by Rose, Amelia
Bought it for us.
If there was going to be an us.
I paced away from the window. Moonlight and fallen snow meant it was still nearly bright as day out there. The snowfall had stopped and now tracks remained in the street where horses, people and wagons had passed. There were still men on the streets, a few with women on their arms. It was early yet, not quite gone on nine, and truly, I was too restless to sleep despite, or because of, the events of the day. My head still ached miserably, though, and my heart was beginning to as well.
In the hallway outside the room I'd taken, a grandfather clock struck the hour. Not gone on nine yet? It was seven. Maggie and Hutch probably hadn't eaten yet. She'd only left a little while ago.
Abruptly, I threw off the quilt and turned down the lamp, found the key to my room and checked my appearance in the glass. I didn't want to be alone anymore. I'd go join them. If they'd eaten, maybe they'd loan me use of the kitchen. I'd make eggs, one of the few things I could safely create in a kitchen. Or chicken. Or maybe something I could chop viciously with a sharp knife. I just didn't want to be alone with my thoughts anymore. Wherever Matthew was, he'd have a shock when he came back. I'd get answers or end it again. Again. Maybe this time for good. I saw Hutch and Maggie together. They were happy, they worked together, they stayed together, even after Maggie's work as a midwife dragged back all Hutch's memories of his first wife dying in child bed, they'd found each other.
Matthew. Matthew was firecrackers and lightning and wildfires—and too many nights like this one.
Maybe he was out asking questions of the Sheriff. Maybe he was looking for tracks that likely had been snowed under. I absolutely wouldn't worry that something had happened to him, there'd been too many days and nights worrying about that, only to have him turn up again, bad penny safe and sound.
I yanked the door to the room open.
And fell into his arms.
"Whoa, girl," Matthew said. He caught my arms and set me neatly back on my feet.
"Let go of me," I snapped. But, of course, he already had.
"It's me, Chlo." As if I'd mistake him for anybody else.
"I know it's you." I looked past him into the hall. "You and who else?"
Matthew closed his eyes briefly. "From the sound of it, you already know."
I did. I'd seen him. Him and Violet. But hearing it, without any attempts at denial, somehow, that was worse.
I slapped him. I'd never done anything like that in my life and, had I ever expected to, I'd have thought it would have been for lying, not for telling me the truth.
"How could you? And why? Why, after everything that we've been through, after—"
"Chloe, it's not what you think." He had one hand up to his cheek and his eyes were watering.
"Of course not. Of course it isn't. It never is, is it, Matthew Longren? Did you think you'd just wait until I fell for you again and—"
"—You're talking about Violet." He kept his voice level. That just made me angrier.
Down the hall, someone opened a door and stuck his head out. I hadn't known any of the other rooms were occupied. The hotel wasn't finished, though maybe the carpenters were staying. Whoever he was, he took one look at us and retreated.
"Of course I'm talking about Violet. Of course it is Violet. And, of course you—"
"—Needed her advice," Matthew said. He met my eyes, looking far too rational. "Didn't go looking for her, but a fire brings people out and…"
I almost hit him again, my hand flying up of its own accord. Instead, I jerked back, appetite gone, the desire to see any member of the Longren clan long gone. Grabbing the door, I swung it, hard.
He caught it easily and, when I stepped forward, belligerent, furious, he caught me easily, too, lifting me with his hands just above my elbows, swinging me far too easily off the floor and back into the room, as if we danced some complicated dance. I caught my breath as he shut the door behind himself, locked it, and pocketed the key.
"Give me that!" I was angry enough to climb out the window except for the snow; angry enough to head back to Gold Hill on foot if that was the only way I could get there tonight.
"Chloe, listen to me."
He looked serious, calm and determined. I backed away again, terrified suddenly of what he was going to tell me, the end of the years of advance and retreat. The end of the dream I'd had. That, someday, I'd be a Longren woman. That I'd marry Matt. That he'd love only me.
"Get out."
"Sure," he said, agreeable. Not leaving.
I stomped past him to the door, my boots ringing on the hardwood floors. "Give me the key."
He met my eyes, looking almost as angry as I was. I held my hand out. He considered, reached into his pocket, pulled out the key.
I took it without saying anything, wrapped my fingers around it, looked away from him and turned back to the door. The key in the lock, the doorknob spun, I pulled the door open a couple of inches.
Matthew's hand came over my shoulder, flat against the door, slamming it shut. I turned fast and his other hand came up on the other side of my head, boxing me in. I started to duck out from under his grasp, but he lowered his head and caught my mouth with his.
It started as fight but Matthew's mouth was hot, his lips winter-rough, his breath sweet, no trace of whisky. Partway into the kiss, he reached down one hand and cupped my cheek. Without thinking, I pressed my head into his palm, pressed my mouth harder against his.
His other hand went away from the door, away from me, leaving one side of me suddenly cold and wanting him back. I opened my eyes and pulled back, looking into his face.
Looking into the tiny circle of twisted metal he held up in front of me.
I stared. "What is that?"
Matthew grinned, looking a great deal like he must have when he was a little boy growing up, driving his older siblings crazy, tagging after Hutch, making Annie despair.
"Barbed wire."
That was about right. I couldn't quite stop staring at it. "Why?"
"Because I don't have a thimble. Silly, of course. Annie must have dozens at her dress shop. But I didn't want to tell Annie before I told you."
My breath caught. The day had been long, too full of events. It was not every day someone tried to kill me.
It was not every day Matthew Longren proposed.
"Matthew?"
"Miss Chloe Anders, will you marry me?"
He was going to have to ask my father and Gold Hill's Mayor wasn't going to be happy. He was going to have to get past my mother, far more ferocious than my father, though she'd always thought eventually Matthew would come around.
I'd marry him, even if they said no.
Meeting his eyes, looking again at the ring, a twisted band of metal, something taken from the garden at the house he'd bought from Hutch, maybe. Because he didn't want to tell Annie before he told me, he hadn't asked for a thimble.
Told me?
But the smile was taking over my face. "Matthew Longren, I will marry you."
The barbed wire ring went flying. I heard it hit the floor and roll. He grabbed me around the waist, spun me in a circle that made my head start aching again, cheered so loudly, someone somewhere down the hall called to us to stop, spun me until we were dizzy and let me drop down the length of his body, mine pressed against his, my arms coming down around his neck, his hands pressing up my back, pulling me tight against him.
"I love you, Miss Chloe Anders."
"I love you, Mr. Matthew Longren."
Outside, the moonlight flared bright again as clouds shredded across the sky. The curtains were open. I closed them without conscious thought, leaning across the davenport to pull them together. When I turned back, Matthew was there, close enough to catch me up in his arms and press tight against me. Our mouths came together again, his hands pulled me tight. I fumbled, dizzy, reached for the sofa under the window and we both sank down to it, Matthew pressing me back against it, our arms around each other, mouths co
nnecting, breath coming fast and then his mouth moved, his lips trailed hot across my jaw, into my hair. He breathed my name, traced the lines of my face with his fingers and all the while, I was pressing my fingers into his hair, pulling his mouth back to mine, saying his name, trying to remember the anger and hurt of only an hour ago, less. We were moving so fast; he'd asked me to marry him.
"You dropped the ring."
"I owe you a thimble."
Kissing my throat, his teeth grazed my skin. His hands traced my shoulders and ran down my arms. I put my hands on his chest; felt the muscle there, the broad expanse, the caps of his shoulders.
"You'll have to ask." I stopped talking. I had no interest in mentioning the Mayor.
He didn't respond. Not in words. He reached up, both hands, loosening the pins in my hair until it tumbled around my shoulders. He traced the fall of my gold curls along my throat, traced his fingers down to the collar of my dress. I tried to still my trembling, afraid I'd scare him away.
Matthew was a cad, a scoundrel. He'd stepped out with so many girls over the years and not only girls in town but also girls who came to Nevada because of the silver mines, because of the easy money.
With me, he was a gentleman. He took my arm. He helped me in and out of wagons. He called for me at my father's house.
He knew more than I did.
I was ready to learn.
My dress fell open under his hands. He touched the skin along my collarbone, traced it with fingers and then with tongue. He kissed the edge of my jaw, his hands tracing again and again along my jaw, dropping lower each time, caressing my breasts through my dress, then slipping his fingers inside the unbuttoned front.
I kissed his hair, ran my fingers through his curls, outlined the muscles in his arms, his broad shoulders, the nape of his neck, where the curls covered skin untanned by the sun. I licked at his throat, his ears, his mouth, let my head fall back when his kisses trailed down to the vee of buttons on my dress, shivered under his hands.
And shivered as his hands went away. My head was still tilted back, my eyes half closed, my breath uneven. My hands clasped his shoulders, keeping me from falling back against the davenport.
It was his decision to make. I had wanted him all these years, even when I sent him away, knowing the only way he'd ever come back to me was if I didn't chase him. I wanted him now.
I let him make the choice.
His fingers were gentle on the neckline of my dress. It took me a minute to realize he was refashioning the buttons, and doing it poorly.
I let my head roll forward gradually, my eyes opening so I could smile into his eyes. When he met my gaze, he smiled.
"They're easier to unbutton," he said.
"Would you like me to do it? I've had some experience." My tone was lighter than I'd have thought I could manage.
"I'll get it," he said. "If you're not in a hurry. I like touching you."
You didn't have to stop.
He did stop, though. The soiled doves in the back streets, they'd known Matthew. And someday, he'd tell me. Today had been long and confusing. He was probably right to stop.
When he pulled away from me, leaving my bodice crookedly buttoned and my breath still coming hard, I felt embarrassed, uncertain what to do with my hands or eyes now that neither were focused on him.
Until the question came back. I found myself on my feet, having not planned to stand or pace halfway across the hotel room.
"Chloe?"
"What was Violet doing here, Matthew?" I hated the shrill sound of my voice, hated that I had to ask him this, now.
Hated, actually, that he laughed. "She came because she's Violet, you're not wrong there."
I made a sound something like a hiss. My hands tightened into fists.
Matthew held up both hands, still sitting, still watching me. "She came to me. She didn't know, Chloe. She came to see me because the Queen had caught on fire. She followed the noise and smoke."
"That sounds like her."
His mouth twitched but only slightly and, despite myself, I liked him for honoring her, also. As long as he stopped doing that soon. As long as he answered my questions.
"She really was concerned about the Queen."
When I glared at him in complete disbelief, he spread his hands reasonably. "The Silver Dollar is only just south of us. That's her father's property. Call it self-interest."
I felt a flush stealing over me. I'd known that, of course. That Violet Hastings' family owned the nearby hotel. But seeing Violet with Matthew had driven reason out of my head.
"But you were conversing," I said, the image of Matthew, his head lowered, his eyes rapt, blurring over the image of Matthew here, with me.
It was why I'd gone off into the alley, seeking the person who had hit me and left me for—
Matthew colored. "I've never asked anyone to marry me before."
As if I'd been hit again, I almost went down. My knees buckled, the world swarmed up at me, and Matthew darted across the room to catch my arm. "Chloe?"
"You … asked … her?"
He stared at me, not understanding at all, and then, curse him, began to laugh. "She came to me because—” He paused, looked at my face, and clearly decided not to continue with that tact. "I told her we were together now and she got that look in her eyes."
I narrowed my own eyes at him.
"Kind of like that," Matthew nodded, as if I'd been doing it by way of example. "Like she was daring me to prove we were together and I wasn't just putting her off."
If I glared any harder, my eyes would close completely.
"So, I told her. She is the one person who knew before you that I intended to ask you to marry me."
I startled both of us by laughing. "I can't think of anyone I'd rather you shared the information with first than her."
He looked rueful. "Happily, she took it well."
I looked about at the floor, trying to trace the whereabouts of the twisted piece of barbed wire. "She told you to give me barbed wire?" The thing had rolled somewhere. I kept looking. It was something I wanted to hang on to.
"She told me to give you a thimble or a ring," he said. "Rings are apparently the new thing." He came up to me and put his arms around my waist, interrupting my search.
"Makes more sense than a thimble for me, given my sewing skills." I leaned back in his arms.
"We'll ask Annie to make you a dress."
"We should probably do that soon," I said, and stood on tiptoe to kiss him.
He left when the grandfather clock had struck nine, promising not to head back to Gold Hill but to either sleep in the lobby or find a room.
I paced. My blood was up, from kissing Matthew, from the fire and the man who lit it and hit me, from Matthew, again… From everything.
I wanted Isabel, Issy, my closest friend since childhood and a terrible gossip. Even if I could go talk to Issy at this hour, everyone in town would know every single thing that had happened before I was ready for anyone to know anything.
But Issy was always so good for talking with and I was far too restless to sit still and silent.
I took a lamp and made my way down to the kitchen. Maggie and Hutch had probably left hours ago and I'd have the kitchen to myself. Too late to bother building up a fire but there should be cold meats and cheese, I reasoned, and apples if not.
What I found, instead, was Maggie, sitting at one of the broad, scarred, oak work tables in the kitchen, staring into space. She jolted when I appeared in the doorway, one hand going to her throat.
"Chloe. You startled me. Can't you sleep? I shouldn't be surprised if you have dreams tonight after everything you went through. Are you—"
"I'm alright," I said, and managed not to snap. Sitting there with only lamps flickering, she was still ethereally beautiful but now, drawn, worried, as if she hadn't slept well in a while.
I wanted to tell her. Maybe telling her that something good was happening—would happen soon—maybe that would lighten h
er brow, but she was Matthew's family and married to Hutch and there was no way Maggie would keep it to herself. Matthew would want to tell his brother, especially after what had gone before between them.
"You're glowing," Maggie said speculatively. "You look happy." She pondered briefly, then said, "You found Matthew?"
I nodded, added quickly, "He's gone to find a room for the night, or else is sleeping in the lobby."
Maggie quirked one corner of her mouth. "I didn't ask." Of all of us, she seemed most comfortable talking about Matthew with me.
And me. Did I mind that she'd kissed Matthew?
Not really. Who hadn't? And that thought made me smile all over again. "Is there any food?"
Which was how we came to be sitting in the hotel kitchen near midnight, sharing a cold meal, drinking coffee that seemed more than a day old and talking into the night.
The kitchen floor was cold, even through my boots. The fire in the stove was banked for the night. I fetched a shawl from a coat rack and sat with my feet curled under me. There was no one in the kitchen to see me but Maggie.
"How does your head feel?" Maggie asked. Her voice was low, gentle and quiet, so soothing I thought I might eventually sleep this night.
Then, the thought of Matthew surged up again and sleep was forgotten, Maggie's question nearly forgotten as well.
"It aches, though not as badly."
Maggie tilted her head, eyes shrewdly judging me. Her midwifery had been taught her by her mother, a nurse during the War Between the States. No doubt she knew something of head wounds as well as childbirth.
But she didn't say anything, didn't offer to look at it. There'd been no blood on my hands or gloves, only the soreness in the spot he'd hit me and nothing that could be done for it now. Maggie had warned me earlier, about dizziness and faintness, but I'd never been one for fainting and the dizziness now had quite a different cause.
