Ace's Wild (Hqn)

by Sarah McCarty

  His “good girl” drifted through the energy swirling around them, binding them together.

  She wanted to be his girl, plain and simple. She wanted to be anything he wanted. She wanted his hand on her breast. She wanted his kiss.

  The roll hit the floor with a splat as she asked for it. First with her eyes, then with her hands and lastly with her voice. “Ace?”

  “What?”

  “Stop fooling around and kiss me.”

  His smile was pure sex, pure promise. Pure Ace. “Ask me nicely.”

  “Please.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  He bent down; she stretched up. His hand cupped her head, pulling her closer, holding her steady. She expected passion, possession, but what she got instead was...tenderness. Sweet, sweet tenderness. And it was so much better than the passion she’d thought she’d needed. But this, this was the balm for which her soul was crying. How had he known? How could he know what she hadn’t known herself?

  The question formed against his lips. His answer was a low growl and a string of kisses over her cheek, down her neck. “I’ve got you.”

  He did. And all she’d asked for was a kiss. He held her for a couple more minutes before murmuring, “Time to go.”

  “Uh-huh.” The little bell jangled as he opened the door. His hand in the small of her back was possessive. It was just pure bad luck that the biggest gossip in town, Matilda Hex, chose just that moment to walk by the shop. In one quick glance she took it all in. Petunia’s flushed cheeks, mussed hair, Ace’s proprietary manner. Her disapproving frown spoke volumes.

  Ace nodded. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Hex.”

  The sanctimonious biddy huffed and stuck her nose in the air. The snub cut deep. Petunia ducked her head. Ace squeezed her shoulders. It was enough to remind her who she was.

  Mrs. Hex made it two steps before Ace drawled softly, “Matilda?”

  She turned, her expression stiff and disapproving. “Yes?”

  “It would be a mistake to offend Hell’s Eight.”

  Matilda’s “I have no idea what you mean,” faltered.

  “Then let’s rectify that.” The words were quiet, calm, but they held the intensity of truth. “If one rumor gets back to me about Miss Wayfield, you and yours are going to be on the wrong side of Hell’s Eight.”

  She swallowed hard. “But...”

  “No buts.” There was steel in his tone. “Miss Wayfield is Hell’s Eight.” As Matilda looked them up and down he pulled her close, and clarified. “Mine.”

  It was a threat and an announcement.

  Petunia blinked. Matilda retreated on a hasty “Of course.”

  “You made her run.”

  “No one hurts what’s mine.”

  “I’ve never seen Matilda retreat.” She watched her hurry away so fast her skirts swirled about her ankles. It was an amazing feat. “I think half the town will be sorry they missed that phenomenon.” His grunt brought her back to the present. And to what he’d said. It was her turn to frown. “And I never said I wanted to be yours.”

  The kiss he pressed on her brow was sympathetic, sweet and comforting. And hotly possessive. Not at all what she expected from Ace.

  He squeezed her shoulders. “Pet?”

  “Yes?”

  “There’s something you need to understand.”

  “What?”

  Resting his forehead against hers, he ran his finger down her cheek and smiled. “It’s about what I want now. And I’m claiming you.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  WELL, MERRY CHRISTMAS to her. Petunia stood on the back porch of Providence, braced against the chill of the wind and Ace’s lingering impact on her senses. She could still feel the heat of his body, the pressure of his fingers, the soft caress of his breath. Lord, that man was as addictive as laudanum. He made her want and crave. And run. Lord, he made her run. Leaning against the door, she shook her head. She’d bolted, plain and simple when Ace said he was claiming her. And he’d let her. Why he’d let her go, she didn’t know. Why she’d run, that was easier to discern. She felt raw and vulnerable, stripped of her defenses. Open for him to see. To judge. She didn’t like being judged.

  The scandal of her abduction would never go away completely, but it could get pushed to the back of the gossip stove. As long as nothing new occurred. Ace thought he could accomplish it with glowers and threats, but she knew better. Shredding reputations was a woman’s weapon. And women played by their own rules. The Matilda Hexes of the world might murmur sympathetic words to her face, but behind her back, they’d be whispering “Did you knows” and make sure with every spare moment they had that the fire got fed. She was just that kind of person. And that made her a threat. Petunia should care about that. Her future might depend on it.

  It’s about what I want now. And I’m claiming you.

  As insidious as the lingering whisper of his touch, as dangerous as Matilda’s proclivity for gossip, Ace’s words slipped through her mind. Something else she should care about. His apparent indecision about wanting her. She’d spent years after her mother’s death fighting for her father’s attention, trying to matter. To finally find her place, ironically only finding it when she pulled away and went her own way. As a child needing him, her father couldn’t love her. But as an independent woman marching to her own drum, she’d earned his respect. Now Ace was putting her in that same can’t-win place. And she didn’t like it. Because she deserved better, had always wanted more. She wanted stability in her life. She wanted love. She wanted children. She wanted to make a difference. None of those things could she have with a gambler. All of those things she could have with Ace. But at a price she already knew she couldn’t afford to pay. She’d die inside a little each day giving all to a man who didn’t want it. Until one day she’d wake up and there wouldn’t be a Petunia anymore. She’d come too far, made herself too strong to go back to that lost place. But she could enjoy what she and Ace had. She just had to convince him to do it on her level.

  Shaking her head, she sighed and put her hand on the knob. How had her life become so complicated? Opening the door, she could smell dinner simmering. Stew. She wrinkled her nose. Again. Hester claimed stew was nutritious but Petunia was beginning to believe Hester didn’t make it for that reason so much as for the fact it was easy to cook. All it took was tossing the ingredients together, letting them simmer, then thickening the gravy and it was done. Petunia couldn’t really complain. She didn’t like to cook and besides, Hester made some of the best biscuits to accompany the stew. She really needed to get Hester’s recipe before she left.

  Stepping into the kitchen Petunia paused and leaned back against the door frame. It felt good to be home. Beyond this room there likely was chaos, but in here, everything was in order. The dishes were put away, and the floor was clean. She felt a trill of satisfaction. The children had done their chores. Such a little thing that happened every day in every home in town. And it was happening here now, too. The children were settling in, finding their place.

  Beneath the scent of stew she could smell the aroma of pine. It was a festive, comforting aroma that subtly lifted her mood. The Christmas tree had been a good idea. It gave them all something to focus on besides their worries. Shrugging off her cape, she hung it on a hook by the door and walked through to the parlor. Hester was sitting in the chair by the fire, knitting. Brenda, Terrance and Phillip were playing a game with a spinning top that involved a lot of laughter and cries of foul. Clearly, the rules were being made up as they went, but they weren’t fighting. Another Christmas miracle. Hester looked up as she came into the room. “How was your walk?”

  “More eventful than I wanted.”

  “Oh?”

  The children looked up.

  Petunia smiled at them. “What game are you playing?”

  Terrance ey
ed her in that cautious way of his. “We haven’t decided yet.”

  “I see.”

  Movement under the wing chair caught her eye. “I thought we agreed Lancelot should stay outside.”

  “It’s cold outside.” That was from Brenda.

  “He’s being good,” Terrance chimed in.

  “He chews the furniture,” she countered.

  “I put vinegar on the legs.”

  Hester, too? “Does that work?”

  Hester shrugged. “We’re finding out.”

  The chewing issue solved or not, there was another issue with Lancelot’s transformation to house bunny. “That doesn’t stop him from—” she waved her hand “—relieving himself everywhere.”

  “We made him a box.”

  She looked at Terrance. “Does he know it’s for him?”

  Terrance scooped up his rabbit that was showing definite signs of plumping up. “He’s very smart.”

  Lancelot wiggled his nose at her and dropped an ear. A piece of greenery dangled from his mouth. She didn’t know about smart, but he was cute. She sighed and sat in the other wingback chair next to the fireplace. The heat from the fire swirled around her ankles as she arranged her skirts. “I hope so.”

  “He can stay?” Phillip asked.

  It was the first time Phillip had shown signs of being interested in anything.

  Three pairs of eyes focused on her. The needles stopped clacking. The fourth set weighed heaviest. A log in the fire popped. Petunia sighed. She knew when she was beaten.

  “Of course he can stay. He’s family.”

  The only one who didn’t whoop or smile was Phillip. He stroked Lancelot’s head with a quiet intensity that was a relief to see. Until he spoke.

  “Yes, he’s our family. We have to keep him safe.”

  Terrance nodded. Brenda frowned, doubled up her fists and jumped to her feet. “I’ll sock anyone who tries to hurt him.”

  She punched the air. Petunia caught her hand, pulling her around. “Has someone threatened Lancelot?” She thought of Brian and couldn’t help asking, “Or any of you?”

  As one, the children shook their heads no.

  “If anyone ever does, you come to me immediately, you hear?” Hester ordered.

  All three nodded. Lancelot continued to chew his bit of greenery.

  “You hear?” Hester repeated.

  “I hear,” Phillip said.

  Terrance plopped the rabbit in his lap. “It’s your turn, Phillip.”

  And that fast they were back to play. Petunia wished she had that ability to drop her cares so easily.

  Hester caught her eye. “Were we ever that carefree?”

  “I hope so.” She motioned to the brown-and-red scarf. “How’s the project coming?”

  “I’ve dropped a stitch or two, but I’m finding the rhythm again.” She smiled. “It’s been a long time since I knitted.”

  “It looks beautiful to me.” It did. The yarn was a rich earth brown. Hester was working in strands of a deep red giving it depth. It was clearly a scarf meant for a man. “Who is it for?”

  “I haven’t decided.”

  A scarf so specifically designed had to have a recipient in mind. “Really?” She took a stab in the dark. “That shade of brown would look good on Luke.”

  The needles faltered. “I hadn’t much thought about it.”

  Petunia was wise to Hester’s ways. “But you have thought some on it.”

  She got a glare for her audacity. “So what happened on your walk?”

  Petunia sighed. A quick glance at the kids showed they were more interested in the bag of popcorn waiting to be strung for the tree than they were the adult conversation. Still... “This really isn’t the place to discuss it.”

  “I was thinking a cup of tea would be nice.”

  Petunia was thinking staying just where she was at was even better. Hester bent on getting information was a force of which the Spanish Inquisition would be proud. Hester gathered up her knitting and set the needles into the thick ball of yarn. Light caught on the wide strip of material.

  “That truly is a beautiful pattern.”

  It wasn’t a lie. From what she could see developing, it was a work of art. “Whomever it’s for is going to be a happy man.”

  Hester didn’t take the bait. Her kitting settled, Hester headed for the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, “It could be for Ace.”

  She followed. “If it were, that’d be a waste. I doubt the man leaves the saloon in winter.”

  Hester poured water into the teapot and set it on the left side of the stove. Grabbing a piece of kindling, she opened the door beneath and slid it in. “You have a strange opinion of that man.”

  Petunia sighed and got the delicate teacups out of the cupboard. The special porcelain cups were dainty and more fragile than the more traditional mugs. Using them made her feel more feminine. The same way being in Ace’s arms did. She huffed the thought away. Making a big to-do over nothing was not going to help her stay on her course. The man probably flirted with everyone like that.

  “So what has he done to upset you today?”

  Teased her with his scent, his breath, his kiss. The man made her knees buckle with just the touch of his finger under her chin. And when he started whispering intimate orders... “He likes to make me feel weak.”

  Hester shook her head and set the tea can on the counter with a thump. “Have you ever been courted by a man?”

  “Of course.”

  “Are we talking a few sad examples back East that squeaked in a hello between your social causes and charity meetings?”

  That was too close to the truth for comfort. “It’s not a sin to have a higher purpose.”

  “It’s a sin to deny you’re a woman. Or worse, run away from it.”

  Petunia snorted. “Says the woman hiding out here.”

  “I’m not hiding.” Hester took a seat. “I’m here in Simple ruining my reputation in plain sight.”

  “Why?”

  She sighed. “One, because I have nowhere else to go, but also, I think there’s a part of me that hopes Dougall will wake up and realize that while he doesn’t have to be a husband, he can still be a father.” She pulled one of the cups and saucers closer. “My children need their father.”

  “Even if he’s a no-account?”

  “The man I married wasn’t.” She shook her head and frowned. “Somewhere along the way between home and here, that person got lost.”

  “And you hope he’ll come back to you?”

  “No. Not that. There’s no erasing what either of us have done, but I hope Dougall will come back to his children. They’re his blood, his legacy. They’re worth whatever amount of forgiveness we both have to find to make their lives good.”

  The one thing a Wayfield understood was a legacy. “So you stay here.”

  Hester nodded. “And hope.”

  Petunia understood that, too. “I admit I had my qualms when you applied for this job, but your being here has been a blessing. You’re a very capable woman.”

  “Thank you. It makes it easier living with my...” A wave of her hand encompassed her past and brought it forward.

  It irritated Petunia that she felt the need to apologize. “You’ve done nothing to be ashamed of.”

  Hester looked at her like she’d lost her mind. “I married a man that abandoned me, divorced me and then I became a whore. That’s not a lot to be proud of.”

  “The law and your husband gave you no choice.”

  “There’s always a choice. Didn’t I hear you say that before?”

  Why was everyone making her eat her words today? “When the choice is either to watch your children starve or sell your body, there’s really not a choice.�
�� She pulled open the tea lid and measured the tea into the metal ball infuser. “But there should be.”

  “It would have been easier if Dougall had wanted his children.”

  “But he didn’t.”

  Hester shook her head. “It would have ruined everything he’d built here. His lies hog-tied him.”

  “And that’s why Phillip and Brenda don’t ask about him and play along?”

  Hester sighed. The kettle rattled on the stove. “They hope, too.”

  It was an impossible situation. “I can’t imagine how they feel.”

  “Neither can I, but I know I thank God for you getting stuck here.”

  “God had less to do with that than a skilled pickpocket and my own carelessness.”

  Hester pushed her chair back. “God works in mysterious ways.”

  Petunia hated that quote. “I for one would appreciate more efficacy and less mystery.”

  Hester shook her head and picked up the kettle. “That’s blasphemy.”

  Maybe. “It’s the truth.” Dropping the tea ball into the brightly painted pot, she pushed it toward Hester’s side of the table. “I’ve been fighting for years and nothing’s changed.”

  Hester turned. “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Believe it. Women don’t have the vote. They can’t own squat and even their dreams float on a man’s whim.”

  And she was so frustrated by that she could just spit.

  Hester poured the boiling water into the pot. “But progress has been made.”

  “Where? I’m almost thirty, Christmas is a week away and I don’t have the money for even the smallest of gifts thanks to an event I couldn’t control. A week after that it’ll be 1861 and everything will be the same as it was in 1860.”

  Just another year and another unmet dream.

  Hester dropped the lid on the pot with an angry clink. “Not for Terrance. Not for Ace. Not for me or my children. For all of us, 1861 is looking pretty damn good.”

  But it didn’t for her. “I had such plans.” Petunia shoved her hair back from her face. “I shouldn’t even be here. I should be in San Francisco.”