“And you’ll use them for…?”
“Identification. No two people have the same fingerprints—at least that’s the theory. And while the courts don’t accept them as evidence yet, they’re still a useful tool in solving crimes.” She pulled the bottle of carbon dust from her bag and set it on the desk. “Here, let me take your print.”
“No.”
“No?” His lack of interest surprised her.
He kicked the door shut and backed her to the corner. “I have other things on my mind.” He lowered his lips to hers. He kissed her softly, then with urgency, his tongue tasting her. He seemed quite interested.
Her mind went numb, then blank, focusing on his lips, his body pressed to hers, and the fire in her nether area. She pulled him closer to her, hoping he wouldn’t stop.
But he did, pulling away with a heated look in his eyes. “We can’t do this here.”
“Where, then?” She ran her hands over his shoulders and squeezed the muscles in his arms.
“Nowhere.” His voice caught. “We have to wait until our wedding night.”
She had no intention of letting him forget his desire for her, and the wedding was still several days away. She’d die of need before then. Her hands slid to his waist, then under the waistline of his britches. He sucked in air, and she smiled. “I thought you had other things on your mind.” She lowered her voice. “So do I.”
But then he removed her hands from his pants, murmuring, “You’re not making this easy.”
No, and she had no intentions of doing so, but at least she remembered what she’d originally wanted. “Then let me take your fingerprint.” She walked past him, making sure to brush her breast against him on the way. The contact made her nipples harden, but he did nothing to soothe her wanting.
She glanced back. He stared at the ceiling, his pants straining for her, his mind obviously warring against the idea. What a wondrous secret, the bond between a man and a woman. Even though they were ten feet apart, she could still feel his body pressing against her, making her want him so much.
“Come here, and let me dust your finger.”
He breathed out. After a few moments, he walked over and sat at his desk. “All right, but then I have work to do.”
She brushed his forefinger with the carbon dust, then put the notepad in front of him. “Here, just press your finger on this paper.” She held his hand and pushed his finger on the pad, then kissed the back of his neck.
He grabbed her and pulled her on top of him. She reveled in the warmth and protectiveness of his arms, and the hardness of the rod she sat on. She wiggled her backside against him.
He groaned, the very rumble sharpened her desire for him. “I can’t take much more of this.” But instead of pulling away, he held her closer.
She kissed his neck and nibbled on his ear.
He groaned again, then brushed his cheek against her breast until her nipple burned with anticipation. Tilting his head, he put his mouth on her breast, heating her until she wiggled more. He pushed his hand under her skirts and let it rest on her inner thigh.
She moved against him so that his hand rested on the spot he’d used to shatter the skies. Her breathing quickened and her face felt hot. She leaned into him, wanting more.
She heard the door open. The chair fell over backwards, sending them sprawling across the floor.
“Deputy Kunkle, I brought you some nice, hot cinnamon buns!”
Mrs. Proctor stepped into the room and gasped. “Oh, my stars!”
Chapter 16
Mrs. Proctor sniffed. “Well, I never!”
Bosco walked up behind her and shook his head. “Sure you did, just last night.” He grinned and patted her on the rump.
She lurched forward, tossing the cinnamon buns in the air. “Oh!”
Cole caught the sweet rolls, while Bosco caught Mrs. Proctor, her bonnet askew.
Bosco sniffed the air. “Let’s have one of them buns. I like ‘em sweet and hot, just like you.”
“You—you—cad!” She grabbed the buns from Cole and smashed them in Bosco’s face.
“Dang, Cordelia, them’s good!”
She marched out in a huff.
“Women,” Bosco said, then sighed. “I tell her what a good cook she is, and it makes her madder’n a deflowered skunk.” He peeled a bun off his forehead and took a bite.
Cole helped Daisy up. “Are you all right?” She nodded, then straightened her bonnet, although the petunias drooped a bit.
He turned to Bosco. “Most ladies don’t like it when you tell of your nightly adventures, and I’d guess Mrs. Proctor would be even less inclined to talk about it than others.”
“Nightly adven…Ah, you mean—” Bosco scratched his head. “Shit-criminy, Cole, I was talking ‘bout her buns. She made hot cinnamon buns yesterday for supper.”
Daisy laughed, the second most wonderful sound in the world. The most wonderful, he thought, he best not even think about if he wanted to keep his wits about him. Still, all he could think about was kissing her—all over. She snuggled against his side, not helping matters a bit.
He pushed her away and handed Bosco a rag. “Wipe yourself off, Bosco. Then you better get your repentant hide over to Mrs. Proctor’s and apologize or you’re liable to go hungry. I’d be willing to bet Mrs. Courtney won’t be inviting you to her house for a few days.”
“No, I don’t expect so. Best I stop by the horse trough and wash up some.”
As soon as Bosco left, Cole wanted to start up with Daisy where he left off, although it was against his better judgment. He ached all over for want of her, but a little distance between them might help to cool things down. Of course, that had never worked before. Either he had been with her, or he’d been thinking about her since the day he first gazed into those magnificent green eyes.
She snuggled up to him again, pressing her breasts against his belly, wrapping her arms around him, and rubbing her hands on his back. Lord, how he wanted to bury himself inside her. He held her tight, wishing all his troubles would vanish, then he and Daisy could spend their nights—and days—making love until they’d used every ounce of strength they had.
“Marshal?”
“Hmmm?” he murmured, avoiding the cherry on her bonnet that threatened to slide up his nose. Whatever possessed women to wear these ridiculous things?
“I talked to my folks and we’ve set the date.” She turned her head, whapping his chin with a peach.
He jerked his head back to avoid further fruit pummelings. “Date?”
“Yes, our wedding date. We’re getting married on the Fifth of July!”
Fifth of July? Hell and damnation, he had to be gone before then—before her sister came to town.
“Aren’t you excited? And Iris will be here.”
Exactly. “Darlin’, can’t we be married today?”
She laughed. “No, silly. My dress isn’t done. Besides, if we’re married on the fifth, all the folks around the country will still be here. Like my folks said, there’s no use in them making two trips this busy time of year.”
He wondered what the odds were that Iris wouldn’t identify him, or Bosco. Low. Very low, if she were anything like Daisy. He had to convince her to marry him now, not later. “But until then, we can’t do this.” He kissed her neck slowly, sliding his tongue over her smooth skin. “Or this.” He held the weight of her breast in his hand, rubbing her nipple with his thumb.
She looked up at him, passion glazing her eyes, nearly bringing him to his knees for the want of her. “Yes, we can. We already did.”
“Where?”
“My cave. We can go to my cave.”
The cave sounded good. Damned good. But one of the two of them had to have some reason, and it seemed to be up to him. “Darlin’ Daisy, that’s five miles out of town—too long for us to be gone without being noticed. Besides, as worried as your mama was, I don’t think she’ll be letting you out of her sight for that long.”
She ran her ha
nds over his chest. Hell, he’d go to the cave. Or toss up her skirts right where they stood.
“I can tell Mama that I’m at Aunt Grace’s. That’s what I always do when I go to the cave. My aunt is the only one who knows where I’m really going.”
“Your cave?”
“Yes, I found it not long after we moved here. That’s where I go to read and think.”
And make love. His loins ached with such intensity, his mind blurred. He couldn’t wait. Not for the cave and certainly not for the wedding. Gently, he pushed her backward toward the jail cell room and pinned her against the wall, jostling her bonnet. She whipped out the hatpin and tossed the bonnet aside. He slipped his hand under her skirt, finding the warmth of her inner thigh, then sliding his fingers to that vibrant part of her that begged to be touched.
She moaned, nearly undoing him. He untied her drawers and pushed them down, wishing he could get a mouthful of her breast, and cursing the low-life bastard who’d invented corsets. She pulled him tight to her, begging him with her eyes. He didn’t need to be asked twice.
His rod was stone hard and knew right where it wanted to be. Shaking with hunger for her, he unbuttoned his britches with one hand, then bunched her skirts around her waist. “When I lift you, hook your legs around my waist.”
He pinned her back against the wall, then raised her, and, after she’d put her legs around him, slowly lowered her onto him, trying to be gentle, but wanting so badly to bury himself with one strong thrust. After a few gentle strokes, he drove deep within her, nearly dying for the pure joy of it. She was hot with desire, her face flushed, her breathing fast and shallow. Her moans urged him to hurry the pace until he rammed her with all his weight.
She bit her lip, then mashed her face against his shoulder. Sweet little cries from her throat urged him on. Her muscles clenched tightly around him and she gasped, then bit his shoulder to stifle her scream. With every thrust, the pressure built. Hard and hot, he shot his seed into her—and more, and more.
For a moment, he just held her, then he kissed her deeply. He loved this woman more than life itself—and that just might be what it came down to. “Let’s put you to rights before we have visitors.”
She nodded slowly, the fire of passion not yet gone from her face. “I, uh, better…” She licked her lips.
He wanted to start all over again. Instead, he pulled her drawers up and tied them. “You better what?” he prompted.
“Comb my hair,” she breathed. She picked her bonnet up and studied it. “I don’t know how to fix this.”
“What’s wrong?”
“You mashed my cherry.”
Some things just couldn’t be undone.
“It’s too short,” Sarah lamented. She gave another tug on the hem of Daisy’s wedding dress, nearly knocking her off-balance. “And I’ve already ironed it. If I let it down the crease will show.”
Tears pooled in Daisy’s eyes, but she tried to hold them back for Sarah’s sake. The days had flown by as Sarah and she had prepared for her wedding and few precious days were left. Still, she could hardly get married in a dress that showed her ankles. “I’ll keep moving. Then no one will notice.” But she would notice, and she wanted to be beautiful just this one time for the marshal. Just this once, please, she prayed.
Sarah jumped up. “I know! I’ll make my dress up for you. Remember? You said there was enough goods for two dresses, and you were right—plus some left over to decorate our bonnets.”
“You can’t possibly make a dress in only four days, Sarah. This one will do.”
“Daisy, you can’t just do for your wedding. It has to be perfect.” She smiled as she dug in her sewing box. “Besides, I already have my dress cut out and basted together, and I’m sure the hem is long enough for you, because I left extra for flounces.”
“You’ve already started on your wedding gown?”
“You started on yours before you had a fiancé, so why can’t I make mine.”
“Have you arranged to meet Patrick Dugan again?”
“No,” she said with a flick of her blonde ringlets. “I’m not marrying him.”
“You’re not thinking of Sam, are you? Why, he has no property at all, and he’s only a carpenter.”
“Jesus was a carpenter.”
“You’re not marrying Him, either.”
Sarah shrugged. “I’ll get my dress. Wait here.” She left the sewing room.
Daisy pulled off the too-short wedding gown and hung it on a hook, her breast heavy with disappointment. She fingered the beautiful silk, hoping Sarah was right—that she could actually finish the other dress in the few days left before the ceremony. Sarah could never know how important this dress was to her. With Sarah’s blonde, radiant beauty, she’d never know how it felt to be the drab mouse beside the shining star. To Sarah’s credit, she’d never purposefully made Daisy feel plain, but facts were facts. Sarah was beautiful—Daisy was plain.
She sighed and tugged on her snug corset. Sarah had cinched her up good and tight for the fitting, and between that and the overly warm last day of June, Daisy admitted to a certain amount of discomfort.
Sarah dashed back into the bedroom with her own dress. “Here, try this on.”
It was a bit tight in the shoulders and bust, but the waist was fine, and the length left plenty for a hemline that would be decent. “Are you sure you want to trade dresses?”
“Yes,” Sarah said with finality. “Now let me pin this up. I have lots of work to do.”
An hour later, after Sarah had assured her that disaster had been averted, Daisy walked into her aunt’s house to work on the final arrangements for the wedding. No one seemed to be home although her bonnet and gloves lay neatly on the table beside the door. Her bedroom door was shut so Daisy figured she might be asleep.
But Aunt Grace never slept during the day unless she wasn’t feeling well. Daisy hoped that wasn’t the case because it would certainly hamper the wedding planning—yet another disaster. Maybe she should give up the idea of an actual wedding. They could say their “I do’s” at the picnic and be done with that.
Then she heard a giggle—a decidedly un-Aunt-Grace-like giggle, and definitely not a feeling-poorly giggle. Something was askew. Daisy pondered a bit. She could hardly walk into the bedroom—that would be very bad manners. After a moment of indecision, she decided to call out.
“Aunt Grace?”
She heard a thud, another giggle, and a grunt.
“Just a minute, Daisy.”
After a considerable amount of rustling noises, Aunt Grace emerged in her dressing gown, shutting the bedroom door behind her, and looking more disheveled than Daisy had ever seen her—and smiling. Her rosy cheeks looked like she’d used rouge, of all things, and her lips looked like they’d seen recent action. My goodness, it couldn’t be!
“Uh, are you feeling all right?” she stammered, feeling like she’d just walked in where she didn’t belong. “I could get you some medicine from the store.”
“Oh, no. I feel great.” She tied the sash on her robe.
Could there be a man in there? Surely not. Daisy couldn’t believe it if it were true. Aunt Grace? At her age? Why, she was forty-four years old! Surely, at that age, women didn’t …couldn’t…but it looked like she could—and did. “Maybe I should, um, come back later.”
Aunt Grace smoothed her hair and nodded. “Yes, uh, you could do that, or I’ll see you at suppertime.”
It had to be. Someone definitely occupied Aunt Grace’s bed other than Aunt Grace. A man. And not for sleeping purposes. Daisy nodded faintly. “Suppertime.” She backed toward the front door. “See you then.”
Sidney sat on the boarding house porch swing, waiting for the man posing as marshal to go on his rounds. He checked his timepiece—nearly seven o’clock. He’d seen Bosco, but not the marshal. In the week he’d been in Oreana, he hadn’t caught the fraudulent marshal in a single lie or underhanded endeavor. But the mark of a good lawman was patience, and Sidney pride
d himself in that.
“Hello, Sam.” Sarah looked at him, her pretty blue eyes shining.
His mouth turned to cotton and he nodded, unable to make his voice work.
“I, uh…” She lowered her eyelids and tilted her pretty little head. “Would you think poorly of me if I sat by you?”
He shook his head and patted the seat beside him. She gathered her skirts and sat, her shoulder brushing his. Lord, if she knew just how much he wanted her, she’d hightail it back in the house in a hummingbird’s heartbeat. Meantime, his heart thumped like an elephant’s. He hoped she didn’t hear.
She snuggled closer. He no longer had room for his arm, so he let it rest behind her, the wisps of hair from the back of her head brushing his wrist with every sway of the swing. He felt her heat merge with his, and he had an overwhelming need to kiss her.
But he didn’t have the slightest notion how, and she’d just think he was a clumsy oaf. Any girl as pretty as Sarah had certainly kissed many men. Dugan, for one. Sidney’s bile rose at the thought of him.
“My hand’s cold,” she said. “Could you warm it for me?”
Now that posed a problem. His right arm was draped over her shoulder, and he’d rather get shot a dozen times and hanged twice than move it. Bringing his left hand across his body seemed more than awkward. Besides, she couldn’t be cold—it was probably eighty degrees still, and on top of that, she had gloves on.
But he desperately wanted to hold her hand, so he offered his left hand. She laid her sweet little hand in his, and he thought he’d died and gone to heaven. She smelled of cinnamon and roses—sweet and beautiful.
The marshal-imposter left his office. Drat! Sidney should follow. He knew he should. But he’d give his name to any piker who wanted it just to spend five minutes with Sarah.
“Where are you from, Sam?” Her voice was as clear as a church bell.
He cleared his throat, praying he wouldn’t squeak. “Uh, Chicago, originally, but I came here from San Francisco.” He relaxed. His voice hadn’t betrayed his anxiety, thank the Lord for small favors. Then he tensed—he should never have mentioned San Francisco.
Much Ado About Marshals (Hearts of Owyhee) (2011) Page 22
