Song of My Heart

by Barbara Baldwin

  She handed over the deck. A couple of the men had disappeared from the table after only a few hands. It seemed the thrill of watching a woman meet her downfall had dimmed, especially when the woman in question had no intention of complying.

  She chanced a glance at Max. He played the part of the insolent southern gentleman to perfection, acting as though he had all the time in the world. He sat slouched in the chair, his head turned more toward her and away from Dillon. His fingers were laced casually across his flat stomach and his long legs were stretched out in front of him. Even though he looked slightly bored with the proceedings, Abby knew he didn’t miss a single movement from across the table.

  From the first hand Dillon dealt, Abby began losing. She studied the way he dealt and the precise movements of his hands. She instinctively knew he cheated, but she never saw him do it. She concentrated twice as hard, tried to count cards and keep track of numbers, but her stack of money slowly dwindled.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Max stop one of the saloon girls who walked by. She dipped her head and he whispered something in her ear that made her laugh. Abby took her eyes off the cards long enough to see him slip some money down the front of her dress. He then swatted her playfully on the fanny and she waltzed off.

  Of all the nerve. Here she sat with her virtue literally dependent on the turn of a card and he was cavorting with a saloon girl who no doubt offered her body to…

  Abby didn’t finish the thought. Dillon turned over another flush, and it beat her two pair, though they were aces and tens. She looked at the small stack of gold pieces in front of her. If Max bailed her out again, it would give away the game.

  A commotion on the other side of the saloon interrupted Dillon as he raked in his winnings. His face turned red with anger.

  “Damn bitch,” he muttered, scraping back his chair.

  Abby turned. The girl Max had flirted with was having an argument with Star. Abby leaned away from the table for a better look but Max grabbed her upper arm and hauled her to her feet.

  “You’re getting the hell out of here, now.” He propelled her toward the door.

  Max began cursing the minute they exited the Golden Rose and didn’t quit until they entered the Teller House lobby. Most of what he muttered was too low for Abby to understand, but from his tone, she knew he was livid. She practically ran to keep up with his long stride, gasping for breath by the time they finally stopped in front of his door.

  Without a word, and still holding her arm, Max fitted the key into the lock and shoved open the door. By the time he thrust her into the room and turned to lock the door, Abby had had enough.

  She heaved a pillow with all her might.

  “You don’t think I can take care of myself?”

  Max looked stunned when the pillow slid from his face, but the anger was quickly back. “What if I hadn’t been there?” he shouted. “What if you had lost?”

  She frowned. “I did lose.”

  “Exactly!” He stormed past her to stand by the side of one window. She watched him peer out.

  “I don’t understand why you’re so mad. We can’t get him to turn his hand if you keep rescuing me every time he tries something.”

  “He was cheating. In another hand he would have taken the rest of your money and then what? There’s not a man in that saloon who would have stopped Dillon from hauling your sweet little behind upstairs to collect on his bet.”

  “Maybe if he had, I would have learned some important piece of information.”

  “Jesus, you can’t be that naive.” He slid a hand over his face.

  “I was teasing, Max.” She’d known all along what Dillon meant by his bet, but thought to relieve the tension with her jest. Apparently Max didn’t have any good humor left tonight.

  He turned to her. His hands hung loosely at his sides, his cravat askew, his vest unbuttoned. His eyes were darker than a summer storm, his nostrils flared. The look on his face arrested Abby’s next comment. In a single instant as he sucked in a breath and then blew it out, his expression changed from fear to longing to…passion?

  She struggled to turn the conversation away from the emotions that churned just below the surface. “Tell me, didn’t you have to learn patience to do your job?”

  In the lilting brogue of O’Flagherty, which was in complete contradiction to his blond portrayal of Markham, Max said, “Abigail Faith O’Brien, you would try the patience of a saint.”

  A sinking sensation gripped her stomach. He had so many facets—the playful teasing of the Irishman, the seductive charm of the southern rogue, the fierce protectiveness of the investigator—all of which were really part of who he was. When he advanced and she backed toward the door, she came to a startling awareness. No matter the disguise, she was in love with Maxwell Grant.

  * * *

  Early the next morning, rain rattled the window panes and Max moved to stand near the light. He’d let Abby escape his clutches last night only because he’d been on the verge of taking her in anger, or fear. He wasn’t sure which. In her case, he thought it was a little of both. She made him crazy with lust, scared him with her recklessness and besotted him with her smiles.

  He would have saddled up and taken her back to Denver today if not for the onslaught of the spring storm. It would be treacherous to travel through the mountains now. He was stuck with her for several more days.

  “Damn it, Monty, this is entirely your fault.” Max cursed his absent brother. “As soon I know you’re all right, I’m going to trounce you good.”

  His tirade was interrupted by a knock on the door, barely heard above the clap of thunder. When he opened the door, Abby stood wide-eyed and shivering in the dim hallway. He pulled her into the room.

  “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a storm?” He put another log into the small stove that stood in the corner of the room. One of the advantages of having the best room in the hotel, he supposed.

  “Not exactly,” she responded, but her actions contradicted her words. She jumped when thunder rumbled again, shaking the ground beneath the hotel.

  Abby moved close, stretching her hands toward the heat from the stove. She wore a soft green dress that had a little ruffle of lace around the scooped neckline. It was just low enough to entice Max to look closer, the white lace drawing his focus to the smooth swell of her breasts above the neckline. She had a shawl draped over her arms and she now pulled it over her shoulders to ward off the dampness.

  Seeing her here reminded him of his dream last night. Abby…him…in bed. He didn’t want to think about it. “Storms in the mountains can be a might chilly,” he said instead.

  Thunder crashed, closer this time. He watched Abby’s eyes widen, her gaze shooting to the window then back to him.

  “It’s not the thunder you have to worry about,” Max said. “Mother used to say it was just the old man grumbling. It’s the lightning that causes the damage.”

  “Somewhat like you?” Abby asked.

  “Me? No,” he replied, yet she was at least partly right. He grumbled and growled at her, always afraid she would get into trouble, intentional or not. Yet when he touched her, it was like being struck by lightning—melting his defenses with the fire that she set to blaze inside him.

  Not one to wax poetic, he was grateful when another knock on the door announced the arrival of breakfast. He bade the young maid enter and began shuffling his papers to one corner of the table.

  They’d fallen into a comfortable habit of eating breakfast together while in the Pullman car traveling to Colorado. Max thoroughly enjoyed looking across the table at Abby while he ate. She wore her hair in a simple braid this morning, but that didn’t prevent some tendrils from curling along her neck and against her cheek. He ached to lean across the table and kiss her good morning. To curb his impulses, he picked up the Rocky Mountain News that had been delivered with their breakfast. Within seconds, he was absorbed in reading about the latest mining ventures in the area.

  “Ho
w can you sit there so calmly?” Abby’s question bounced across the quiet and startled him.

  He lowered the paper. It was still raining hard. His gaze slid from her half-eaten breakfast to where she paced the small space between one window and the other. She crossed her arms under her breasts as she walked one way, then clasped them behind her back when she spun around and strolled back the other way.

  He tilted his head to the side, wondering how long she’d been doing that and why he hadn’t noticed when she left the table. If he didn’t even notice such distinct movement right under his nose, was he becoming too old to do his job? But no, only Abby made him relaxed enough to let down his guard. He recalled the night he’d fallen asleep with her in his arms. He hadn’t awakened all night—a first for him.

  He put the newspaper aside to talk to her. “What is it you want me to do, Abby?”

  “I don’t know.” Distant thunder accompanied her discontent. “You’re supposed to be the expert in this kind of matter. We know Dillon is the culprit, so surely there’s something you can do.”

  He smiled when she resumed pacing.

  “My father isn’t a very patient man. He always thinks everyone should jump when he says, and rush to do his bidding. I learned a long time ago to study my opponent and gather information before making a move. Patience will win in the long run.”

  She stopped and narrowed her gaze. He suspected she didn’t like him lecturing her like a reticent child.

  “Don’t your terrible threesome have anything to say about patience?”

  She came back to sit opposite him, cupping her chin in her palm. “The last time you called them the fearsome foursome. Did you kill one of them off?”

  He laughed. “Wollstonecraft doesn’t count. She’s far too dead already to know much about what’s happening today.”

  Her eyes widened. “You can’t possibly have read her work?”

  “A Vindication of the Rights of Woman?” Max asked. “It was standard reading material before Monty and I were allowed to attend the university.”

  “Your tutor made you read Mary Wollstonecraft?”

  “No, my stepmother did.” He grinned. “Are you impressed?”

  She sat back, blinking. “Yes, I am. But do you believe in what she wrote?”

  “I know you have a hard time believing all men aren’t like the one your mother wanted you to marry. I see nothing wrong with equal education for the sexes. If a woman has the knowledge and fortitude to pursue a man’s profession, such as doctoring, then more power to her.”

  “I sense a little hesitation there.”

  He shrugged, not wanting to make her mad. Neither did he want to get into a deep philosophical discussion. “I recall vividly one particular passage of her work. She states that all this equality between men and women will lead to a ‘rational fellowship instead of slavish obedience’.”

  “So, what’s wrong with that?”

  “The male species as a whole is not looking for slaves, Abby, but neither are most men looking for fellowship when they think about marriage and a family.”

  “Well, what in heaven’s name are you looking for?” she asked with genuine mystification.

  Max knew he shouldn’t have started this conversation. Just looking at her across the table, thinking about marriage and family, had his juices flowing.

  “Max, what else is there in a marriage?” she asked again.

  “Passion.” He let the single word hang in the air between them. “Would you like me to demonstrate exactly what a man wants in a relationship?”

  “Oh, my. Well…no,” she stammered. “I believe we’ve already done that.”

  He gave a bark of laughter. If she thought the pleasure he’d given her was all there was, she would be quite surprised on her wedding night. And perhaps that was best.

  Regardless of her wish to be independent, she was too passionate not to fall in love, marry and have a family. If he could just keep his hands off her until they were through with this case…

  * * *

  Max breathed deeply, the rain-fresh air heavily scented with pine, the crispness effectively cooling his ardor. The sky hung low over the town, clouds obscuring the mountain peaks. An off-key piano clinked in the distance, reminding him that there were other residents in Central City, even though the rainy shroud made him feel quite isolated.

  He shrugged into his coat, determined to stay away from the close confines of the hotel room. With her innocent questions and beguiling looks, Abby could drive a saint to sin, he thought, running his fingers through his hair.

  The action reminded him he was dressed in the flashier silver-threaded brocade vest and stylishly cut coat of Jeffery Markham, but had not yet donned his wig or muttonchops. It wouldn’t do to be caught without disguise. He returned to the hotel. As he climbed the stairs, he felt the hair on the nape of his neck bristle. He stopped, one foot above the other on the stairs, his hand on the railing. His left hand clutched involuntarily, a pain shooting up his arm as though he’d just hit something with his fist.

  Monty.

  With the same conviction he would have if his twin brother stood on the steps looking at him, Max knew Monty was in Central City. His fist clenched again. And apparently Monty was in trouble.

  Forgetting his lack of disguise, Max spun on his heel and headed out the door, hurrying along the boardwalk toward the saloons. This strange phenomenon didn’t happen to him often, but he understood the meaning of it after nearly losing Monty to a stampeding horse when they were eleven. From that time on, Max always investigated the situation, even when it usually ended up being minor.

  In the instances when he and Monty were in close proximity, he actually felt what Monty felt. The trouble was, he usually recognized this bizarre awareness when he was doubled over in pain. Rarely did he feel the pleasure of his twin’s sunnier side.

  Maybe it was because pain was sharper and more intense. When he and Monty were younger, he’d tried to explain what happened to him every time Monty did something really stupid, like jump from a tree and break his leg. Monty had scoffed. For whatever reason, Max felt his brother’s pain, but not the other way around. Considering what Max did for a living and the number of times he’d been shot, it was probably a good thing.

  At the third saloon Max visited, he found the cause of his discomfort. Even with a wide-brimmed Stetson pulled low on his head, he recognized his brother. Monty, in trail-worn dungarees, chaps and a dusty blue cambric shirt, swung his fist and connected solidly with another man’s jaw. He momentarily held the man up with his fist tangled in his shirtfront. Max watched his brother rear back to hit him again, but instead let him go. The man fell to the floor.

  Max pushed through the swinging doors and stormed to where Monty was bent over, hands on knees, breathing hard. He turned to see whom he had been pummeling. Shit, it was Dillon.

  “Come on.” Max grabbed his brother’s arm to tug him toward the door.

  Surprised, Monty started to throw a punch.

  “Don’t even think it, little brother,” Max growled. He’d wanted to find his brother. Now he had to juggle keeping Abby out of trouble, getting Dillon to confess his crimes and seeing that Dillon didn’t connect Max and Monty. Just then the man groaned and stirred, and Max tapped Monty on the arm and pointed toward the door.

  A burly bartender blocked their way. “You ain’t leaving without paying for them damages.”

  “He started it,” Monty stated, pointing back to where Dillon had managed to get to his hands and knees.

  They only had seconds before Dillon would locate them amidst the saloon wreckage. Max slapped some bills in the bartender’s hand and pulled his brother out the door.

  For long minutes, all that could be heard were Max’s boot heels beating an angry rhythm on the wet boardwalk. He stormed away from the saloon, knowing his brother would follow. The rain had quit, leaving the town eerily quiet.

  “Max, I can explain.” Monty touched his arm. It was like poking a s
tick at a rattler.

  All the worry about where Monty was and if he was safe, not to mention the aggravation his parents had gone through, flashed through Max’s mind at his touch. He turned on Monty in a fury, punching him in the jaw and sending him stumbling backward against the side of the building.

  “Damn!” Max shook his left hand while rubbing his jaw with his right. It was impossible to inflict pain on his brother without feeling it doubly himself.

  Monty rose, rubbing his jaw. “Feel better?”

  Max narrowed his eyes. How the hell was he supposed to stay mad when it was like looking at himself?

  Max rubbed a hand over his face. He never had been able to stay angry at Monty, even when his brother had gotten them into all kinds of mischief. All it took was one grin—just like the one he was giving him now.

  “You look like hell,” he said, taking in the growth of beard and dusty denim on his usually immaculate brother.

  “Getting away from the city will do that. You look…different,” Monty countered.

  He debated telling his brother about Abby, but a commotion down the street reminded him they needed to get out of sight.

  “Come on.” He started walking. “I want answers, Monty.”

  He saw his brother grit his teeth. Max narrowed his gaze and furrowed his brow, giving him his most formidable look.

  His brother gave a slight nod, his shoulders slumping and his face dejected.

  Monty never got in real trouble, so Max knew it must have been bad to make him leave Boston and Sarah. He shifted, unconsciously shouldering the burden Monty had been carrying. Just like he’d always done when they were boys. Just like he would always do. He was the oldest—the protector.

  * * *

  They sat at a corner table in a small restaurant, away from the prying eyes of any late breakfast customers. Although he didn’t like to do so, Max had his back to the door to help hide his identity.

  “Okay, tell me what the hell is going on, and then you’re going back to Boston.”