His Wicked Dream (Velvet Lies, Book 2)

by Adrienne deWolfe

  "Theft?" Eden sucked in her breath. "You mean the canned peaches in the street, don't you?"

  "That's the least of the charges. Collie has had several confrontations with Bert since then. The boy's been trespassing on Bert's spread, and Bert says his property's disappearing."

  Eden frowned. Collie was stealing from Gunther? Somehow that didn't ring true. Berthold Gunther wasn't known for the luxuries he kept. He lived deep in the woods, in a seedy, one-room shack, the offal-strewn yard of which was a health hazard to anyone foolish enough to pass through its gate.

  Certain upstanding males of Blue Thunder were rumored to slink out to Gunther's taxidermy compound on weekends, far from the disapproving eyes of their wives, and place bets. Their anonymous patronage was the only reason Gunther hadn't been jailed for baiting cocks, bears, dogs, and God only knew what other unfortunate creatures.

  "I can't imagine," Eden said primly, "what property Mr. Gunther might own that would tempt a boy to theft."

  Unless, of course, Collie stole a gun...

  Henry fidgeted, apparently searching for a delicate way to broach the secret that every male in this town only thought they were keeping hidden from their womenfolk. "Bert says his... uh, taxidermy specimens have been disappearing."

  So that's what he calls them, eh? "You mean the live ones?"

  He started, giving her a searching look. "The ones Bert's been paid to stuff, yes."

  Eden was beginning to understand why Sera didn't respect Henry Prescott. "Mr. Gunther must have quite a backlog of business, to be keeping so many wounded and malnourished specimens in his pens. I wonder how he even notices when one of the poor beasts is missing."

  "The animals are valuable to him."

  So valuable, she thought snidely, Gunther lets them gnaw their limbs off rather than shoot them when they're fevered? "You'll have to forgive my skepticism, Mr. Prescott, but Collie strikes me as canny, not foolish. He knows he would be caught if he tried to sell Mr. Gunther's animals anywhere in this valley. And since Collie doesn't keep company with dogs or cocks," she added with a trace of irony, "I cannot believe he is Mr. Gunther's specimen thief."

  "There is one other possibility," Henry insisted quietly. "Being hungry, as you say he is, Collie may be eating them."

  Eden knew she'd blanched. She wasn't sure which disturbed her more: the idea that she'd inadvertently provided a motive for Collie's detractors to jail him, or that the boy was ingesting diseased flesh.

  "I apologize if I've shocked you," Henry continued in that same quiet voice, "but if you are really Collie's friend, then you must see why it's important that he eat home-cooked meals. I suspect yours is the only other kitchen, besides Sera's, that he would dare visit in this town."

  Eden swallowed, meeting Henry's blue eyes with a touch of chagrin. Perhaps she'd been too quick to judge the man. "Have you told Sera about Gunther's accusations?"

  "Of course," he said. "But she's been... preoccupied of late."

  So Henry knew about Kit McCoy?

  Needled by guilt, Eden couldn't quite keep herself from glancing toward the alley. To her relief, Sera had disappeared. Kit, however, was strolling out of the shadows with a toothy, cocksure grin.

  "Why, if it isn't Preacher Prescott," the hillbilly drawled, his thumbs hooked over his gunbelt. "And purty Miss Eden." His sun-coppered cheeks split even wider as his impertinent gaze fastened on her bodice. "Nice night for sparking, eh?"

  Henry stammered something about the weather; Eden's face flamed. Kit McCoy knew very well Henry was sweet on Sera!

  Come to think of it, Eden thought, why was Kit leering at her, when he was supposed to be courting her friend?

  Insolent gray eyes locked with hers, as if daring her to seek an answer. She rallied her indignation.

  "Good night, Mr. McCoy," she dismissed him coolly.

  "See ya around, ma'am." Touching his hat brim, he winked. "Evenin', preacher."

  He sauntered across the street, whistling some off-key ditty. Chance rubbed out his cigarette and tossed it into the street before he straightened to join his cousin. Not a word was said between the men, but they turned north together, their spurs chinking and their belt buckles winking as they took a short-cut to the saloon district by way of the miller's alley.

  "Well." Henry's complexion had mottled. "I didn't mean to detain you, Miss Mallory. The next time you see Collie, try to talk some sense into him. As little as he likes the orphanage, it's better than jail. Or boot hill."

  Eden nodded, unable to quell her shiver of foreboding as she imagined Berthold Gunther taking justice into his own hands against a fifteen-year-old boy.

  Inclining his head, Henry replaced his hat and strode away, his long, gangly legs eating up the floorboards between him and the sunset.

  "Pssst."

  Eden jumped at that conspiratorial whisper. She turned slowly and spied Sera craning her neck around a stack of empty barrels that were piled before the cooper's shop one storefront away. She ventured a little further into the sunlight, her black hair catching indigo fire, and peered cautiously after Henry.

  "He's not going to Michael's office, is he?" Sera whispered urgently.

  Eden's lips quirked. "He didn't say."

  "Well, I can't see him from here. Make sure he's not, okay? Please?"

  Eden dutifully watched as Henry continued west along Main and finally veered onto Church Street, a gravel road that led to the rectory on the hill. "He's going home, Sera."

  "Thank God. I mean..." She blushed prettily. "I thought he might have seen me. With Kit. But he couldn't have, could he? Do you think he saw us?"

  "Well, his back was to the alley..."

  Hope vied with dread on Sera's Valentine-shaped face.

  Oh, Sera, honey. Michael just wants to protect you from reprobates.

  Sera edged around the barrels. A splinter snagged the yellow muslin of her sleeve, and when she tried to yank it free, a shredding sound followed.

  "Bother." She poked a finger into the sleeve that had been neatly sliced at her elbow. "It's ruined. Now folks will say Kit's to blame. It's just the excuse they'll need to run him out of town."

  "Um..." Eden glanced around them. Several shopkeepers were indeed emerging from their businesses, drawing their door blinds, heading to the livery or strolling east toward the residential district, as Eden had intended. Still, they hadn't been on the street two minutes ago. "I think I'm the only one who saw you with Kit."

  "That won't matter. People know he's sweet on me. Someone will see my sleeve and leap to conclusions. They always do. That's how it is around here." Her chin raised, quivering with indignation. "Folks want to hate Kit because he's an outsider. Because he's different. I hate this town for that." The hurt in her tone undermined her vehemence. "Nobody will give Kit a chance—except you, Eden."

  Eden dropped her gaze. After she'd weathered Kit's leering today, she wasn't sure she wanted to give the Tennessee hillbilly a second chance. But for Sera's sake, Eden decided to withhold judgment. "I suppose we'll just have to get you home before anyone else sees your sleeve."

  Impetuously, Sera threw her arms around Eden's neck. "Nobody here understands me the way you do."

  A lump rose to Eden's throat before the younger girl withdrew.

  Blinking rapidly, Sera linked her arm through Eden's. "I declare," she said, making a concerted effort to be more cheerful, "all these waterworks over a silly old sleeve. I'll just buy myself a whole new blouse." She giggled, leaning closer as they hurried away from the scene of her coquettish crimes. "When's Aunt Claudia getting home from Louisville with all the new fofarrow? I want first pick."

  Eden couldn't help but laugh to picture pipe-smoking Claudia, adorned in her habitual overalls and coonskin, arbitrarily grabbing machine-sewn garments off the shelves of a big city emporium to satisfy "the dang bloomer wearers" back home. Maybe it was best that Claudia hadn't gone on a clothes-buying spree.

  "I don't think Aunt Claudia will have much in the way of fofarro
w," Eden said. "She went to buy a laundering machine."

  "Oh." Sera made a face. "Well, what the store really needs is more hair combs, perfume, and a music box or two." She wrinkled her nose. "And a lot fewer canned peaches!"

  Eden giggled. "I think Aunt Claudia eats most of them," she confided.

  "Honestly, how can a woman who thinks canned peaches taste good judge a blue-ribbon pie? You are planning on entering one of the baking contests at the jamboree, aren't you? Why, I was bragging about that cherry pie of yours to Michael just this morning," Sera cooed. "I said, 'Michael, Eden's cherry pie is going to give Bonnie Harragan fits.' And he said, 'Why's that?' And I said, 'Because it's going to steal that blue ribbon that Bonnie has set her sights on at the Independence Day Jamboree.' And Michael was suitably impressed, which is a feather in your cap, Miss Eden Mallory. Not a lot of things impress my brother, you know."

  Eden's lips twitched. Matchmaking for Michael, she had discovered, was Sera's second favorite pastime, edged out in her affections only by mooning over Kit. "I'm not sure the birds will leave enough cherries on Aunt Claudia's tree for an Independence Day pie."

  Sera nodded solemnly. "Ten days is a long time to be fighting off the sparrow hordes, huh?" The corners of her eyes crinkled. "Well, I daresay you'll just have to bring one of the pies you baked yesterday over to dinner tonight. I know Michael's dying to taste one. Why, he stood for hours by the back door, just sniffing at the crusts you had cooling on your windowsill. And you wouldn't want to deprive Blue Thunder's hard-working doctor of his cherry reward, now would you?"

  "Sera, you're shameless."

  "I am, rather." She giggled. They were standing by Aunt Claudia's gate now. The windows were still dark, and the usual flecks of pipe ash weren't littering the walk. Sera must have noticed.

  "Auntie's not home yet," she announced, sniffing the air with mock gravity. "Nothing's burning on the stove."

  Eden ducked her head, doing her best not to turn traitor again and laugh. "I'm really not expecting Aunt Claudia now that the sun is setting. She told me if she wasn't on the five o'clock stage, I wouldn't see her 'til tomorrow. She said she'd rather swap smokes with the boys in the taproom than have her bones jarred to pieces all night long on one of Angus's 'midnight express' runs."

  "Then that means Angus stayed in Louisville too. 'Cause Angus knows better than to let Claudia out of his sight." Sera's dimples peeked. "Michael would have Angus's head on a pike if something happened to her on one of her 'dang shopping junkets.'"

  As Sera mimicked Claudia's rusty grousing, Eden's mirth bubbled forth. So Michael was looking out for Claudia? By putting the fear of God in Angus?

  The knowledge that Michael was doing his best to protect a seventy-five-year-old curmudgeon who refused to admit she was fragile, pleased Eden more than it surprised her.

  "You're dawdling, Eden dear. Run along and fetch your pie. There's no sense in your eating dinner in that big old house by yourself."

  Eden had to admit, the prospect of laughing with Sera all night long was more appealing than watching Stazzie doze on the sofa.

  "I don't know, Sera. Your brother and I really don't see eye to eye."

  "Put some pie in his belly. He'll forgive you." Sera gave her a conspiratorial wink. "He is a man, after all."

  Eden's smile was fleeting. She didn't share Sera's confidence that a mere slab of pie would earn her Michael's favor. Still, they had to start somewhere if they were going to bury the hatchet. Maybe then she could finally learn where the devil she'd first met him.

  "Was he really trying to get a whiff of my pies," she ventured to ask, "or did you make the whole tale up?"

  "Cross my heart and hope to die."

  Hope fluttered in Eden's chest. "And he likes cherry?"

  Sera rolled her eyes. "Let me put it this way. If my brother were faced with a shamelessly wanton woman who'd do anything he asked, and a succulent slab of cherries fresh from the oven, he'd pick the pie. Every time."

  Eden smothered a giggle. She suspected Sera exaggerated. Still, it was nice to know that Michael's appetites leaned more toward pie than sin.

  "All right, Sera. But you have to promise you won't try any of your matchmaking tricks. If I see Michael in the yard tomorrow morning, I want to be able to look him in the eye."

  Sera's grin was reminiscent of the Cheshire cat's. "I wouldn't dream of interfering, Eden... once nature takes its course."

  * * *

  Thunder grumbled, and Michael woke with a start.

  Eden.

  A clock's hypnotic ticking thrummed beyond the circle of gaslight. For a moment, he was lost. Confused. He must have dozed. Even so, he recognized nothing of the oakwood paneling or the black-rimmed licenses hanging by his door.

  Echoes from a carefree dream still haunted him, wooing him back to the sun-dappled field, where buttercups and larkspur danced amidst clover. The visions had been so alluring: the columbine sky, the crystalline brook, the rainbow of wildflowers... Eden. Her butternut toes peeked out beneath a robe of white; her hair, like liquid fire, tumbled across bared shoulders and arms. She wore a daisy chaplet and an effervescent smile. Her laughter was contagious as she twirled amidst a storm of orange and yellow butterflies.

  "Come, Michael," she called, opening her arms in invitation. "Come join me in the dance."

  Forcing his eyes open, he drew a shuddering breath. Then another. The sweetness of that memory fanned the fire in his loins.

  Eden. How he ached for her.

  He wanted to consider the dream an improvement. He wanted to be encouraged by its variation on the theme that had plagued him for years. In the days before he'd known the woman Eden had become, he would dream of himself pining for love in the wildflowers, and she would appear, raising her skirts with a sultry smile and sinking her hips to mount him.

  But the Eden with the daisy chaplet was nothing like the Eden he usually envisioned unencumbered by bloomers.

  Much to his chagrin, though, his pecker hadn't noticed the difference.

  Michael grimaced, shifting gingerly. He could almost hear the ghost of his father shrieking, "You are your mother's son!"

  Oddly enough, Michael couldn't remember the last time he'd wanted a woman—or rather, the last time he'd wanted one badly enough to consider some discreet relief. In fact, he'd been mortified to think his illness might have deadened his carnal urge.

  "Divine justice," his father would have called the irony. "Satan's revenge" had been Michael's moniker for it. He'd been so ashamed to think he might have become infertile, his hands had actually shaken when he'd reached for his medical books, forcing himself to research the symptom and its cure. He would have died right there on the spot if Sera had surprised him poring through those pages.

  But it looked like he wouldn't have to run that risk again. Thank God for Eden. He might have a brain tumor, but at least he wasn't impotent.

  Jones, you are one sorry, sick sonuvabitch.

  He shook his head. Maybe his father was right. Maybe he had inherited his mother's fascination for forbidden fruit. As the clock chimed the hour, announcing him ninety minutes late for dinner, he wasn't thinking of the victuals his no-doubt infuriated sister had slaved to cook for him. No, he was thinking about Whiskey Bend.

  And a certain livery that never failed to remind him of Eden.

  And any memory of Eden so outshone the harsh, lurid reality that he would face on the sagging straw mattresses above the Jade Rose Saloon, that in the end, he would never make the journey, opting instead to writhe alone until his lust finally ebbed.

  So, fornicate or abstain, he was damned either way. He supposed he'd have to reconcile himself to that fact as long as Eden Mallory plagued his dreams... and most every waking moment, too.

  Smiling ruefully, he unfolded his legs and pushed back from the cramped quarters beneath his cherrywood desk. His captain's chair struck a cabinet, and a stack of patient records which he'd never found time to file toppled to the floor. He would have hire
d help if he hadn't been so worried an assistant might witness his vertigo and report it to Sera.

  But he needed the help desperately. His patient load was increasing, and because of it, the space in this two-room storefront was eroding. He'd had to make space for two more examining rooms by partitioning off the first and sacrificing the privacy of his study. In fact, many of his research books were at home now because his precious shelf space was crammed with ointments, sutures, bandages, and lollipops. He kept the latter on hand for children and Claudia.

  Thoughts of his irascible neighbor made him smile a little, despite the sorrow that squeezed his chest. Because she'd refused to heed his warnings about candy, Claudia had lost most of her teeth. Because she refused to heed his warnings about her pulmonary arteries...

  Pensively, he fingered a sunny-yellow candy wrapper, his mind drifting to her physical examination two months ago. Waiting for his prognosis about her tingling limbs and shortness of breath, she'd sat on his examining table, her gnomelike face screwed up with glee as she kicked her feet and sucked a lemon lollipop. To see her so impish in the face of his news was almost his undoing. He wanted to fling his stethoscope across the room for verifying her sickness.

  "It's your heart, Claudia," he announced, struggling to choke back his grief. "It's working harder than it should. You need to slow down. No more tree climbing. Or bear hunting. Or craps shooting with Angus."

  She stopped her noisy sucking sounds to smack yellow lips and glare. "You tryin' to make me mad?"

  "This is serious."

  "So I'm a goner?"

  "For Christ's sake, don't say that!"

  Spinning away, he regretted his outburst. A physician needed to be calm. Indifferent. But how could he be? During those early years when Mama had doted on Rafe and Papa had been too bitter to recall he was raising other children, Claudia had been the one who'd patched Michael's scrapes and sheared his unruly hair. She'd given him his first whittling knife. She'd tucked forbidden dime novels into his prayer book so Papa wouldn't be the wiser.