Locking the door and opening the windows to fresh air and birdsong, Rosamond collected what she might need and padded softly into the adjoining room.
“Oh, hot steamy water, how wonderful you are,” she exulted, as the bathtub slowly filled.
Too bad her cohorts wouldn’t be able to revel in their own prolonged ablutions right now, especially Elizabeth. With that thought came the sudden flashback to Marshal Travis Yancey, and their impassioned and all-too-brief first kiss. She glanced down at her slender but voluptuous body, barely visible under a barrage of bubbles. How would he react to beholding her thus?
Would he rhapsodize over the breasts with their puckered tips the color of her bedroom flowers? Would he appreciate the smooth incurve of waist, the slight outcurve of belly? Would he want to investigate the sensuous lower mound that even she had never really investigated?
More to the point, just how would the Marshal himself appear standing stripped and naked and completely in the raw, and would she ever have the chance to find out?
“Oh, Rose, you’re an idiot,” she mumbled. Blushing, she sank down into the water until only her knees poked through.
After a while, the temperature cooled and the clock had ticked away plenty of time. Finished, she climbed out, pulled the plug, and wrapped herself in the softest, largest towel she had ever used.
“Miss Waring?” A tap at the door, light but firm. “Rose?”
“Just a minute.” Out of the towel, after a quick dry-off, and into a long white cotton robe that swept the floor. “What is it, Reuben?” she asked quietly, against the frame. “What could you possibly want at this hour?” When I now have so much to do!
“Rose, let me in. I want to talk to you.”
“Oh, Reuben, I thought we’d finished talking,” she pleaded.
“No, there’s more, and it’s important.”
Sighing, she considered the request. True, no single woman ever allowed a single man into her boudoir. Especially a single woman who flounced around bare to the buff under her nightwear. Still, that nightwear covered her from throat to fingertips to toes, and it was respectably buttoned and belted.
“All right,” she conceded, unlocking the door. “Come in, then.”
Harwood burst inside with such force that she was almost knocked backward. “I’m sorry, Rose, I shouldn’t be bothering you, but—” His words ran out before his thought process had kicked in, and now he stopped dead, staring at this vision. “But, Rose, you’re—you’re—”
She eyed him warily. “M’h’m. I’m what, Reuben?”
“So—beautiful…” Saliva filled his mouth, forcing him to swallow audibly. A step closer, then another step, with his hand stretching out to lay upon her damp hair.
“What was it you wanted to tell me?”
“Oh. Uh.” Recalled, he stuttered on about his continued discussion with Micah Hayes, after she had left the room. “He thinks we should marry, Rose. Very soon. He can arrange all the details, and he’ll be happy to stand in as your father would have wanted him to. That way, we can start our new life as soon as possible.”
Her intent green gaze narrowed against the circus train of ideas careening through her tired brain.
Marry? Not in this lifetime. Hayes stand in for my father? Irony of ironies: the murderer for the murdered. New life? Not for me, because after the ceremony he would have me meet with an accident. Then all that nice tidy little fortune would end up in his hands. Not this poor sucker. Hayes will kill him, too. And anyone else who stands in his way.
“Well, what do you say, Rose?” Harwood’s trembling hand had moved from her hair to her cheek, and she endured the touch only because it was imperative she do so. Then to her throat, and under the collar to her warm damp skin.
Just as she had teased him earlier, with a different purpose in mind. Oh, God. Her chickens were coming home to roost.
“Rose?” He was standing so close that she could see the sheen of nervous perspiration on his forehead, smell the scent of something quite unpleasant emanating from his pores. His hand moved farther down into her robe, like a furtive spider.
“Stop it!” Jerking out of his revolting grasp, she retreated toward the bed and tightened everything that could be tightened. “No, Reuben, to whatever you’re trying to accomplish tonight.”
His features darkened, and the pupils of his gooseberry-colored eyes shrank to a pinpoint with lust. “Now, look here, Rose. You can’t just—”
“Oh, yes, I can,” she said in a low, constricted voice.
“There’s a name for women like you,” he hurled the words out at her as if he were hurling stones.
“Ah, but you’d better not use it if you want this marriage to take place.”
Fury warred with common sense; after a minute, common sense won. No reason to rile the man past redemption when the stakes were this high.
Clamping down on her pride and her dignity, Rosamond conceded, “Reuben, I’m sorry. Of course we can talk more about this tomorrow, and make wedding plans. It’s just that I’m suffering from this really horrific headache…” She assumed a martyred expression that would, hopefully, arouse his sympathy and chill his desire.
“Oh, no wonder, then. I’m sorry, too, Rose.” Reuben essayed a thin smile that told her he wasn’t entirely convinced. “I shouldn’t have come barging into your bedroom, anyway, but I was so excited about—well, I’ll say good night, then.” Leaning over, he touched his lips to her temple, patted her lightly on the shoulder, and shambled away.
“Dear God,” she breathed, closing and locking the solid oak door behind him.
The first order of business was to scrub off any imprint of his hasty kiss. Next was to find a chair, collapse off her wobbly legs, and give in to a serious case of the shakes.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
By three a.m. the house was fully darkened and quiet—other than male snores issuing forth from several bedrooms that threatened to shatter the windowpanes. It was time to arise and take action.
After last night’s harrowing experiences, both during the tension-filled atmosphere of Micah Hayes’ office and later, in the confrontation with Reuben Harwood, Rosamond had needed to recover her nerve. It isn’t every day that a girl gets thrown into a den of thieves and lives to tell the tale. Number One Fact: no one had thrown her but the girl herself. Number Two Fact: she was hoping she’d live to tell the tale. The jury was still out on that count.
Redressed, wearing the somewhat travel-worn garments in which she’d arrived, Rosamond tidied her room, gathered necessities, and opened her bedroom door.
Pause for a deep, restorative breath. Pause to calm her racing heartbeat. Pause to wonder if it would be smarter just to dive straight out through one of the windows, instead of having to negotiate what might be a trap laid throughout the whole house.
Too late now. In for a penny, out for a pound. Please, God, let it be out.
And out it was.
Tiptoeing noiselessly along the shadowed hall, creeping silently down the stairs, she made it to the kitchen before halting once more to listen, listen, listen. There was only the faint snap or whoosh of the cook stove’s banked fire, an occasional creak of settling floorboards, the soft tap-tap of a willow tree branch slipping along the glass of a nearby window. All was still.
In such stillness, the click of a key turning in the kitchen door’s lock sounded like a gunshot going off. Another dead halt, to see if anyone had heard the noise. To see if anyone stirred. No. A combination of party excitement and too much liquor had rendered the Grizzly Bear’s residents oblivious to all.
The outside air, as she slipped across the threshold to a back porch, felt fresh and invigorating after the stale mustiness inside. And just enough light from the waning moon to see her path, away from the house and toward the—
“Oof!”
A big hard hand had clamped over her mouth like an iron band, a long hard arm had wrapped around her waist like a boa constrictor. Fighting helplessly for fr
eedom, she was dragged down and beyond, past the picket fence, along the wall of a shed, to a grove of trees black and menacing with shadow.
If her bedroom encounter with an amorous Reuben Harwood had raised her hackles and threatened her composure, this attack was scaring the bejeezus out of her. She kicked at her assailant, she battled his grip, she tried to bite: all to no avail.
“Goddammit, you little wildcat, leave off tryin’ t’ kill me for a minute, will you?”
Released, she looked up with wide eyes. “Travis!” she burbled. And rushed into his arms without the slightest hesitation. “I’ve n-n-never been so glad—to see anybody—in my life!” The tears started then, as a relief and a release, and for a few minutes she reveled in the deeply pleasurable feel of him.
“Darlin’, what is it? Are you hurt? Are you in pain?”
Cradled against the width and strength of his chest, she shook her head. “N-n-no, I’m all right. I really am. Just—just a little strung out.”
“And who would have more right to be?” asked Elizabeth sympathetically.
“Well, you had me worried sick t’ death.” Now that he had her safe in his care once more, out of that menacing house and away from Micah Hayes, the concern and worry could give way to testiness. Travis grabbed hold of her upper arms, shoved her far enough away to glare at her, then pulled her back again. “Doncha ever do that again, goddammit! My heart can’t take it!”
“Your heart!” Rosamond was recovering voice and stamina enough to jeer, “Woo-hoo. Just wait till you take care of business inside that place.”
“Well, we’re all here,” Thomas reported, “every man jack of us. And Liz. Waitin’ and wonderin’ half the night through, scared somethin’ had gone wrong.”
The girl straightened, settled the lightweight jacket she wore, and lifted her chin. “Well, gentlemen, everyone at that party tonight seems to be sleeping it off. Apparently the guards—”
“Oh, I reckon the guards are sleepin’ it off as well,” said John with a grin. “A couple of ’em got their heads bashed, a couple more got hogtied and stowed. See, Rosie, we ain’t just been sittin’ idly by while you were enjoyin’ the comforts of home.”
“I wasn’t—oh.”
“Sweetheart, we could smell you headin’ out here a mile away. Nice bath soap.” Matthew sniffed appreciatively.
“Looks like everybody’s about had their say,” Travis noted. “Coch, Tom, anything t’ add? No? All right, then. Guns out. Let’s go clean house.”
As it turned out, the capture and detainment of Micah Hayes and his gang of cutthroats ended up being so easy as to feel almost anti-climatic.
With the first story checked and cleared, the San Juan posse made their way up the stairs as silently as Rosamond had recently descended them. On the second floor, each man chose a bedroom and swept inside all at the same time, with Elizabeth waiting behind them, her rifle at the ready, as backup.
“They’re making a lot of noise,” cringed Rosamond over the whooping and slamming of doors and shouting of orders. “Should they be making so much noise?”
“On purpose,” Elizabeth explained. “Being awakened out of a sound sleep by so much racket is confusing for the criminals—they don’t know what’s going on or which way to turn. That way, too, there’s less chance they’ll grab for a weapon and fire back.”
Cochinay was first out, pulling along with him a weatherbeaten man wearing dirty long johns and a foul mouth. “Shut up,” the guide tersely advised him. “We got ladies present.”
“Ladies, ha! Ain’t no goddamned ladies, just whores that I see. Not fit t’ do nothin’ but spread their legs as often as—uuuuh!”
The man had been shut up by the most practical method: Cochinay’s fist in his gut.
“Anybody know the name o’ this hog waller?”
“Not yet, Thunder,” Thomas answered him, hauling along his own prisoner. “Never fear, though, we’ll pin ’em all down directly. This’n here tells me he goes by the moniker of Sylvester.”
“Sylvester, huh?” Cochinay began patting his pockets for the papers he had been supplied as an officer of the law. “Got a warrant roundabout somewhere for a Sylvester Bottoms. Are you him?”
“Bottoms,” chortled Thomas. “Damn me. Where’s your Tops, fella?”
A glare from slightly crossed eyes and a few cuss words earned him a rough seat on the floor to await developments.
“Well, well, if it ain’t the Dick himself.” Thomas cheerfully greeted the lawyer Hotchkiss as John was next to emerge from a room farther down the hall. “Nice t’ see you again.”
Despite being bound, Hotchkiss drew himself up to his full five feet six inches. “How dare you?” he hissed. “I’ll have you know I have friends in high places. Judge McIntyre, for one. I’ll be out from under any ridiculous charge you hatch up before you can say Jack Robinson.”
“Now why’n hell would any of us wanna say that?” John growled. Besides being tired and hungry in these pre-dawn hours, he was craving a blistering hot cup of coffee like an addict craves the bottle. “Get over there, Dick, against the wall. And stay outa my way.”
“At least he’s presentable,” Thomas observed. “Nice duds, Dick.”
Another glare. More cuss words. Which led Thomas to lament that nobody in this house seemed very hospitable a’tall.
A door near the head of the stairs was suddenly flung open. Through it skittered a tall thin specimen whose red hair was disordered and whose face wore a week’s worth of beard. The upper hall, while spacious, could barely contain all the bodies, the noise, and the confusion going on, to the point that the newcomer almost made a successful escape through the mess.
“Hey, watch him!” shouted Elizabeth. Before any of the lawmen could move, she shoved out her rifle barrel and tripped
“Bentley Lawton!” Rosamond provided the identity.
Into a fall that threw him face down almost at her feet. Striding forward, she propped a boot into the middle of his spine to hold him there, unmoving, no matter how much he squealed. “An extra pair of cuffs, someone, if you please?” she requested proudly. Elizabeth had just landed her very own crook.
The most luxurious, the most prestigious bed chamber belonged, of course, to Micah Hayes. It was into that room that Travis had disappeared. His assignment, his quarry. With so much happening in the passageway, with shouts and clumping around and captives crashing into walls, it wasn’t surprising that a soft single gunshot went almost unnoticed.
Almost. Rosamond noticed. With a gasp, she pushed herself through the chaos and pelted into the room, where a turbulent struggle was taking place. Chairs overturned, pieces thumping and bumping, expletives and wheezes for air: utter pandemonium. And too dark to see a damned thing.
Frantic, she scrabbled madly for a lamp and matches, finally located the dresser, at last scratched out a light.
Only to be greeted by the sight of Hayes, lying flat on his back on the floor like a beached whale. Even the invective he spouted, especially upon spying Rosamond, could have come from one. His paisley silk pajamas and leather slippers presented an incongruous contrast to the handcuffs fastened firmly around both wrists.
“Travis?”
He was slouched on a stool, panting, head lowered and hair tumbled. It wasn’t until he looked up at her, slightly dazed, that she realized the worst.
“Travis, you’ve been shot!” she cried, rushing to his aid.
A dark red bloodstain was creeping down the upper sleeve of his left arm, and, with reaction, the wound was starting to hurt like hell.
“Only grazed me,” he was able to declare with a minimum of irascibility. “Damned son of a bitch had a derringer hidden under his pillow and got a shot off b’fore I could take him out. He’s a fighter, that one.”
“I’m a fighter, all right.” Grunting at the effort, Hayes managed to roll onto his side and confront his captor. “You’ll find that out in court, soon enough. You’ll see just what you’re dealing with.”
“I’ve spent years buying political favors,” spat out the rancher from his uncomfortable position. “Payback, Yancey. Those are pissant charges you’re talking about. I’ll beat every damned one of them; see if I don’t. And then I’ll come after you.”
“Ahuh. Now we can add threatenin’ a law officer to everything else. You and your henchmen are lookin’ at rough times ahead, Hayes. O’ course, that depends on how quick the hangman’s noose catches up with you.”
“Travis, you’re weaving on your feet. Please come away from here,” urged Rosamond, who was providing support under his unwounded arm, “and let me take care of you.”
In the dim, flickering light, a weary smile crossed his face. “Darlin’, right now that sounds like a mighty fine proposition.”
They had made it to the hallway, into the jumble of free-for-all, with Travis sagging more and more upon her, when Matthew finally made his appearance.
“This feller says he knows you, Rose,” Matthew said, as he approached dragging a nightshirted Reuben Harwood by one handcuffed arm. “Friend of yours?”
“Rose!” exclaimed Harwood gratefully. “Rose, tell them—tell them we’re to be married. Tell them what I mean to you. Tell them about the bedroom.”
At that Travis perked up enough to shift from one to the other with a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Bedroom?” he repeated pleasantly.
“I’ll tell you all about it later,” Rosamond replied. Then, turning back to Harwood, in a blur of movement she crunched up her fingers into a fist and walloped him hard, right across the chin.
“Oh, hey, way t’ go!” exclaimed Matthew with admiration, as Harwood let out a yelp and crumpled onto the floor. “Jesus, little brother, that’s some lady you got yourself there.”
“Ow, ow, ow,” muttered Rosamond, cradling her injured hand. “Some lady, indeed. As satisfying as that felt, I never dreamed it could hurt so much.”
A Western Romance: Travis Yancey: Taking the High Road (Taking the High Road series Book 5) Page 9
