His Wicked Dream (Velvet Lies, Book 2)

by Adrienne deWolfe

  "If you don't like pie," she improvised, trying to recall what else in the store might appeal to a half-starved, wild manchild, "I've got tapioca pudding. And there're apples, canned peaches, licorice, and venison jerky. If you like, I can warm up some Arbuckles in the coffeepot—"

  "Cats is just fine."

  "Oh."

  Eden bit her lip. Although virtually helpless in the boy's fist, Stazzie nevertheless resumed her struggles, doing her valiant best to damage Collie's eardrums with her caterwauling.

  "Are you sure?" Eden had to raise her voice. "I mean, I should think killing, skinning, and cooking a cat would be a bit troublesome. Compared to a nice plump chicken leg and an oozing slab of cherry pie."

  Collie's tongue darted across his bottom lip. Then, as if recognizing his weakness, he gave her an even fiercer glare.

  "You got any potato salad?"

  "Well... no. But I have some deviled eggs. Will they do?"

  "I dunno..."

  "It wouldn't take but a moment to fetch them," she added.

  Collie knitted tawny brows. "No tricks?"

  "Of course not."

  "You swear?"

  Eden blinked, appalled that anyone, much less a child, should have to barter for meals. "I swear."

  "'Cause if you don't got pie," he threatened, flicking the knife tip with his thumb, "it's gonna be kitty cat steaks fer the next coupla meals."

  "Collie," she assured him quietly, "I'm happy to give you any food I have."

  He started when she used his name. Jaw jutting, he looked her up and down.

  "You ain't from any danged orphanage, are you?"

  "No." She kept her voice soft. "Why would you think that?"

  "'Cause that's the only kind around these parts who wants to help me. 'Cept fer Sera, of course."

  "You mean Sera Jones?"

  The distrust had crept back into his eyes. "Mebbe."

  "I know Sera, too. She's my neighbor."

  He harrumphed.

  "It sounds like you and I have the same friend."

  He said nothing.

  She tried another tactic. "My name's Eden."

  "So?"

  A wave of warmth rolled up her face. So much for social pleasantries. Bless the child, was he always this hostile? She hated to think what had happened in his young life to harden him this way.

  "I just thought you'd want to know. Because if you like the pie enough," she hinted broadly, "you might want to come calling at my house for more."

  "Well, I can't know how much I like anything if you keep jawin' at me all day, now can I?"

  "That's true." She hid her smile. "Wait here."

  "Nuthin' doin'. I'm coming too. No tricks, ya hear?" He gave Stazzie a menacing shake.

  "No tricks," she murmured.

  Ferocious and stiff, he stalked after her through the curtain, Stazzie dangling impotently from his fist. He planted his back to the front door, still wielding his knife like a buccaneer, but as he stood before the licorice, it was a child's longing that stared out of those silvery eyes.

  "You can have as much candy as you like," she called over her shoulder.

  "Yeah?" He edged closer, seemed to remember his hands were full, and halted. "How come?"

  She shrugged. "You want some, don't you?"

  He hesitated.

  "I said you could have any food you wanted."

  His brows snapped together. "How come you're being nice to me?"

  "Shouldn't I be?"

  He fidgeted, his gaze riveted now on the pristine, golden crust she was lifting from the picnic basket.

  "I was gonna eat your cat," he reminded her grudgingly.

  "But you're not now, are you?" She skirted the counter to stand before him with her offering.

  "I reckon not."

  He dropped Stazzie, who bolted like lightning for the calico display.

  Eden focused all the warmth of her smile on the boy. Like a wild animal, he shifted from foot to foot, torn between yearning and distrust. She could almost feel how much it cost him to yield the first step. Then the second. Finally, he stood quivering before her, his heart beating so hard, she could see the flutter of his gingham shirt.

  "You can cut it yourself, if you like," she said quietly.

  He licked his lips and raised the knife.

  That's when the door bell jangled. A mountain of a man stepped forward, the setting sun carving his silhouette out of the doorway like an onyx wall. For a moment, she could see little more than that blaze of orange molding a magnificent torso.

  Then sunbeams glinted off Collie's blade.

  "Eden," Michael choked. "My God!"

  Collie spun; Michael lunged, his work tools clattering around him. Two hundred pounds of muscle slammed into the half-starved boy, driving Collie back across the counter.

  "Michael, no!" Eden cried as the blade clattered and Collie snarled, kicking and punching with all the tenacity of a cornered wolf. Hastily, she pushed the pie onto a barrel. "Don't hurt him!"

  It wasn't much of a contest. Michael simply clamped his fist over the boy's collar, and Collie wheezed, his face reddening as he clawed the bear paw squeezing the breath from his throat.

  "Michael, please..." Eden tugged at his sleeve as the boy slumped, panting, his face full of humiliated fury. "He wasn't hurting me! He was only going to cut the pie!"

  Michael pulled the boy to his feet, a handful of shirt still wrapped in his fist. "Is that true, Collie?"

  Collie curled his lips like a dog. He tried to kick Michael between the legs, but Michael dodged, upsetting the pie. It thumped to the floor, splattering cherries and juice in every direction. Exasperated, Eden slapped Michael's bicep.

  "Stop it! Both of you. Michael, let him go. You're two times his size."

  "I ain't afeared of any prissy preacher's brat," Collie rasped.

  Their stares locked. Eden could have sworn she saw the smoke.

  "Collie," Michael bit out, a thread of iron lacing his tone, "you need a bath. And a toothbrush. And what the devil is this?" He turned the boy and pointed to a circular bulge in his back pocket. It looked suspiciously like Aunt Claudia's snuff tin.

  "Ain't none of your beeswax!"

  "Collie," Eden interjected more gently, "you'd feel a lot better, I'm sure, if you ate a warm meal instead of, uh, snuff."

  "Did you pay for that snuff?" Michael demanded.

  Collie twisted snakelike. When his shirt didn't rip and Michael's grip didn't break, he scowled.

  "Son, if you keep thieving, you're going to wind up like your pa. Is that what you want?"

  "My pa was a real man, not some nancy-boy like you!" the boy spat.

  Suddenly, Collie's elbow rammed up and back, cracking Michael's jaw. He staggered, and Collie broke free. Diving for his knife, he scrambled over Michael's tools and raced for the street.

  Eden winced as the door banged closed after him. So much for earning the boy's trust.

  "Um... Michael?"

  He was working his jaw and shaking his head.

  "Are you all right?"

  "Of course."

  He towered over her, the indomitable mountain once more. Eden might have doubted her first impression entirely, that Collie's blow had rattled him, if she hadn't seen the bruise purpling the soft underside of his chin.

  She sighed. She supposed that Aunt Claudia had convinced Michael to close his office for the day. Facing him in all his brooding intensity, she had time to notice he'd changed from his suit. Minus the dark coat, vest, and tie she'd seen him wear on every other occasion, he should have looked more relaxed. Instead, his unbuttoned shirt collar betrayed the rapid flutter of his pulse, and his thigh-hugging dungarees accentuated the tension in his limbs.

  She couldn't help but wonder what bothered Michael more: Collie's blow or her company.

  "It was quite chivalrous of you to come to my rescue, Michael," she said with genuine sincerity, "but Collie's harmless."

  Color bloomed in his cheeks.

&nbs
p; "Collie is not harmless. Not as long as he's running loose with an Arkansas toothpick sheathed to his hip."

  "He's just a child."

  "He's fifteen years old. And like it or not, that's man enough to be hanged."

  "For heaven's sake, anyone with eyes can see the boy's starving. He's just trying to survive."

  "I haven't met a man yet who needs snuff to survive," Michael said darkly. "Collie is his father's son. He won't go to school; he refuses to work; and he'd rather steal than take charity. At this rate, he's going to wind up like his pa did. Dead."

  Eden's stomach turned. Surely Collie wasn't as bad as all that! During her medicine show travels, she'd treated gunfighters and thieves, men far less couth and a great deal more callous than the silver-eyed youth who'd stared with such longing at the licorice he couldn't afford. Collie might be wild, but he wasn't heartless. And being rebellious didn't make him evil. What it did make him, though, was hard to love.

  "I've been a stranger in a lot of places, Michael. One of the things it taught me was to see things local people overlook. Like Collie. He's not just hungry; he's sick."

  Eyes like indigo granite bored into hers. "He told you that?"

  "No, but..." She hesitated, her sympathy for Collie vying with her reluctance to antagonize Michael. Presenting herself as a medical authority, especially if he'd witnessed her rallying crowds for Papa's tonic demonstrations, was a guaranteed way to earn Michael's scorn. "There were splotches of dried blood on Collie's... um, bottom."

  Michael's chest swelled. She couldn't tell if he was indignant or contrite.

  "If what you saw was blood," he said gruffly, "Collie could have gotten it any number of ways. He could have sat where he'd skinned his last meal, for instance. There's no telling."

  "Someone could ask him."

  "Ask him?" Michael sounded incredulous. "You heard the boy's mouth. You'll never get a straight answer out of Rafe—I mean, Collie." His ears reddened.

  Turning abruptly, he stepped over his toolbox to begin gathering his hammers, screwdrivers, and nails.

  Eden watched him speculatively. Wasn't Rafe Michael's half-brother? The one whose letter to Sera had arrived only that morning, addressed to Claudia's store? Good heavens, was the blood between Rafe and Michael so bad that Sera couldn't receive Rafe's letters in her own home?

  "You know, Michael," she said carefully, "my papa once told me people use anger to keep other people from getting too close. Close enough to see the hurt they hide inside."

  He set his jaw.

  She gently prompted, "Maybe Collie's more scared than dangerous."

  "Eden," he said tersely, "I wouldn't presume to debate your father's ideologies with you."

  She winced. So much for mending fences with the man.

  Shoving the last wrench into his toolbox, he stalked to the half-hinged shutter and set to work. Other than the clank of pliers, the rattle of wooden slats, and the scratching of Jamie's toad in its box, nothing could be heard in Claudia's store. Eden sighed, gathering a broom and dustpan to sweep up the cherry goo.

  Stazzie, meanwhile, had apparently composed herself. Slinking out of her sanctuary, she darted a wary look around the store, her whiskers twitching. For some reason, Michael, not the fallen pie, captured her attention. He knelt on one knee, keeping his back turned. Eden might have been grateful for the consideration, except the ensuing silence clapped around them like thunder.

  Stazzie didn't seem to mind, though. She watched him intently, taking a tentative step forward. Then another. Suddenly she burst into a purr as rusty as the window's old crank. Bemused, Eden watched as her imperious, self-absorbed feline padded the rest of the way to the sawbones and butted her head against his inner thigh.

  Michael jumped about six inches.

  "Anastasia!" Eden's face flamed as red as Michael's neck. "Stop that!"

  To her credit, the cat didn't ignore her completely. Instead, she sat down on her haunches against Michael's knee and continued to purr in affectionate little rumbles. Michael had to step gingerly around her.

  "I'm, uh, sorry about my cat," whose neck you'd be well justified in wringing right now, Eden groaned to herself as Stazzie slinked back between his legs. For heaven's sake, Stazzie. Show a little decorum! "I don't know what has gotten into her," she added meekly. "Stazzie doesn't usually like people. In fact, she avoids them—unless they're sick."

  Michael made what could only be described as a choking sound. Stazzie rubbed his ankle, purring all the louder.

  "Um..." Eden set aside the broom, wondering what would be more scandalous, prying Stazzie from Michael's leg or watching the cat rub whatever sinewy, male body part she chose. "Would you like me to put Stazzie outside?"

  "That would be appreciated, yes," he ground out, making a dexterous grab for the fur behind Stazzie's neck. The cat yowled in indignation, but Michael braved flailing claws and flashing fangs to thrust Stazzie toward the door. Eden held it wide, and the sullen feline stalked across the threshold, her tail slashing the air behind her.

  Thus ends another cease-fire. In resignation, Eden dumped the dustpan, rubbed it clean of pie filling, then turned back to Mrs. Buchanan's grocery list. As much as Eden was dying to know where she remembered Michael from, she didn't dare ask him to enlighten her until she was confident that they could both laugh over the incident as friends. Unfortunately, the chances of that happening were growing bleaker by the moment.

  As if to verify her conclusion, Michael began hammering with a vengeance.

  Wincing at the sound, Eden checked the onion bin. Finding it empty, she crawled up on Aunt Claudia's stool to complete Mrs. Buchanan's order. The perch was awkward with its wobbling three legs, but she needed its extra height to reach the onion sack that Aunt Claudia, or more likely Michael, had thrust on the top shelf.

  "Blast," she muttered when her fingers fell short of their mark. Careful not to trip over her skirts, Eden eased herself back to the floor and moved the stool more directly under the sack. She glanced hopefully over her shoulder. Michael was busy cranking a wrench and didn't appear to have the slightest inkling of her dilemma.

  "Um, Michael? Do you think you could—"

  "Help you?" he finished for her, testing the window handle he had just repaired. "I was wondering if you were too stubborn to admit you weren't tall enough."

  Ooh. Eden fumed. So he had been aware of her dilemma!

  "Never mind," she retorted. "I may not be tall, but I'm resourceful." Grabbing a nearby wall hook, she leveraged herself higher, testing the strength of a shelf with her foot.

  "Eden," Michael warned.

  "Pray go back to grousing. I'm sorry I disturbed you."

  "Don't be a fool."

  She heard his boots thumping behind her, and she glared over her shoulder. "Michael Jones, you stay right where you are. I don't need or want your—"

  She was interrupted by an insidious cracking. The hook twisted in her hand. Suddenly, the mounting ripped from the wall, and she gasped, flailing through a hail of plaster. She made a desperate grab for a shelf; the stool heaved, throwing her sideways. She might have crashed to the floor if her breasts hadn't struck Michael's shoulders first. His arms clamped over her waist, and she "oomphed." She found herself sliding down his torso.

  For a suspended moment in time, she was locked in his embrace. Her heart hammered madly against his chest; her feet dangled helplessly beneath her. All she could see in that instant were his eyes, two molten pools of sapphire, so hot and hungry they consumed her senses, flushing her skin with fever.

  She gulped, her breath rattling in her throat like dried leaves.

  "Th-thank you."

  His lashes fanned downward, inky spikes that did little to impede the radiant heat of his gaze.

  "Y-you can put me down now."

  "You're bleeding."

  His voice, husky warm with concern, rumbled deep in his chest and vibrated into hers. It was a heady sensation, one that distracted her almost completely from the t
hrobbing in her left hand.

  "I am?" She noticed then the ragged flash of her knuckles and the bruise purpling the base of her thumb.

  He nodded. As he held her, she could feel the heat of his hands, reassuring but titillating too, as they spanned her waist. If she hadn't been so convinced the man disliked her, she might have wondered at his delay, as minute as it was, in lowering her to the ground.

  His breadth blocked out everything at this proximity, everything but the lightning-swift charge that seemed to leap from his belly into hers. She had little doubt that he'd felt their fireworks, because when she tilted her head to gaze past his stubbled chin, she glimpsed the answering flame in his cheeks.

  Breaking their contact, he abruptly turned and straightened the stool. "Wait here," he rasped.

  His trip to the rain barrel gave her time to slow her racing pulse, but when he returned to her side with a valise and a sloshing bucket, her silly heart jumped like a rabbit.

  "Are you hurt anywhere else?" he asked in a tone that was still too throaty to be entirely businesslike.

  "I... don't think so." Really. What was the matter with her, letting the man's presence electrify her nerves? And what had she been thinking, letting him goad her into climbing shelves like a half-grown Indian? She wasn't a thirteen-year-old anymore, shimmying up elder trees to gather berries for Talking Raven.

  Besides, she was trying not to make a sensation in Blue Thunder. It unnerved her to think that Michael might already know about the past she was trying to flee. Part of her thought she should befriend him to woo his loyalty and his silence. Another part of her wanted to avoid him and his inevitable censure.

  She watched him uncomfortably, trying not to notice how the sultry summer twilight had moistened his shirt, making it cling to the muscles of his back. He opened his valise and retrieved a cake of soap. After lathering and rinsing his hands, he turned to her.

  "Let's see the damage."

  She fidgeted. Michael had composed his voice again; he'd even managed to smooth his features into a semblance of professional courtesy. He was a fine actor, she decided, the way he appeared willing to put aside their differences in such a short span of time. Would he still be willing to help her, she wondered, if he knew vigilantes wanted to punish her for helping Papa peddle a homemade heart remedy?