Only My Love

by Jo Goodman

  "No, he didn't have to. I saw it lying on the bureau and I remembered that Houston had kept that part of the bounty for himself."

  "It was mine in the first place. He took it from me."

  "And he gave it back?" Ethan made a soft whistling sound. "He really does want you." He heard Michael's pencil scratching stop momentarily as she felt the impact of his words. Inside, Ethan's stomach was roiling. Houston was stepping up his pursuit. Putting up a credible front of indifference, Ethan asked, "Where'd you go on your walk?"

  "Just up one side of the street and down the other," she said, her words clipped.

  "What did you talk about?"

  Michael waved her notepad over the side of the bed so he could see it. "Would you like to read it now instead of waiting for morning when you think I'm sleeping?"

  "Know about that, do you?"

  "You're not so very clever."

  He wondered if she knew that he emptied his gun every evening. He didn't ask. "I don't want to read it now." He had come to enjoy reading her observations over a cup of coffee in the morning. She was witty and astute and gave a good account of the things she saw. She was also a fine writer. "Tell me about it."

  Michael laid the pad and pencil aside and felt herself relax just thinking about the afternoon. "We were only gone for an hour, perhaps not even that long. Oh, Ethan, you can't imagine... just breathing the air... It was... liberating. I would have gone mad being trapped here another day. Houston was charming, of course. He put on his best face. You know, the gentle, solicitous one where he appears genuinely interested in what a person has to say. He introduced me to some of the respectable women in town. They were courteous, more so because of Houston, I think. Once they realized I was one of Dee's girls they removed themselves rather quickly from the conversation."

  "What did Houston do about that?"

  "The same thing I did. Pretended not to notice." Michael rolled over and turned back the lamp. "It's been an odd experience here in Madison," she said. "I've been treated respectfully most of my life. Unless someone knows my family very well, my own morals are never questioned. Yet here, because so many people think you'll eventually tire of me, I'm touched without my permission and propositioned several times a day. I'm sought by married men and snubbed by married women. Houston wants me and Detra wants to kill me." She sighed. "It's not an arrangement I would have asked for myself."

  Ethan stared at the ceiling. "Don't you think I know that?" he asked, more to himself than to Michael.

  Michael scooted closer to the edge of the bed. "Houston took away the Denver papers you gave me," she said. "He was careful not to let me think he'd done it, but he got me out of the saloon and into the kitchen and when I returned to the table they were gone."

  "One of the girls probably threw them away."

  "I'm sure that's what happened. I'm just as sure Houston engineered it."

  "Does it matter? You've read the accounts before."

  "Why did you give me the papers, Ethan?"

  His tone became impatient. "I thought you'd be interested, that's all."

  Hardly all, Michael thought, if her suspicion was true. "It was kind of you." She heard him grunt softly, either in negation or acknowledgement, then he turned on his side away from her, signaling the end of the discussion. "Good night, Ethan."

  "Night."

  * * *

  Ethan watched Michael slip out the door before he sat up and jerked on his trousers and boots. He didn't bother with a shirt and shrugged into his coat instead, taking just another few seconds to check his bureau drawer for the bullets. They were still there. Michael had left with his empty revolver.

  He wasn't completely surprised by her action, only by the speed with which she was able to accomplish it. Her clothes had been hanging on the inside of the wardrobe and she dressed in the dark without bumping into anything. Ethan still didn't know what had woken him, but was thankful nonetheless. At best, Michael only had an inkling of the dangers she faced, or how quickly she would face them.

  He supposed it was something she had seen earlier during her walk with Houston that led her to believe she could make am escape now. Although Ethan hurried he was only at the foot of the staircase when he heard the commotion on the sidewalk outside the saloon.

  "You can put her down, Happy." Ethan said as he stepped outside. He raked his hair back from his forehead with his fingers, a sure sign he was out of patience.

  Happy had hoisted Michael on his shoulder much the way Ethan had had occasion to do in the past. Michael, however, was fighting Happy for all she was worth, kicking and flailing and cursing. "She'll run!"

  "She won't. Will you, Michael?"

  "You bastard! I swear I'm going to—"

  "You swear too much," Ethan said. "But we'll discuss that privately. Go on, Happy, put her down. She's not running away from Madison. She's only running out on me."

  Happy hesitated. The punch Michael landed on the small of his back decided him. Grunting with pain and anger, he pushed her off. He grinned when she landed hard on her behind. The heel of his boot came down on her hand when she started to get up. "Stay put," he said roughly. He didn't press hard, but the weight on the back of her hand increased just enough to let Michael know he could seriously injure her. He spit once and addressed Ethan. "What do you mean she was runnin' out on you? Looks to me like she was hell bent on reachin' the livery over yonder. Leastways that's the direction she was headin' when I scooped her up in the street."

  "I doubt she knew where she was heading, Happy. We had a fight."

  "She was flashin' your gun at me."

  Ethan was glad for the cover of night because he felt himself pale at Happy's revelation. "What stopped you from shooting her?"

  "I remembered what you said once about takin' out the bullets."

  "You took a chance."

  "Damn right I did."

  Ethan reached in the pocket of his coat and held up one of the bullets for Happy's inspection. "I've got them right here. The gun wasn't loaded." He jumped out of the way as Michael kicked at him and swore. "Where's the gun?" he asked Happy.

  Happy jerked his head in the direction of the street. "She dropped it out there. Go on, I'll hold her here. You find it."

  It took Ethan a few minutes to locate his Colt. All the while he could hear Michael muttering curses under her breath. Except for the soft sound of her angry voice the main street of Madison was quiet.

  "Now, tell me why you're so sure she was just leavin' you," Happy said when Ethan returned.

  "Because she caught Carmen flirting with me earlier this evening." That was true, but Michael hadn't said a word or acknowledged in any way that she was bothered by it.

  "Carmen always flirts with you," Happy said.

  "I was returning her regard."

  Happy nudged Michael with the toe of his boot. "That right, Miz Stone? You jealous of your man?"

  "Green with it," she said between clenched teeth. She knew Ethan's quick thinking was saving her life. She wasn't ready to thank him for it.

  "C'mon, Happy, let her up. There's nothing I can't straighten out with her in private."

  "Mebbe you need to put your gun in her holster a tad more often." His coarse eyebrows rose and fell suggestively. "If you take my meanin'."

  Ethan jerked Michael to her feet, cutting off the epithets she was hurling at Happy. "Upstairs, Michael. I'm right behind you." He turned to Happy. "There's probably no need for you to stay here the rest of the night. She's not going to run out again."

  "Better safe than sorry. I don't mind keepin' watch. Ben's turn tomorrow night."

  "Suit yourself." He followed Michael into the saloon.

  "You are a complete bastard," she whispered harshly. "Don't you put your hands on me. You knew—"

  "Upstairs, Michael. Now. We'll discuss this in our room."

  Michael pulled her elbow away from his hand and marched up the stairs, her spine stiff with the strength of her anger. As soon as they were in the ro
om she rounded on him. The fact that he was not only latching the door but locking it with the key as well, served to further infuriate her. "You knew Houston had someone posted at the front of the saloon all these nights and you never told me! You showed me those papers from Denver, let me think I could trust you, and you betrayed me! You son of a bitch! I hope you see me in the front row of the crowd when you hang, Ethan Stone, because I'll be there and I'll be cheering!"

  Ethan was peripherally aware of the brightness of her green eyes and the high natural color of her face as she vented her outrage at him. He was also vaguely aware that though she would never be beautiful when she was angry he had never wanted to kiss her more. He understood little of what she was saying, even less of what she wanted, but he knew he was tired of hearing her swear.

  Taking Michael by the wrist, Ethan dragged her to the washstand. She was too blindly furious with him to understand his intention until the soap was hovering above her mouth.

  She tried to twist away from him. "Let me go, you—"

  Ethan wasn't certain what name she intended to call him, but he doubted it would be a kind one. He gently stuffed one comer of the bar of soap between her lips. Michael's head reared back. Ethan kept applying pressure and the soap followed her motion. She tried to dislodge it by pushing at it with her tongue but that only made her get a better taste of the vile stuff.

  "Had enough?" he asked politely. When she merely glared at him, refusing to answer, Ethan pushed the soap in a little more deeply. Michael's surrender came quickly then, muffled around the rounded edges of the cake of soap, but understandable in spite of that. Although Ethan withdrew the soap immediately, he still kept hold of it. When she tried to get away from him, he held her fast.

  "Just a moment," he told her. "I want to be certain you're quite finished. Is there anything else you want to call me? Bring my heritage into question again?" It was difficult to be serious when Michael's face was contorting into a series of grimaces as she tried to get the taste of the soap out of her mouth. "No? Very well. You may rinse out your mouth." He let her go but kept her trapped between him and the washstand. He poured her a small glass of water. "Here you go. Make certain you spit in the basin and not at me."

  That he could read her thoughts so clearly was unnerving. Michael swished the water from side to side in her mouth, glaring at him all the while.

  "You look like a squirrel when your cheeks puff out that way," he said.

  Michael choked and nearly swallowed the rinse water. She managed to turn and spit in the basin just in time. Ethan's hand came down solidly on her back between her shoulder blades, then patted her heartily as she coughed and sputtered. "Do you mind?" she asked with some asperity. He wasn't hurting her exactly, but the thumping was rattling her heart and lungs.

  Ethan stopped. "Sorry."

  His apology surprised her. She turned to face him again, uncomfortably aware that he had given her no quarter, that he was still standing as close as he had a moment before. Perhaps he would apologize for something else. "You wouldn't have used that soap on me if you had ever had the misfortune to taste it yourself," she said.

  Ethan raised the cake of soap and examined it. He even brought it close to his mouth as if he were seriously considering tasting it. "No," he said finally, setting it down behind Michael. "There's another way." He bent his head and his mouth settled over Michael's. He sipped her lips, sucking gently on the lower one, drawing it out with tender, insistent pressure. She took a step toward him, her hands at her sides, and their bodies remained separated by a small space of air. Her mouth moved under his. His tongue traced her lips, her teeth, and as she opened for him, he tasted her sweetness. Not for anything would he admit he couldn't taste the soap. He drew back slowly, watching her. She seemed to lean toward him, in reluctant pursuit of the kiss, then catch herself and hold her ground. Her darkening green eyes searched his face.

  "Well?" she asked shakily.

  Ethan shrugged. "I can see why you wouldn't like it," he said. "The soap, I mean."

  Her nod was vague, her thoughts far away. "Of course, the soap."

  Ethan took a step back and turned away. "I could use a drink. How about you?"

  Michael sat down at the foot of the bed. She was going to repeat her standard, 'I-don't-drink,' and thought better of it. "Yes," she said. "I'd like one."

  Ethan retrieved the bottle from the base of the wardrobe, grinning to himself. She sounded as if she'd like to fight him for the bottle. He poured a little whiskey into the water glass and handed it to her. Taking a shot glass and the bottle to the wing chair, Ethan sat down. He shrugged out of his coat and tossed it on the footstool.

  "You're not wearing a shirt," Michael said. She frowned, taking a large swallow of her drink. She was embarrassed that she had spoken her thoughts aloud and mortified that she sounded so hopelessly idiotic.

  "I suppose it's your job as a reporter that's made you so observant."

  And trust him not to let the comment pass. Michael finished off her drink and actually enjoyed the rush of fire from her throat to the pit of her stomach. Without waiting for him to offer another, she got up, poured a generous two fingers in her glass, and went back to the bed.

  "I was in a hurry to chase you down," he said. "Before you got into more trouble than you could handle. I almost didn't bother with jeans." He saw her take another quick sip. "You can take off your coat, you know. Unless you mean to sleep in it tonight. Or go out again."

  Michael put down her glass long enough to get rid of the coat. "I'm not going anywhere."

  "Very wise." He knocked back a shot of whiskey. "It was a pretty stupid thing to do, even for you."

  She didn't say anything.

  "Stop doing that," he said.

  "What?"

  "Looking at me like that."

  Michael still had enough inhibition left to blush, but not enough to keep quiet. "I'm sorry," she said, looking down at the glass she was rolling between her palms. "It's just that I was remembering something Kitty said... about you being a beautiful man." She glanced up in time to see a ruddy hue touch his lean cheeks. Her grin was a trifle lopsided and not at all repentant. "Oh dear, I've embarrassed you."

  "You've flattered me," he said, "and embarrassed yourself. Little wonder you don't drink much. You trip over your own tongue with just a whiff of the stuff." He got up and took the half-emptied glass from her. "You've had enough. Why don't you get ready for bed?" Ethan threw her the nightshirt she had worn earlier. "Go on. I'll turn my back."

  "Oh, very well." Michael didn't move to obey right away. Instead she found herself staring at Ethan's naked back, at the angle of his shoulder blades, at the tautness of his skin. She wanted to run a finger down the length of his spine. She wanted to trace it with her lips.

  When Ethan didn't hear her moving he glanced over his shoulder. He was in time to catch her staring at him. He said her name sharply and watched her jerk to attention. "You're playing hell with my patience. Now get ready for bed."

  "Yes, sir," she said meekly.

  Her display of humility was so out of character for her that Ethan found himself grinning again. What was he supposed to do with her? he wondered. For the past two weeks he could only think about getting his hands around her neck, either to choke her or hold her steady while he kissed her senseless. He'd held himself back from doing either. Until tonight, when he had been desperate enough to do both. "Are you almost finished?" he asked roughly.

  She nodded.

  "If you're shaking your head, I can't hear you," he told her.

  Michael giggled. "That shoots down your theory, doesn't it?"

  "What theory?" he asked impatiently.

  "The one that says I have rocks in my head. You'd hear them rattle, wouldn't you?"

  Ethan turned around then. Michael was just pulling the nightshirt modestly over her knees. She almost looked prim. Almost. But there was her hair that had been loosed from every confining pin and lay across her shoulders and back in all its
magnificent splendor. There was the delicate hollow of her throat that was laid bare by the open collar of his nightshirt. Then there was the way her lips came together as she swallowed her smile. His blue-gray eyes slid over her hair, her throat, and came to rest on her mouth.

  "I'm about tired of sleeping on the floor," he said quietly. Then he came toward her.

  Michael was drawn to her feet though Ethan never touched her. She raised her face. Her eyes held his.

  "This is when you should tell me to stop." Ethan saw that she never moved. She stood there still as stone, yet he felt her tremble. "Can you?"

  Michael blinked once. Her mouth parted slightly. No sound came.

  "Can you?" he asked again, his voice just above a whisper.

  "No."

  She had never thought when she conceived her scheme for escape that it would bring her to this pass, yet against all reason she couldn't conceive of any other place she wanted to be. She understood now that she had been wrong about the articles in the Denver paper, not wrong about their content, but wrong about the significance she had attached to them. Ethan had given them to her for a reason, whether he realized it or not. She had misinterpreted the gesture. She thought he'd meant for her to trust him enough to make her escape. She knew now he'd meant for her to trust him enough to make her stay.

  Ethan's hands slid under Michael's hair and rested lightly against the skin of her neck. Beneath the callused pads of his fingers she was incredibly soft. He stroked her from the back of her ear to the curve of her shoulder. His thumbs caressed the soft underside of her jaw. Her hair was a whisper against the back of his hands, silk against his knuckles.

  "Touch me," he said. When he saw her hesitate his hands circled her wrists and lifted her fingers to his chest. "Here. Anywhere. If you don't touch me I'll come out of my skin." His eyes had gone from flint to smoke. "It will probably happen anyway."

  Her fingers explored. Lightly at first, hesitantly, but not reluctantly. She wanted to touch him. When she was being honest with herself she could admit to wanting to touch him for a long time. Her palms curved over his chest, ran softly along his rib cage, and learned about the heat and tension of his flesh. She felt him suck in his breath as her fingers made a light pass across his abdomen. His skin retracted in anticipation of her touch.