Never Love a Cowboy

by Lorraine Heath

  The nip often turned into a bottle or two.

  She’d grown accustomed to her father’s generosity over the years. She loved him, faults and all. Still, she’d be relieved when they heard something from Kit. She desperately wanted her investment to pay off.

  Yawning, she closed the ledger, leaned back in the chair, and rubbed the nape of her neck. Two o’clock in the morning was much too late to go to bed, but the night just didn’t contain enough hours.

  The office door opened, and she smiled sleepily at her father. “Thought you’d gone to bed.”

  “I got distracted. Do you know where the papers are that say I own this building?”

  “They’re here in the desk.”

  “Can I see them?”

  She reached into the top drawer, shuffled some papers, and brought forth the deed to the saloon. He took the document from her, looked it over, and nodded. He picked up her pen and the bottle of ink. “I need you to come with me and bear witness.”

  The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. “Bear witness to what?”

  He turned on his heel and walked from the room. She jumped up from the chair and rushed after him. “Pa, what have you done?”

  She hurried down the hallway, past Harry’s room, the faint notion registering in her mind that his door was ajar. She staggered to a stop at the doorway that led into the saloon. Harry sat at a table near the bar. Unshaven, his clothes wrinkled, he didn’t look happy to see her.

  Cards were strewn over the table, and coins were stacked in front of him. Not a lot of money, but enough to make her heart pound unmercifully against her ribs.

  “Come here, daughter.”

  As though in a dream, she walked toward the table, fearing the answer to a question she couldn’t bring herself to ask. With intense green eyes, Harry watched her as her father dipped the pen into the inkwell and scrawled his name across the bottom of the paper. Her father glanced over his shoulder. “I need you to sign as a witness.”

  “Exactly what am I signing?” she asked.

  “Signing ownership of the saloon over to Harry. He won it fair and square. I had three aces, but he drew to an inside straight.”

  “An inside straight,” she whispered, her knees threatening to buckle beneath her. “How could you do this?”

  Harry narrowed his gaze, and she felt as though he’d sliced into her heart. “It was a fair game.”

  “A fair game. What do you know about fairness, Harry? You manipulate cards. You manipulate people. I did all that I could to help you walk again, and the first time that you shuffle in here, you take my father’s saloon? The only thing that means anything to him?” Shaking her head, she backed up a step. “I won’t sign it. I won’t give you my father’s saloon.”

  “Jessye—” her father began.

  “No, Pa, I won’t do it. He’s a scoundrel and a cheat—”

  “Girl, you watch your words. Once spoken, they can’t be unspoken. I knew what I was doin’ when I put the saloon in the pot. I gave my word, and a true Texan never goes back on his word.” He dipped the pen back into the ink. “Come and sign it as a witness.”

  “Only the ownership changes,” Harry said. “You and your father can continue to work and live here—”

  “Now, aren’t you a kind and generous man.” She snatched the pen from her father’s hand and scratched her name across the bottom of the deed, nearly tearing into the paper with her anger. “Because I’ve got no choice, I’ll work here until Kit returns with my share of the profits. Then my father and I are getting as far away from you as we can.”

  She turned on her heel and headed for the stairs.

  “Jessye!”

  She spun around and glared at Harry. If he’d been wearing a smug smile, she might have returned and scratched out those beautiful green eyes of his. Instead his eyes held a measure of regret.

  “Meet with me at ten in the morning to discuss a few changes I’d like to make.”

  “Go to hell.”

  She heard his low laughter as she climbed the stairs, realizing too late the absurdity of her words, sending a man to a place where he no doubt already lived.

  He owned the saloon! Using the railings, Harrison walked to the window more with his arms than his legs. Using one hand for leverage, he leaned against the polished wood, reached up quickly, jerked the curtain aside, and regained his balance.

  Between the time Jonah Kane went to retrieve the documents and returned with the papers scrunched in his gnarled hands, Harrison had told himself a thousand times that he would cancel the debt, laugh the poker game off as a late night’s entertainment, and be content.

  But in the end, hope had been greater than decency, for here at last was a reason to crawl out of bed in the morning. Here at last was a chance to be a whole man, even if he didn’t have a whole body.

  He looked at the black void sprinkled with diamonds of light and was acutely reminded of the nights on the trail, nights with Jessye, when he had tasted her lips, touched her flesh, inhaled her delicate fragrance. She had been relegated to being his nurse, was the one responsible for finding ways to help him walk again. She looked at him with a defiant angle to her chin, but pity in her eyes.

  But not tonight. By God, not tonight. Anger had flared within her eyes, passionate anger, and he had reveled in the sight. She would pity him no more, even though the price would be her hatred.

  His hands tightened around the banister, his bones pushing against flesh. He despised the pity. His father had looked at him with sympathy when they’d found him in the dungeon. His father had sought to make amends. Anything Harrison wanted, he got. He had tested his father’s limits and discovered none existed.

  He feared the same might be true of Jessye. What would she give him out of pity?

  Better to have her hatred, her anger—he could stand tall against those.

  But pity had the power to bring him to his knees.

  He would make the saloon prosper, he would make it all that he envisioned it could be, and when Kit returned with her share of the profits, he would sell the saloon to her—at a fair price. A price steep enough so she would not doubt his motives, but low enough that he could live the next few weeks with only a niggling of guilt.

  Pulling her hair back unmercifully, Jessye secured it with a tight knot at the back of her head. She’d thrown water on her eyes most of the morning to ease the swelling after crying for much of the night. She loathed the tears, but she’d shed more since knowing Harrison Bainbridge than at any other time in her life.

  He had betrayed her, her kindness, and her father. She should have followed his edict and gone with Kit. Nothing on the trail could have hurt her more than the stunt he’d pulled last night: taking from her father the one thing that mattered most to him.

  She tugged on the bodice of her dress, straightened her shoulders, and angled her chin before jerking open her door and stepping into the hallway. Only her father’s quiet insistence made her now walk down the stairs to keep her appointed meeting with Harry.

  But she wouldn’t go to his room. If he wanted to meet with her, it would be in the saloon. He could use the crutches he’d mastered to get there.

  She hit the last step, grabbed the banister, swung around, and froze, her foot dangling over the floor. Harry sat at the same table he’d occupied last night. But he was not the man who had cheated her father. He was the man she’d fallen in love with in Dallas. His beard was gone, revealing a face that was leaner than before, but still composed of strong lines and sharp edges. He had trimmed his hair, and the black locks teased the collar of his black jacket, while just above his red brocade vest, a black cravat made itself at home against his throat.

  As though suddenly aware of her perusal, he snapped his head up, capturing and holding her gaze with those emerald eyes that always intrigued her. Gone was the anger and the self-loathing that had filled them these many months. Instead, she saw impatience and barely restrained anticipation. Her heart flipped over and fille
d with gladness, as though he’d never betrayed her.

  He raised a hand and wiggled his fingers. “Come on, Jessye my love, we have lots to accomplish today.”

  Jessye my love. She knew he didn’t give any credence to the last word, but he hadn’t spoken it since he’d lain on a table in a doctor’s home and taken a journey into hell. The word curled around her like a vine. With legs as unsteady as a newborn filly’s, she walked toward him.

  As she neared, his eyes darkened. “You’ll forgive me for not standing, I’m sure.”

  She nodded mutely as she sat in a chair across from him. The crutches were behind him, almost hidden by the breadth of his shoulders. She suddenly realized that although he didn’t carry the weight on him that he had before Kansas, he wasn’t as thin as he’d been when they first returned to Fortune. Working to strengthen his legs seemed to have strengthened his upper body as well.

  “You cleaned up,” she rasped with a throat dryer than the dust kicked up by a herd of cattle.

  He raised a brow as though amused. “Magpie turned out to be quite a skilled valet.”

  “You never had him cleaning you up before.”

  “I decided it was time. Besides, can’t have the owner looking like death warmed over. Might make gents think twice before coming in to purchase a drink.” Harrison realized the mistake of his wording as her expression changed from one of awe to bitterness.

  “Ah, yes, the owner.” She leaned back in the chair and crossed her arms beneath her breasts, glaring at him as though he were one of the ticks that the longhorn cattle infamously carried into Kansas.

  He damned his reckless tongue as he pulled aside the papers on which he’d made notations through the night, unable to sleep as ideas swirled through his head. He’d cursed Kit a thousand times for not being here to help him work out the details, but he thought all things considered that his plan was a fine one. Whether or not it would impress Jessye remained to be seen—although, judging by the angle of her jaw, he had a feeling she was in no mood to be either receptive or impressed. He cleared his throat, thinking it would be easier to face a band of jayhawkers than Jessye when she was miffed.

  “First of all, we need to give the saloon a name,” he told her.

  “A name?” she echoed as though he’d lost his wits.

  Looking up from his notations, he resisted the urge to reach out and smooth the furrow between her delicate brows. “Yes, this town decidedly lacks imagination. You stroll down the street and see signs that merely say, Mercantile, Livery, Blacksmith, Saloon. In England, everything has a name. White’s. The Wild Boar. The Black Swan. You see, so much more appealing to the senses…a name, that is.”

  “I reckon you could call it Bainbridge’s, you bein’ the owner and all,” she said caustically.

  “I was thinking of something a bit more enticing. The Texas Lady, perhaps—”

  “Harry, do you know what this place means to my pa?” She folded her arms on the table and leaned forward, her eyes imploring him to understand. So much for his thinking pity alone had the power to bring him to his knees. “It means everything to him.”

  “He invited me to play poker, and I was not the one who put the saloon in the pot,” he pointed out in his own defense.

  “Even if I give you the benefit of the doubt and think you didn’t cheat, you know cards well enough that I figure you knew what he was holding, knew your hand beat his. You could have folded.”

  “Not really. He paid to see my hand. Honor dictated that we carry the game through to the end.”

  “You Englishmen have a strange understanding of honor.”

  “You are simply viewing last night’s game through anger.”

  “Damn right I am, because I know you cheat.”

  “I did not cheat—”

  “Then you sure are packin’ a heavy load of luck.”

  She shoved her chair back and surged to her feet. Nearly throwing himself across the table, he grabbed her wrist. “We are not finished here.”

  “I made you a full partner in our cattle venture—”

  “As I recall, I had to earn that honor.”

  She jerked her wrist free of his hold and easily stepped beyond his reach. Seething at his limitations, he settled back in his chair, trying to mask his frustration.

  “He’s earned the honor with years of sweat and toil,” she spat.

  “And he willingly gave it all away last night. I refuse to feel guilty because I held a more valuable hand. He could have walked away.”

  “So can I.”

  Swearing soundly, he watched her march up the stairs. So much for his notion that he could become a whole man in spirit, if not in body. She left him feeling very much like the scoundrel he’d once been and resenting like the devil that he could not walk away.

  Chapter 18

  Pacing in her room, Jessye tried to block out the pounding of hammers hitting nails, crashes, banging, and ripe swearing ascending the stairs. Curiosity was killing her.

  The knock on her door brought her to a halt. “Come in.”

  The door opened slightly, and her father peered inside, his grizzled features wary. “Ain’t you comin’ down to help?”

  “No, Pa, I’m not.”

  “Now, Jessye, you can’t stay mad. He won fair and square.”

  She shook her head in disgust. “You don’t know him like I do, Pa.”

  “Know him better than you think. ’Sides, I’m still pourin’ the drinks, and you’re servin’ ’em. Nothin’s changed.”

  Everything had changed. Why was he blind to that fact?

  “Now, come on, girl. The only thing worse than a lousy winner is a poor loser.”

  “I am not a poor loser,” she pointed out, even as she sulked on her way to the door.

  Smiling broadly, he closed the door behind her and patted her shoulder. “You’ll see. Everything is gonna be fine.”

  She seriously doubted that, but she didn’t want to hurt him any more than he was already hurt, and railing at him over playing cards with Harry would do little good now. She was nearly halfway down the stairs when the sight before her nearly caused her to lose her footing.

  Grayson Rhodes stood atop a ladder hanging her crystal chandelier, an extravagance she’d indulged in shortly after the war ended. Her breath backed up in her lungs when he almost toppled before regaining his balance.

  “Bloody hell, Gray. Take care. Jessye will have my head if you break that thing,” Harry shouted.

  “Jessye will have your head now,” she informed him as she hurried down the remaining stairs and skirted around the banister.

  And she would have, if he hadn’t had a sleeping Colton nestled on his shoulder. The sight of Harry holding a child melted her anger. She quickly squeezed and opened her eyes to stop the tears that would put her feelings to shame. She angled her chin and planted her hands on her hips.

  Harry raised a hand imploringly. “It’s only a temporary measure, Jessye, just until Kit returns with our money and I can order another one. Right now, all we really have to offer is spit and polish, but…we just needed something special for tonight. Something to hint at the grandness I envision—”

  “Bloody hell!” a voice croaked, a voice she recognized as belonging to Abbie’s youngest son.

  Jessye spun around to see Abbie and Micah struggling to right a can of whitewash. They had brushes in their hands, and uneven splotches marred the wall.

  Abbie smiled with gratitude. “I’m so glad you’re finally here. We can really use the help. I don’t know how we’ll get all these walls painted by tonight.”

  Stunned, Jessye could do little more than stare.

  “How’s this look, Mr. Bainbridge?”

  Jessye turned and saw Johnny holding up a long plank of wood. With charcoal, he’d inscribed Texas Lady. On either side of the words, he’d drawn a lily.

  “Looks good, lad, but take care in painting it,” Harry instructed.

  The boy puffed out his small chest and looked at
Jessye. “I got to do the letterin’ on account I got good penmanship. Pa said so.”

  She glanced up at Grayson to see him smiling at the boy with so much love and pride reflected in his eyes that it was difficult to remember Johnny wasn’t his by blood.

  “Come on, daughter, make yourself useful,” her father scolded.

  Along with Abbie’s daughter, he was rubbing the counter with a rosin that made it shine.

  “We can see our faces,” Lydia said, beaming at Jessye’s father as though he’d worked a miracle.

  Laughing, he tweaked the girl’s nose before returning to his task.

  Jessye marched to the table, where Harry sat overlooking everyone’s efforts. “What are you doing?” she demanded.

  “Trying to increase profits.” He raised a brow. “I looked the books over last night. This enterprise is not a very profitable one.”

  “We get by.”

  “If you were content with that, you never would have agreed to risk your savings on our cattle venture.”

  Colton made a tiny mewling sound, and Harry began to rub his back. An irritatingly distracting thing for him to do. His hand nearly swallowed the child’s back, and she remembered the night he’d stroked her after they’d crossed the Red River. “That still doesn’t explain what you’re doing.”

  “This place is depressing. A man comes in here, orders a whiskey, and spends much of the night nursing that one drink and wishing things were different. The somberness of this establishment gives him no reason to order another drink, so we’re going to liven it up a bit.”

  “With whitewashed walls, a sign”—she leaned forward until they were nearly nose to nose—“and my treasured chandelier?”

  “And faro.”

  She jerked back. “Faro?”

  “Do you play?”

  “No, but I’ve heard of it.”

  He smiled devilishly, and her heart flipped over. “Gray is going to make us a faro table, perhaps two if I make it worth his while. There’s money to be made with faro, more so than poker. We’re going to order a higher grade of whiskey than this rotgut your father serves.” He held up a hand. “No offense intended, but you know I’m right. We’re going to offer the men a bit of culture and a chance to hand their money over to us.”