Schulze, Dallas

by Gunfighter's Bride

  “Bridget Sunday is looking after them this afternoon,” Lila’s voice came from behind the screen. “She has children their age. They’ve invited us to have dinner with them this evening. I told them we’d be delighted to join them.”

  “At the minister’s house?” Bishop considered that idea. He had a nodding acquaintance with Joseph Sunday and his family, but he’d certainly never pictured himself sitting down to dinner with the man. He’d generally found it more comfortable to keep a bit of distance between himself and men of the cloth. They had a nasty tendency to want to lecture him on the error of his ways. “Is that where you disappeared to this afternoon?”

  “I didn’t disappear. I met Bridget at Fitch’s and she suggested that the children and I spend the afternoon with her family. We’ve become quite good friends.” Lila’s voice was a bit breathless, as if she were busy doing something that took a bit of effort. Drying herself perhaps? The thought of her running a linen towel over her soft skin made Bishop’s mouth go dry, and it took him a moment to hear the rest of what she said. “They’re nice people and I think it’s a chance for the children to make friends. According to Gavin, that wasn’t something their grandmother encouraged. She actually told them that she didn’t want to risk them coming into contact with someone who might bring out their bad blood.”

  The anger in her voice made his mouth twist in a half smile even as he felt a renewed pang of guilt for having left Gavin and Angel in his mother-in-law’s not-so-tender care.

  “I told them, if they were going to worry about bad blood, it should be hers,” Lila said, sounding defiant and just a little guilty. “I probably shouldn’t have spoken ill of her but, really, any woman who would tell two innocent children such absolute rot doesn’t deserve to have them respect her. I’m just sorry I won’t have the opportunity to tell her so to her face.”

  Bishop found himself more than a little sorry too. That would have been something to see. He had a feeling that Louise would have found she’d met her match in Lila Adams McKenzie.

  “You’ve been very good with the children,” he said slowly. The acknowledgment was overdue.

  Lila had been tying the belt of her robe but her fingers abruptly fumbled in the simple task. There was something approaching warmth in his voice, something she hadn’t heard much of in their brief acquaintance. The sound of it melted the last traces of her anger at the way he’d intruded on her bath. It was difficult to stay angry with him when he was thanking her.

  “If I let... circumstances affect my behavior toward them, I’d be no better than their grandmother.” She finished belting her robe and patted her hand over her hair to make sure it was still confined in the loose knot on top of her head. She would have preferred to be fully dressed before facing him again, but her clothes were on the other side of the screen and she didn’t think it wise to ask Bishop to leave the room so this would just have to do. The robe covered everything her dress would have done, she told herself.

  “They’re very nice children,” she said as she came around the screen. “It isn’t hard to be—good heavens, what on earth are you doing with those?”

  Bishop had been standing to one side of the window, watching the activity on the street below. He responded to the shock in Lila’s voice more than her words, spinning away from the window to see what was the matter. He scanned the room quickly but there was nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing but her standing next to the screen looking at him as if he’d suddenly grown horns and a tail.

  “What’s wrong?” he snapped.

  “Those things.” She pointed an accusing finger at him. “Why are you wearing them.”

  “My guns?” Bishop asked incredulously. His right hand dropped to the butt of the Colt .38 he wore on his hip. “Is that what you’re talking about?”

  “Yes. Why are you wearing them?”

  “I usually wear them.”

  “I’ve never seen you do so,” she said flatly. She gave the weapons a look of acute distaste.

  That didn’t seem possible. The Colts were as much a part of what he wore as his boots and his hat. But when Bishop thought about it, he realized that she probably hadn’t seen him with his guns on. He always took them off before taking her and the children down to dinner, and, apart from that one meal each day, they’d barely set eyes on each other. But even if this was the first time she’d seen him wearing guns, that didn’t mean it was the first time she’d seen anyone wearing them.

  “Most of the men in Paris wear guns,” he said.

  “I had noticed that and I thought it was extraordinary that you allowed them to do so.”

  “Allowed them?” Bishop’s brows rose.

  “Yes, allowed them.” She jerked her belt tighter with a quick, nervous gesture. “You’re the sheriff. Why don’t you tell them they can’t go around wearing guns?”

  “I could, I suppose,” he said slowly. “Of course, I’d probably find myself on the wrong side of a lynching party.”

  “You can’t be serious!” Lila’s eyes widened in disbelief. Her shocked reaction reminded Bishop of why he’d come here in the first place and rekindled the anger he’d felt when he hadn’t been able to find her earlier.

  “This isn’t Pennsylvania. Things are different here.”

  “I don’t believe they’re so different that grown men need to arm themselves in order to walk down the street.”

  “Whether they need to or not, there’s no law that says they can’t, and it would be more than my life is worth to try and tell them otherwise,” he said bluntly. “This is Colorado, and the people walking the streets out there aren’t the shopkeepers and businessmen you used to know in Beaton.”

  “I don’t see that they’re all that different.” Lila restrained the urge to sniff in disbelief. She’d heard so much about how “different” things were in the west, first from Douglas and Susan and now from Bishop. But as far as she could see, other than being dustier and somewhat less endowed with cultural amenities, Paris wasn’t all that different from Beaton. People were much the same, no matter what part of the country you were in. “Mr. Fitch doesn’t seem that different than Mr. Miller who ran the mercantile in Beaton.”

  Bishop saw the stubborn set of her chin and knew she still didn’t understand. “What do you think your Mr. Miller would do if two men tried to rob his store? Give them what they wanted and then call for the law to deal with them?”

  “I can’t speak for Mr. Miller but it seems a reasonable reaction,” Lila said stiffly.

  “Six months ago, two miners came down out of the hills.” Bishop spoke rapidly, hoping to make her understand. “They hadn’t made the big strike they thought they deserved and they were feeling a little out of sorts. They did some drinking at the Lucky Dragon and decided they’d probably just missed hitting the mother lode. One more try and they’d strike it rich. Only problem was, they didn’t have any money for supplies. I guess it must have seemed like a good idea to rob Fitch’s. They could get the supplies they needed and disappear back up into the mountains. Either they didn’t know Fitch sleeps in a back room at the store or they figured one skinny old man wouldn’t cause them much trouble.”

  Interested despite herself, Lila prompted him when he paused. “What happened? Mr. Fitch wasn’t hurt, was he?”

  “Fitch wasn’t hurt. He came at them with a sawed-off shotgun. One of them lost the use of an arm. We buried the other one.”

  “That nice old man?” Lila gaped at him in shock. The story was all the more shocking for its flat delivery. She wouldn’t have thought the tall, thin storekeeper capable of anything more violent than swatting a fly. “When I took the children to his store today, he was so nice.”

  “That ‘nice old man’ was trapping beaver in these mountains long before either of us was born,” Bishop told her. “He was at the first American Rendezvous in ’25. Not long after that, he took a Crow wife and lived with her people for a few years. When she died, he went to work for the army as a scout. And when he got t
ired of that, he did a little mining before deciding to settle down and run a store.”

  “Mr. Fitch?” Lila’s voice rose high on a note of disbelief. She simply couldn’t connect what he’d just told her with the man she’d met.

  “Quite a few people in this town could tell similar stories,” Bishop told her. “Folks don’t come west because they’re settled, stay-at-home types. More than a few of them were known by another name; some have a price on their heads in other parts of the country. Most are good enough people but not all of them, not by a long shot. This town isn’t like the places you know. If it was, they wouldn’t have hired someone like me to keep the peace. I don’t want you disappearing again the way you did this afternoon.”

  “I didn’t disappear,” Lila snapped. She was shaken by what he’d told her, but that didn’t mean she was going to let him dictate to her. “I was at the minister’s house. I hardly think I was in danger there. Unless you’re about to tell me that he’s really a wanted killer in three states or is secretly head of a murderous gang of rustlers.”

  Despite himself, Bishop felt his mouth quirk at the testy edge to her voice. One of the things he admired about her was her spirit. She’d tackle hell with a hand bucket if it suited her. Maybe he had overreacted a bit when he’d realized that he didn’t know where she was. This wasn’t Pennsylvania but it wasn’t exactly San Francisco’s Barbary Coast either. He just wasn’t used to having anyone to worry about besides himself. Finding himself abruptly a family man again might have made him a little touchy.

  Besides, it was hard to hold on to his anger when she was standing there wrapped in nothing but a robe. The sapphire-colored silk covered her from her throat to the delicate arch of her feet. She would hardly have been more modestly covered if she’d been fully dressed. But there was no chemise beneath the heavy silk, no layers of petticoats and drawers—nothing between his hands and her soft skin but that one layer of fabric.

  “As far as I know, Joseph Sunday isn’t wanted for anything,” he said absently, trying to pull his attention back to the conversation.

  “That’s certainly a relief,” Lila said with heavy sarcasm.

  “That’s not the point.” His eyes drifted to where the fabric of her robe clung to the full curves of her breasts. He could see the peaks of her nipples pushing against the dark silk, and he suddenly remembered the pebble hardness of them pressed into his palms.

  “Just what is the point, then?” she asked impatiently.

  Damned if he could remember. Damned if he could think of anything but the fact the she was standing in front of him wearing next to nothing. But she was looking at him impatiently, waiting for his response.

  “The point is that things are different here,” he said, aware that it wasn’t exactly the commanding finish he’d originally envisioned.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” She gave him a slightly puzzled look, as if the conversation hadn’t gone the way she’d expected. “Did you burst into my room just to tell me that?”

  “I didn’t exactly burst,” he pointed out, but he was losing interest in the conversation. “How long are the children going to be with Mrs. Sunday?”

  “She said they were welcome to stay until we join them for dinner at six. I suppose I should have consulted with you before accepting her invitation,” she admitted grudgingly.

  “That’s fine,” he said absently, more interested in the here and now. He’d worry about dinner with the parson later. “So we’re alone for the next couple of hours.”

  Like a doe scenting sudden danger, Lila stilled. While they were talking, she’d nearly forgotten the intimacy of their situation. Now Bishop’s soft-voiced comment reminded her that this was the first time they’d been completely alone since the children joined them. Her wide green eyes met his and what she read there had her heart suddenly beating much too hard. Even more frightening than the hunger she saw in his eyes was the echo of it she felt in the pit of her stomach.

  What was it about him that brought out this... wantonness in her? Did marriage take away the sin of feeling such powerful desire for a man she didn’t love?

  With an effort, she turned away, her fingers tugging once more at the belt of her robe. She suddenly felt woefully underdressed.

  “Maybe you’d better go," she said, her voice not quite steady.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t.” Bishop’s fingers closed around her arm, turning her back to face him. “It occurs to me that we’ve yet to have a wedding night.”

  “It’s broad daylight,” she reminded him, scandalized. “You can’t possibly mean to—”

  “Why not?” His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist and Lila’s pulse was suddenly beating much too fast. “There’s no law that says a man can only make love to his wife in the dark.”

  She was going to pull away, she told herself. She wasn’t going to allow this to continue. But she stayed where she was, hypnotized by the rhythmic stroke of Bishop’s thumb against her skin, the searing blue of his eyes.

  “I want to see you,” he said, his voice low and husky. “I want to watch your face when you take me inside you. Remember?”

  Lila felt as if she’d just had the breath knocked from her. She’d never even imagined the possibility of anyone saying something so shockingly intimate. And worse than what he’d said were the memories that rushed back over her, memories she’d spent three months trying to suppress. Remember? She hadn’t been able to forget.

  “I think—” she began breathlessly.

  “You think too much,” he said as he slid his hand from her wrist up her arm, pulling her closer.

  “This is wrong.” He was so close that she could feel the heat of him, smell the crispness of soap and sunshine that clung to him. He set one hand against the small of her back, his boot sliding between her bare feet. Looking up at him, Lila was suddenly conscious of his size and strength. In contrast, she felt small and vulnerable, not a feeling to which she was accustomed.

  “It’s not wrong,” he contradicted. “You’re my wife and I want you. I’m your husband and you want me. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “But I don’t want—”

  “Yes, you do.” And he proceeded to prove it by threading his fingers through her hair, tilting her face upward, and closing his mouth over hers with ruthless sensuality.

  He didn’t ask her for a response, he demanded it. There was no slow, easy build to passion. Instead, he let the full force of his hunger sweep over her. For half a heartbeat, Lila remained stiff against him, telling herself it would be wrong to give in to the heat already uncoiling itself in the pit of her stomach. Surely it was a sin to want him so much when she didn’t love him.

  “Open your mouth,” Bishop whispered against her lips. He slid his tongue across the sensitive flesh inside her lower lip in a gesture that coaxed even as it demanded.

  Lila opened her mouth—to protest—surely that was the reason. It certainly wasn’t to comply with his sensual command. But whatever her reason, Bishop was quick to take advantage of the opportunity. His tongue slid between her teeth, laying claim to the vulnerable softness beyond.

  Lila’s resistance collapsed with shameful speed. She’d raised her hands to push him away, but her fingers were suddenly curling over the edges of his coat, clinging for support as his tongue ravaged her mouth. This was the way it had been before—he’d only had to kiss her and she’d forgotten everything she knew of right and wrong, forgotten everything but the need to belong to him. She simply wasn’t strong enough to fight her own hunger as well as his, and she let her body curve into the hard strength of his.

  Feeling her surrender, Bishop gave a low murmur of encouragement against her mouth and pulled her so close that not even a shadow could slip between them. Locked together from breast to knee, they kissed with the deep hunger of lovers too long apart, with an urgency caused by needs too long denied.

  His fingers burrowed into her hair, loosening the pins that held the heavy coil in place. An instant l
ater, fiery curls tumbled over his hands and arms, falling past her hips in a wild, luxuriant tangle. Lila’s knees weakened when his tongue traced the delicate shell of her ear, his teeth worrying the lobe a moment before his mouth found the sensitive skin along the side of her neck.

  She felt Bishop loosening the belt of her robe and, for an instant, panic swept over her. She didn’t have a stitch on beneath the robe. If he removed it she’d be completely naked. It was broad daylight. She couldn’t let him—Bishop’s mouth was suddenly on hers, swallowing her incoherent murmur of protest, making her forget everything but his kiss.

  Keeping his mouth on hers, Bishop slid his hands beneath the heavy silk, slipping the robe off her shoulders until it slithered to the floor, pooling around her feet—a brilliant splash of blue against the pale wood. He could feel the tension beneath Lila’s surrender and guessed that a wrong move could make her bolt. He should move slowly, coaxing and soothing her every step of the way. But he’d been hungry for so long. For three months she’d haunted his thoughts. Whatever sin he’d committed that night, he’d surely been punished for it since their wedding. Having her close but always out of reach had been the most refined of tortures. His self-control had been strained to the limits and beyond. He simply didn’t have enough left to begin a long drawn out seduction of his own wife. But maybe he didn’t have to. She was all but melting in his arms, her slender body warm and pliant.

  Lila let her head fall back as Bishop’s mouth left hers. His lips trailed downward, tasting the sensitive arch of her throat, exploring the pulse that beat raggedly at its base. Eyes closed, hands clinging to his shoulders, she let herself fall into the pleasure he was offering.

  The softly scratchy feel of his mustache brushing against the upper curve of her breast made her eyes fly open. Bishop had dropped to one knee in front of her, and she stared in shock as he opened his mouth over her breast, laving the sensitive tip with his tongue. He’d done the same thing the last time they were together, and the memory had haunted her most secret dreams. But his room had been dark that night and her memories had been limited to those of touch and scent and sound. Seeing his face at her breast, the sharp contrast of his black mustache with the-creamy pallor of her skin was shockingly erotic. She felt the tug of his mouth against her breast, a drawing pressure that was echoed deep inside her, spreading outward until her entire body throbbed in rhythm to his suckling.