dizzy for thinking about all of it.
She thought about Kelly, about time and the nature of its passing, about soul mates and second chances and
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