Song of My Heart

by Barbara Baldwin

  “I’m talking to you, woman.” Dillon reached over and pinched her arm.

  She jerked her arm away and jabbed Dillon in the cheek with her elbow. Max jumped up with his gun in his hand. She thought Dillon meant to backhand her, but the proprietor chose that moment to return from the back room and quickly got the situation under control.

  “If you want to fight, do it outside,” stated Mr. White. Abby had not had the opportunity to meet him, and had only heard Max mention his name. She was pleasantly surprised when she heard his cultured accent.

  “We may be a mining town, but we don’t have to act like we have no manners.” He nodded at her. “Ma’am.” He signaled for the dealer to leave and took the man’s place, assuring those at the table he meant to make them behave.

  Shortly after, Dillon began losing heavily. The more he lost, the more he drank. Unfortunately, he also became rougher with the girl at his side. At one point, he cursed and pushed her off his lap so abruptly that she landed on her backside on the floor. Several of the men at the table laughed.

  Apparently, Mr. White had seen enough. “Perhaps you should call it a night, sir. You can always come back another time.”

  “You can’t kick me out. Hell, I’ve got plenty of money and more where that came from.” He took a swig of whiskey before tossing his bet into the center of the table. “’Sides, I’ve got investments and merchandise worth thousands,” he slurred.

  Abby’s heart beat double time. She stole a quick glance at Max, who was watching Dillon intently. Dare she taunt him? Was he too far gone with drink to comprehend if she asked him outright?

  “That does put a different light on the matter, Mr. Dillon. You must be quite good at managing your money.”

  The man snorted, his whiskey-laden breath enough to make her feel faint. “More like other people are gullible and don’t keep very good books.”

  Dillon was far too drunk to be playing cards, for he held out his hand far enough for her to see he had nothing but a pair of threes. He bet on them anyway, requested three new cards and ended with nothing to improve his hand.

  She folded, having tried for a flush but getting four hearts and a spade. When the man across the table scooped in the pot, Dillon scraped back his chair and stumbled to his feet, mumbling under his breath.

  “Can’t win a friggin’ hand at this rat trap. Might as well head for Central City.” He turned blurry eyes on Abby. She shifted her gaze away, but not before she saw his leer. “You’ll get what’s coming to you,” he whispered close to her ear.

  “Star, get your skinny ass over here!” At his shout, the saloon girl hurried over. He wrapped an arm around her thin shoulders and staggered toward the stairs.

  Abby watched them go, feeling sorry for the girl who felt compelled to sell her body for a living. She wondered if she’d also sold her soul.

  “May I escort you back to your lodgings, Miss O’Brien?” Max was at her side, pulling back her chair. The other men at the table stood awkwardly when she rose to leave. Apparently there were still some manners left in the rough mining town.

  When they returned to the Pullman car, Abby insisted on taking a bath.

  “It’s three in the morning,” Max protested when she began filling the tub with water.

  “I don’t think I can sleep with the stench of liquor and smoke covering me, not to mention where Dillon grabbed me.” She wasn’t about to give in, and presented her back for him to unbutton her dress.

  As the thin sleeves slid down her shoulders, Max’s warm hands replaced them. She crossed her arms over her breasts to keep the dress in place. Max turned her toward him.

  Concern etched his brow as he searched her face. “Are you all right?”

  She felt much better by his side. She only wished they were together because of the feelings between them and not because they were searching for a killer. She stepped closer, wrapping her arms around his waist.

  “Abby.” He whispered her name, and she knew she would hear his voice in her dreams. He caressed her back, then all too quickly set her away from him.

  “Kiss me?”A kiss would take away the images of Dillon groping the girl named Star. But Max just shook his head, and gave her a gentle smile.

  “You have only ten minutes in that tub before I come in after you. If I leave you any longer, you’ll probably fall asleep and drown.” He touched her check softly with one finger then closed the door quietly behind him.

  * * *

  Max had the Pullman coupled the next morning, and before noon they were heading back through the mountains to Denver. Abby protested. He shook his head, refusing to relent.

  “Dillon said he was going to Central City,” he told her. “He as much as admitted having swindled a bookkeeper, and I would bet my reputation that he’s talking about Jerome Smith. Even if he isn’t, the man deserves to be put in prison. But we need to return to Denver first.”

  “Why can’t we go directly to Central City?”

  He didn’t miss her use of the word we.

  “Abby, you are not going there. The railroad hasn’t been built that far, and I’ll have to get there by horse. The trails aren’t even good enough for a buggy.”

  “That’s quite all right. I rode all the time in Boston. I’ll just need to purchase some different clothes.”

  Max frowned. He’d come to the conclusion that Abby felt responsible for his safety and thought he needed looking after. Even though he was the one who was supposed to safeguard her. Rather than make him angry that she thought him incompetent, it caused a warm feeling in the vicinity of his heart. He was becoming very used to that feeling.

  He knew it would be useless to disagree with her. Not only did he realize he would probably lose any argument he posed, but he didn’t want to leave Abby at his aunt’s. He hated the thought of being away from her for any length of time.

  Max was hooked but good. He frowned.

  * * *

  If Max thought giving Abby only two days to get ready would make her decide to stay in Denver, he had underestimated her. She was ready in one.

  She stood in the aisle at Joslin’s and sorted through piles of flannel shirts while she listened to him give his order to Mr. Penney. He laughed at something the other man said. A shiver of delight raced through her. She wished he would laugh more often. She knew his job was of a serious nature but that shouldn’t prohibit him from enjoying life.

  Her hand paused over a pile of canvas trousers stacked neatly next to the flannel shirts. She had only one split riding skirt and needed another set of clothes for the trip. Lifting a pair from the pile, she shook them and held them to her waist.

  She peeked around the shelf to where Max stood at the end of the aisle. Her gaze slid over the slim lines of his buttocks and his long legs, encased in dark trousers. A streak of heat went through her. Just looking at him caused her heart to do queer things, and when he touched her…

  She closed her eyes and allowed her imagination to run wild. What would it be like if he made love to her? She just knew there was something beyond where he’d already taken her, but he held steadfast to his control. Perhaps if she told him how she felt about him?

  “Are you ready?”

  She turned to him, hand over said heart. “Would you please stop doing that? You are going to give me a faint heart.”

  He grinned at her distraction. “But you’re as cute as a bug’s ear when you get all pink and flustered, Miss O’Brien,” He spoke low in O’Flagherty’s Irish lilt. The sweet cadence of his voice kept her heart racing.

  “You wouldn’t think so if you had to lift me from the floor where I dropped over in a dead faint again,” she returned, even though she had to try very hard to keep from smiling.

  He cocked a brow. “It’s acceptable to faint when you get shot. You’re pretty tough under the circumstances.”

  She was inordinately pleased with the compliment.

  “What’s that?” He pointed to the trousers she still clutched in her hands.
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  She held them up for his inspection. He frowned and opened his mouth, no doubt to protest, but she cut him off.

  “These will certainly be more comfortable than a corset and bustle while riding.”

  He snorted, and she glared at him before walking to the counter to pay Mr. Penney. He didn’t say another word until they were riding in the buggy back to Garland House.

  “You’re not wearing those, so I don’t see why you bought them.”

  “Why ever not? You do.”

  “I’m a man. Of course I wear trousers.”

  “Women should be able to dress as they please and in that which feels comfortable. Ladies should not let men dictate fashion. In fact, I must remember to write that into my rules for independent women.”

  Max guffawed. “You will never see that day.”

  “If I’m not mistaken, it has already occurred. Amelia Jenks Bloomer even appeared in public with a blousy pant which she wore under a short skirt.”

  “And who is this paragon of woman’s fashion?”

  She thought for a moment, trying to recall what she had read about Mrs. Bloomer. “She was a publisher and an advocate of women’s rights in the early 1850s.”

  Max groaned beside her. “Is there no end to your list of tyrannical women trying to usurp the rights of men?”

  “We are not usurping your rights.” She emphasized the plural to make sure Max understood that she included herself in the category of suffragists. “We simply want you to understand that those rights are not sovereign to men. Certain rights should be shared by both men and women.”

  She started in surprise when he pulled the horse to a halt in the middle of the thoroughfare. He reached over and caught the back of her neck with his big hand and pulled her to him. His mouth covered hers, and she never even thought to protest.

  The kiss was, like all Max’s kisses, hot and hard and totally possessive. She leaned into him, silently willing him to give her more.

  He broke the kiss, giving her a wolfish grin. Regaining the reins, he clucked the horse into motion.

  “You are absolutely right, Miss O’Brien. Some things are meant to be shared.”

  * * *

  “It would be easier to use flint and steel,” Abby commented.

  They had only been on the trail for one day and she was already driving him to distraction.

  “It would be easier if these damn matches would work.” Max swore when he broke yet another of the flimsy sticks trying to start a fire.

  “One of my rules for self-sufficient women is that they should be able to start a fire in the absence of the new phosphorus matches. They don’t tend to be reliable.”

  Max ground his teeth, trying to concentrate on the task at hand. It was impossible. Abby bent over to pick up a stone and the material of her riding skirt clung to her curves and outlined her hips. His mouth went dry and other body parts turned rock hard. There was something about having Abby alone in the wilderness. All his male instincts urged him to protect, to provide and even to propagate. It was though they were the only two people on earth and…

  His thoughts were interrupted when she hiked her skirt above her knee. Her short riding boots covered her ankles and cotton stockings outlined trim legs. His gaze followed the course of her hand above her knee, where a garter held her stocking in place. He was caught totally off guard when she slid a small dagger from a sheath tied beneath that garter. He didn’t move. He doubted he could if a mountain lion pounced on him at that very moment. Only his gaze tracked her progress.

  She knelt opposite him by the pile of kindling, stuffing a handful of dried pine needles and bark in between the sticks. She struck the back of the knife against the rock. Sparks flew, and within moments, a small flame started. She fed smaller sticks into the fire until the flame was big enough to catch a larger limb. Sparks shot into the night air.

  She rocked back on her fanny and crossed her legs beneath her.

  From the first day they’d met, Max thought he knew Abby. After all, she was a female and he had sisters and a stepmother. Yet she continued to surprise him. He sat beside her now and watched the fire. Red-yellow tongues of heat lapped at the dry timber.

  “Which of the fearsome four told you to carry around a knife?” he asked.

  “Every woman should be able to protect herself.”

  “Why not use your derringer? A knife is a very close weapon, and a man could overpower you.”

  “It is unfortunate, but usually by the time a woman realizes she’s in danger from a man, she’s already in very close proximity.”

  “From a man? Do all your feminists regard men as the only dangers to be avoided and dealt with in such ruthless manner?”

  She tilted her head, the fire glittering in her eyes. “Women use words against other women. Physical danger usually comes from a male, who would rather manhandle a woman than call her a name. You saw how Dillon treated that girl. It’s always easier to understand what a woman will do.”

  “Maybe for another woman,” he grumbled, “but it seems we poor mortal men have a devil of a time understanding.”

  She frowned at his words.

  “Did a man hurt you, Abby?” he asked quietly. She’d sounded like she spoke from experience.

  “Oh, heavens, no. Some of my best friends were men when I was a child.”

  “The same ones who taught you to play poker?” Max recalled their conversation about the sailors in her father’s shipyard. “I’m not sure I would call them friends.”

  She shrugged. “As a child, I didn’t see anything wrong with playing cards. Besides poker, they taught me how to tie knots and play mumblety-peg. Now that was great fun.”

  “What person in his right mind would teach you how to throw a knife?”

  “Didn’t you ever play mumblety-peg with Monty?”

  “Of course we did, but we were bo—” Her look stopped him. He held up his hands in mock surrender. “I give.”

  “When I think back on it now, I believe Captain Abram’s men were actually teaching me how to protect myself. They simply couched it as a game.” She handed him the knife she’d been casually holding. “He made the knife for me, lightweight and with a slim handle.”

  Max balanced the knife in his much larger hand. “But with a long enough blade to do damage.”

  “Thankfully, I’ve never had to use it. Except to start fires, of course.” She had the audacity to grin. Bunching up her skirt, she slid the slim blade back into the sheath.

  Even though she’d turned slightly away from him, Max knew where that knife was going and swallowed hard. He had to think of something to say to take his mind off her long, shapely legs.

  “What other secrets are you keeping that I should know about?”

  She turned back to him. “Does it bother you so much that women know things you don’t?”

  “Of course not.”

  She raised a brow in doubt.

  He thought for a minute. “I really mean it. I don’t think knowledge is the exclusive right of the male population, although a majority of my sex would probably disagree. I just don’t like surprises, that’s all.”

  She stared at him for the longest time, and he wondered what she thought. He was becoming quite used to talking openly and honestly with her, and he treasured that. He didn’t have to pretend, didn’t have to say he liked something when he hated it.

  She finally broke the silence. “That’s all the secrets I’m going to tell you until you explain how you managed to get us to this creek in the dark.”

  Feeling safer on impersonal ground, Max scooted closer and tilted her chin back. “See where the moon is?” He pointed along her line of sight. At her nod, he continued. “The moon always rises in the east, just like the sun. That helps you determine the basic directions. Travel at night is dangerous unless you know the terrain. Since we started from Denver later than I would have liked, we had to finish in the dark to make it this far.”

  “Oh.” Abby’s breath fanned his
cheek, and he began to forget all his self-imposed promises not to deal with her until they solved this mystery. It was hard not to pay attention to the curve of her breast in the moonlight, or the way the fire played off the highlights in her hair.

  “What if there is no moon?” Her question came to him on the breeze, and Max forced himself to think rational thoughts.

  “On moonless nights, you can use the stars to navigate. Do you see that group over there?”

  “You mean Ursa Major?”

  Max should have known she would know constellations. “Yes. If you move straight off the end of the bowl, it will point you to the North Star. You’ll never get lost if you can find that star.”

  “I am impressed, Mr. Grant. You are a remarkable person.”

  “I’ll bet your bloomer-wearing, women’s-rights suffragists don’t know that, do they?”

  Abby poked him in the ribs with her elbow, laughing. “Must you always have the last word? I’ve told you they aren’t mine. We simply share common goals.”

  Max loved the sound of her laugh. He would like to keep her happy and laughing for the rest of his days. For once, that line of thinking didn’t seem at all peculiar.

  When he heard her sigh, he turned to find her frowning up at the stars.

  “Problem?”

  “I was just realizing how woefully inadequate my education is.”

  “How can you say that? I’ve seen some of the books you read.”

  “No matter how well read I may be, people like you and Tess know about life.” She spoke the word as though it were a secret no one else understood.

  He thought of the underbelly side of life he often waded through to do his job. There were times when he envied Monty’s security and loving wife and family because they were the exact opposite of what he saw.

  “Everyone experiences life differently. I guess the best rule of thumb is to try to leave it a little better than you found it.”

  He wasn’t normally philosophical. He cleared his throat and turned to rummage through the grub sack. He set the frying pan in the coals and cut some fatback into it. He followed that with some potatoes and onion and stirred it all until it began to sizzle.