Christine Dorsey

by The Rebel's Kiss

  Heat from the sun warmed the top of her head and sweat followed the path between her shoulderblades, but there was no movement from inside. Not so much as a sound.

  For an insane moment Samantha considered peeking back inside. Perhaps he had collapsed. It wasn’t that long since he’d suffered from a raging fever, after all. The touch of her hand on the latch brought reality slamming back to her. He was all right, and even if he wasn’t, what did she care? All she wanted was him gone.

  After listening a few more moments, Samantha pocketed the gun and trudged off to join Will in the cornfield.

  ~ ~ ~

  Jake’s first impulse was to explode through the door after her. He rushed forward, grabbing the latch before better judgment intervened. She was likely on the other side waiting for just such a move. Revolver—his revolver—in hand.

  Not that dying terrified him. When he’d returned to the front, after burying his wife and son, he often found himself wondering why he was being spared. There was so much death around him, so much suffering he felt unable to prevent. Thoughts of dying hadn’t bothered him then.

  But he sure as hell didn’t like the idea of some green Kansas farm girl ending his life.

  Besides, even if she didn’t shoot him—again, what was he going to do? Shoot her? Hardly. Throttle her soundly? Tempting, but not something he seriously considered.

  Jake let his hand drop and shook his head. There wasn’t anything for him to do but get the hell out of here. Chalk this experience up to a continuation of the downward spiral of his life.

  ~ ~ ~

  Glancing up from the slab of beef sizzling in the skillet, Samantha watched Will enter the cabin. She’d assumed he’d been down by the creek cleaning up, but he was covered with as much Kansas dust and corn silk as when he’d disappeared some thirty minutes ago.

  “Smells good,” he said before stepping back through the open door and rinsing his hands and face in the tin wash pan. He obviously noticed Samantha’s expression.

  “It’ll be ready soon.” Samantha pursed her lips to ask where he’d been, then thought better of it. She liked to go off by herself sometimes—why shouldn’t her brother? She just hoped he had enough sense to stay close to the house and away from the barn.

  Samantha hadn’t told Will about her run-in with the rebel today. She hoped it wasn’t necessary. Surely Captain Morgan planned to leave, and what better time to head out than while she and Will were in the fields.

  But it took only one glance toward the paddock as she and Will traipsed over the prairie toward the cabin to see the rebel’s horse still there. Which meant the rebel was too.

  “You know, I’ve been thinking, Sam.”

  Samantha suppressed a smile. He sounded just like their father, except he hadn’t been old enough when Pa died to realize the resemblance. “What you been thinking about, Will?” She’d tell him about the rebel after supper.

  “I’ll bet Jake”—Will’s eyes skidded to his sister—“I mean Captain Morgan would enjoy taking his meal sitting at a real table.”

  For a long moment Samantha said nothing. She was too busy containing her anger. Will’s slip of the rebel’s given name hadn’t escaped her. She took a deep breath, concentrating on lifting the cornbread from the Dutch oven. “I thought I told you to stay away from that man, Will. Is that where you’ve been, in the barn?” Her eyes scanned him quickly.

  “Aw, Sam.”

  “Don’t ‘Aw, Sam’ me. I told you to stay clear of him, and you deliberately disobeyed me.” She dropped the platter of meat onto the table with more force than necessary.

  “I ain’t a little kid no more for you to be bossing around!”

  “Anymore, and don’t use ain’t.”

  “See what I mean?” Will stepped into the cabin, tossing the linen towel toward its hook. It missed and drifted to the puncheon floor. “You’re always telling me what to do, and how to do it.”

  The intensity in his light blue eyes made Samantha swallow her caustic reply. Instead she moved toward him. “Will, you don’t understand. He’s a dangerous man. More dangerous than you know, and I don’t want you—”

  “He ain’t dangerous and he ain’t one of Moore’s men.”

  “Will.” Samantha tried to keep her voice calm. “Whether he is or isn’t doesn’t matter now. Please use the sense God gave you and—”

  “That’s it, isn’t it? You think I’m just a dumb kid?”

  “No.” Samantha stepped forward, her hands reaching toward her brother. He looked dangerously close to tears, and Samantha felt a tightness in her throat looking at his boyish freckle-spattered face. “Will, I’d never think that. It’s just that—”

  “Every idea I have is dumb.”

  He sounded like a petulant child, and right now Samantha was in no mood to deal with one. Taking a deep breath, she tried to regain her calm. “Will, I don’t think we should discuss this now. We—”

  “What if I want to talk about it? What then, Sam? It’s always what you want.”

  “That’s the stupidest thing you ever said.” Nothing was as she wanted. Nothing. Did he think for one moment she wanted to work this farm from sunup to sundown to scrape out a meager existence for them? Did he think she wanted to sew dresses for the women in town when she couldn’t afford a decent one for herself? Did he think she wanted to deal with men like Landis Moore and Jacob Morgan?

  Samantha was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she didn’t notice Will’s expression. But she couldn’t miss the aggrieved tone of his voice. “That’s it, Sam. You think all my ideas are stupid.”

  “I do not.” Why had she used the word “stupid”?

  “Like us going to Texas.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Will. There’s nothing for us there.”

  “And letting Captain Morgan eat his meals with us.”

  “I don’t want to discuss that man.” Samantha turned back toward the stove. “Now sit down and eat your supper.” This conversation had gone far enough. Food was Will’s weakness. But it didn’t entice him this time.

  “I ain’t hungry,” he wailed, and Samantha was sure he deliberately emphasized the “ain’t.”

  “What do you mean ‘not hungry’? Where are you going?” But Will grabbed up his hat and kept going through the open door into the twilight.

  ~ ~ ~

  Jake stood in the shadow of the front porch as Will stormed out across the yard. He had come to the cabin for his guns. The boy had tried to get him to come up to the house for supper, insisting it was his sister’s idea.

  Jake knew better than that.

  But he didn’t really care what Miss Samantha Lowery wanted. He wanted the rest of his belongings, and then he intended to get the hell out of here.

  But right now he was standing on the porch looking into the lighted cabin through the open door—watching Samantha Lowery cry. Knowing at least some of the reason for her unhappiness was his fault. Not all, Jake assured himself. She’d done her part to make Will fly out the door, passing within ten feet of Jake and not even seeing him.

  Jake thought about going after the boy, but didn’t. Some time alone was probably what he needed right now. Probably what his sister needed too. But that wasn’t going to get Jake his revolvers.

  Mumbling a curse under his breath, Jake turned away. He’d come back for the guns after he saddled his horse. By then she’d have time to compose herself. Except the crying wasn’t letting up. Jake backed off the porch, but he could still hear her crying, soft, sad sounds that sailed to him over the chorus of frogs and hum of mosquitoes.

  He hesitated. The last thing he wanted was to get involved in this woman’s life. Before he could stop himself, he peered back through the open door. Now her arms lay on the table cradling her head. The light from the lamp turned her hair to gold and her small body trembled.

  “Miss Lowery.”

  Samantha’s head jerked up and she quickly rubbed her palms down her face, hoping new tears wouldn’t replace any she managed to
scrub away. “What do you want?” she asked, embarrassed by the hiccup in her voice. But then she had worse problems than embarrassment. What was the rebel doing up and in her house?

  Her eyes swerved to the revolver she’d put on the mantle when she started cooking.

  Jake noticed her glance toward the gun—his gun—then back at him. Her voice, despite the small sob, was angry. Why hadn’t he just gone back to the barn when he had the chance? Had he actually felt sorry for her? “You don’t have to get that gun. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Samantha froze. Since their meeting this morning, thoughts of his doing just that haunted her. He was unarmed, but now that he’d entered the cabin, she wasn’t sure she could beat him to the mantle. Her voice was lower this time. “What do you want?”

  “Not to cause any trouble. I told you I’m not one of Landis Moore’s men.”

  “And I told you, I don’t believe you.” Samantha brushed back hair that had fallen across her face and watched a scowl darken his handsome face. Lifting her chin, she pushed back the chair and stood. She wasn’t sure why she said that because she was beginning to doubt his involvement with Moore. But that didn’t change the fact that she’d shot him—and that he knew it.

  “Fine.” Jake strode farther into the twilight-shadowed room. “I don’t give a damn what you believe. Just give me my revolvers—and anything else you pilfered from my saddlebags—and I’ll be on my way.”

  “You can’t have the guns.”

  “And just why the hell not?”

  Why not indeed? They were his. “I... I don’t trust you.”

  Jake’s brow arched. “I find that rather amusing coming from a woman who shoots first and asks questions later.” Jake watched embarrassed color flood her face. “Are you planning to add thievery to your list of misdeeds?”

  “I’m no thief.”

  When he didn’t reply, Samantha examined him with narrowed eyes. He was watching her, his green eyes questioning... accusing. Would he take the guns and leave—or would he decide, once he had the upper hand, to mete out his own form of justice?

  Samantha could feel the blood coursing through her veins as she studied him. He looked fit enough, if a little on the thin side. He was dressed in the gray pants of a Confederate soldier. In deference to the heat, he’d left off the jacket, and wore only a white, loose-cut shirt, buttoned to the neck. His suspenders dangled down over his hips—a reminder of the wound beneath the shirt.

  The wound she’d inflicted.

  The wound he might... might want to avenge.

  But he wanted the guns and in the end she had no choice but to give them to him. He could certainly overpower her if she tried anything. And with Will off who knows where... Samantha swallowed. “I’ll get them for you.”

  “If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll do the getting.” Jake moved toward the mantle.

  “Well, you don’t have to act as if I intended to—to...”

  “Shoot me?” Jake questioned, sliding the revolver into the waistband of his pants.

  “Yes.” Samantha crossed her arms.

  “Pardon my foolish suspicion. I can’t imagine what caused it.” Jake took a quick look around the room. “Where’s the other one?”

  Samantha ignored his sarcastic remarks. “In the pie safe.”

  The further arching of his brow made Samantha turn away as he headed for the pierced tin cabinet. Maybe he would just leave. He already had one gun and hadn’t turned it on her.

  The clatter of tin plates hitting the floor caused her to look back in time to see the captain grab hold of the pie safe door.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You knock my dishes all over the floor and you say it’s nothing?” Samantha took a cautious step toward him.

  “That’s right.” Jake silently cursed the nausea and weakness that swept over him when he bent to search for the gun. “I said there’s nothing wrong and I—”

  “You’re white as a ghost.”

  Jake shifted then straightened, fighting the lightheadedness. He swallowed, refusing to grab hold of the pie safe again. This was the longest he’d been on his feet since being shot, and his legs felt like rubber.

  Add to that the fact that his stomach growled with hunger—no one had brought him a noon meal. The smell of good food drifted about him, making his mouth water, and reminding him graphically of times during this last year of the war when he’d gone without. But he wasn’t going to ask for food, and he wasn’t going to take any more from this woman. He turned toward the door. “I’ll be leaving in the morning.”

  “What about your other gun?”

  Jake scowled then bent over to look inside. The moment he did, the weakness hit him again like a punch in the gut.

  “Come over here.”

  Jake tried to shake off Samantha’s hand on his arm but he was too busy trying to stay upright. “I’m all right, I tell you. I just want to—”

  “Would you sit down before you fall?” Samantha shoved him toward the chair. “I dragged you once, and believe me, it’s not something I want to do again.”

  Jake grinned. He couldn’t help it. He felt weak, and embarrassed by the fact that he was close to fainting like some vapid female. But the vision that entered his mind of this little woman dragging his bulk anywhere was too amusing. He wondered if she could. She certainly didn’t look like she could begin to handle his weight. She was small, almost delicate, and pretty. Not beautiful, Jake reminded himself. Not like Lydia, but pretty just the same.

  “What?” Samantha blew a tangle of hair out of her eyes and planted her hands on her hips.

  “Did you really drag me into the barn?”

  “Will and I did.” His grin broadened and Samantha found she wasn’t impervious to its charm. He had a nice smile. But then she knew he would. And he’d shaved. The beard was gone. Now she could see the squared chin with just a hint of a cleft, and the firm jaw. Samantha shook off her silly musings. “Now tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Maybe I’m a little dizzy.”

  “Maybe more than a little.” Samantha glanced at Captain Morgan. His smile faded, partly because she didn’t return it, and partly because there really wasn’t anything to smile about. He looked a little better now that he was sitting. Some color had returned to his face.

  “Is your chest hurting you?” Samantha checked his shirt for blood, but saw none. Still, she didn’t believe him when he shook his head.

  “Well, it’s obvious you can’t leave,” Samantha heard herself say as she took down a mug to pour him some tea.

  By the expression on her face as she looked around at him, Jake could tell she was as surprised by her statement as he was. He took a deep breath. “I think it’s best if I do.”

  She couldn’t argue with that. Actually, she couldn’t imagine what possessed her to reverse her order that he leave. But she also couldn’t ignore that he could barely stand. And enemy though he was, she’d put a lot of energy into seeing him healed. Samantha didn’t want all her work to be for naught—at least that’s what she told herself. “Staying a few more days isn’t going to cause any more of a problem than you already have.”

  Where had this woman learned her manners? She made him feel about as welcome as a weasel in a hen house. But then that’s probably what she thought he was. Jake considered denying again that he had anything to do with the man who’d been here the other day, but decided it was useless. She believed what she wanted to believe. He wore a gray uniform; thus he was out to hurt her.

  Besides, he couldn’t keep his thoughts or his eyes off the plate heaped high with food on the table.

  Samantha caught his gaze lingering on the tin plate with its rapidly cooling helping of meat and cornbread.

  She didn’t want him taking meals in her house. But then she didn’t want him in her house period. Yet there was no denying he was already here. With a sigh, she pushed the plate toward him. “You might as well eat this. It doe
sn’t look like Will wants it.”

  Jake hesitated only a moment. He knew she didn’t really want him here, and before the war he’d never have accepted such an ungracious invitation. But the war changed a lot of things, including his willingness to skip meals. Jake thought about explaining that hunger was part of the reason for his weakness. But she probably didn’t care.

  If he had to guess, he’d bet she was thinking about her brother. She looked sad. He cut off a bite of beef, watching her a moment before he ate it. Was she going to cry again? Putting down his fork, he waited for her to meet his stare. “He’s just feeling his oats a little is all.”

  Her eyes held his for a moment then she glanced away. “I don’t want to talk about Will with you.”

  Damnit, she was going to cry. Jake took a swig of tepid tea. If he had any sense, he’d pick up the plate and make his way back to the barn. Eating at a table wasn’t worth this aggravation.

  He never could stand seeing a woman cry. Lydia had discovered that about him even before they were married. And had become very adept at using that knowledge to her advantage. Not too often, though, he added to himself because it seemed disloyal somehow to think that at all.

  But regardless of what his dead wife had done, this woman wasn’t trying to manipulate him with her tears. If anything, she was doing her damnedest to conceal how close she was to breaking down.

  “Listen,” he said, ignoring his own advice to leave. “Rebelling against authority is something all boys do at his age.”

  She shot him a look clearly meant to say mind your own business. But then her expression softened. “Did you?”

  Jake grinned. “Sure. Now I didn’t have an older sister to bedevil. With me it was my pa mostly.” The grin broadened. “I wasn’t much older than Will when I decided to run away to sea.”

  “Really?” Samantha studied him a moment through narrowed eyes. He didn’t strike her as a sailor. “Why?”

  “Why?” Jake hadn’t thought about why for a long time. “Partly, I guess, because it was something I knew my father wouldn’t approve of. Don’t get me wrong. We got along fine for the most part. I admired him greatly, and loved him. But”—he grinned again—“he did seem to have me on a short lead.