by Deeanne Gist
He quickly swooped back down, not wanting to give her an opportunity to question herself.
She squirmed.
Not yet. Not yet, Lord. Just a little more. Please?
But she wasn’t trying to escape. She was trying to free her hands, and when she did, they were everywhere at once—racing along his arms, grazing his neck, stroking his hair.
Groaning in frustration, he knew he should keep his own hands firmly planted at the small of her back, but they would not obey. He kneaded her back, her shoulder blades, her waist.
Then slowly, ever so slowly, they crept up her sides and around until he held her within his palms.
She squeezed his shoulders. ‘‘Oh, oh. We should stop.’’
He froze but did not pull away.
She covered his hands with hers. Whether to restrain him or hold him in place wasn’t clear. And then he knew. Knew that she wanted to stop but did not know how. And much as he’d like to go on, the damage afterward would be much worse than any pleasure they might derive—delectable though it might be.
Slipping his hands back down to the small of her back, he drew her close and simply held her, resting his lips against her hair. They stayed as such, allowing the tumultuous feelings rocking through their bodies to settle. And though he couldn’t speak for hers, his never completely stilled.
He wanted this woman. Oh, how he wanted her.
He felt her take a shaky breath. ‘‘Poor Lissa. No wonder she surrendered. And he offered her marriage? In the midst of all this, he offered her marriage?’’
Not exactly what he wanted to discuss at the moment. ‘‘Most likely,’’ he replied.
He couldn’t quite catch the title she assigned to Lissa’s lover, but surely she didn’t say what he thought she did.
He hugged her tight and smoothed her hair. ‘‘Hush. Don’t think of it.’’
But he wondered if Rachel would’ve complied if he’d offered her marriage. No, she would not because he wouldn’t ask it of her. Nor would he offer for her. He had no interest in entering into matrimony with anyone. No matter had badly he wanted her.
‘‘I’m sorry,’’ she mumbled against his shoulder. ‘‘I’m so sorry.’’
‘‘You’ve nothing to be sorry for, love.’’
She shook her head. ‘‘I wasn’t talking to you.’’
He absorbed the implication of that for a moment, then gave her backside a gentle pat. ‘‘Up you go. The rain has stopped.’’
She twisted around to see for herself and immediately became all atwitter—jumping from his lap, shaking out her skirt, cramming pins more securely into her hair, and reaching for her bonnet.
He got to it first. She paused.
‘‘Don’t,’’ he said.
She looked up at him, and he hooked some hair behind her ear.
‘‘We’ve both been wondering and now we know.’’ He handed her the wet bonnet. ‘‘I’ll not pressure you again. Okay? The next time, you will have to start it.’’
‘‘I won’t start it, Johnnie. I shouldn’t have allowed it this time. Moral weakness is not to be tolerated. I’m supposed to be an example to the rest of society. How will Lissa ever see the light if I fornicate? How will the men of our town see the light?’’
He grimaced. ‘‘Take the deuce, but I hate that word. We were not fornicating. We were merely kissing.’’
She shook her head. ‘‘Not in my mind, Johnnie. In my mind, I did much more than kiss you. And the leap from thought and word to something actually happening is very short indeed.’’
Heat rushed through him. She had fantasies about him? Was that what she was saying? Sweet merciful heavens. What was she thinking to reveal such a thing to him? Hadn’t her mother taught her anything?
‘‘How old were you when your mother died?’’
She looked away for a moment. ‘‘Thirteen. Lissa was nine.’’
Well, that certainly explained a lot. ‘‘Who said you were responsible for all of society? Or for anyone other than yourself?’’
She blinked. ‘‘Why, everyone. I can’t think of one matron in our entire church back home who didn’t stress such sentiments. Even my etiquette books gave instructions on such things. A woman’s public image must be flawless. Any departure from propriety is a sign of vulgarity.’’
Coming from a woman who collected bugs and wore breeches. ‘‘Have you committed your Bible to memory the way you have these etiquette books?’’
‘‘I haven’t memorized the whole thing, if that’s what you mean. But I know I’m not to make anyone stumble. I know I have a responsibility to my weaker brothers and sisters.’’
‘‘Seems to me like you’ve sure taken on an awful lot. I thought that’s what your God was for. Why not give all this to Him and quit worrying about it?’’
She fingered the wet bonnet in her hand. ‘‘Like you?’’
He stiffened. ‘‘Who said anything about me?’’
She closed the distance between them. ‘‘That’s not how it works, you know. You can’t just throw the obligations you have toward others and society at His feet in order to free yourself up to do whatever you please without any regard for your conscience.’’
How in the blazes had they gotten from fornication to theology? Well, however it happened, he wanted nothing to do with it.
He gently tugged her against him. ‘‘I’m just saying that stealing a kiss now and then isn’t some mortal sin.’’
‘‘And I’m just saying I want to stay within the boundaries God has set for me. Not only that, but it is my moral obligation to be an example to the men and women of this town. And do you know what I think? I think a great many of them are possessed of good principles. I think that by constantly interacting with those who are less stringent morally, they imbibe in customs that back home would have been quite revolting to their natures.’’
‘‘What a great bunch of foolishness.’’
‘‘What they need is somewhere they can go. A place that offers something other than drinking and gambling. Like my restaurant.’’
This was even worse than talking theology.
She skimmed the stubble on his jaw with her knuckles. ‘‘I’m leaving you, Johnnie.’’
He tensed. ‘‘What do you mean?’’
‘‘I’m moving into my restaurant tomorrow. I hope to open it in another couple of weeks, and when I do, it will be an alcohol-free place where the men can come for a home-cooked meal.’’
‘‘Tomorrow? You’re moving out tomorrow? What about my hotel?’’
‘‘I guess it’s time to hire someone else to clean it.’’
‘‘No one will clean it the way you do.’’
She offered him a slight smile. ‘‘That’s probably true.’’
‘‘Why can’t you still live in the shanty?’’
She didn’t answer.
He splayed his hands and increased the pressure at her waist. ‘‘I like having you in the shanty.’’
She tucked her chin. ‘‘I like being there.’’
‘‘Then stay.’’
‘‘I’m sorry.’’
He knew she’d been working hard on her new place, yet this decision to move tomorrow had come out of nowhere and he’d not been at all prepared for it. But what could he do? Nothing. Not one blasted thing.
‘‘Is that place even habitable?’’ he asked.
He felt her huff. ‘‘By San Francisco standards, anything with four sides and a roof is more than habitable.’’
He moved his lips to her hair and inhaled. So sweet.
‘‘My trees?’’ he asked.
‘‘I’ll only be serving lunch at first, so if you’d like, I can still tend to your trees in the late afternoon.’’
He didn’t examine too closely the bit of relief that statement invoked. He could attribute it to concern for his trees, but he knew better. And it was a Pandora’s box he had no wish to open.
She took a step back. He released her and watched as she pulle
d on her bonnet. Its wet rim drooped in front of her eyes.
He lifted it up with a finger and peeked beneath. ‘‘I don’t think it’s going to do you much good. Why don’t you wait and put it back on just before we get to town?’’
Biting her lip, she slipped it off. ‘‘All right,’’ she whispered.
Threading his fingers with hers, he led her from their hideaway and back to the horses.
chapter 15
The shock of Rachel leaving him high and dry with no one to cook and no one to clean had finally worn off. And in its place had come hurt, then anger. He’d been doing fine without those things before she arrived in San Francisco, but now the boys had gotten used to clean bedding and he had gotten used to her cooking. To her very presence.
The least she could have done was give him a little notice. But she hadn’t so much as darkened his door since she left two weeks ago. He knew she had been going out to his property to care for the plants, but it hadn’t been with him.
Johnnie shuffled, cut, and reshuffled the deck of cards. ‘‘Your cut,’’ he said to the man named Isaac in a red cap and scarlet flannel shirt.
Isaac cut the cards and Johnnie whisked them up. Maybe it was for the best that she had taken her pure-as-snow, tightly corseted, buttoned-to-the-neck self somewhere else.
He flipped over the first two cards. ‘‘Jack and deuce. Make your bets.’’
He’d been married once already to the holier-than-thou type and found their expectations were hard to live up to. Not only that, but when push came to shove, it turned out their kind wasn’t so holy after all. They were nothing but hypocrites.
The players relaxing around the table staked ounce after ounce upon the jack.
Rachel was a sunbonnet woman, and he hadn’t seen one in a while. So long, in fact, he’d forgotten what a trial they were. Well, no more.
He tried to push her from his thoughts, but his patrons wouldn’t allow it. Expounding on her activities had even taken precedence over talk of making California a state.
He threw out two more cards.
‘‘She still at it, Clyde?’’ Jonah asked.
Clyde, choosing to watch Rachel from his vantage point at the front window rather than play a round of monte, dug inside his nose with a fat stubby finger. ‘‘She’s still at it. That gal shore is somethin’.’’
‘‘I done told her I’d hammer those boards back in place, but she ran me right off the place.’’
Clyde wiped his finger on his backside. ‘‘Oh, I’m a thinkin’ that I’m the one what could help her with a thing or two.’’
Johnnie glared at the circle of dirty, unshaven men and checked his irritation. Why should he care what they said about her?
He could see that Geoffrey didn’t feel the same, though. The man may have been dressed in miner’s garb like the rest, but he used to be a fancy lawyer out east somewhere.
‘‘You shouldn’t speak of a lady in such a way,’’ Geoffrey interjected. ‘‘She deserves our utmost respect, even if she is not within hearing distance.’’
The men looked at each other sheepishly and Clyde turned downright red.
Johnnie rapped his knuckles on the table. ‘‘All down, gents?’’
‘‘Hold onto yer hats, boys,’’ Clyde cried, whipping his hat off and smoothing his hair back. ‘‘Here she comes.’’
The entire table threw their cards face down and crowded around the window. The men fell silent as each jockeyed for a position in front of the window. Johnnie tightened his lips. They were in the middle of a game, for crying out loud.
‘‘Oh. She’s comin’ this way.’’
‘‘Shhh. Here she is.’’
Johnnie threw his cards down, as well, furious at his body’s reaction to their words. His heart was beating, his hands were sweating, and his stomach clinched into a knot.
Rachel stopped in his doorway.
He rose to his feet. ‘‘You shouldn’t be here.’’
Her gaze swept the room, snagging on his statue. The men had taken great delight in covering it up for her once Soda told them she wasn’t allowed to.
Every day it had worn something different—calicos one day and flannels the next. Since she’d left, they continued their tradition but didn’t worry so much about which parts were exposed and which weren’t. Today, his Lorenzo Bartolini wore a set of suspenders. Nothing else.
A hint of humor touched her face. She curtsied to the clump of men packed beside the window. They made a spectacle of themselves whipping off their hats, elbows flying, while trying to bow when they were so congested.
She turned back to Johnnie. ‘‘Excuse me for interrupting. I was just wondering if Michael was here?’’
‘‘No.’’
She hesitated. ‘‘Oh. Well, if you see him, would you send him home please?’’
‘‘Is there something you needed, Miss Van Buren?’’ Isaac asked.
‘‘Oh no. It can wait.’’
‘‘You need us to tote somethin’ fer ya?’’
‘‘Actually, I was trying to move my new stove to the opposite wall, but—’’
An army of volunteers offered to help.
She glanced from Johnnie to the table of cards to the group of men.
‘‘I would appreciate it very much. Thank you.’’
The entire roomful poured out the door to personally help her with her stove.
Disgusted, Johnnie stepped out onto the verandah. ‘‘Boys! You walk away from a game and you’ll forfeit your gold, you will.’’
‘‘Go ahead, Johnnie. You take it. We’re gonna help Miss Van Buren.’’
Johnnie narrowed his eyes. That dad-blamed female just walked off with a whole hour’s worth of business. The men disappeared inside her place.
His memory chose that moment to remind him Rachel had only been thirteen when her mother had died. And it was highly likely she’d not been told that God engineered her body to want and accept what a man had to offer. That there were good and excellent reasons a woman shouldn’t allow certain liberties. Liberties similar to the ones she’d already allowed him.
He kept his eyes trained on the door. He knew she was fine. That particular group of rowdies would rather die than harm a hair on her head. But she was a sitting duck if somebody like Sumner got a hold of her. And there were plenty of them in this town.
Before long, the boys stumbled out her front door, talking all at once and heading toward the wharf, anxious he was sure, to spread the tale of how they had helped the sunbonnet with her new restaurant.
He strode to her property and through her door, which was set to the right of a huge bay window fronting her shop. He paused and closed the door softly behind him. The muffled noises of the Plaza soaked through the walls. The smell of lye and lime mixed with yeast and molasses. The plank floor running between him and the entry to the kitchen housed two long tables with benches on either side.
He frowned. All was quiet and still within the building. Perhaps she’d stepped out back. He skirted the tables and made his way to the archway that separated the serving room from the kitchen.
Rachel stood inside, back turned, admiring her stove. The apron bow tied at her waist drooped, its strings trailing over the curve of her skirts.
And that’s all it took. Memories of her companionship and sweet kisses obliterated whatever notions he’d had of forgetting about her.
He studied the laboratory in which her very livelihood rested. Numerous sconces would provide excellent light. Narrow windows running along the upper edge of her east and west walls took advantage of the ocean breeze, which combined with the height of the ceiling, would provide maximum ventilation.
A door leading to the outside offered access without having to traipse through the dining area. And an alcove jutting off the back most likely held the scullery, pantry, and storeroom. Tucked into the opposite wall were a narrow set of stairs.
The piece of furniture holding court in the center of the west wall, however, was w
hat held her rapt attention.
Rachel brushed her hands across the Leamington kitchener stove as if she were smoothing wrinkles from a tablecloth. It was said to surpass any other range in use for easy cooking by one fire.
And she could see why. It had a hot plate that would keep her vessels boiling without injuring their contents. The wrought-iron roaster had movable shelves, a draw-out stand, a double dripping pan, and a meat stand.
The roaster could also be converted into an oven by closing the valves, allowing her to bake breads and pastries in a superior manner.
Whoever owned the building must be working the gold mines. She could think of no other reason for leaving such a valuable piece behind, not to mention the rest of the furnishings.
She polished the large iron boiler with her apron skirt, running it over the brass tap and steam pipe, the round and square gridirons, and a set of ornamental covings with a plate warmer attached.
She had taken the stove apart piece-by-piece, cleaning, scrubbing, and oiling it until it worked and looked as good as new.
‘‘You walked off with my customers.’’
She squealed and whirled around. How could she not have heard him enter? ‘‘Mercy, Johnnie, you scared me to death.’’
He said nothing.
‘‘How long have you been standing there?’’
He kicked up one corner of his mouth. ‘‘Long enough to wish I were that stove.’’
She shook out her apron. He’d said he wouldn’t try to steal any more kisses, but he didn’t have to. He could call them to her mind with a whispered word or a heated look.
Even now, the very picture he made looming in her doorway with one hip cocked, sleeves rolled up, and hat in hand upstaged even the stove.
And he was doing it again. Giving her one of his sleepy looks.
‘‘Did you need something?’’ she asked.
He sucked in his breath. She tilted her head, trying to puzzle out why he looked so discomfited but could come up with no reasonable explanation.
He tossed his hat onto the pastry table. ‘‘Why have you been ignoring me?’’
‘‘Why are you building another saloon?’’
‘‘What? You mean the Parker House?’’
