Hell and damnation, he had heard her right the first time. “Why?” He hardly recognized the squeaky voice that came from his mouth.
She moved closer, and he took a step back, knocking into the desk. “Because I think I would like for you to kiss me.” Then her expression changed, and suddenly, she looked stricken. “Unless you don’t want to kiss me.” She covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh, I never should have asked you. You probably think poorly of me, or you find me unattractive, or not to your liking, or maybe you even think I’m downright ugly, or—"
Mace took the last two steps between them and cupped her face in his hands. She stared at him, her eyes inches from his. “Close your eyes, Becky.”
He brought his lips to hers and knew in a flash he had just made the biggest mistake of his life.
A big, big mistake.
Her lips under his were soft and moist. Warm and sweet. She tasted of coffee and sugar, and sunshine and happiness. When she slumped against him, he released her face and wrapped his arms around her, causing a slight mewling sound to come from her. Slowly, she slid her arms around his waist, bringing them even closer.
Her warm hands rested on his back. His mind completely frozen, he touched her lips with his tongue, and she opened for him. He swept into the moist cavern, touching her gums, teeth, and her tongue. He swore he could hear the sounds of music playing, or perhaps it was merely the gush of his blood racing south, but in any event, he pulled away from her. The only noise in the room was their heavy breathing as they stared at each other.
Instead of the horror he’d expected to see on her face, she touched her lips with her fingertip and smiled. “Thank you.”
Thank you.
In some places, he could be hung for what he’d just done. He started to speak, but his voice hadn’t caught up to him yet. He cleared his throat. “You’re welcome. But that must never, never, ever happen again.”
Before he was too tempted to make a liar out of himself by pulling her into his arms again, he stepped back. “Never, Miss Becky.”
She frowned. “You called me Becky before. Why are you back to calling me Miss Becky again?”
He rubbed his hand down his face. “To remind you, and more importantly to remind myself, that kissing you was probably one of the stupidest things I’ve ever done.”
He cursed to himself when her eyes filled with tears.
“I see.” She wrapped her arms around herself and gazed out the window at the darkness. “I guess I’m not much good at kissing.” She looked over at him. “You see, I haven’t had a whole lot of practice. Dr. Snodgrass chased away any man who showed me interest.”
Now that his brain had re-engaged itself, he smiled at her. “I’m glad you haven’t had a whole lot of practice, but that’s not the reason. I thoroughly enjoyed kissing you. Far too much, in fact.”
“Then why should it never happen again? I liked kissing you, too. It made my heart beat faster, and funny, good things happened to my stomach.”
Oh, God, she’s going to kill me.
“Look, Becky. The reason we can’t kiss anymore is because there can never be anything between us, and you need to save your kisses for your husband. If Miss Nellie has her way, she’ll have you and Miss Miranda married in no time.”
“Then you can be my husband! I have to get married or go back to jail. You don’t have a wife, and you need me to work in the jail. I wouldn’t mind living in your bedroom in the back of the jail.”
Oh, God, she would have to mention his bedroom. Her hopeful look tore him up. He placed his hands on her shoulders and gently pushed her into the chair in front of the desk. “Sit down.”
Then he leaned his hip on the edge of the desk and took her hands into his, not able to help noticing the difference in their skin. “I am a Negro. A black man. A former slave. You are a white woman. We cannot marry because we would not be accepted as a couple. Hell, in some places, we would be breaking the law by just being married.”
“Well, that’s just plain right dumb,” she huffed. “Why would anyone care if I married a former slave? You’re not a slave anymore. You’re a well-respected sheriff of an important county in New Mexico Territory.”
“Yes, well respected, and I want it to stay that way. I don’t want to start trouble in a town I’ve sworn to keep crime-free.”
“Is it a crime for a black man to marry a white woman in New Mexico?”
He slowly shook his head, wishing with everything he possessed that he could explain it better. But if Becky didn’t see anything wrong with them together, then no matter what he said, she would disagree. If he’d learned anything in the time he’d known her, it was her tenacious spirit. The only way to dissuade her was to take a different stance.
He dropped her hands and walked around the desk. Best to put some distance, and whatever barriers he could, between them. “Actually, the truth is I don’t want to get married. That’s pretty much the way of it. Marriage is not for lawmen.”
She studied him for a minute. “Or maybe you just don’t want to marry me.”
Yes, she’s killing me. But this is for the best.
“I’m sorry, but you’re right, Miss Becky. I just don’t want to marry you.”
Chapter Eight
Becky studied herself in the mirror. Although she’d never thought of herself as pretty, she had to admit, with the new dress and her hair freshly washed and styled in curls that hung down her back, she did look as though she would receive a lot of attention tonight at the dance.
Miss Nellie had arranged for a few gentlemen to call on them the past week in the evenings to visit in Miss Priscilla’s parlor. These were men they’d met at church, who the pastor had recommended. They were all pleasant men, two widowers and three unmarried. Miranda didn’t show much enthusiasm for any of the gentlemen, and none could measure up in Becky’s mind. Not when she compared them to Sheriff Jensen.
They’d spent their days together at the jail, her doing paperwork or going to the café to fetch meals for the prisoners. They laughed together, had their meals together, and sat quietly as they both worked. She never again brought up them marrying, but every time she mentioned another man who had called on them the night before, he would clam up or make some unflattering remark about that particular man.
If he hadn’t flat out told her he did not want to marry her, she would swear he was jealous. He certainly showed all the signs of it at times, but he kept his distance, and she stewed over why he felt they could not marry because he was darker than her. There were many white men married to Mexican women, and no one seemed horrified at the idea.
Miranda entered the room, looking quite pretty, herself, bringing Becky back to the present. “Are you ready to go?”
She studied her roommate who had confided in her that she intended to search for a job while Miss Nellie found husbands for them. She had never told Becky who the man was she had murdered or why the marshal let her leave town with that hanging over her head. Her roommate was a very private person, and Becky had the feeling she would up and disappear one day.
“Yes, I’m ready.” Becky picked up her shawl and left the room. Miss Nellie waited downstairs for them with Sheriff Jensen standing alongside her. Becky’s heart immediately began to thump.
The sheriff was a sight to behold. Dressed in dark wool trousers, a white shirt against his dark skin, black string tie, and a vest, he looked like a gambling hall owner or banker. Except for the gun belt slung low on his hips. His eyes lit up when she and Miranda descended the stairs, and despite the fact that they spent all their days together, his presence now stirred her as if they’d been apart for weeks. “Good evening, Sheriff.”
He nodded and gave them both a huge smile. “You gals look fine tonight. The men will be falling all over you.”
“The sheriff was good enough to volunteer to escort us tonight since this is our first dance.” Miss Nellie took the sheriff’s arm, and they left Miss Priscilla’s.
During the week, Miss
Nellie had traded in their wagon for a buggy. The three ladies rode in the buggy, and the sheriff rode his horse alongside them. Becky was excited about attending a dance. Her first one. There were so many things young women her age had done that she never had. Hopefully, she would conduct herself the way she should.
Miss Nellie had instructed her and Miranda—who also hadn’t attended a dance before—on how it would go. Gentlemen would request a dance, and they would accept. If they turned down one man for a dance, they were not allowed to dance that same number with someone else.
They’d spent several afternoons in the parlor practicing dance steps. Becky felt confident with a few dances, but others confused her and she hoped she wouldn’t stumble and fall all over her partner.
Would Sheriff Jensen ask her to dance? Would he dance with anyone? Surely, no one would object if he only danced with her. She sighed, hoping his foolishness about them not being together didn’t include dancing.
They could hear the music a half-block away from the rooms where the dance was held. The building was used for town meetings, trials, and social events, such as the dance and a meeting place for the ladies’ sewing circle. It was a two-story structure, and lights from inside shone out onto the street.
Ladies in colorful dresses and men all cleaned up and looking spiffy walked arm in arm toward the entrance. Carriages and buggies were parked willy-nilly outside, and about a dozen horses were hitched to the post in front. She was amazed at the number of people who attended.
Her eyes look in the scene as they entered the room. A long table had been set up along one wall where cakes, pies, cookies, and lemonade were set up. There was a bowl of some type of punch that the men hung around, which made her believe that one had liquor in it.
Two fiddlers tapped their feet as they played a lively number. Two rows of dancers, men on one side, ladies on the other, kept up with the fast movements. “Are you good at country dances, Miss Becky?” The sheriff had to lean close to speak to her over the sound of the music, laughter, and conversation.
“Miss Nellie has been practicing with us all week.” She smiled up at him, drawn in by his scent of soap and cotton, trying very hard not to go up on her tiptoes and kiss him again. “Do you dance, Sheriff?”
“I do.” His deep voice slid over her.
She tilted her head, holding her breath. “Will you dance with me?”
For a few moments, she thought he would refuse. But then he smiled and said, “I will.”
She grinned back at him. “The next dance?”
No sooner were her words out then the music stopped. The taller of the two fiddlers announced the next number would be a waltz to give the dancers a chance to catch their breath. Her eyes slid toward the sheriff.
He looked absolutely scared to death.
***
A waltz.
Damn his luck. As the tune started up, he looked into Becky’s hopeful eyes and wanted to turn and run. Run away from her, away from how she made him feel, away from how much he wanted a woman he could never have. Instead, he smiled and held out his hand. She returned his smile, and they moved to the dance floor.
Taking her into his arms was both a joy and torture. They fit together as if the Lord made them for each other. Then why had He made them so different they could never live together without reproach?
Deciding to push all of that out of his mind and just enjoy the dance, he swung her into the waltz. He took notice of those paying attention to them, and all he saw were smiles. There was a bit of curiosity on some faces, but for the most part, he and his partner were no more attention-getting than anyone else.
Well, then.
He tried to tell himself if they were garnering attention at all, it was because he’d never danced at these events before. He’d always attended for the purpose of making sure the punch bowl with the liquor in it didn’t tempt some of the more reckless cowboys to start a fight.
“You dance very well. It appears Miss Nellie’s lessons were helpful.” He pulled Becky closer as they moved into a turn to avoid another couple. Speaking of reckless, he didn’t release her when they moved on. It felt good holding her this close, and dammit, he would enjoy this one dance that he would never repeat again.
After all, she was here tonight to attract a husband. Dancing with him wasn’t going to help her there. The thought depressed him. Most likely with Miss Nellie’s dedication and Becky’s sweet personality and pretty looks, she would be hitched before too long.
Tied to some young cowboy with a ranch and money to provide her with a good life. Children and all the rest of it. She would share her life—and bed—with this unknown cowboy that Mace already hated.
“Truthfully, I was afraid I would make a fool of myself tonight.” Becky brought his attention back to his previous comment.
“Why?”
“Because even though I practiced with Miss Nellie, the thought of remembering all those steps with a stranger terrified me.” She smiled up at him, and his heart damn near exploded. “But dancing with you made all my scary thoughts vanish.”
“You don’t deserve scary thoughts, Miss Becky.”
She tsked. “I will no longer allow you to call me Miss Becky. And I will call you Mace. We are coworkers and friends.” She stuck out her cute little chin, daring him to object. Unable to help himself, he threw his head back and laughed.
“I don’t think that is funny. Mace.” She said his name as if she was trying it out on her tongue. Hearing his given name from her sweet lips did funny things to his insides. Things he was better off forgetting.
Once he stopped laughing, she said, “We are friends, aren’t we?”
Oh, Lord, how he wanted to be more than friends. “Yes—Becky—we are friends. And coworkers.”
“See? Saying my name isn’t so horrible, is it?”
He shook his head. “No. Not horrible at all.”
It turned out his dance with Becky was his only opportunity to speak with her for the rest of the evening. She—along with Miss Miranda and Miss Nellie—were swamped with dance partners. Plus, he needed to break up a potential fight and then escorted two other brawlers from the dance hall to the jail.
The next few days, Becky and Mace worked together at the jailhouse in harmony. He had to admit she was getting under his skin more each day. Dropping the “Miss” and “Sheriff” seemed so natural, it scared him.
Since the dance, and the lack of attention he and Becky had received when they’d danced together, he had begun to think that maybe, just maybe, the town would be ready to accept them as a couple. New Mexico Territory, like a lot of places in the West, was far more tolerant of marriage between Mexicans and white people. Perhaps there was hope, after all. But with his innate skepticism, he put that on the back burner.
“Miss Nellie is pushing me to marry.” Becky set the pile of telegrams she’d just picked up on the desk. “She’s a little concerned that she isn’t doing her duty to Marshal Jones. He did say if we didn’t marry up, we were to be sent back to jail.”
Mace rested his hands on his hips, right above his gun belt. “Yes, the marshal told me the same thing.” He was still tying himself in knots over the edict from the marshal about the ladies marrying. In his opinion, they needed some time to get to know the men in town, not just jump into marriage with anyone.
“Miss Nellie said a lot of women are traveling out west to marry strangers as mail-order brides. The war left a lot of unmarried and widowed young women with no one to wed.” She studied him, almost as if she hoped he would ask her the question he’d been wrestling with for days. Hell, not only for days but since he’d met her.
This was not an easy matter with a quick yes or no answer. Despite the eager look on her face, he turned and walked to the door, grabbing his hat from the hook. “Once you finish up those telegrams, you can leave for the day.”
He strolled the boardwalk, tipping his hat to the ladies, nodding at the men. It was good for him to have a visible presence in tow
n; it made the citizens happy and feeling safe. He walked passed the saloon, where things were quiet, as they generally were late mornings. As he swung open the batwing doors, his attention was taken by two men, from the looks of it, already drunk, sitting at a small, round table near the front window.
A bleary-eyed, whiskered man lifted his glass of whiskey. “I don’t care if that n— is sheriff. He can keep the town cleaned up, but he has no right to dance with our women. Let him find a Mexican.”
***
Miss Nellie sat alongside Becky as she read the newspaper in Miss Priscilla’s parlor. “How are things going with your work at the jail?”
“Fine. I think I’m helping Mace—I mean, Sheriff Jensen—quite a bit.”
Miss Nellie smoothed out her skirts and folded her hands in her lap. “Becky, we need to talk. I have had three offers for your hand this past week, and you’ve turned them all down.”
“I know.” She slumped against the back of the sofa. “They were all nice men, don’t get me wrong, but I just didn’t want to marry any of them.”
Miss Nellie leaned forward. “Becky, you know I’m under orders from Marshal Jones to get you and Miranda married. We’ve been here a few weeks, and you both have met some very nice, respectable men. I don’t know what is holding Miranda back, but I have a feeling I know what the problem is with you.”
Becky drew small circles with her fingertip on the blue brocade sofa. “What problem is that?” She glanced up at her, knowing her face flushed bright red.
“I think you have already decided on who you want to marry.”
“Maybe.”
Miss Nellie took her hand. “It’s very obvious to anyone who has spent time with you and Sheriff Jensen together that you both want the same thing. He wants you, and you want him.”
Becky shook her head. “No. I thought so myself, but when I brought up marriage, first he said he didn’t want to marry at all, and then when I pushed him, he said it was me he didn’t want to marry.”
Prisoners of Love: Becky Page 8
