A Kiss in the Shadows

by Marie Patrick

  I’ll just close my eyes for a moment.

  A knock startled her, waking her from the unintentional nap. Stevie sat up and rubbed her eyes, then glanced at the clock ticking merrily on the bureau. She’d slept for less than five minutes. She looked toward the door, which she had forgotten to close, to see a young woman, a tray balanced in her hands. She gave a shy smile and a quick bob of her head. “Miss Buchanan?”

  “Yes?” Stevie rose to her feet.

  “My name is Maris. Mr. MacDermott asked that I bring this to you.” She entered the room and carefully placed the tray on a small round table, the silverware clinking together as she did so. Stevie stepped closer and inhaled the steam rising from the bowl of sopa de albondigas in the middle of the tray. Her mouth watered. Corn tortillas peeked out from a cloth napkin and her stomach growled—she knew they’d be warm and soft to the touch. And delicious. A small pot of coffee and a piece of chocolate cake completed the meal.

  “If you would like your clothes cleaned, I’ll take them when I pick up the tray later.”

  “Thank you. That would be lovely.” She fished one of the gold coins from her pocket and handed it to the girl.

  Maris clutched the coin in her hand, dropped a quick curtsey, and left the room, closing the door behind her.

  Stevie Rae’s stomach growled again, fighting with her desire to sleep longer than five minutes. She gave in to the hunger. A nap would have to wait. She made herself comfortable at the table, dipped her spoon into the soup, and tasted the concoction. A groan of pleasure burst from her. “Heaven.”

  She’d almost finished the soup and the tortillas when she heard a noise—a screeching, squealing cacophony that set her teeth on edge—and she stepped into the hallway to investigate. A young man, one who looked so much like Jackson, the stable boy, he could have been his twin, pulled on a rope. With each tug, another squeal rent the air as a dumbwaiter came into view. He removed two buckets from the dumbwaiter as another boy, who also looked remarkably like Jackson, came up the stairs, carefully carrying two more buckets. Water sloshed but didn’t spill from any of the pails as they padded down the hall.

  “Afternoon, ma’am.” The first boy nodded as he sailed past her and entered her room.

  “I didn’t order a bath.”

  “Mr. MacDermott did.” The boy spoke over his shoulder as he put the buckets down, moved aside the draperies hanging from a long table pushed against the wall, then pulled a small brass bath from its hiding place and began filling it. He nodded again as he walked past her, swinging the now empty buckets. “We’ll be back.”

  The other boy followed without a word, but a dimple appeared in his cheek as he grinned, bobbed his head, and disappeared down the hall. Both boys returned three more times, the water in the bathtub rising with each successive trip. Steam rose, lending a heated dampness to the room, and her anticipation grew.

  “Is there anything else you need, ma’am?”

  Stevie Rae gave them the last of the coins Brock had given her. “No, thank you.”

  The first boy gently tested the coin between his teeth and grinned before the money disappeared into his pocket. He gave a quick nod then gestured for his brother, nearly pushing him out the door before closing it behind them. Stevie quickly locked the door. She pulled a small paper-wrapped package from the saddlebag and peeled the paper back to reveal the last precious sliver of scented soap. She held it to her nose and inhaled before dropping it into the steaming water. A shiver of delight passed through her as she shed her dirty clothes and kicked them into a pile near the door, then sank into the depths of the bath.

  A warmth settled over her that had nothing to do with the heat enveloping her and everything to do with the kindness Brock had shown her.

  • • •

  Brock dismounted in front of the marshal’s office and flipped the reins around a post. He stepped onto the raised wooden sidewalk and stopped with his hand on the doorknob.

  A smile spread his lips beneath the mustache that had been growing since leaving Taos as a vivid image stole into his mind. He could see Stevie Rae undressing, removing one article of clothing at a time to reveal what he could only imagine was beneath, her muscles flexing as she twisted her long, honey blond hair into a knot. How he wanted to kiss that sweet spot at the back of her neck…and everywhere else.

  His body reacted, blood sizzling through his veins, heating him from the inside out as the vision expanded. She’d unwrap the scented soap, humming as she did so, and drop it into the water, a scene he’d never admit he’d accidentally witnessed on the trail before he turned away and left her to her privacy. The subtle fragrance of honeysuckle filled his nose, even though she was nowhere near him. It didn’t matter. He’d associate that sweet perfume with her for the rest of his life, the scent having settled into his heart over the past few weeks.

  “You coming in? Or you just going to stand there, grinning like an idiot?”

  Startled by the masculine voice coming from an open window, so at odds with the sultry voice he heard in his head, Brock turned the knob. The vision clouding his mind disappeared, but the scent of honeysuckle remained as he let himself into Marshal Dameron’s office.

  “Been a long time.” The marshal held out his hand as Brock closed the door.

  “Yes, it has, Alden.” Brock shook, then pulled him into a bear hug. “Good to see you.”

  “You as well.” They broke apart and Alden offered him a seat as he walked behind the desk to his own chair. “Coffee? Whiskey?”

  “Neither,” he said as he slumped into his chair and placed his hat on the corner of the desk, exhaustion and frustration overwhelming him for a moment. “I can’t stay long.”

  “I suspect I know what brings you to Santa Fe.”

  Brock smirked. It was no secret to anyone he chased Zeb Logan, nor did anyone doubt that eventually, he’d bring the man in. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen him.”

  “No, I haven’t, and truth be told, I have no desire to.” Alden pulled a bottle and two glasses from the cabinet behind him. He gestured with the bottle, offering one more time, but Brock just shook his head and watched as the man poured himself a drink. He took a long swallow and let out a sigh, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “He has no good reason to be here and if he was here, it would just be trouble. I know what he did in Paradise Falls, to your family, and I know what he did before—and after. Frankly, I don’t want that in my town.”

  “I don’t blame you, Alden.” He stood, unable to remain seated, and started to pace the confines of the marshal’s office from door to jail cell and back. “I wish I could figure out where he’s going and get there before he does. I’m tired of always being one step behind him.”

  “You won’t always be. One of these days, you’ll be—”

  “But can I wait? And can I find him before he murders someone else?” He stopped pacing and slumped into his chair once more. “You know, I think I will take that drink.”

  Without a word, Alden poured and slid the glass across the desk. Brock picked it up and cradled the glass in his hand before he took a breath and brought the whiskey to his lips, swallowing the contents in one gulp. The liquor warmed him right down to the pit of his stomach, where, instead of soothing him, it curdled. He put the empty glass on the desk. “You know Sonny MacLeish?”

  “Sure do. He and I have spent many an hour bending our elbows at the Rusted Spur and talking about the men we’ve put away.” He sobered, the grin disappearing as he held the glass with the tips of his fingers and twirled it back and forth, the whiskey catching the light coming in from the window and changing color from darkest honey to lightest amber. “And the ones we didn’t.” He grew quiet, then let out a long sigh and placed the glass on his desk. It wasn’t empty, but he poured in a little more whiskey, adding to the liquor already there. “Damn shame about him. He was a good lawman, the kind I’d want watching my back. Logan’s bullet nearly killed him, but that’s not what pisses him off the mos
t. It’s the fact that he had that bastard in his hands and lost him.”

  “I know how he feels.”

  The marshal nodded. “Yes, you do. There have only been a handful of men who had Logan that close. You were one of them.”

  The whiskey in his belly curdled a little more as memories better left forgotten flooded him. Kieran. Mary. Little Matthew. Once more, he saw their faces and the blood flowing from their mortal wounds, heard their startled cries.

  Mentally, he shook himself, forcing the visions in his mind to disappear. “Know where I can find Sonny?”

  “Sure. Small farm just north of town. He’s staying with his daughter and her family. I can send my deputy out there, give him a message that you’d like to see him.”

  Brock rose from his seat and reached across the desk, grasping the man’s hand in his own. “Thanks. I’m staying at the Old Square Hotel. Not sure where I’m headed next, but I’ll keep in touch.”

  Alden rose and grinned. “Ah, the famous telegrams. I always look forward to receiving them.” His grin grew and his eyes twinkled as he finally let go of Brock’s hand. “Come for dinner. Jennifer would love to see you.”

  “That would be nice. I’d love to see her as well. Tomorrow perhaps, or the next day, but not tonight. I have plans.”

  “Plans, huh?” One eyebrow rose over a dark brown eye. “Do they involve that pretty girl I saw you ride into town with?”

  Heat flushed his body, but Brock didn’t say a word as he grabbed his hat and strode out the door.

  “We’ll expect you tomorrow night at eight.” Alden spoke through the open window as Brock unwrapped Resolute’s reins from the post in front of the office and climbed into the saddle. “Bring the girl.”

  Brock gave a slight nod. “Eight o’clock,” he repeated, then lightly nudged Resolute’s sides and headed toward the telegrapher’s office a couple streets over.

  He caught the time as he dictated his last telegram and paid the man behind the counter. He had another stop to make before he was to meet Stevie Rae in the dining room of the hotel.

  An hour later, anticipation making him grin like the idiot Alden proclaimed him to be once more, he handed Resolute’s reins to Jackson in the stable, grabbed his saddlebags and paper-wrapped packages, and headed into the hotel.

  “Mr. MacDermott, wait, please.” Maris hailed him as soon as he walked through the lobby. “You have a message.”

  She reached into the key box behind her and retrieved an envelope, which she slid across the desk. Brock approached, placed his paper-wrapped packages on the smooth surface of the counter, and grabbed the envelope. He ripped it open and read the words written on stationery emblazoned with a fancy M at the top of the page. Sonny would meet him tomorrow afternoon at one at the farm. Directions were included on the note along with instructions to bring his appetite.

  “Thank you.” Brock smiled at the girl and started for the stairs, then stopped and turned around to face her once more. “Is there still a bathhouse on Saguaro Street?”

  “No, Mr. MacDermott, that closed a few weeks ago, but I can arrange to have bathwater brought to your room.” She grinned, showing a full complement of pearly white teeth. “Or you can use the new rain shower we installed. It’s at the end of the hall on the second floor, just past room number eight. Everything you need—towels and such—are there.”

  Brock pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. He had just enough time to make himself presentable before he met Stevie Rae in the dining room. “Thank you. I think I’ll try that.” He slung his saddlebags over his shoulder, grabbed his packages, and trudged up the stairs to his room. He stopped at his door, key in hand, and looked farther down the hall. The door to Stevie’s room was closed and no sounds came from within. He moved a little closer and pressed his ear to the portal. He still heard nothing—no splashing in the bathtub—but then, even the most devout bather would not stay in a bath that was no longer hot, and he had been gone for more than two hours.

  Did she sleep now, resting before they met for dinner? He could picture her burrowed beneath the quilt with nothing showing except her wealth of honey blond hair. Better yet, he saw her stretched out atop the quilt on the bed, her arm resting across her face, covering her eyes, her long legs crossed at the ankles, dressed in nothing but a chemise, drawers, and stockings. He grinned, liking the image in his mind, but resisted the urge to knock. She needed this respite. Though she never said a word, he knew how exhausted she’d been since Española and the nightmare of what they’d seen there. He would be able to tell her soon enough about visiting Sonny MacLeish.

  He stepped away from the door, his footsteps quiet on the carpet, and sauntered down the hallway, past room number eight, and found another door. No number adorned this portal. Instead, a wooden plaque hung from a nail in the wood with the simple words “Rain Shower” stenciled on it. A smile crossed his lips as he swung the door open.

  Chapter 14

  Brock had loved the rain shower, the hot water flowing over him from above, washing away the dirt as well as some of his exhaustion. He now sat in the dining room on the other side of the hotel, revitalized, clean shaven, except for the mustache, which he decided made him look distinguished, and dressed in the new suit he’d bought himself after leaving the telegrapher’s office.

  He checked his pocket watch for the fourth time and noted that the clock hand had only moved a fraction. It was still not quite seven o’clock. He had been early, eager to be in Stevie Rae’s company, which surprised him, yet didn’t. He glanced around the dining room, noting the number of finely dressed people occupying the tables. The wait staff, male and female alike, dressed in black and white, took orders or delivered meals. A violinist stood on a dais in the corner of the room near the stairs, his bow gliding over the strings of his violin to produce the most amazing sound Brock had ever heard. Though the music was soothing, he was becoming more and more anxious.

  Where is she?

  He glanced at his menu in an effort to resist checking his watch one more time when he became aware something in the atmosphere had changed. The din in the dining room—the clatter of cutlery, the hum of conversation, the sweet strains of violin music—died, leaving a stunned silence. Brock looked up from his menu, his gaze darting this way and that, taking in the other diners and the wait staff and realized they all, every single one of them, stared at the staircase. His gaze drifted that way, too, and in an instant, he knew why every last soul in the dining room had stopped to stare, why the room had silenced. His breath seized in his lungs.

  A vision of loveliness glided down the rose-carpeted stairs, her white gloved hand resting on the polished mahogany banister. Honey blond curls bounced as she took each step. The blue velvet of her gown reflected in her eyes and somehow, made them sparkle more than usual.

  Those eyes widened as they came to rest on him, and her smile—the one he’d pay his last dollar to see—spread her full, utterly kissable lips. A becoming blush rose to color her cheeks.

  After weeks of riding side by side, never once seeing her without her reliable trousers or the split skirt she’d purchased in Taos, this was a side to Stevie Rae she’d kept hidden. She was beautiful then, but now? She was quite possibly the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. And the other diners seemed to think so as well.

  Caught in a spell he didn’t know he could succumb to, Brock dropped the menu on the table and rose from his seat.

  He opened his mouth, several times, but the words were stuck in his throat as she drew closer to him, weaving between the other tables like an angel floating between clouds. If he had been a poet, he would have penned sonnets to the loveliness she portrayed. An artist? He would have painted her as she looked at this moment. A musician and he would have written melodies that could never compare to the vision he saw before him.

  “Good evening, Brock.”

  Brock opened his mouth one more time and uttered, “You clean up real nice.”

  Tears sprang to he
r eyes in an instant, making them luminous, and her smile faded as her tall, lithe form stiffened. The blush staining her cheeks deepened with embarrassment.

  He wanted to shoot himself. What woman wanted to hear that? Apparently, not Stevie Rae. For all her dogged determination, for all her bravery and uncomplaining silence as they slept in bedrolls on the ground and ate tinned beans while they searched for Zeb Logan, underneath it all, she wanted to hear what every other young woman wanted to hear—that her beauty was beyond compare and took his breath away.

  So what, in God’s name, possessed him to say that?

  Her chin trembled and her lips tightened before she drew in a deep breath, then turned and ran back up the stairs, her back ramrod stiff, her head held high.

  Brock watched her go, as did every other diner in the dining room. As soon as she reached the top of the stairs, all eyes turned to him, the reproach unmistakable.

  “You’d better go after her, son,” the man sitting at the table behind him said. When Brock turned his head, he met dark green eyes full of censure and something else. Sympathy, perhaps. “If you don’t, I will.”

  He nodded once to the gentleman, grabbed his hat, and made his way between the tables to the stairs. He didn’t pause as he took the risers two at a time—to the applause of everyone in the room.

  Her door was closed, but not locked. He swung it open and paused in the doorway, unable to take another step. Stevie Rae sat at the dressing table, her hair already unpinned and flowing over her shoulders and down her back, though the curls still remained. She pulled a brush through the silken strands with angry, scalp-scratching jerks. Her gaze caught his in the mirror’s reflection.