Diamond in the Dust (Second Chances Time Travel Romance Book 3)

by Peggy L Henderson

  “You’re either a very good actor, Gabe, or you really are from the eighteen hundreds,” Morgan said. Her eyes narrowed on him. She smiled softly, and something tightened in Gabe’s chest. “What am I supposed to believe?”

  He tore his eyes away. “Believe what you want,” he grumbled. Her gentle hand on his arm brought his gaze back to hers.

  “I’ll just pretend, for now, that I do believe you, okay?” Her eyes widened expectantly. “You asked for a bathroom. This,” she pointed to the closet, “is a shower. It’s sort of like taking a bath, but without a tub. The soap to wash with is in that black bottle in the corner.”

  She reached for the silver lever that stuck out of the wall. “This controls the water temperature and the amount of water that comes out of this spout.” She pointed to another round spigot higher up, then turned the lever. Water instantly sprayed like rain from the apparatus. Morgan turned the lever in the other direction, and the water stopped.

  “That’s the toilet.” She pointed at a seat that looked to be made from china. She lifted the lid, and he raised his brows at the water in the bowl beneath it. Their eyes met. Morgan’s cheeks reddened.

  “This is the. . . ah . . . privy,” she said. “When you’re done, push this lever, and everything flushes away. I think you can fill in the blanks and figure out the rest on your own.”

  She turned away from him, and Gabe grinned. “Yes, ma’am, I’m sure I’ll figure it out,” he drawled. An irrational impulse to reach up, to touch her bare shoulder, hit him with the force of a horse’s kick to the gut. He clenched his hand into a fist at his side.

  Morgan stepped to the door, then stopped. “Toss your clothes out into the hall, and I’ll get them while you’re in the shower.” Without a backward glance, she left the room, closing the door on her way out.

  Gabe turned to stare at his reflection in the mirror. His eye was half-way swollen shut, and his lip had a split in the corner. He touched the bruise that darkened the right side of his jaw, running his fingers over the rough whiskers covering his face. He looked bad, but he’d taken worse beatings before. Growing up, not a week had gone by when he didn’t come home with a shiner and torn clothes to the current saloon where Cora worked. Most of the time she’d slap a piece of meat on his bruises and send him off again.

  He braced his hands on the counter, leaning forward, and gazed at the man in the mirror.

  Time to wash away your past, McFarlain.

  The reverend had given him a second chance. Would he be foolish not to take it? Gabe unbuttoned his shirt, and stripped off the rest of his clothes. Bundling them up into a ball, he opened the door to the room a few inches, and set them on the ground outside.

  He stepped into the . . . shower, and reached for the lever, twisting it as Morgan had done. The immediate spray of water hit his face, and Gabe drew in a sharp breath of air. Damn, that water was cold. He turned the lever some more, and a second later, he jumped to the side as water scalded his arm.

  “What the hell,” he yelled. Fumbling quickly with the lever, he managed to shut off the flow of water, and scrambled out of the shower, nearly falling on the slick floor. He yanked the door to the room open, intent on grabbing for his clothes. They were gone.

  “Miss Bartlett,” he yelled down the hall.

  “What’s wrong?” she called from the kitchen. “I’ll be right there.”

  “Hellfire,” he grumbled, and closed the door. He shot a quick glance over his shoulder, spotting the folded towels on the counter. He grabbed one and hastily wrapped it around his middle. He wheeled around at the soft knock behind him.

  “Gabe?” Morgan called, worry in her voice.

  Gabe opened the door, holding the ends of the towel together at his hip. Morgan’s wide eyes roamed over him from head to toe, lingering on the towel before settling on his face.

  “How the hell . . .” Gabe clenched his jaw. “Pardon,” he added quickly. He was used to conversing with whores, women who could cuss as well as any man, but certain words were just not said in the company of decent women. Morgan wasn’t a trollop. Far from it.

  “The water seems to either be too hot or too cold,” he said. “I ain’t complainin’, mind you, about the cold water, but I don’t cotton to getting scalded.”

  “There’s a way to adjust the temperature,” Morgan said, moving around him into the small space of the room. “I’m sorry if I wasn’t clear.”

  Her bare shoulder grazed his arm, sending a jolt of awareness through him. He gripped the ends of the towel more firmly in his hand, his gaze following her movements as she reached for the lever in the shower. The water turned on, and Morgan moved the apparatus slowly to the left. She held her hand under the stream.

  “There. That should be comfortable.”

  Her head turned, and she shot him a smile. Gabe groaned. His gaze followed the path of a few water droplets that ran along her arm before she lowered it completely.

  “If you want it hotter, turn the lever to the left. For colder water, turn it to the right.”

  “Much obliged.”

  Their eyes met, her pupils large and round as she looked up at him. Gabe stood his ground when she moved between the narrow space that separated him from the counter, a blatant attempt to force her near him.

  “I have to go check on Logan,” she said, a distinct hitch in her voice. Her eyes dropped to his chest for a fraction of a second, before she darted past him and left the room.

  Gabe closed the door behind her, inhaling Morgan’s soft fragrance that lingered in the air. Dropping the towel, he stepped into the shower. He stood under the hot water, allowing the gentle spray to soothe the ache from his shoulder and back muscles. He reached for the bar of soap that rested in a dish mounted on the wall, then wrinkled his nose. He'd smell prettier than a whore on Sunday if he used that smelly stuff. He'd rather settle for only clean water to wash the grime from his body.

  Water flowed over his head, down his face and body, and he moaned with pleasure. Morgan's hungry eyes flashed before him as he closed his own, lulled into relaxation by the heat and steam. He was no stranger to a woman's seductive perusal, but the ones who took notice of him usually wanted payment in exchange for their admiration. A decent woman wouldn’t be caught dead looking twice at a no-account drifter like him. Morgan wasn't like the women he knew.

  Gabe chuckled. If she were to set foot in Landry or any other of the countless one-horse towns in Montana Territory, she'd be branded a fallen woman before she could bat one of her pretty eyelashes. She was an unwed mother, after all.

  Despite her scanty clothes, which were apparently acceptable in this time, she was a lady of high class. Surely not fit for the likes of you, McFarlain.

  He fumbled with the bottle of hair soap Morgan had pointed to, and sniffed when he managed to get the top open. It smelled unlike anything he’d ever smelled before; spicy, but at least not like the bar of soap, which smelled of flowers and perfume. Gabe lathered his head and torso, imagining Morgan’s soft hands soothing his battered body. He groaned.

  Get them silly notions out of your head, and get back to figuring out what to do.

  He wasn't going to wait around for the reverend to show up again, that was for sure. But he couldn't be a burden to Morgan, either. Somehow, some way, he'd figure out how to live in this time. There had to be something he could do.

  You know ranching, and horses.

  Did something like that even exist anymore, in this time? Only one way to find out. He’d ask Morgan.

  Gabe stepped from the shower before turning off the water, then dried with the cloth he’d dropped on the floor. He reached for the pants Morgan had left for him. He unfolded them and held them out in front of him. Dark blue, made from something akin to flannel. Not something he’d be caught dead in back in his time. Shrugging, he pulled the pants up to his hips and tightened the drawstrings, then left the bathroom.

  Chapter Eight

  “I’m not going to let you continue to run my
life, or have you treat me like a little kid. I should have never come back after I moved out of Bryce’s place. You can try and bully me all you want, but freezing my trust isn’t going to get me to come home.”

  Morgan’s loud and heated words echoed up the hall. Gabe ran a hand through his damp hair, and headed for the kitchen. Delicious smells assaulted his nose, making his stomach grumble. When was the last time he’d filled his belly? At least two nights ago, eating Eddie’s slop at the Double M. He’d never smelled the kind of food that Morgan must be cooking up in the kitchen, but it made his mouth water.

  “You have no right to involve Bryce. I’ve told you a million times, he and I are through.” There was a lengthy pause, and Morgan huffed before she spoke again. “I’ve told you why, and you didn’t seem to care about the reason . . . Maybe you should get the answer straight from him. Let him look you in the eye and tell you why I won’t go back to him.”

  Gabe lengthened his strides. Who was she talking to? Her angry tone was unexpected. She hadn’t lost her temper like this before, least whiles not that he’d seen. She’d stayed calm, even when she’d gotten her dander up after the reverend had showed up earlier today. Her usually soft, quiet voice had drawn him to her right from the start when she’d found him lying in the desert; her calm demeanor was like the gentle glow of a candle in the window on a dark and cold night, beckoning him to her warmth.

  Gabe shook his head at the odd notions playing through his mind. He rounded the corner into the kitchen, and stopped under the doorframe. Morgan paced the floor like a wild animal caught in a cage. She held a little black contraption against the side of her head, like he’d seen her do earlier in the wagon, talking to someone who wasn’t there.

  She raked her fingers through her hair, and Gabe’s hands flooded with a strange tingling sensation. He grabbed hold of the doorframe to anchor him to the spot, or else he would have walked up to her and weaved his own hands through those soft strands.

  Her little boy sat in a chair of sorts, imprisoned by a tray that surrounded him. He babbled loudly between shoveling several long, worm-like, white strings into his mouth, his entire face painted a shade of red. Red streak marks covered the tray that held his bowl, making it appear as if a slaughter had occurred. Whatever he was eating must be mighty tasty.

  The boy had his mother’s amber eyes, but his hair was a sandy color, not the darker shade of Morgan’s cinnamon hair. If it hit the light just right, strands shimmered red and deep copper, reminding him of the color of the blood bay horse he used to ride. He smiled at the memory. Not a Morgan horse, but the first mustang he’d ever caught and gentled.

  “I have to go. Logan needs me.” Morgan’s abrupt voice brought Gabe’s eyes back to her. She leaned forward, propping her elbows on the long kitchen counter, her head between her hands. She expelled an audible sigh.

  “Damn her,” she whispered loudly.

  Gabe’s eyebrows shot up, and his mouth curved in a smile. “Where I come from, ladies don’t swear, Miss Bartlett,” he said slowly, and stepped fully into the kitchen. Her head snapped up, and she wiped a hasty hand across her face.

  “I wasn’t swearing.” She glared at him, just before her eyes dropped to his chest, then perused the rest of him. Her appreciative gaze seared him like a branding iron, heating his insides. She was as easy to read as a wide-open book. It appeared as if Miss Morgan Bartlett was as drawn to him as he was to her.

  Gabe’s lips twitched in a suppressed grin. “Could have fooled me. Who’s got you so riled that you feel the need to be damning them?”

  She stared up at him for many silent moments, indecision in her eyes. She raised her chin proudly, her shoulders pulled back. Gabe chuckled, and stepped toward her.

  “Something’s got you all puckered,” he challenged, stopping just in front of her.

  She took a step backward, and swiped some hair out of her face, tucking the strands behind her ear.

  “I’m not puckered, whatever that means,” she said, no doubt louder than she had intended. The glare was back in her eyes, even if she darted fleeting glances downward at his torso. “I’m annoyed, mad, and frustrated.”

  “Like I said. Puckered.” His lips twitched.

  “Whatever.”

  Gabe chuckled. She was even more enticing when her feathers were ruffled.

  Morgan shook her head and waved a dismissive hand at him. Her chest heaved when she inhaled deeply, and a false smile appeared on her inviting full lips. Gabe cursed silently. He was the one she needed to damn.

  “You look and smell much better already after that shower. You must be feeling better, too.” She appraised his face.

  Gabe grinned. “A man can take a liking to running hot water.”

  “How do you clean up in the past, I mean, in your time?” Morgan scrunched her eyebrows together. She was obviously trying hard to divert the conversation away from what was really bothering her.

  He shrugged. “Usually we just take a quick dip in the cold creek. Every now and then, I’ve gone to the bathhouse in town for a hot bath.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes roaming his face as if to see if he was telling the truth. “Sounds . . . rustic.”

  She moved away from him, facing the counter where its surface was black instead of white like the rest of it. Was that some sort of stove? She stirred a spoon inside a metal pot.

  “I bet you’re hungry. Go sit down, and I’ll bring you a plate.” She shot a quick glance toward him. “I hope you like spaghetti. I bet you’re more of a meat and potatoes kind of guy, but this is what I’d planned for dinner. And Logan loves it.”

  “I ain’t never heard of it, but it smells mighty good.”

  Gabe pulled out a chair from under the table and sat. His eyes followed the woman’s every move as she ladled food into two dishes. She set one in front of him, the other on the opposite side of the table. He peered at the contents, which looked like the same stringy things and some sort of red sauce as what the boy was eating.

  “How do you eat this?” He touched a finger to the squiggly mass.

  “With a fork.” Morgan’s voice was clipped. She was obviously still upset about something. With more force than was necessary, she placed the utensil next to his plate.

  Gabe reached his hand out before she pulled hers away. He glanced up toward her standing next to him. His rough, dry fingers grazed over the softness of her wrist. Their eyes connected at the same time as when he touched her, and something exploded inside his chest. He drew away, gritting his teeth. What the hell had compelled him to do that?

  The urge to touch her, to feel her arms that had been bared to him all day, overruled his rational mind. Hell, he wanted to touch all of her, run his fingers up her smooth limbs and feel that soft skin. He’d never been drawn to a woman the way Morgan Bartlett tugged at his senses, muddling his head like some wet-eared kid.

  She stared down at him. Her amber eyes widened like they’d done when he came into the kitchen. Bewilderment, but also a flicker of longing burned in their depths. She eased her hand away, and offered a false smile. The pulse beating strong at her neck betrayed her calm outer demeanor. She stepped away from the table, combed her fingers through her hair again, and took a seat opposite him. She raised her utensil.

  “The easiest way to eat spaghetti is to twirl it around your fork.”

  Her voice had softened from a few moments ago, but her straight posture clearly showed that something still un-nerved her. She was like a skittish filly that had reluctantly started to trust its handler, only to lose its nerve when confronted with a new obstacle. His dumb move to touch Morgan had clearly unsettled her.

  She demonstrated how to fork the food, and Gabe’s eyes followed her movements as she held the utensil to her lips. To divert his attention from her, he stabbed his own fork into the squiggly mass on his plate. He’d never tasted anything like it, rich and flavorful, and the texture of the strings unlike anything he’d eaten before. He dug in, and accepted a second he
lping when Morgan offered.

  He ate in silence, concentrating on keeping those strings from sliding off his fork before he managed to bring it to his mouth. As good as the food was, it sure was cumbersome to eat. The boy babbled loudly in his seat, and Morgan talked and laughed with her son. Gabe had no memories of Cora interacting with him in such a way.

  “I guess you like Italian.”

  Gabe raised his head. The smile Morgan offered him was real this time, as she watched him from the other side of the table.

  “If that’s what you call this, then yes, ma’am,” he drawled, and pushed his empty plate away.

  Morgan wiped a cloth across her son’s face, and removed the tray that was somehow secured to his chair. The boy was harnessed into the contraption, and he reached his little arms up while his mother set the dirty tray on the table and freed him from the chair.

  “Looks like you’re going in the shower next, little man,” she said, a wide smile on her face when she lifted her son into her arms.

  Gabe stared. The love that shone in her eyes for the boy was genuine. Cora had cared for him, but there had never been any kind of doting or coddling. Some of the other whores he grew up around mothered him more at times than Cora had while he was just a little tyke.

  He pushed his chair away from the table, and stood.

  “Thank you again for supper. And for letting me clean up.”

  He faced her, and Morgan set her son against her hip. His little hand braced against her chest, fisting the fabric of her shirt, which only exposed more of her cleavage. Gabe struggled to look her in the eye.

  “I’m mighty beholden for what you’re doin’ for me, but I can’t keep living off your hospitality.”

  Morgan moved around him and out of the kitchen. “You said yourself you have nowhere to go,” she called over her shoulder. Gabe followed her into the parlor.