Schulze, Dallas

by Gunfighter's Bride

  They lay without speaking for a few minutes. A sunbeam found its way between the curtains and painted a bright arrow of gold across the floorboards. If she shifted her head an inch or two, she could see the chair that held the door closed and the splintered wood of the frame where the latch had broken. Lila didn’t move. She didn’t want to think about Bishop kicking in the door. Or about the stunned disbelief in his eyes when Gavin rushed to her defense. For a moment he’d looked utterly vulnerable, something of a shock considering he’d just stood in the middle of a dusty street and killed a man.

  Like it or not, the memories were there, spoiling her fragile contentment. Lila stirred restlessly.

  “The children will be up soon,” she said. “I should get breakfast started.”

  Bishop heard the tension that threaded through her voice and knew, as surely as if she’d spoken out loud, exactly where her thoughts had turned. It had, he supposed, been foolish to think they could just forget everything that had happened the day before. Not with the broken door staring them in the face, not to mention Dobe Lang’s body cooling at the blacksmith’s. And then there was Gavin. He’d done a particularly good job of not thinking about his son.

  “It’s time I was up and about,” he said. As he eased his arm out from under Lila, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Staring at the bright slash of sunlight on the floor, he spoke without looking at her.

  “I didn’t go looking for Lang. He brought the fight to me.” He had never before felt the need to justify himself to anyone, unless it was the law in whatever town he happened to be in. But he couldn’t get the image of Gavin’s face out of his mind.

  “I know that.” He felt the bed shift as Lila sat up. “And Gavin knows it, too,” she added, as if reading his thoughts. “He was thrown off balance by what happened. We all were. He knows perfectly well that you would never hurt me.”

  “Does he?” Bishop turned to look at her, one knee crooked on the bed. “What about you?”

  “Me?” Lila looked at him in confusion.

  How many times had he imagined her just like this? Bishop asked himself. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders like a fiery waterfall. Her green eyes soft and smoky, her mouth slightly swollen, and her skin flushed pink in the aftermath of their lovemaking. He could crawl back between the sheets and pull her into his arms without her offering so much as a whisper of protest. Her surrender had been complete, without reservations. There would be no more talk of separate beds and waiting until after the baby was born. She was his wife in the fullest sense of the word. No more sleepless nights. No more indulging in daydreams more suited to a boy of Gavin’s age than a grown man. He had what he wanted.

  So why wasn’t he happier about it?

  “Do you think I’d hurt you?” he asked her.'

  “I know you wouldn’t.” Lila’s response came with reassuring speed. She reached out and set her hand on his arm. “I trust you, Bishop.”

  From the look in her eyes, Lila was nearly as surprised as he was by the soft admission. Bishop stared at her, caught off guard by her worried look on her face. Was she actually worried that she might have hurt his feelings? He tried to remember the last time someone had worried about hurting him, but he couldn’t think of an occasion. He started to say something, though he didn’t know just what, but before he opened his mouth, Lila sucked in a quick, startled breath. Her hand left his arm to press against her side.

  “What is it?” Fear made his voice harsh. The baby. Obviously there was something wrong with the baby. Even as he was reaching for her, easing her back down against the pillows, his mind was presenting him with a dozen ghastly scenarios, all ending with, at best, her losing the baby and, at worst, Lila’s still, white body being lowered into a grave. And all of them his fault. He shouldn’t have made love to her this morning. He shouldn’t have made love to her last night. Seeing Dobe Lang killed had upset her so much that she was going to lose the baby. He’d frightened her when he broke down the door.

  “I’ll go get Zeke.”

  “Bishop.” Lila caught his arm before he could leave the bed. Her grip was surprisingly strong for a woman on the verge of death. “I don’t need Zeke. I’m all right.”

  “You gasped.” The fact that his heart was still racing made the words an accusation.

  “The baby moved. It startled me. There’s nothing wrong.”

  “You can feel it move?” His eyes dropped from her face to her stomach, his disbelief plain to read.

  “Yes. The first time it happened, I thought something was wrong, but Bridget told me not to worry. She says it’s a sign of a strong, healthy baby.”

  “Does it hurt?” Bishop was still staring at her stomach.

  “Not really. At first, it was a little like a butterfly fluttering its wings, but it’s gotten considerably stronger than that the last couple of weeks. Would you ... if you’d like, you can feel it yourself.”

  “Me?” He shot a disbelieving look at her.

  “If you ... put your hand on my stomach, you can sometimes feel it push against you.” Color tinted her face and he knew she was embarrassed at having suggested that he touch her. He suspected she might prefer it if he declined her invitation, but the idea of actually being able to feel his child move inside her was too fascinating to resist.

  Easing his hand beneath the sheet, he set his palm against the soft swell of her belly. Lila’s blush deepened but she took his hand in hers and moved it to the right a few inches. Almost immediately Bishop felt a flutter of movement. It was so subtle that he might have thought he was imagining it. But then it came again, a weak pushing against his hand, there and then gone in an instant.

  “He moves quite a bit. Bridget says it’s a good sign, that the more he kicks, the healthier he is.”

  “It could be a girl.”

  “Would you mind if it was?” Lila asked.

  “Mind?” Bishop lifted his eyes from where his hand still rested on her stomach. “Why would I mind?”

  “I thought men preferred sons,” she said diffidently.

  “If I was a farmer, maybe, and was hoping to raise a crop of field hands.” The baby was still now and he reluctantly slid his hand out from under the sheet. “My father was a farmer and he managed well enough with just two sons.”

  “Your father was a farmer?” Lila couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d said his father could breathe underwater. Bishop arched his brows in acknowledgment of her reaction and she flushed. “I just never pictured you as a farmer.”

  “I wasn’t. But my father and brother were.” During the journey from St. Louis to Denver, she’d asked him about his family, thinking that it might be nice to know something about the man she’d married. He’d told her that his family was dead and then got up and walked to the other end of the car, effectively ending the conversation. But he seemed in a more talkative mood now so she risked another question.

  “What happened to them—your family, I mean?”

  “Cholera. I left home when I was sixteen. I hated farming. Hated every clod of dirt that went under the plow and every stalk of wheat that came up after the field was planted. When the war broke out, I was among the first to join up.” His mouth twisted in a bitter smile. “I’d like to say it was because I wanted to preserve the Union, but the truth is, I thought going to war would be the quickest way to get away from the farm and find myself some excitement. I guess you could say I found it. After the war, farming didn’t sound like a bad occupation. But my parents and brother had been dead for almost two years. The house was gone and someone else was farming the land.”

  His flat recitation gave the story an impact that a more dramatic telling could never have matched.

  Lila sought for words to express her compassion but could only come up with the most banal. “I’m sorry.”

  “It was a long time ago,” Bishop said, as if time had erased the pain of loss. But Lila knew that, while time might heal the wound, the scar was always there, a perman
ent reminder of what was lost.

  “The ache never quite goes away though, does it?” she said, speaking half to herself. Her parents, Billy— their deaths had left a gap in her life that could never be filled. Lately added to that ache was the fear that, through her own reckless disregard for society’s rules, she might have lost her brother, also. “Nothing can replace your family.”

  “Thinking about Douglas?” Bishop asked, reading her thoughts with disconcerting accuracy. “Have you heard from him?”

  “No.” Admitting as much made her brother’s silence seem that much more final. Holding the sheets to her breast, she sat up and reached for her wrapper, which lay across the foot of the bed in a tangled jumble. She didn’t allow herself to think about Douglas very often. It hurt too much.

  “You’ve had letters from Susan,” Bishop said. She felt his eyes on her as she pulled the sleeves on her wrapper right side out.

  “Yes, and Douglas always sends his love. Or so she says.” She didn’t believe that for a minute.

  “He just needs time,” Bishop said, but the words were hollow comfort.

  “Does he?” Lila swung her legs over the side of the bed, allowing the sheet to drop as she pulled her wrapper on. It was silly to worry about modesty, considering all that had passed between them, but old habits die hard.

  “Douglas knows who was really to blame for what happened.”

  She felt the bed dip as Bishop rolled off the other side. Glancing over her shoulder, she caught a glimpse of his lean body as he bent to pick up his pants. She looked away quickly and slid off the bed, tugging her wrapper snugly around her body.

  “I’m the one who came to your room that night,” she said quietly. “Much as I’d like to believe otherwise, the blame isn’t all yours.”

  “I should have sent you away,” Bishop said as he stepped into his pants and pulled them up around his hips.

  Lila kept her head lowered, her fingers twisting restlessly in the loops of the bow at her waist, her hair falling forward to form a thick auburn curtain around her face. She thought about how different her life would have been if he’d sent her away. He’d have been gone the next morning. By now she might have half forgotten him. There would have been no baby, no marriage. She’d still be at home in Pennsylvania. Trapped in the same, safe little box in which she’d spent the last few years of her life. Grieving fiancé, loving sister—watching her life drift away on a sea of social events and meaningless chatter, desperate to find a way out of the confines of her life and lacking the courage to do so. If Bishop had sent her away that night, she wouldn’t be wondering if Douglas would ever speak to her again. She’d just have to wonder if she was destined to grow old and die without ever having a life of her own.

  Lila lifted her head and looked at Bishop. He stood across the bed from her, his shirt half buttoned. A thick lock of dark hair fell onto his forehead, an oddly boyish contrast to the beard that shadowed his jaw. Sensing her gaze, he lifted his head. His eyes were a deep, clear blue, and it suddenly occurred to her that she wanted their child to inherit those vivid blue eyes.

  “I’m not sure you could have sent me away,” she said softly, speaking as much to herself as to him.

  Bishop’s eyes widened in surprise. He opened his mouth as if to question her statement, but Lila didn’t want to continue the discussion. She couldn’t have explained her words to herself, let alone to him.

  “I have to get breakfast started,” she said. Giving her belt an unnecessary tug, she moved toward the door.

  “Lila—” Bishop moved as if to intercept her but Angel’s voice—bless her sweet innocence—came from the hallway.

  “How come the door’s broke, Gavin?”

  Pushing aside the chair that had been holding it shut, Lila slipped out the door to join her stepchildren.

  ***

  Hours later, Bishop glared at a pale swath of sunlight that had dared to make its way through the window and trace a path across the stone floor of the jailhouse. He guessed that there were bigger fools than he was, but he’d be hard-pressed to name one. For weeks, he’d endured the torture of sharing a bed with Lila and not touching her. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d stuck his head under the pump and sluiced ice-cold water over the back of his neck in an effort to drown his hunger for her. A hundred times or more he’d called himself a fool for agreeing to give her the time she thought she needed. They were married. What the hell difference was time going to make? But he’d promised her time and that was what he’d give her.

  Last night, all the waiting and cursing and douses of cold water had ended. Lila had given herself to him, fully and completely. No more lying awake at night, listening to her breathe and aching with the need to touch her. It was exactly what he’d wanted. Only a complete fool would be less than completely happy.

  So what did that make him?

  Before he was forced to try to come up with an answer to that, the door of the jailhouse opened and Bart came in. Bishop welcomed the interruption to his thoughts, though he promised himself that, if Bart brought up the Lang shooting again, he was going to lock the kid in one of the cells and leave him there until he turned old and gray. Yesterday Bart had felt compelled to assure him repeatedly that it had been a clear case of self-defense. It wasn’t that Bishop didn’t appreciate the younger man’s loyalty, but he was more than a little tired of everyone telling him about the shooting as if he hadn’t been there himself.

  Luckily for him, Bart had other things on his mind. “Couple got off the train today,” he announced as he hung his hat on one of the hooks near the door. Interpreting Bishop’s grunt of acknowledgment as a sign of interest, he continued to talk as he headed to the stove to pour himself a cup of coffee. “Real fancy. Man wearing a store-bought suit and a fancy hat like he was goin’ to take a stroll down some street in San Francisco or New York City or someplace. Woman looked like she stepped outta one of them lady’s magazines. Her hair was all gussied up and a fancy dress and a hat like you wouldn’t believe, all full of feathers and ruffles and such-like.”

  Bart paused long enough to take a sip of coffee, cursing when the scalding liquid burned his tongue. But the injury didn’t slow him down. “Pretty little thing.”

  “The hat?” Bishop asked absently. He’d picked up a two-week-old Denver newspaper and was perusing an article about the efforts of a local lady’s group to close the town’s plentiful saloons.

  “Not the hat!” Bart corrected him with a touch of indignation. “The gal wearin’ it. She wasn’t very big but she was real pretty. It’d be nice if the fella with her was her brother but, from the way he was treatin’ her like she was made out of china, I don’t guess that’s the case.” Bart sighed over the unfairness of a world in which pretty women all too often came with husbands already attached.

  “Anybody else get off the train?” Bishop asked. He didn’t share Bart’s interest in the well-dressed couple.

  “Nope. They was the only ones. They went right to the hotel. I watched to make sure.”

  Bishop didn’t need to be a mind reader to know that Bart was reassuring him that there would not be another repeat of the day before when a stranger had arrived in town and Bart had failed to pinpoint his location. Bishop considered pointing out that, if another glory hunter showed up looking to make a reputation by killing Bishop McKenzie, his choice of accommodations wasn’t going to make much difference to the outcome of his visit, but he decided to say nothing. If it made Bart feel better to keep an eye on new arrivals, it couldn’t do any harm.

  “Can’t figure what folks like that would be doing here in Paris,” Bart said, following his own train of thought. “Ain’t much here by way of entertainment. You suppose they got off in the wrong place?”

  “Only if they got on in the wrong place. Paris is the only stop the train makes,” Bishop pointed out dryly.

  “They might have got on the wrong train. They’re city folks, for sure.” As far as Bart was concerned, being “city folk�
�� was a reasonable explanation for even the most extraordinary acts of stupidity.

  “Maybe they’re thinking about buying a mine,” Bishop suggested. “Or maybe they just like mountains. Unless they plan on shooting at me or someone else in town, I really don’t care why they’re here.”

  He was to remember those words a few hours later when he walked through the kitchen and stepped into the parlor to find not only Lila and the children waiting for him but two people who could only be Bart’s mysterious couple.

  “Look who’s here, Bishop,” Lila said with forced good cheer. “Isn’t this a wonderful surprise?”

  Bishop looked from the anxiety in Susan’s soft blue eyes to the implacable hostility in Douglas’s gaze and thought that “wonderful” wasn’t exactly the word he’d have chosen.

  CHAPTER 20

  Once again, the dining room at the Lyman Hotel was filled to capacity. Word had spread that the sheriff’s in-laws were in town and there was considerable interest in seeing what they looked like. A gun-fight in the street yesterday and fancy visitors from the East today—life in Paris hadn’t been this interesting in months.

  No one was surprised to find that the newcomers were elegant and refined, clearly members of the privileged class. “Stands to reason,” Dot Lyman told her husband. “It’s plain as the nose on your face that Lila McKenzie is a real lady. Not that she’s uppity. She doesn’t put on any airs, no matter what Sara thinks, but manners like hers don’t grow on trees.”

  Clem grunted his agreement. Ordinarily, there was nothing he enjoyed more than discussing the townsfolk with his wife. It was one of the joys of their married life. But, at the moment, he was wondering if he should run across to the Lucky Dragon Saloon and see if he could borrow a table. If they arranged things just right, they might be able to wedge another four diners into the corner right next to the kitchen. Of course, the door might hit the back of one of the chairs now and again, but no one was likely to care much as long as they had a clear view of the sheriff’s table. The McKenzie’s certainly had been good for business.