by Jill Gregory
His voice broke off.
“Reminded you of what?”
Abruptly he stood up, went back to the coffeepot, and began to pour himself a cup. “Nothing,” he said in a flat voice. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Tell me.” Emily watched him, watched him wrestle in his own mind, trying to decide if he wanted to explain. At last he took a swig of coffee and then spoke in that same flat voice.
“Joey reminded me of my own brother, Nick. The way he looked after our parents were killed.”
Tension shot through her at his words. And at the rigid clench of his jaw, the flash of pain in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered into the silence that followed. “What… happened?”
He swung back toward her, straddled the chair once more, and in the firelight, his face looked hard again, as if nothing penetrated that iron calm. “Their stagecoach was held up. Nick was with them.” He shook his head, remembering, and Emily sat perfectly still on the cot, watching that sharp, swarthy face as if she too could see the ghosts walking through his mind.
“My older brother, Wade, and I were staying with neighbors while our parents went to Kansas—they wanted to visit my mother’s aunt, who was dying. Nick was only seven—the baby of the family—so they took him along. I guess my mother didn’t feel right leaving him behind.” His big knuckles whitened on the tin cup, then, with an effort, she saw him deliberately relax. “But they never got there. The stage was stopped.”
Emily sat very still, no longer hearing the drumming of the rain, only hearing his voice, so calm, dispassionate, almost detached.
“The outlaws who held them up killed all the passengers—except Nick. Every man, every woman—and the driver. My father tried to fight, tried to save my mother, and she in turn pushed Nick behind her, trying to shield him with her own body. Pleading for them to spare him with her last breath. That’s what Nick told us later. For some reason, maybe because she tried so hard to protect him, the bastards didn’t shoot Nick. They let him live.”
Clint’s eyes were slits of deadly blue ice. A shudder ran through Emily as she closed her own eyes a moment, thinking of that small boy, the lone survivor of such a massacre.
“He was the only one,” Clint said softly, and she marveled at the steadiness of his tone. “The only one to get out alive. And he came back to us, to me and Wade. When he did,” he said, drawing in a deep harsh breath, “he looked a lot the way Joey did today. The way no kid should ever have to look.”
Emily swallowed. Words couldn’t express the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. “How … horrible. I’m sorry.” How silly and feeble those words sounded.
Clint looked at her, his expression unreadable. “It was a long time ago,” he muttered.
“But the pain never really goes away.” Emily’s tone was soft. She was thinking of her own parents, who’d died of the fever, thinking how much she missed them still. For a moment, gazing into Clint’s eyes, she thought she felt a flash of understanding between them.
“I hope for Joey it will go away someday,” he said, his jaw clenching.
Emily was still picturing him as a young boy who’d lost his parents in such a brutal way. “How … how old were you when all this happened?” she asked.
“Nine. Wade was eleven.” Clint shook his head. “Suddenly we were orphans. All we knew was that no matter what it took, we wanted to stay together. Things looked pretty bleak on that front—until a man by the name of Reese Summers stepped in.”
“Who was he?”
“Reese was my father’s best friend. The two of them went way back. After the holdup, Reese came and got us and brought us back to his ranch in Wyoming. A place called Cloud Ranch.”
“I’ve heard of it,” Emily exclaimed. Cloud Ranch—one of the largest ranches in all of the West. “That’s where you grew up?” she asked, a little awed.
“Yep. It’s a great ranch now—Reese built it up from a tiny cabin not much bigger than this one. It was his dream, his life. And it became our home. And he became like a father to all of us.”
Suddenly he drained the last of the coffee and swung off the chair. He left the cup on the small table near the fire and came to stand before Emily. “It took time though. It wasn’t easy, especially for Nick. That’s why I understand about Joey and his fears. After Nick saw our parents and everyone else on that stagecoach killed, he didn’t speak for a long time. Not one word. But thanks to Reese Summers, he got over it, and the fear—and the silence—eventually went away.”
“Where’s Nick now?”
“Who knows?” Suddenly the harshness lifted from his face and he laughed. “He moves around a lot, my baby brother does. He stays in touch, though. He’s a gun-fighter.”
“A gunfighter!”
“Guess it’s his way of getting back at the men who killed our parents,” Clint said. “The bastards were never found, never identified. Never punished. They’re the kind of vermin my brother hunts down.” His face was grim again and Emily shivered, suddenly knowing that if Clint Barclay himself ever found those men, he’d make them sorry they’d ever been born.
“And this is your way of getting back at them,” she said slowly, looking up at him. Her gaze flicked to the badge glinting on his vest. “It’s the reason you’re a lawman.”
There was a pause. The only sound was the rain drumming upon the roof and the wicked hiss of the wind. “Guess you could say that,” Clint said at length. “All I know is it’s something I need to do.”
A wave of compassion swept through her and at that moment it was hard to hate him for being who he was, what he was. Once Clint Barclay had been a young boy like Joey, scared and alone, torn from his parents. He had become a strong man, determined to fight the kind of brutality that had nearly destroyed his family.
“And Wade?” she asked, to change the subject, a bit unnerved by her own reflections.
“Wade took over Cloud Ranch after Reese passed on recently. Actually, a part of the ranch was left to all three of us, but Wade has the biggest share. He’s the foreman and he has the same love for the place and for Silver Valley that Reese had.” Again his face softened, just a trace. “He got hitched recently. It was his wedding I was coming back from that first night I met you,” he added.
“Oh.” Emily’s thoughts went back to that night, to how frightened she’d been when Clint Barclay had first grabbed her in the darkness. Now, despite his imposing figure, the fact that he was so tall and so muscular, with that sharply handsome face and those eyes that could cut your heart in two, she somehow couldn’t imagine being frightened of him. Not in the way she had been at first. Those gentle kisses had seen to that…
She mustn’t think about those kisses. To stop herself, she said abruptly, “Well, now that your brother has married, I guess you’re planning to do the same thing.”
His eyes narrowed. “What would make you say a fool thing like that?”
It was Emily’s turn to laugh. “Nearly every woman of marriageable age in this town has asked me to sew her a new dress in time for the box lunch social. From what I’ve heard, they’ve all set their cap for you. Though I can’t imagine why,” she couldn’t help adding tartly.
Instead of rising to the bait, Clint just sighed. “Neither can I.”
“Well, you must have done something to make them all start chasing you like bees after honey.”
He looked startled. “Hell, no. Why would I? I’ve got no intentions of settling down, not for a long time. If ever.”
“Oh, not the marrying type, are you?” Emily inquired coolly.
“Nope, and I never pretended to be. But then most men aren’t.”
“Your brother just got married,” she reminded him.
“Yeah, that was a surprise. But Wade got lucky. He met a perfect woman. Someone perfect for him,” he added with a grin. “I wouldn’t trade in my freedom, even for a girl as gorgeous as Caitlin Summers—I mean Caitlin Barclay now.”
“What is she like?” Emil
y couldn’t resist asking. There was no mistaking the admiration in his face when he spoke of Caitlin Barclay. An odd prick of jealousy assailed her. What was wrong with her?
“Caitlin’s a looker. Blonde. Elegant. She was raised in Philadelphia—the type at home in the finest drawing rooms—but she’s taken to Cloud Ranch like no greenhorn you ever saw. For all of her fancy manners, she’s feisty as hell. A little bit like you, in that respect,” he added suddenly, his gaze settling on her.
“Well, if you’re looking for someone like her to marry, I don’t think you’re going to find her in Lonesome. At least, I haven’t met anyone who sounds so … perfect.”
She spoke offhandedly but heard the vinegar in her voice too late. Clint shot her a quizzical look. “I didn’t say she was perfect,” he remarked. “I said she was perfect for Wade.”
“And what kind of girl would be perfect for you, Sheriff Barclay?” The words flew out of her mouth before she even realized what she’d said. She saw his eyes narrow on her and darken to the color of a stormy sea.
He took a step toward her. Emily tensed.
Another step. She had to force herself to remain perfectly still upon the cot, to resist the temptation to edge away from him. Her heart was beating so fast she could barely catch her breath.
Clint Barclay across the room was distraction enough—but up close, less than two feet away, well, she thought weakly as he paused directly before her, that was too close for comfort.
He loomed over her, seeming to fill the tiny low-ceilinged shack with his height and broad shoulders. She gulped as she saw that the blue chambray shirt that encased his shoulders was open enough at the neck to show the dark curling hair on his chest. And what an impressive chest it was: taut, muscular, powerful—like all the rest of him, she thought on a gulp.
She tried to tell herself that he was only a man, like any other. But something about him didn’t seem like any other man. She’d never felt this drawn to any other man or been so fascinated by the way dark hair could tumble over a brow or by a deep, cool, steady voice. As he watched her intently in the flickering firelight and seemed to be considering his next words, she felt her breath get all caught up in her throat. Those searing eyes pierced her face as the firelight danced crazily—and so did her heart.
IRST OFF, I RECKON THERE’S NO GIRL who’s perfect for me,” Clint Barclay said flatly. He made it sound like a warning, Emily thought, a chill seeping into her chest. “I told you—I’m not the marrying type.”
“So you did,” Emily acknowledged with a cool little nod.
“I’m not even the romantic type,” he added his lip curling, “and sure as hell not the settle-down-by-a-fire-and-show-me-the-knit-booties type.”
His powerful shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Matter of fact, until I took this job in Lonesome I was always on the move—nearly as much as Nick. Neither one of us has ever stayed put in one town for long.”
“So … why Lonesome?” Emily asked sliding back just far enough on the cot so that her back was against the wall. The more distance between them, the better, that’s what she figured.
In the dancing orange flames of the fire, he shrugged again. His bronzed face looked hard and unreadable. And mesmerizing as hell.
“By the time I cleaned out the Duggan gang, I’d grown to like Lonesome and a lot of the folks here. They asked me to stay—offered me a nice pile of money to continue protecting the town, so I did.”
He stepped back, folded his tall frame back down on the chair again, his long legs stretched out before him, and eyed her with cool amusement. “But as for marrying someone, getting stuck in one place forever… hell, no. That’s not for me. I’ll stay in Lonesome for the time being, as long as I’m needed and folks still want me … but that’s the most kind of a promise I’m prepared to make.”
Why is he telling me all this? Emily wondered. He was going to great pains to make his position on marriage, on promises and commitments, unmistakably clear …
She noticed then that he was studying her thoughtfully. “But I reckon that doesn’t really answer your question, does it? The truth is, no one girl would be perfect for me … and sure as hell not one who set her cap for me and chased me around like a dog trying to herd a stray calf.” He gave a snort of laughter, then his gaze rested on her and his eyes gleamed.
He gave her a long, slow look, taking in her still-damp tumbling curls, the blanket draped around her narrow shoulders, the sculptured beauty of her face—studying her with such thoroughness that Emily blushed.
“But if I wanted to find the perfect woman—which I don’t—I reckon she’d have dark hair, Miss Spoon. Dark like the night.”
“Oh … w-would she?”
He grinned, a heartrending grin, and suddenly came off the chair in a smooth easy movement that reminded her of a wildcat coiling to spring. To her consternation, he settled himself beside her on the cot and reached out toward her. His fingers closed over a handful of those loosely falling curls. “Her hair would be thick and heavy, and soft like velvet. The kind of hair a man likes to touch and spread out on the pillow, and breathe in the scent of it.”
He drew his hand slowly, and ever so gently, through the lush strands of her hair. Emily wanted to tell him to stop, but her voice wasn’t working properly and she couldn’t say a word.
“And,” Clint continued, his grin deepening as his gaze flickered over her expressive face, “I’m finding that I’m partial to a woman with gray eyes. They’re unusual. Sort of mysterious. Especially the ones that look bright as silver one minute and soft as a sunrise mist the next.”
He moved almost imperceptibly closer to her, locking his gaze on hers. Emily felt as if she were drowning in the hot blue depths of his glance.
“You … you don’t say,” she managed to murmur in an even tone.
“Yep. And if she happens to be pretty good at shooting snakes and sewing the prettiest dresses this side of the Rockies… now that kind of a girl would be just about irresistible.”
He leaned toward her, his hand closing lightly around her nape and drawing her toward him.
“Is that all?” Emily’s heart was racing, but she had a nonchalant expression pinned to her face.
“Well, if her kisses tasted sweeter than elderberry wine and she had a temper hotter than fire, then—”
“And if she recognizes sweet talk when she hears it and knows it’s all chicken poop and hogwash?”
Emily’s cold tone and contemptuous words stopped him flat, his mouth hovering only a scant inch from hers. She saw his gaze narrow as she jerked back away from him and smacked both of her hands onto his chest to hold him off. Meeting his eyes, her own eyes glittered like polished bullets.
“How much of a fool do you think I am?”
To her surprise, Clint chuckled. “You’re obviously nobody’s fool, Emily—”
“Miss Spoon to you.”
“Miss Spoon,” he said softly, laughter in his eyes. “The fact is, I just thought we might want to pass the time till the storm ends in as pleasant a manner as possible. Like we did last night—on the porch.” He shot her another thunderbolt of a smile and leaned forward, but Emily swallowed hard, then shoved him back.
“When hell freezes,” she retorted with an effort.
“Now, what kind of a way is that to talk?” He feigned a hurt expression. “After I risked my neck in the storm to come out here and rescue you—”
“That’s your job, remember. To help people,” she fired back, her eyes flashing. “Now get away from me before I…I…”
“Yes? Before you what?”
Before I fall into your arms like an addlepated fool, she thought desperately.
“Before I scream!”
“Scream away. We’re not exactly in the center of town,” he pointed out with a grin. “Who’s going to hear?
“Damn you!” she exclaimed, scooting to the far end of the cot.
“You sure that’s what you want?” Clint asked.
She wasn
’t at all sure, but suddenly she understood exactly what he wanted. Now she knew what all that talk about never settling down had meant before. This so-called honorable lawman was making sure she didn’t get the wrong idea—that she didn’t mistake his intentions.
Oh, he wouldn’t mind kissing her, touching her, even making love to her here in this ramshackle old shack, just so long as she understood it didn’t mean anything. Just so long as she didn’t expect anything of him, like that he might start to court her, or think about marrying her or fall in love with her.
Fury and sharp bitter pain plunged like a knife through her heart.
What did you expect, she thought through the ache in her chest. Roses and champagne, wedding cake and a golden ring?
Not for Jake Spoon’s niece… not for a girl who’d never set foot in a fancy drawing room like Caitlin Barclay must have known, except to dust it and sweep it…
“It’s a long ways till sunrise,” Clint continued softly, “and so I thought—”
“You thought you’d amuse yourself by flirting with me and … and kissing me.” Emily glared at him. “Because I’m the only woman within fifty miles who isn’t trying to drag you down the aisle to the altar—and never would!”
He had the nerve to grin again. God help her.
“You’re right,” he said calmly. “I know for a fact you’d rather jump off a cliff than marry a sheriff. So I’m safe with you. And you’re safe with me. Look at it this way, Emily, no respectable lawman would ever marry into an outlaw family. So …”
“So I asked you to move away from me.”
“And I’m asking you—what’s the harm in us getting to know each other a little better?” Clint eyed her accusingly. “You started it the other night, remember? Maybe sharing one more kiss—possibly two—will settle this… hell, this unfinished business… between us.” His voice grew rough. “You feel it too, don’t you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
But it was a lie. She did feel something—a tug, a pull, an electricity. She’d felt it from the start, but so much more so when his lips had claimed hers.
