Yes, it was possible her lie about the gun was at the root of his fury. Then again, knowing Jake, maybe not. The only way to know for sure would be to ask him. And Amanda couldn't do that. Jake wasn't here.
Carefully, she closed the revolver's loading gate, then tucked the pistol back in her pocket. Lacing her hands atop her lap, her gaze shifted to the door, and her mind strayed past the thin wooden panel.
Where was Jake now? More precisely, who was he with? Did she really want to know? Good God, no! The thought of Jake Chandler wrapped in the arms of another woman brought a crushing pain to Amanda's chest. Her breath clogged in her throat as the dull ache wrapped around her heart and squeezed tight. With each torturous beat, the pain grew, until it was excruciatingly sharp.
She told herself that despite their one night of lovemaking, she hardly knew Jake, that it shouldn't hurt so badly to imagine him with another woman. Unfortunately, she couldn't make herself believe a word of it. The image whirl winding through her mind did hurt. Unbearably.
Worse, she knew why.
With a stifled groan, Amanda balanced her elbows atop her thighs and buried her face in her hands. When, she wondered miserably? When exactly had she broken her own staunch rule and fallen in love with Jacob Blackhawk Chandler?
Was it that first day, that first instant she'd seen him standing in that sunswept clearing? No, not then. He'd been rude and arrogant and annoying then.
Maybe it had been later that night when she'd glimpsed him walking naked and wet from the river? Maybe. Lord knows, the memory of that breathtaking, moonlit image had never been far from her thoughts since! But, as aware of him as she'd been, Amanda was certain that seeing Jake splendidly naked wasn't a strong enough reason to fall in love with the man.
Their first kiss. Could she have fallen in love with him that early on? Was it possible? She didn't know. Her heart still fluttered when she remembered the first claiming touch of his mouth on hers, remembered the way his tongue had plunged into her mouth, demanding her response. Even now, if she closed her eyes, it didn't take much imagination to remember the potent taste of that man. The potent feel.
Amanda released a shaky sigh and dragged her hands down her checks. She supposed it wasn't important when she'd fallen in love with Jake, so much as that she had—and she had fallen hard. The range of feelings he aroused in her were incredible, complex, and stunning. He could make her tremble with a glance. One silkily uttered word, one feather-light touch, and she was hot and breathless. No man had ever done that to her before. But Jake did. And he did it so damn easily!
It had to be love. Nothing else explained the confusion roiling inside of her, the feelings that had been there almost from the first, each raised to a higher pitch with every day she'd spent in Jake's company. Why else did he consume her thoughts so completely? Why else did the idea of him being intimate with another woman feel like torture?
Worse, much worse... why, why, why had she fallen in love with a man who could never love her back? A man who saw not one world separating them, but two?
Amanda curled up atop the hard, lumpy bed and closed her eyes. What should she do now? Should she keep the information to herself? It wouldn't be easy; even now, she bubbled with the need to tell someone—to tell Jake. On the other hand, telling him the truth would leave her open to yet another rejection.
Her tolerance for pain had always been low. Until recently, until Jake, Amanda hadn't thought it possible to hurt more than she had the day her father had shipped her East. Now she knew better. She'd dealt with the pain of her father's rejection... but that would be nothing compared to another rejection from Jake. Telling him she loved him, only to have him turn his back on her...
No, she couldn't do it. She simply could not do it! She couldn't risk that much. She couldn't risk losing a part of herself to a man who could never return her love.
In the end, she decided to do as she always did; take the cowardly way out. She would keep this disturbing information to herself, cherish it always, but she would not share it.
A tear trickled down her cheek. She sniffled loudly, the sound meshing with the rap of footsteps echoing in the hallway. She barely noticed the footsteps... until they hesitated right outside of her door. She tensed, swiping away her tears with her fist, and sat up. Her heart was throbbing by the time her gaze latched onto the door.
Slowly, slowly, the tarnished brass doorknob turned.
Jake Chandler was not a clumsy drunk. Just the opposite, in fact. Even after downing the gut-burning contents of an entire bottle and a half of bourbon he didn't stumble, didn't stagger, didn't slur. The only way to tell he'd consumed too much was by listening to the tread of his feet. When he was drunk, his feet made normal walking sounds. For a man whose gait was normally as silent as a cat's, that was unusual; it was also the only way to measure the true extent of his inebriation.
As he climbed up the shadowy stairwell leading to the second floor of Mulligrew's "The Finest in the Territory" Hotel, Jake's feet made noise. Not a lot of noise—the thump-thump of his moccasined heels was easily swallowed up by the rowdy laughter and tinny piano music drifting up from the drinking room below—but enough to tell Jake that he was in no condition to be doing what his mind only now registered he was doing.
His insides were hot as fire, his head feather-light. He couldn't remember how much bourbon he'd drunk. Had he finished that second bottle or not? Shrugging, he decided it didn't matter. While however much he'd drunk was enough to blur the razorsharp edges of reality, it wasn't nearly enough to bulldoze his obsession with Amanda Lennox from his mind. In fact, the more intoxicated he'd become, the more desperate he'd found himself for the sight and sound and smell of that woman. He had to see her creamy white skin, had to hear the sound of her voice whispering in his ear, had to drown himself in the flower-soft scent of her just one more time. He had to.
Just once more, he thought as he concentrated on putting one foot evenly in front of the other until he reached the top of the stairs. Yes, I need to be with her just this one more time, and then I'll... What? Stop wanting her? Not likely! Then what? What will I do after I've had her "just this one more time?"
I'll want her again! his liquor-fogged mind answered without hesitation. And again and again and…
Jake brought himself up short. His feet felt as though they'd been cemented to the bare planked floor as he hesitated on the stair landing. His grip on the railing turned white-knuckled tight. Good thing, too, since his knees felt suddenly weak. His expression couldn't have been more stunned if he'd walked face-first into an invisible brick wall. In a way, he had. Only this brick wall—the one that had sprung up all by itself in his mind—had a name. It was Amanda Lennox.
Jake sighed and shifted his weight until he was leaning back against the sharp corner of the wall. His thoughts swerved to the redhead downstairs, the one who'd spent the last two hours of her life molding her voluptuous bottom to his lap. He remembered each graphic suggestion she'd purred into his ear. He thought of her warm, ripe body. Of her blatant interest. And then he thought of his own surprising lack of it.
It had taken him a full hour, and God knows how much liquor, for Jake to realize he wasn't going to bed the redhead—although he suspected the woman herself had figured it out quite a while before him. It had taken him less than two seconds to realize why he wouldn't seek his release with her.
Amanda Lennox.
Right or wrong, she was the only woman he wanted, and he wanted her with an urge so strong it almost didn't seem real. It was Amanda's sweet white skin he craved to feel beneath his open palms. Amanda's curves he yearned to have complimenting his own male hardness. Amanda's airy breath he would kill to feel scorching his bare flesh, seeping into his bloodstream.
The redhead wouldn't do. Jake didn't want her. He didn't want what she'd been offering—or, more precisely, selling him. He didn't want a nameless woman, bought and paid for in a nameless saloon. A woman whose body he would forget long before sunrise. A
woman whose face he would forget even sooner. He'd had enough encounters like that to last him two dozen lifetimes.
What he wanted, needed, hungered for now was Amanda. And only Amanda. His desire for her was like nothing he'd ever known. It was a fire in his blood that had sparked the first time he'd seen her; a fire that had kindled to an unendurable flame the first time he'd made love to her.
There was no end in sight. There was no hope of finally putting an end to the desire burning inside of him. At least, not when the very woman who inspired it was tucked inside a room located only a few dozen feet from where he now stood. She was so damn close, so damn accessible!
What would happen if he went to her now? She wouldn't turn him away. Jake knew it, just as he knew that to go to her would have to be the stupidest thing he'd ever done in his life! But he was tempted. Ah, God, was he tempted!
While he didn't slur when he was drunk, liquor always greased his tongue. If he saw Amanda tonight, in this condition, he might inadvertently tell her a variety of things she was better off not knowing—and he was better off not saying. Like why he'd been so angry with her. Like what he had—no, what he hadn't—found in her saddlebag three nights ago. He was just drunk enough, just desperate enough, that he might—might—listen to any convoluted excuse she gave him, because... Jesus, he was so damn hungry to hear one!
At this point, Jake didn't even care if she told him the truth anymore. And that scared the hell out of a man who put more stock in honesty than he did in breathing.
A vague shuffling sound tunneled down the hall to his right, coming from the direction of Amanda's room. While Jake's ears registered the noise, he didn't look in that direction. Why bother? This was a hotel, after all. People came and went regularly; the hour of day or night didn't matter much.
While the noise itself didn't snatch his attention, the voices did. Both were gravelly, thick, and as coarse as their owners—two stooped shadows he had to squint to identify as men.
Jake's hand hovered over the hilt of the knife sheathed on his belt. Even though he didn't touch it, the cold of the steel chilled his palms. Scowling, he concentrated on the voices of the two men. His blood ran cold as their words burned the dull edges of liquor from his mind.
"She's in there, I tell ya," the short, fat one huffed as he released the doorknob.
"And I'm tellin' you this is the wrong room," the other man, equally as short but thin as a rail, argued.
"It ain't. I saw her go in there with my own two. Ain't no woman in these parts ya can confuse with that one, pal."
"Not in Junction," his thin friend agreed, "but that ain't the point, Cal. The point is, if we barge in there and find out it ain't the right room..."
"It is," Fat Cal snarled. "I know it is. Trust me, Billy, the breed's woman is in there. I'd swear my soul she is."
Thin Billy stiffened. "Better start swearin' then. Cause if you're wrong... well, ain't no man lives in Junction's gonna want to see our grubby faces looming over his bed, Cal. And if there's a miner in there with his gal... well, he'll think we come to steal his dust and kill us fer sure."
"Ain't no miner. And ain't no one gonna get killed, just so long as we're quiet."
"Quiet?" Thin Billy huffed. "Yeah, we can be quiet all right. She won't be. Least, she won't be once she figures out what we've got in mind. And I'd swear to that."
"Far as I'm concerned, she can make all the noise she wants... after we's done with her. 'Sides, once she's gagged and tied up, she'll be quiet enough."
"What if she screams before you gag her Cal? What then?"
"Think of what you're sayin', Billy! Any yellin' she does is just for show. Hot-damn, the gal's been puttin' it to an Injun. An Injun! Prob'ly be a nice change for her to spread those perty white legs for the two of us." Fat Cal chuckled nastily, and jabbed an elbow into his companion's ribs. "After she's had us, she ain't gonna welcome no piece of red trash back in her bed. I'd stake my life on it."
"That's exactly what you'll be doing if you open that door, Cal."
The soft, deadly reply didn't come from either of the two men. It seemed to take a second for Fat Cal to realize that.
When realization came, it came all at once—in the form of a steely band wrapped around his paunchy middle, crushing the air from his lungs. A knife materialized out of nowhere; before Fat Cal could blink, the long, thick, deadly blade was resting against his jugular. A sinewy body molded itself into his fatty back. The chest he was suddenly brought up against—and brought up hard—was lean and solid and strong. So was the arm that continued to squeeze the air out of him.
Thin Billy's eyes widened, his shocked attention straying over his friend's beefy shoulders. His gaze met cold steel grey, and held. His gaunt jaw loosened and his mouth gaped open. At the same time, his cheeks drained a chalky shade of white.
If Jake had wondered if the two men would fight for each other, Thin Billy's reaction took care of that. They wouldn't. Not if they were smart. Then again, considering what they'd been about to do...
Jake's attention shifted to the door. It was a miracle the wood didn't combust, his gaze was that hot, that furious. He thought of Amanda, of what these two men would have done to her had he not come along when he had. His gut kicked, hard. His heart was pounding fast and furious, each beat pumping more and more fury into his system, wiping away the fog of liquor, wiping away everything except the image of his woman being violated by these two filthy pieces of white scum.
Had he ever wanted to kill a man as badly as he wanted to kill these two? If so, Jake couldn't remember it. No fury he had ever felt before matched what he was feeling now. No fear equaled the fear that was eating at him from the inside out.
Good God, if he hadn't come...!
"H-hey, now just a minute, mister," Fat Cal stammered. It took a conscious effort not to let the lump in his saggily fleshed throat bob too much. Any movement, no matter how slight, could sink that blade right in there. "Listen, f-friend, we wasn't gonna do nothin' to the woman."
"Right," Thin Billy agreed nervously. He shifted from foot to foot, licking his fear-parched lips at regular intervals. "We was just—we was just gonna keep her busy till you got back is all. Ain't no crime in that."
Jake's gaze stabbed through the thin man. "You don't call rape a crime?" he said, his gaze sliding contemptuously from the top of the man's dark, wispy head to the tattered toes of his boots. A cold, satisfied grin curled over his lips when he saw Thin Billy take an instinctive step backward.
"Rape? Wouldn't've been no rape," Fat Cal huffed. "Hell, no." He grunted when the arm around his waist tightened. The air whooshed from his too-full lips. After a full minute of the pressure, his cheeks took on a bluish tinge.
Jake angled his head so his lips were close to the fat man's ear. The stench of Fat Cal's body was strong, but not nearly as strong as Jake's fury. "You don't call rape a crime?" he repeated slowly, precisely.
The arm that threatened to snap the fat man's ribs loosened enough for Fat Cal to swallow a gulp of air. The hallway filled with the sound of the fat man's gasping and wheezing. The raspy noises almost masked the sound of the thin man's steps. From the corner of his eyes, Jake saw Thin Billy easing his way toward the stairs, clinging to the wall, to the shadows. The expression on his gaunt, haggard face said he was praying to get away undetected. Pity it was too late.
Jake's gaze swung to the side, freezing Thin Billy in his tracks. The small man shivered, molding his back against the planked wall. "Come here, Billy."
For a second, Jake expected Thin Billy to make a run for it. And then the little man's gaze shifted to the blade poised against the folds of his fat friend's throat... and he saw the big copper hand that looked more than capable of ending two lives in just as many strokes.
Thin Billy sucked in a deep, shaky breath, then cautiously eased closer to Jake.
Had Fat Cal guessed what Jake's intent was, he might have tried to make a run for it. As it was, the hand wielding the knife left his thro
at for only a fraction of a second—just long enough for a rock-solid copper fist to slam the hilt of the knife into that sweet spot between Thin Billy's lanky shoulder and neck—before it returned in lightning time.
Thin Billy's eyes rolled back in their sockets, and his body slid quickly down the wall as his knees buckled beneath him. He slumped to the floor with a thud that sounded hollow, and not nearly satisfying enough to Jake. For now, it would have to do.
Fat Cal still hadn't caught his breath. The air cut through his lungs with choppy, raspy sounds, but his sudden whimper was distinct enough to drag Jake's attention back to him.
"Last chance to answer, Cal. Do you call rape a crime?"
"I-it ain't... rape when ya take... a woman like that'un," the fat man managed to wheeze. "Any gal who'll... give it to a breed'll—"
The too-soft body pressed against Jake's front began to tremble—undoubtedly because the copper hand wielding the knife had increased its pressure. The blade sliced like butter through the top layer of the fat man's skin. Deep enough to draw blood, deep enough to sting like a son of a bitch and to leave a scar... but not deep enough to kill. Yet.
Blood trickled down Fat Cal's neck. It was absorbed by his grimy collar.
Jake uncurled his arm from around the fat man's waist and grasped the man's tattered shirt collar in his fist. Before Fat Cal knew what had happened his back had been slammed up against the wall. The back of Fat Cal's balding head collided with the wall hard enough to make the wood vibrate. A strangled gasp rushed past his lips. And then the knife was back at his throat, and Fat Cal thought better of making any sound at all.
Jake had to look down to meet the fat man's gaze. The eyes that stared back at him were narrow, the irises a swamp-water shade of greenish-brown. His flabby cheeks were fear-reddened, and the folds of skin sagging beneath his jaw shook with the violent trembling of his big body.
"Look, mister, we didn't mean no offense. If'n ya want to be paid for the whore's time... well, that's fine by me. I got me some gold dust."
Montana Wildfire Page 29
