It was Bishop who broke the spell by taking her braid and easing it over her shoulder so that it lay across her back. “It’s late. Maybe you’d better finish up and get back to bed,” he said quietly.
“Yes.” The word was hardly more than a sigh. Her fingers were not quite steady as she turned her attention back to the task of bandaging his side.
In those few, still moments, she’d been forced to admit, if only to herself, that she wanted her husband on a purely carnal level that had nothing to do with the sweet, tender emotion she knew love to be.
CHAPTER 17
By the end of a week, Bishop’s wound had healed to the point where it was no longer necessary for Lila to change the bandage. Though he’d carry a scar, he’d actually been very lucky. Despite what he’d said about not moving fast enough, his speed had been enough to keep him alive. Lila was furious when she found out that the man who’d tried to kill him had received no punishment other than spending a couple of nights in jail.
“He tried to kill you!” she protested, when Bishop told her he’d already released the man.
“It wasn’t personal. He was liquored up and looking for a fight. I just happened to get in the way. Jack’s not a bad sort unless he’s drinking.”
“He’s a menace to society and should be locked up,” Lila snapped. Bishop had come too close to death for her to be in a forgiving mood. If this was an example of the ways in which things were different in the West, she much preferred the more civilized East, at least in this one area.
Bishop’s injury served to shift the balance of their marriage in ways neither he nor Lila could have anticipated. It created new bonds and fostered a new intimacy between them. Each time Lila changed the bandage for him, she was forced to acknowledge her attraction to him. And each time, when the task was done and she stepped away from him, she found herself questioning her decision to keep him at a distance.
It was true that The Lady’s Journal of Home & Hearth said that it was a woman’s duty to help a man control his baser instincts. But they hadn’t made any mention of her own baser instincts. And did not having relations with one’s husband fall under controlling baser instincts, or was it in the category of refusing to do one’s marital duty—a sin of mammoth proportions, according to the editors of the magazine?
Lila wrestled with her conscience, seeing questions in every direction and no clear answers. If she were to tell Bishop that she’d changed her mind—and she couldn’t even begin to imagine how she’d go about doing that—would she be doing it because it was the right thing to do or because of the wicked desire he made her feel? And did marriage, even without love, justify the sin of lust?
On Bishop’s part, not even the discomfort of his injury could mask the sweet torture of having Lila touching him. Each time it was an exercise in self-control for him. He wanted to reach for her and pull her into his arms, knife wound be damned. He wanted to feel her mouth soften for him, feel her body melt beneath him.
The damnable part of it was that he could have her without a whisper of protest on her part and they both knew it. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. It was in her eyes when she looked at him, in her touch as she smoothed the bandage around his waist. He could all but smell the hunger in her.
Maybe she was even hoping he’d make the first move. Then she could submit gracefully and not have to answer to her own conscience. But he was damned if he’d give her that out. If she wanted to change the terms of their marriage, she was going to have to say so.
With neither of them willing to make the first move, everything remained status quo, much to their mutual frustration.
***
Bishop wondered if there was another woman alive who could make kneading bread look seductive. He stopped in the kitchen doorway, feeling the familiar clench of hunger in his gut. Unaware of him, Lila continued with her task, leaning her upper body into the job, her hands working the mound of dough in a rhythmic motion that made Bishop think all kinds of thoughts he’d be better off not having.
She was wearing a plain cotton dress in a dusty shade of rose, the sleeves pushed up halfway to her elbows and a white apron wrapped around her waist. With her hair caught up in a heavy knot at the back of her head and a smear of flour across one cheek, she was the picture of domestic endeavor. And he wanted her.
Though he made no sound, Lila seemed to sense his presence because her head came up abruptly and her eyes met his. They stared at each other, awareness strung between them like a tautly drawn rope. It was for a moment only and then Lila looked away.
“I’m making bread,” she said, as if he might not have noticed. “Bridget gave me the recipe.”
“Did she?” He walked farther into the room. He hung his hat on the back of one of the chairs and ran his fingers through his hair. He was aware of a feeling of homecoming, an unfamiliar sense of belonging.
“Bridget says yeast bread is easier to make than biscuits,” Lila said as she continued kneading the dough. “You should be glad of that.”
“Should I?” Bishop cast her a cautious look. He hadn’t said a word about her biscuits, which were either rock-hard lumps or doughy lumps with nothing in between.
“I know perfectly well that my biscuits aren’t always quite right,” she said. She glanced at him out the corner of her eyes. “You and Gavin have both been kind enough to eat them anyway. Angel isn’t old enough to have developed that much diplomacy. She very kindly informed me that she didn’t think she liked biscuits anymore and that I didn’t have to make them for her sake.”
Bishop brushed one hand over his mouth to conceal a smile. “Maybe she just doesn’t care for biscuits.”
“And maybe I make the worst biscuits this side of St. Louis,” Lila countered. She punched the dough a couple of times and then gathered it up in both hands, shaping it into a neat ball before placing it in a white earthenware bowl and covering it with a clean towel.
Bishop started to say something consoling about her biscuits but his attention was caught by a movement outside the window. A half step to the left gave him a better view without putting him directly in front of the window. The area behind the house had been cleared of trees when the place was built, apparently with the idea of putting in a garden. The garden had not yet come to pass, though Lila was nurturing a cutting of that rosebush of Bridget Sunday’s that she seemed so fond of. At the moment, the backyard was nothing but dirt and weeds backed by a ragged line of pines and aspens.
Gavin stood near the back of the yard, the light blue of his shirt visible against the dark-green shadows of the pines. Assured that the movement he’d seen had been nothing to worry about, Bishop started to turn away from the window but he hesitated and looked at Gavin a little more closely. There was something odd about the way the boy was standing.
“You’re not usually home this early,” Lila said, turning toward Bishop. “Dinner won’t be ready for—” She broke off, startled, as he walked past her as if she weren’t even there. “Bishop?”
He didn’t seem to hear her as he reached the door and jerked it open with enough force to smack it back against the wall. Lila caught a quick glimpse of his expression and felt her heart leap into her throat. He looked as if he were on the verge of murder. What on earth? She hurried after him, nearly stumbling off the porch in her haste. Bishop was halfway across the yard, his long legs setting a pace she couldn’t hope to match without breaking into a run.
“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” The question was asked in a near roar.
Looking past Bishop, Lila saw Gavin turn, his expression startled. His blue eyes widened and his face paled when he saw his father. Remembering the fury she’d seen in Bishop, Lila could appreciate the boy’s look of fear. She lifted her skirts indecently high to hurry forward over the uneven ground. She didn’t know what had set Bishop off, but she was suddenly afraid to let Gavin face him alone.
“Give me that!” Bishop reached out and snatched something from Gavin’s hand jus
t as Lila reached them. “Where did you get this?”
“Bishop, don’t shout at hi—” Her protest trailed off when she saw what it was he held. It was a revolver, blue-black steel gleaming dully in the late-afternoon sun. “Good Lord! Gavin, where did you get that?”
“I—I found it,” Gavin stammered. His eyes darted to Lila and then back to his father.
“You expect me to believe you found this?” Bishop demanded, his fingers knotting around the wooden grips. His free hand shot out, catching Gavin by the shoulder, jerking his son a half step closer to him. “Don’t lie to me, boy.”
“I’m not lying.” Lila hadn’t thought it possible, but Gavin’s face paled even more. His mouth set as he looked at his father, his eyes holding a mixture of defiance and fear. “I found it in the alley next to the Lucky Dragon.”
“Just lying there?” Bishop asked in a tone of deep sarcasm.
“Just lying there,” Gavin repeated, his voice shaking a little but his eyes steady. Lila had to admire his courage. She wasn’t sure she could have been as calm in the face of the black rage in Bishop’s eyes.
“Bishop?” She set her hand on his arm. His muscles were iron hard beneath her touch. “I think he’s telling the truth.”
He shook her hand off his arm without a glance in her direction, but she was relieved to see him release Gavin. Not that she thought he’d hurt the boy. Or she was almost sure he wouldn’t.
With a quick flick of his wrist, Bishop snapped open the pistol. Though she was no longer touching him, Lila could feel a slight easing of his tension. “The firing pin is broken,” he said, apparently speaking to himself as much as to either of them. “And it’s too old to be worth fixing. Somebody might have just dumped it.”
“I told you I found it,” Gavin said, resentful that Bishop hadn’t believed him without further proof. “I don’t lie.”
“What were you doing with it?” Bishop demanded without offering any apology for having doubted his son’s word.
Gavin shrugged, his eyes dropping to the ground between them.
“Nothing.”
“You don’t do ‘nothing’ with a gun,” Bishop snapped. “What were you doing?”
“Practicing,” Gavin admitted sullenly.
“Practicing what? You don’t have any bullets and this gun wouldn’t fire them if you did. What were you practicing?”
Lila couldn’t understand his interest in exactly what Gavin had been doing. What difference did it make? The important thing was to make sure that the boy understood that guns were not something to play with, even guns that didn’t fire. She shuddered to think of what could have happened if the firing pin hadn’t been broken.
“Bishop—”
“What were you doing?” he demanded, deaf to her interruption.
“I was practicing my draw,” Gavin said finally, the words seemingly dragged from him. He lifted his head and looked at his father, his blue eyes, so like Bishop’s, holding something that might have been a plea. “I want to be a shootist when I grow up. Like you. Willie Smythe says you’re the best ever, that you’ve never killed anybody except in a fair fight, and that nobody’s faster than you are.”
Bishop felt as if he’d just been kicked in the gut. His lungs were suddenly empty of air, and he saw Gavin through a red haze of pain. He was oblivious to the hunger for approval in his son’s eyes. All he could hear was the echo of the boy’s words. A shootist. Like you. It was like something out of a nightmare.
Most men dream of seeing their sons grow up to follow in their footsteps. Farmers hope their sons will share their love of the soil. Bankers try to instill a respect for money and the management of it into their offspring. Ranchers pray for a son to inherit the land and finish building the dream they’ve started.
If Bishop had been asked what he wanted for Gavin’s future, his only answer would have been that he wanted the boy to find whatever happiness the good Lord might have intended for him. The last thing he’d have wished was for his son to follow in his footsteps.
His skill with a gun had both kept him alive and cost him his life. A man with his reputation had few choices. Unlike other men, he couldn’t simply live his life and let people assume his honesty. He had to come down firmly on one side of the law or the other. He could be a peace officer or he could be an outlaw. There were no other paths open to him.
If Bishop could give his children nothing else, he wanted to give them choices. And here was Gavin, standing in front of him, telling him that he wanted to throw those choices away, that he wanted to walk the same lonely path his father had taken. The thought created an anger in him like nothing he’d ever felt before. Something of what he was feeling must have shown in his face because he saw the last traces of color drain from Gavin’s face, leaving his eyes almost painfully blue in contrast to the pallor of his skin.
“You’re a damned fool.” He spoke low and hard, each word coming out with the force of a blow. “The last thing in the world you want is to be like me. Guns aren’t toys for little boys to play with. If I ever catch you with a gun again, I’m going to put you over my knee and take a switch to your backside until you can’t sit down for a month. Do you understand me?” ‘
Gavin nodded. His body was so rigid that it seemed to Lila a miracle that he could manage that much, but it wasn’t enough to satisfy Bishop.
“I want to hear you say it!” he snapped, his tone so harsh that Lila felt herself flinch away from it, even though it wasn’t directed at her.
“I understand,” Gavin said, barely moving his lips.
“Go to your room.” Bishop’s voice didn’t soften at the boy’s acquiescence.
Lila caught a glimpse of Gavin’s eyes as he turned toward the house. Though his expression remained rigidly controlled, there was no mistaking the sparkle of tears in his eyes. It was the first time she’d seen him even come close to crying, and her heart broke for him. She rounded on Bishop as soon as the door shut behind him.
“Don’t you think you were a little harsh with him?”
“Stay out of it,” he ordered her shortly, not taking his eyes from the gun in his hand. His peremptory tone struck sparks off her temper.
“I will not stay out of it! I am as close to a mother as that boy has and I will not stand by and let you terrorize him.”
Bishop lifted his head. “Terrorize him? I’m trying to keep him alive. Or do you like the idea of him playing with guns?”
“Of course not! But I don’t think it’s necessary to scare the life out of him, either. He was trying to impress you. Didn’t you hear him say that he wanted to grow up to be like you? Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“It means he’s a fool,” Bishop said with a snarl. His hands tightened around the old gun until his knuckles whitened and Lila almost thought the steel might bend with the force of his grip.
“It means he looks up to you,” she said sharply. “Most men want their sons to look up to them.”
“Well, I’m not most men.” He thrust the gun into the top of his belt and turned to look at her.
“What’s wrong with him wanting to follow in your footsteps?” Lila demanded. “You’re an officer of the law. It’s a perfectly respectable profession.”
“He didn’t say he wanted to be a lawman. He said he wanted to be a shootist. He’d be better off dead,” he said flatly.
“Don’t say that!”
“You don’t know what it’s like out here. You don’t know what it’s like to spend your whole life wondering when someone is going to come along who’s a little faster than you are or maybe they’ll catch you with the sun in your eyes. You don’t know what it’s like. Things are different—”
“If you tell me again that things are different here than they are in Pennsylvania, I’m going to scream,” she snapped, interrupting him without apology. “Maybe I don’t know what it’s like and maybe things are different here but one thing I do know. If you’re not careful, you’re going to drive Gavin away forever.�
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“Better that than see him live my life,” Bishop said coldly.
Without waiting for her response, he turned on his heel and walked away, effectively ending the conversation. Lila stared after him, her mouth half open in disbelief. She was still staring when he disappeared around the corner of the house. He’d just walked away in the middle of a conversation! Her breath leaving her on an infuriated huff, she stalked across the yard, her petticoats rustling a furious accompaniment to her stride.
While she was no happier than he was about Gavin playing with the gun, it hadn’t been necessary to be so harsh with him. Bishop had overreacted to a ridiculous degree. It was perfectly natural for a boy to want to follow in his father’s footsteps. Bishop should have been pleased, not furious. It was all very well and good for him to say that he was concerned for Gavin, but she hadn’t seen any evidence of outlaws lurking in the underbrush, anxious to prove themselves faster than Bishop. She was starting to think that one of the ways the West differed from the East was in the inhabitants’ propensity for exaggeration.
She shoved open the back door and walked into the kitchen, her heels creating an irritated tattoo on the wooden floor. And to think she’d been starting to wonder if she’d been wrong to keep him at a distance. Hah! She’d sooner kiss a rattlesnake.
CHAPTER 18
Bishop glanced up from his desk in time to see Lila and the children walking down the boardwalk across the street from the jail. His fingers tightened around the pen he’d been using to scratch out a report. It struck him, just as it did every time he saw her, what a beautiful woman his wife was. She carried herself like a queen, all pride and grace.
She paused to speak to Dot Lyman. Seeing her smile at the other woman reminded Bishop of how rare that particular expression had been for the past few days. Ever since the incident with Gavin, the atmosphere at home had been decidedly chilly, and Lila's smiles had not been turned in his direction. It wasn’t until it was gone that he’d realized how much he enjoyed the warmth that had been making its way into his relationship with his wife. But if she expected him to grovel and beg her forgiveness, she was in for a surprise. If he’d been harsh with Gavin, it was for the boy’s own good.
Schulze, Dallas Page 24
