by Kristin Holt
Elmer hadn’t asked. He’d commanded. He plunked the glass cup down on the bar and grabbed for her free hand.
“The lady’s with me,” Sam warned.
“All I want is one dance.” He sounded rational, calm, and a mite too demanding. “Odds aren’t all that good.” He gestured toward the four or five couples that had already gathered on the floor. “Even David’s wife-to-be is dancing with Big Pete.”
Sure enough, even the soon-to-be-married ladies were partnering other fellows.
He’d have to defer this one to Evelyn, but he figured he knew what she’d decide. “Mrs. Brandt?”
The fiddle tune ended. A round of applause filled the dim room and reverberated off the wood plank walls. As Old Thad tuned his fiddle strings, one of Elmer’s cohorts approached, too.
Evelyn clutched at Sam’s elbow. “I’ve promised this dance to Mr. Kochler.”
“Next one’s mine, then,” Elmer challenged, but stepped out of the way, allowing them to pass.
Sam took Evelyn’s hand in his and set his right hand on her back. Her smile scorched something deep inside him, and he couldn’t help but grin like a fool in return. Her fingers felt so different in his hand…nothing like Octavia’s. He found he liked holding Evelyn. Tall as she was, she fit him perfectly.
They swirled into the group of dancers circling the room. Evelyn’s curls bounced, her cheeks flushed with the exercise, and her smile widened. Man, she was a beauty.
She danced like a dream. They moved together effortlessly, easily, as if they’d been dance partners for a lifetime. Somehow, in the space of just a few minutes, she’d managed to close their dance position, no longer at a proper distance. Her skirts brushed his trouser legs and the gentle swell of her belly bumped against him a time or two.
It felt so very right to be this near her. Her fragrance held a hint of rose water.
The tune wound down too quickly, the fiddler’s bow bounding off the strings with a powerful sweep. “One more fiddle tune,” he shouted over the applause. “Gentlemen, claim your lady.”
Evelyn made no move to step away from him. They remained in closed dance position. Just as the first graceful notes of a waltz filled the air and the other dancers swept into motion, someone tapped Sam’s shoulder.
Albert. Sam didn’t like it. Not one bit. But if Evelyn was willing to give the oaf a chance, she’d probably be safe enough in this small room with so many eyes watching. But this was Albert.
There wouldn’t be another stolen kiss like yesterday afternoon. Sam would do more than clip Albert’s jaw. As it was, he sported an impressive bruise, reminding him to watch his manners.
Albert bowed slightly, gestured toward the dance floor with an open palm. “Mrs. Brandt?”
She glanced at Sam, met his gaze, clearly asking something—not permission, but a go-ahead, just the same. She didn’t know if she dared accept a dance. It was evident she didn’t dare refuse him, and doubted her own safety.
Sam held her gaze a moment longer, nodded briefly. He’d watch every last move. If Albert got out of line…
A timid nod from Evelyn, and Albert swept her out of Sam’s arms and onto the floor.
Sam stayed right where he was, partway between the guys holding up the walls and the swirl of dancing couples. So far, Albert’s hands were right where they should be, the distance between their bodies acceptable, not a thing to complain about.
And true ‘nough, the brides who’d been claimed, who he’d officiate the marriages for in three days’ time were partnering up with someone new each set.
He sighed. He did not like sharing her.
When the tune finally drew to a sweeping close, Evelyn and Albert were on the far side of the room. He figured the man wasn’t smart enough to have planned that, but Sam kept his gaze glued to Evelyn just the same. Albert twirled her beneath his raised arm and right into the clutches of Pickle Pike.
Sam pushed through the crowd, intent on getting to Evelyn before Pike could so much as lay a finger on her, but Elmer Lamoureaux had already played the pickup notes of the next tune. Pike swept Evelyn into a Virginia reel even as men moved in to claim a dance with the other young ladies.
Sam noted the polite smile, lookin’ mighty forced, on Evelyn’s face and hesitated. He watched her for his cue, hesitant to interrupt. It looked to him like she was handling Pike just fine.
One of the guys sidled near enough to be heard over the piano and boots on the floorboards. “Just heard,” Levi Desilum shouted in Sam’s direction, “Miss Janalee Fountain decided to head on home.”
Sam kept his gaze locked on Evelyn. He didn’t trust Pike for half a second. “I heard. Shame.”
“That leaves fourteen.”
“Yep.”
“And four,” Levi yelled, “are already engaged. That leaves ten.”
Evelyn’s cheeks were flushed. He wasn’t so sure she ought to be dancing one set right after the next, especially in her delicate condition.
“And I overheard Tom plans to announce his engagement to Miss Carolyn Grayson at intermission.”
“And then there were eight,” Sam muttered, watching Pike stare at Evelyn’s snug-fitting bodice.
To keep himself from starting a brawl, Sam counted to ten, then pressed on to twenty. And looked to Evelyn—not Pike—for his cue. She hadn’t so much as glanced in his direction for help, so for the moment, he’d stay put.
That dress she wore distracted him as much as Pike.
If the lady had anything roomier to wear, he was sure she’d have donned it for this social gathering. Given she hadn’t, that meant she needed fabric. He had fabric, and he could get more. Good thing she was his.
“Nine, you mean.”
“Nope. Eight.”
A measure crept past while Sam watched Pickle Pike’s hand slide down Evelyn’s back to ride inappropriately low on her waist, squeezing in a caress. The dancers turned, blocking his view.
“Well I’ll be!” Levi pounded Sam on the back in a show of congratulations. “You takin’ another one out of the running? Who?” In the periphery of his vision, Sam saw the shorter man battling to get a good look at which lady Sam watched with most concern.
The dancers twirled about. Skirts in every color swished. Boots stomped. The room had grown warmer by at least fifteen degrees. Sam stuck a finger beneath his collar, tugging at it for more room. A bead of sweat began between his shoulder blades and slid all the way down the track of his spine.
He hated losing eye contact with Evelyn.
The dancers lined up just in time for Sam to catch a glimpse of Pike’s hand, cupping Evelyn’s butt. The low-life had somehow shoved her bustle to the side and had his filthy hand curved where it never should’a been. So help him, Sam would snap those fingers off, one by one.
Evelyn squirmed away from Pike’s paw but hadn’t yet freed herself.
Sam shoved through the dancers, jostled to get between two couples, and accidentally squashed a decidedly delicate toe. “Pardon, ma’am.”
Still, his gaze was locked on Evelyn. She’d pulled her right hand free of Pike’s grasp, whose scruffy face was split with a wide grin. He must still have his gaze locked on her bosom because she cocked back that hand and slapped the grin off his face.
The crack sounded loud in the room. The piano tinkled on another note or two, but died off right quick, in time with the halt of dancers and gasps of young ladies, a holler or two from a gent. Rain drummed on the wooden shingles above, a cozy melody that seemed to have no place here.
Sam slid to a halt between Evelyn and Pike, his breaths coming too fast. He’d commence with the breaking of fingers.
But Evelyn wouldn’t stay put. She popped out from behind him, pointed a long finger in Pike’s face. Fury heightened the color in her porcelain cheeks. “You!”
Pike gestured stupidly with two hands spread, palms up, as if to telegraph an inability to decipher her mood.
“You will keep your foul hands off of my person,” she ordered, he
r voice deadly calm. Low, too, so that everyone seemed to take a collective step nearer in order to overhear the unfolding drama.
Behind him, a woman gasped.
Pike laughed, dispelling tension among the onlookers. “Miss, I can’t dance with you without touchin’ you.”
Fellas joined in with Pike’s derisive laughter.
Sam saw where this was headed, and he didn’t like it. Defensiveness crested within him. He put an arm about Evelyn’s shoulders and eased her into the safety of his embrace.
Her cheeks turned even redder. But she held Pike’s gaze with the strength of a mountain cat.
The piano tinkled to life again, and couples had begun to pair off when Evelyn spoke over the music and voices. “You stay away from me, Putrid Pike, don’t you—”
“What did you call me?” Pike’s features hardened.
Sam ached to throw the bastard out into the rain. After he’d knocked him unconscious and broke every last finger.
“Don’t you,” Evelyn repeated, slowly, as if Pike were a dimwit, “ever approach me again.”
Given Sam held Evelyn facing off with Pike pretty much in the middle of the through-fare, the dancers stopped and gradually the pianist gave up, too. Feminine whispers seemed to surround them and Sam sensed every eye focused on Evelyn.
One thing Sam knew far too well about Pike was the man would fight when cornered. Meaner than a badger, more territorial than a black bear, he’d not let this drop. Evelyn finally stood up for herself, and Sam applauded her spine. But he couldn’t let this go on.
The night’s events proved courting Evelyn wasn’t enough, would never be enough. So he took the leap.
“The reason you’re out of the running, Pickle Pike,” Sam spoke loudly, clearly enough for all to hear, “and all you guys, too, is I’m smitten.”
Evelyn’s gaze finally swiveled off her target. She gaped at him, that pretty little rosebud mouth pursed. So kissable. He’d get to that in a moment.
“See?” Sam said, dropping to one knee, holding Evelyn’s hand in his. “Mrs. Evelyn Brandt, I’m a man in love. Will you do me the esteemed honor of becoming my wife?”
All around, the other young ladies sighed, clapped in delight, and fellas groaned in defeat. Pike swore under his breath and stomped a boot heel.
Evelyn’s mouth opened. Closed and opened again.
He realized in a flash of intuition he could not risk her refusal, not here, not now, not in front of the ruffians. It would undo any ground he’d gained by proposing marriage.
To keep her from saying a word, he surged to his feet, took her in his arms and spun her about. He set her back on her toes and kissed her.
Chapter Seven
Evelyn’s arms came about Sam’s broad shoulders, it seemed, all on their own. His kiss moved her nearly to tears. So tender, so seemingly genuine, so passionate. His supple ministrations evoked a longing so deep within her, it crested beyond her control and tears stung her eyes.
Sam broke their kiss, far too quickly. All around them, applause erupted. So many smiles and murmured congratulations from young ladies.
Putrid Pike narrowed his eyes. Split a glance between herself and Sam.
But Sam had eyes only for her.
“My bride is all tuckered out,” Sam announced, to more whoops and shouted congratulations. “I’m going to walk her back to the Quarters so she can retire. Carry on.”
He’d pulled her by the hand to the front door, found her damp shawl beneath others and put it about her shoulders. “Goodnight, everyone,” he called as he saw her through the doorway into the rain.
He opened his umbrella, perching it above both of them. And stole another kiss. Such a tender, sweet, glorious sensation—this couldn’t be called stealing because she wanted his kiss, completely. She called herself the worst kind of fool.
Strains of piano music seeped through the walls to mingle with the cadence of rain on the rooftop, umbrella canopy, and puddles upon the earth.
Sam pulled back, breaking that sweet kiss. He smiled, kissed her once more, briefly.
Awareness tumbled within her belly. Ah, how he won her over. So quickly, just like Daniel Tracy had.
He might not be anywhere near the same kind of man as Daniel, but he only offered the temporary, just the same. He’d told her so, himself. Just until you decide who you want, if anyone. Or if you want to continue on to California. Or return East, he’d said.
She wasn’t a dolt—she knew precisely why he proposed, and in such a very public way. But that truth didn’t prevent her from wanting his offer to be real. How wonderful would it be to own this man’s heart?
Yes, he’d proposed…but only to protect her.
Yet his kisses had made her hope there was something more than that. Did she dare ask for clarification?
She shivered, only partly from the damp breeze and falling temperature, and mostly because of the lingering assault of Putrid Pike’s hand on her sit-down-upons—again.
Sam turned them toward the Quarters, one arm snuggly about her shoulders, the other holding the umbrella to shield them—mostly her—from falling rain.
She caught up the hem of her skirts and relished the closeness of his big, warm, protective body. Why did being touched by him, held by him, entice her so?
He opened the door of the Quarters, allowing her to enter first. He shook off the dripping umbrella, set it to dry in a corner of the entry hall, and followed her into the parlor.
Evelyn turned up the wick on the lamp someone had left burning in the window. Sam turned to the stove to light a fire.
She watched him bent on that one knee, his broad shoulders and strong arms at work beneath the fine cut of his coat. On one knee, just as he’d done at the dance. To ask a question she’d not answered.
That question hung between them still.
He hadn’t been serious. Surely not.
He moved to the settee, barely big enough for the two of them to sit side by side, and invited her to snuggle in the crook of his arm. She settled because she wanted to.
Was it so wrong to crave this closeness?
Sam smoothed his big hand over her arm, from shoulder to elbow and back. So soothing, so welcome. His touch erased the groping she’d endured from Pike.
She sighed and relaxed in his embrace.
Rain pattered against the windowpanes. Sam’s breathing, the muted crackle of flames within the stove, and rainwater sluicing over window panes defined the boundaries of her world.
This was nice. Very nice. But there wasn’t a soul to see them together. Why did he link their fingers together and rest their joined hands upon his thigh? Everyone else was still at the dance.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked.
She squeezed his hand. “The fact you don’t need to hold me like this. There’s not a soul to see us together, no one to convince you’re my protector.”
“I’m not doing this for an audience.”
But what about the proposal? That had been all about the audience and conveying a message. “No?”
“I can’t help myself, Evelyn.” She heard him swallow, her ear close enough to his throat to pick up the muted noise. “I want to touch you, be near you. I enjoyed those kisses.”
“You did?”
He chuckled at that, brought his hand from her arm to her hair. His touch felt so good. Too good.
“If that wasn’t self-evident,” he whispered, “I need to try harder.”
“But aren’t you merely making a statement for the others? Assuring the other men leave me be?”
He seemed to think that through. “Yes. But it’s more than that. I made a statement because I couldn’t hold my tongue. Watching you dance with the others, seeing his hand on your—” He tensed.
She raised her head to look at him. What was he trying to say?
“You may not like it, but you deserve to know the truth. I feel protective, defensive, like it’s my job to see you’re safe. You’re mine…for as long as you’
ll have me.”
The force of his statement tapered off, trickled to its conclusion as if he’d begun to doubt himself. Doubt her. Almost as if he’d meant that proposal.
Amazing.
Her first genuine proposal.
Maybe.
How did a woman go about asking a man who’d vowed to put on a good show for the others if that good show held a shred of honesty? He’d admitted he’d wanted to kiss her, hold her, that he felt genuinely protective. That didn’t mean he wanted marriage.
Yet there had to be some measure of truth in the rumor of his sweetheart back home. Where did that young woman fit in? How did he feel about her, the one who held his heart?
The curiosity grew until she simply had to ask. If they were going to play this charade of an engagement, if only for the sake of her safety, she ought to know a little of the truth. So she justified broaching the personal subject.
“I know you said you don’t have a special girl, and I believe you,” Evelyn ventured. “But you did ask her to marry you.”
Sam nodded, his chin leaning against her crown. “I did. But she didn’t love me enough to come west with me.”
Evelyn couldn’t imagine anyone, any woman being daft enough to turn down this remarkable, gentle, caring man. “How long had you been keeping company?”
“Three and a half years.” He answered easily, as if he didn’t mind sharing the tale.
“And another three years here,” she added. “Are you sure you’re no longer in love with her?” She had to know the truth of it. How could she even consider marrying a man who still loved another?
“She’s my past. I want you to be my future.”
Flattering words. Beautiful words. She’d fallen for the like before, and she no longer trusted her ability to discern the difference between truth and lie.
“Are you sure?” She moved enough to look him in the eye, searching for any way to evaluate what she might read there. “Are you ready to let her go?”
His smile, so easy and sad, spoke volumes. Truth glimmered in the tender expression as he held her gaze without hesitation. “I swear to you, Evelyn Brandt, I’m done with the likes of her.”
