A Kiss in the Shadows

by Marie Patrick

  Stevie Rae’s bedroll was neatly laid out and she was already beneath the heavy quilts, her boots off to the side, the gun belt draped over them. She didn’t acknowledge his presence, and that was just as well, too.

  He glanced at her still figure as he added more logs to the flames, then grabbed his own bedroll and spread it out on the ground on the other side of the fire—as far away from her as possible. He placed his saddle at the top of the bedroll, then slipped between the blankets and rested his head against the worn leather. He stared at the stars over his head, willing them to calm him.

  Sleep took a long time coming, and he felt like he had just barely closed his eyes when a muffled sound startled him. His eyes flew open and his hand slowly reached for the pistol that was never far from his side. He studied the stars above, his ears attuned for the sound that had woken him from his fitful sleep. Had they been followed? Was one—or more—of the men from the outlaw stronghold waiting in the darkness to strike a deadly blow?

  A wolf howled in the distance, followed by a chorus of responses. Resolute shifted, his hooves shuffling against the carpet of dried pine needles beneath him. Beside him, Stevie Rae’s palomino huffed lightly and the mule that carried her supplies became a hulking shadow in the moonlight. None of the animals seemed concerned by the noise that had awoken him.

  Still, Brock strained to hear and identify what had startled him from sleep…until he heard it again.

  “Stevie Rae?” He turned his head in her direction and peered into the darkness beyond the flickering flames of the dying fire.

  “Hmm?”

  “Are you all right?”

  A hoarse one-word answer came from her direction. “Yes.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  She sniffed, and her voice seemed as if it was dragged from her throat. “Nothing.”

  Another strangled sound met his ears. She lied. She wasn’t all right.

  “Are you crying?”

  “No.”

  But she was crying, and his heart just couldn’t take it. She turned to face him. Her eyes glistened in the moonlight streaming through the trees, and he clearly saw the tracks tears had made on her cheeks.

  He shouldn’t, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. Moving his blankets aside, he beckoned. “Come here.”

  She didn’t move. Instead, she turned her head away from him. “No.”

  Stubborn!

  He made a snap decision, be it right or wrong. Despite his anger, for he was still angry with her, he rose from his bedroll, dragged the heavy blankets across the campsite, and settled in beside her. Stevie Rae needed no more encouragement than his arms wrapped around her. She turned and leaned against him, resting her head on his chest.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “About what?”

  “For being so…stupid. And stubborn. I know I could have gotten us killed. I just…” Her voice came out muffled, yet so tight, as she tried to stop the flow of tears. “I miss him so much.”

  “I know.”

  “I want Zeb Logan dead.”

  “I know that, too, and he will be. I promise you. Once we bring him in and he stands trial, we’ll both watch him swing.”

  She hiccupped against his chest. Brock tightened his embrace and casually stroked her hair, running the fine, silken strands through his fingers. It was softer than he could have imagined. She was softer than he imagined as she drew closer to him and nestled against him.

  The scent of honeysuckle assailed his nose. Damn, he’d just made the biggest mistake of his life. He hadn’t held a woman for anything other than sex—and even that was infrequent—in a long time. He’d forgotten what it felt like to have someone else’s warmth this close, to feel needed by someone. And she needed him. For all her bravado, Stevie Rae was still a woman mourning those she’d lost and he wondered if anyone had offered her comfort.

  After her breathing settled to normal and he was certain she no longer cried, Brock continued to hold her in his arms.

  He grinned, despite the realization that holding her was his second biggest mistake, not the first. The first was allowing her to come along with him.

  • • •

  Stevie Rae woke with a start, the heaviness of an arm wrapped around her stomach, holding her tight. Warmth traveled up her back where she nestled against Brock’s solid chest and taut stomach. Her face heated with embarrassment as she remembered how she came to be in his arms.

  Oh, what he must think of her!

  All the stubbornness that had carried her since the day her father was killed seemed to have disappeared in one fell swoop, leaving her a shaking, trembling mess. She hadn’t been able to stop the tears or tamp down the sadness filling her as she had on every other occasion.

  Carefully, so as not to awaken him, Stevie Rae slipped out of his arms.

  She studied him. In sleep, he looked younger, the fine lines radiating from his eyes not as deep. Dark hair tumbled across his brow now, and she fought the impulse to push the black locks from his forehead.

  Who was this man? One moment, he was threatening to “tan her hide”; the next, he held her in his strong arms and offered comfort despite his anger with her.

  She shook out her well-worn boots—one never knew if a snake would curl up inside the leather—and tugged them on her feet, then picked up her gun belt as she watched him.

  This devil had a soft side, one he tried to hide. She would have never known. Nor suspected. For the first time in far too long, Stevie Rae smiled and followed through on her earlier impulse. With trembling fingers, she smoothed his hair away from his forehead. He sighed in his sleep, and she pulled her hand away quickly.

  Rising to her feet, she moved about the camp, purpose in every step. She hunkered down beside the fire pit and stirred the embers, then tossed a few more logs on the glowing coals. Smoke rose to the sky as the dried wood popped and crackled before bursting into flame. By the time she came back from her bath—and she would be taking a bath, albeit in a cold stream and not a brass tub filled with hot, steaming water—she could make coffee and something for breakfast.

  From her saddlebags, she pulled soap, a towel, and clean clothes, then, checking once more to make sure Brock still slept, headed toward the stream, following the brook a little ways from the camp, where it narrowed and deepened. Morning sun shimmered on the water as she dropped her gun belt atop the towel, then sat on the bank and pulled off the boots she’d just put on. Thick wool socks came next and she wiggled her toes. She stood to remove her trail-stained trousers, sweat-stained shirt, and undergarments.

  The coolness of the mountain air skimmed her flesh as she stepped into the water. Goose bumps pebbled her skin in an instant, and she squelched the squeal rising in her throat as the cold liquid climbed up her calves then hit her thighs. For as long as she lived, she’d never get used to freezing baths, but at the moment, there was no help for it. If she wanted to be clean—and she so desperately did—she’d have to endure.

  Taking a deep breath and mentally preparing herself, Stevie Rae plunged into the water. The shock stole her breath and she bobbed to the surface, gasping and sputtering and flinging her wet hair away from her face.

  After a hurried wash, her hair tied in a ponytail, still damp and wetting the back of her shirt, gun belt once more securely fastened and riding low on her hips, Stevie sauntered into camp to find Brock awake. He hunkered down beside the fire, setting the coffeepot on a metal rack over the flames. Steam rose from the tin cup in his hand. She could smell the bitter brew, and despite knowing how bad it would taste, her mouth watered and her empty stomach growled.

  He glanced at her, the clear gray of his eyes visible beneath the brim of his hat. No smile graced his mouth. In fact, his lips were pressed together in a thin line. “I thought you’d finally gotten some sense and went home.”

  “Hardly.” She quirked an eyebrow at him but said nothing more as she set about making breakfast. He never listened. How many times had she told him she no longer h
ad a home? How many times did she have to say she wasn’t giving up until Zeb Logan was dead? Did he not understand? Wasn’t he just as driven to find Logan? And why did he seem angry this morning? Because he’d offered her comfort and she’d seen his softer side? Or was it something else? Was he as aware of her as she was of him?

  Stevie Rae shook herself from her musings as bacon sizzled in one skillet and biscuits browned in the other. From the corner of her eye, she watched him put his bedroll away then pull clean clothes out of his saddlebag and saunter away from camp. He returned shortly, his hair wet, clad in clean clothes, his gun belt clasped loosely around his hips, the holster tied down around his thigh. He sat beside the fire and, in silence as was his nature, ate several strips of bacon and three of the biscuits, then finished the bitter coffee. His eyes flitted her way several times and she thought he might speak but he never did.

  Brock MacDermott gave new meaning to the description of the strong, silent type.

  Stevie Rae released a sigh, flipped the last piece of crisp bacon into her mouth, and crunched it to nothing, though she barely tasted it. She caught him staring at her again and felt a flutter deep in her belly beneath the intensity of his glare. That hadn’t happened before. “What?”

  After a moment, he shook his head. “Anytime you’re ready.”

  Stevie Rae gave a slight nod, then made quick work of cleaning the skillets and putting them away.

  Smoke rose from the fire as he dumped the last of the coffee on the flames, then pushed dirt over the remaining hot coals and put the coffeepot away.

  There was something different in his eyes now as they lingered on her, something she couldn’t define, which made her tingle all the way to her toes. She returned his unflinching stare, then swallowed hard, trying to ignore the fluttering in her belly. “We need supplies. I used the last of the bacon for breakfast and we’re getting low on coffee.”

  He said nothing, just nodded as he climbed into Resolute’s saddle and clicked his tongue. Stevie Rae attached Whiskey Pete’s reins to Willow’s saddle, then hoisted herself onto Willow’s back and followed.

  Chapter 7

  Flames danced along the bark of the wood Brock laid carefully on the fire, casting shadows on the boulders surrounding the spot he’d chosen to make camp. Stevie needed to hear a voice, a human voice, and not just her own. If she had to endure another long day of riding, the only sounds the steady clip-clop of the horses’ hooves, the birds flitting from tree to tree, and the gentle breeze rustling through pine boughs, she’d jump out of her skin. Tomorrow, they’d make Taos to pick up supplies. Maybe then her desire for conversation would be satisfied.

  She glanced at Brock as she placed the just-cleaned iron skillet into the burlap sack tied to Whiskey Pete’s back. He spread out his bedroll, then removed his gun belt and boots, setting them within reach.

  He was so different from her father. Steven Buchanan could talk a blue streak, jumping from subject to subject. Lucas, too, could discourse on any topic, and there were many lively, spirited debates between both men when they used to sit in the rocking chairs on the porch of the little cabin.

  Brock MacDermott was the opposite. He didn’t speak unless it was to give direction or to berate her for something. He didn’t talk just to hear himself talk.

  “You would have liked my father.”

  She jumped, startled. The silent man spoke!

  Smoke curled around his head, rising up toward the starry sky. “He was a lawman. Stepped off the ship from Ireland, dragging my mother and us boys with him, and became a policeman in Boston before we knew what happened. Back in Ireland, he’d been a constable.”

  A long sigh escaped him before he stuck his pipe in his mouth and spoke around the stem. “We never stayed in one place very long. Mam, God rest her soul, said Shamus MacDermott had happy feet. We followed him from city to city—New York, Philadelphia, Cleveland, Chicago, St. Louis.”

  Brock crossed his legs at the ankles and made himself more comfortable. “After all that moving around, we finally settled in Paradise Falls, Colorado. Da was sheriff up until the day he died. My beautiful and courageous mam, Siobhan MacDermott, died shortly thereafter. Said she didn’t want to live without him. One day, her heart just stopped. You remind me a lot of my mother. She was a stubborn one, to be sure.”

  He grinned suddenly, and Stevie Rae’s world turned upside down. Oh, what that man’s smile did to her!

  Stevie Rae removed her gun belt and boots, then grabbed a brush from her saddlebag and settled on her own bedroll to tease the tangles from her hair as she listened, enjoying the deep timbre of his voice and the faint, musical Irish accent that somehow reappeared the more he spoke of his father. Her stomach full from the meal she’d prepared, weary from a long day spent in the saddle looking for a man who didn’t want to be found, she let his words drift over her like a gentle rain to ease her fatigue.

  “There were four of us boys. Kieran, the oldest and the wisest of us, who swore once he found himself a home, he’d never leave. Myself, the second born, and if I can believe the tales my mother told, possessing the same pair of happy feet as my da.” He glanced at her and his eyes seemed to soften in the glow of firelight. “I liked to ‘explore.’ A lot. Mam said I was the one who put every single gray hair on her head.” He puffed on his pipe, smoke wreathing his head. Stevie Rae inhaled the fragrant tobacco as she pulled the brush through her hair. Her gaze never left him, and a thrill coursed through her when he gifted her with another one of his rare smiles.

  “Teague, the prankster, and Eamon, the youngest and the most good-hearted of us all. We were rambunctious as hell. How my mother managed I’ll never know, but she did. She never raised her voice.” He chuckled. “She never had to. All it took was one look from her, and we knew there would be the devil to pay if we didn’t straighten up and behave.”

  “Where are they now? Your brothers, I mean?”

  He stiffened, the muscles in his body tightening, as if he’d said too much and regretted it. For bringing up memories better left buried? He made a production of filling his pipe with more tobacco, then lit it once more. As he inhaled and exhaled, he dug the silver flask from his pocket, unscrewed the cap, and took a deep drink of the whiskey it contained. His throat moved as he swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing until he’d drunk his fill, then he screwed the cap back on and tucked the flask back in his pocket.

  Stevie Rae took a long, slow breath and wondered if she’d asked the wrong question. “Brock?”

  He stared into the fire for a long time before he finally spoke. “Teague is sheriff in Paradise Falls, Colorado. He took over when my father died. He’ll never leave.” A long sigh escaped him and his voice grew hoarse, his words stilted. “I don’t have a clue where Eamon is. I haven’t seen him…in a very long time. He’s a U.S. Marshal. A good one.”

  “You all went into the law.”

  “Except Kieran. He stayed in Paradise Falls, too. He married a widow and became a rancher, raising fine horses as well as a beautiful family. He’s gone now. His family, too, except for little Desi Lyn. Teague is raising her.”

  “What happened? Is Kieran and his family gone because of Logan? Did he kill them?”

  He didn’t say anything, and for a while, Stevie Rae didn’t think he would speak at all. He removed the pipe from between his teeth and tapped the bowl against one of the rocks ringing the fire pit, spilling the ashes onto the glowing coals. He didn’t put it away, simply held it in his hands. He opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, and finally, when the words starting flowing, his voice was tight.

  “Teague had captured Jeff Logan, Zeb’s youngest brother, rustling Kieran’s horses and had him in his jail. He telegraphed me, saying he needed help… I was sheriff in Pueblo at the time, but I went to Paradise Falls as soon as I got the telegram. Jeff might have been in jail, but his brothers weren’t, and Teague thought he might need help just in case the Logan Gang decided to break Jeff out, which Jeff threatened mor
e than once.” He drew in a deep breath. By the light of the fire, she saw his jaw clench and a muscle jump in his cheek. The urge to go to him, to caress his face and ease some of his pain, nearly overwhelmed her, but she couldn’t do it. She doubted he would accept that from her although he had offered her the same.

  “You’ve heard of the James-Younger gang? And the Stockton Gang? Well, the Logan Gang was meaner, more daring. They were involved in everything from robbing trains, stagecoaches, and banks to rustling cattle and horses, leaving murder and mayhem in their wake.” He drew a ragged breath.

  “Teague telegraphed Eamon, too, which was a good thing because the Logan Gang came out in full force, just as Jeff had promised. There were nine of them that day, riding into Paradise Falls, shooting anything that moved. And things that didn’t. There was a standoff at the jail, bullets flying in every direction. By the time it was over, Jefferson Logan was still in jail and six of the Logan Gang were dead, but so were several of the townspeople. Only Zeb and his brother, Tell, managed to get away because they hadn’t gone to town. They came to Whispering Pines, my brother’s ranch. I was waiting for Eamon. We were going to get Kieran’s family to safety, but…it didn’t happen the way it was supposed to.”

  His voice grew more husky as he stared at the flames in the fire pit. “Not only did that bastard kill Kieran, Mary, and Matthew, my nephew, but he shot me several times as well. His brother, Tell, nearly killed Eamon.” He fiddled with the pipe in his hand, smoothing his fingers over the bowl. When he finally continued speaking, his voice was raw and full of guilt. “It was my fault. I was charged with keeping them safe and out of harm’s way. I was responsible and I failed.” He glanced up at her, and she saw the moisture shining in his eyes until he blinked. She wasn’t sure if they were tears or just her imagination. It didn’t matter. Her heart went out to him just the same, and if he couldn’t shed tears for his loss, she certainly could.