But Lillian hadn't wanted to live without the man she loved. When Eden buried her mother, she had vowed never to repeat Lillian's mistake. A man who lived by the gun, died by the gun. Along with danger and mystery came violence and death. Loving any man—especially a gunslinger—wasn't worth the risk.
The walls Miss Devlin had built so carefully over the past twenty-nine years might momentarily have come tumbling down, but she would just get a little mortar and bricks and put them back up again. Eden wasn't foolish, and she wasn't stupid. From now on she would make sure Burke Kerrigan kept his distance from her. Or at least that she kept her distance from him.
Miss Devlin continued sternly lecturing herself as she walked the short distance to her gingerbread house, a shuffled stack of homework papers in her arms. She would not let herself like the gunslinger from Texas. She most certainly would not let herself fall in love with him. He could be as charming as he wished. She would have nothing more to do with him.
Chapter 6
You can't head off a man who won't quit.
IF MISS DEVLIN HOPED SHE HAD SEEN THE LAST OF the gunslinger she was sadly mistaken. At first she attributed their frequent encounters over the following week to coincidence. Upon reflection, she was forced to revise that opinion. For wherever she went, the gunslinger showed up, just like a bad penny. On Monday she was standing at the counter of Tomlinson's General Store reading the labeon a jar of Eastman's Violette Cold Cream when she noticed him entering the store. She purposefully returned to her examination of the perfumed cold cream. The label promised “Does not contain a base of oils or other ingredients that promote the growth of unwanted hair! No refined woman desires a growth of hair upon her face, neck, or arms, and hence every careful woman—”
Miss Devlin hadn't realized she was reading aloud, and froze when she heard a familiar Texas drawl finish “—will use only a high grade cold cream to protect herself from this danger.”
She clutched the jar of cold cream to her breast and grated out, “Aren't you supposed to be out hunting down rustlers?”
Kerrigan grinned. “Not much rustling going on in the bright light of day.”
Miss Devlin turned to face her nemesis. Unfortunately, the gunslinger was standing so close she was practically pinned between his muscular form and the counter. His black duster was hanging open and his body was disturbingly warm. “Don't you have anything better to do than stand here bothering me?”
“Am I bothering you?” he asked in a seductive voice. “You don't really need that stuff, you know. Your skin is lovely just as it is.”
While she stood there wide-eyed, his callused thumb brushed across her soft, smooth cheek.
“But if you insist on having it,” he continued, “perhaps you'd let me buy it for you as a gift.”
Aware they were attracting the attention of the other patrons in the store, Miss Devlin hissed, “I've changed my mind.” She slammed the cold cream down on the counter with a satisfying bang, threw her shoulders back, and marched out the door with the sound of the Texan's mocking laughter echoing behind her.
By sundown Florence Grady, the butcher's wife, who had been standing in the corner of Tomlinson's holding a ribbed-pattern lemon squeezer, had told everyone she met—and a few she contrived to meet—of Miss Devlin's confrontation with the gunslinger.
On Tuesday when Miss Devlin arrived home from school, she found a package on her front porch wrapped up in brown paper and tied with a pretty pink ribbon. At first she thought she must be seeing things. She looked left and right, but there was no sign of anyone about, nor was there a note. Eden wasn't used to finding items on her doorstep—especially not something that looked suspiciously like a present. Her heart beat a little faster as she carried it with her straight through the parlor into the kitchen.
Miss Devlin laid the mysterious package in the center of her kitchen table while she crossed to fill the coffeepot and set it on the stove to heat. The package sat there worrying her like a bowl of ice cream that would melt if it wasn't eaten. She sat down abruptly in front of it. Slowly, carefully, she untied the pink ribbon and unwrapped the brown paper to reveal—
A flush rose on Miss Devlin's face, and she put her hands to her cheeks to cool them. This could only have come from one person. She fought down the feeling of pleasure she felt, forcing herself to concentrate instead on the gall of the man. Imagine buying her something despite her explicit request that he not!
Of course she couldn't accept such a gift, especially from him. It would be highly improper. She opened the jar and sniffed the soft violet scent, but resisted the urge to dip her finger in. She couldn't imagine why he had sent it—except perhaps to aggravate her. She quickly put the lid back on and set the jar down with a bang, as she had once before. Only it wasn't nearly as satisfying a sound without Kerrigan there to hear it.
Well, no disreputable gunfighter was going to put Miss Eden Devlin in a compromising position. She would just return the cold cream to Mr. Tomlinson and let him refund Mr. Kerrigan's money. And she would do it before the sun set. Eden quickly wrapped the cold cream back up in the brown paper and threw her shawl around her shoulders for the walk into town.
Miss Devlin entered the general store and marched directly up to the counter, heaving a silent sigh of relief that there were no other customers in the store. Mr. Tomlinson had his back to her putting some yard goods on the shelf, so she cleared her throat and said, “I've come to return something.”
The balding man turned and smiled. “Why, hello, Miss Devlin. How can I help you?”
“I've come to return this cold cream.”
At that moment Florence Grady entered the store.
“Is there something wrong with it?” Mr. Tomlinson asked in a concerned voice.
Conscious she now had an audience, Miss Devlin stuttered, “No . . . that is . . . yes . . . that is, I've decided I don't want it.”
“The gentleman who purchased it for you seemed to think you did.”
“Well, he was wrong!”
“I see,” Mr. Tomlinson said. Although it was clear from the look on his face, he really didn't.
“I want you to refund the cost of this cold cream to Mr. Kerrigan,” Miss Devlin said.
“I'm afraid I can't do that,” Mr. Tomlinson said.
“Why not?” Miss Devlin demanded.
“Mr. Kerrigan expressly said that if you returned the cold cream I should give you whatever else you wanted in exchange.”
Outmaneuvered. Again. Miss Devlin felt the heat on her cheeks. Aware of Florence Grady eyeing her from behind the button table, she ged her teeth and said, “Please tell Mr. Kerrigan for me that I don't care to have anything in exchange.”
She turned a stony eye on Florence Grady's knowing expression, and marched out the door with as much dignity as she could muster.
On Wednesday Miss Devlin overslept and was almost late to school. She had been in the throes of a disturbing dream in which she had been running, trying to escape . . . something . . . and had been caught by a tall, dark-eyed stranger. He had cradled her in his arms while his hands roamed across her violet-scented skin. She awoke with a start when his hand reached for—a place it had no business being! She was totally mortified that her thoughts could have strayed so far from where she wanted them. It was enough to keep her up late reading at night, just to avoid sleep.
She had been relieved to discover, as she hurriedly dressed for school, that the real reason she had overslept was that her Waterbury Sure-Get-Up Alarm Clock had stopped ticking.
After school she headed directly for The Gold Shoppe, broken alarm clock in hand. However, she was stopped in front of the saddler's by Claire Falkner, who claimed, “I just happened to be in town on an errand, and when I saw you I just had to ask. Is it true what I heard?”
“What did you hear?�
� Miss Devlin asked cautiously.
“That he gave you a gift,” Claire said in breathless wonder.
“He?” Miss Devlin said, tilting her chin up and eyeing Claire down the length of her nose.
“The gunslinger.”
“I don't know where you heard a thing like that,” Miss Devlin said in a daunting voice.
“From Lynette Wyatt,” Claire admitted.
Miss Devlin's neck hairs prickled in alarm. She wondered how many people knew about her confrontation with Burke Kerrigan and the return of his gift.
“Why didn't you keep it?” Claire asked.
“It?” Miss Devlin said distractedly.
“The perfume.”
“Perfume?” Miss Devlin's eyebrows rose in two pointed arches.
“Why, yes. He did give you a bottle of Violette Rose Water, didn't he?”
“No, he did not!”
“Well, Lynette told me that Florence told her—”
“You should know better than to credit anything a notorious gossip like Florence Grady says,” Miss Devlin said ster
“But Florence—”
“I'm afraid I have an appointment,” Miss Devlin interrupted. “I trust you won't repeat that farradiddle to anyone.”
Claire blushed, “Well, I'm afraid I already . . . but I'll be sure to . . .” One look at Miss Devlin's face sent Claire hurrying down the boardwalk to do an errand of her own.
To Miss Devlin's dismay, Claire was only the first of several ladies who stopped her before she got to the jewelers. Every conversation led to the “gift” she had received from Burke Kerrigan. Eden's patience quickly deserted her and she donned an expression intended to convince the ladies of Sweetwater she “really did not want to discuss the matter.” But since she couldn't be rude to her pupils' mothers, Miss Devlin had no choice but to endure.
“Whyever did he give you such a gift?” Mabel Ives had questioned speculatively.
“I have no idea,” Miss Devlin replied.
“And of course you had no choice except to return it,” Amity Carson had whispered.
“No choice at all,” Miss Devlin said, her nose pinching.
She gratefully closed the door behind her at The Gold Shoppe, hoping for a respite from the curious eyes and probing questions that had followed her down the street.
“What can I do for you, Miss Devlin?” the jeweler asked.
“Can you fix my alarm clock, Mr. Gold?”
“Let me see, Miss Devlin. Ah . . . a Waterbury . . . very good clock . . . just take a second to . . .”
Eli Gold disappeared behind a curtain at the back of the shop, leaving Miss Devlin to wander around looking at the jewelry on and under the glass counters. A collection of silver baby spoons displayed on blue velvet caught her eye.
She picked up a tiny shell-shaped spoon and ran her fingers along its scalloped surface, imagining how the texture would feel to a baby using it for the first time. Her hand found its way to her belly as she imagined what it would be like to feel a life growing inside her.
“Friend of yours expecting?”
Miss Devlin froze. She recognized that drawl.
“No?” the voice continued. “Thinking of the future then? Toward the day when you'll need a spoon like that for your own child?”
Miss Devlin whirled in the direction from which the taunting voice had come, only to find herself staring out the plate-glass window of The Gold Shoppe into the interested face of Florence GradyMiss Devlin whirled the other way and encountered the white-toothed grin of the Texas gunman.
“What are you doing here?” she said. “I'm the talk of Sweetwater after what you did yesterday.”
“Your skin looks lovely.” His thumb brushed her cheek so quickly that her slapping hand missed his. “Did you use the cold cream?”
“You know very well that if I could have done so without causing even more talk, I would have thrown that cold cream right in your face. How dare you follow me in here!”
“Follow you?”
“Yes, follow me.”
“I'm here on legitimate business.”
Miss Devlin had already opened her mouth to contradict the gunman when Eli came back into the room with her alarm clock. She snapped her mouth shut and planted a beatific smile on her face. “Did you find the problem?”
“A broken spring. I fixed it.”
“What do I owe—”
“Oh, hello, Mr. Kerrigan,” Eli said, seeing Miss Devlin was not alone. “I have your pocket watch all ready, sir. A minor adjustment. Quite a unique watch. One of a kind. Beautiful couple pictured inside. Who might they be?”
It had been a friendly question, but Eli was reminded in the awkward silence that followed, as the gunslinger's dark eyes narrowed and a muscle in his cheek flexed, that while one might ask questions in the West, one did not always get answers. “Wait just a moment, sir, and I'll get your watch,” Eli said, making a hasty exit.
Miss Devlin refused to look at Kerrigan, so she missed the changes in his demeanor caused by Eli's unfortunate question. “It appears you do have business here after all,” she said, her body stiff with embarrassment.
“Forget it.”
“I shall be glad to forget ever having met you,” Miss Devlin said with all the disdain she could muster. “In the future, I would appreciate it if you do not find yourself compelled to offer any more tokens of . . . of . . .”
“Affection?” Kerrigan supplied.
“Irritation!” she retorted.
“You didn't like the cold cream?”
“It wasn't a matter of liking,” Miss Devlin said, gripping her gloved hands tightly together. “A lady does not accept gifts from a gentleman who is not . . . is not . . .”
“A gentleman?” Kerriganid with a sardonic twist to his mouth. “You're more of a prude than I thought, Miss Devlin.”
Eden opened her mouth to deny his accusation and snapped it shut when Felton Reeves opened the door—carrying a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with pink ribbon.
Felton pulled his hat off as he walked up to her, frowning when he realized Kerrigan was with her. He acknowledged the other man with a curt “Kerrigan.”
Kerrigan nodded and leaned indolently against the jewelry counter.
Felton turned his attention to Miss Devlin. “I heard you was in town, and wanted to give you this.” He thrust the package into Miss Devlin's hand, giving her no chance to refuse it.
“Why, thank you, Felton.”
He stood eyeing her expectantly, turning his battered hat in his hands. “Ain't you going to open it?”
“Now?” Miss Devlin caught a glimpse of Kerrigan's smirking face and said, “Yes, of course.” She laid the package on the glass counter and carefully unwrapped it.
When Miss Devlin said nothing, Felton blurted, “I hope you like chocolates.”
Miss Devlin opened the heart-shaped box and saw that indeed, it contained a dozen chocolate bonbons which, in fact, she liked very much. She turned and smiled to ease Felton's nervousness. “Thank you. I do like chocolates. I'm having Reverend Simonson and his wife over for dinner Friday night. Perhaps you could join us?”
“Friday night?” Felton stared at her blankly. “I . . . uh . . . can't Friday. I . . . uh . . . have to be out of town . . . on business.”
Miss Devlin repressed the notion that Felton's refusal sounded suspiciously like he didn't want to come. Why on earth would he bring her chocolates if he wasn't serious about courting her? “Perhaps another time, then.”
“Right. I'll be seeing you.” Felton slapped his hat on his head and a moment later was gone from the shop.
“I'm free on Friday night,” Kerrigan said, popping one of Felton's chocolates into his mouth. “I'll be glad to join you for dinner.”
Miss Devlin quickly slid the lid back in place on the chocolate
box. “Hell will freeze over before I invite a hired gun to dinner, Mr. Kerrigan.”
She glanced up and found Kerrigan's features taut, his eyes remote. She refused to say anything more, unsure what had caused his swift change of mood and unwilling to chance further antagonizing him. The instant Eli returned, she paid him what she owed him and raced from the store.
By dusk Florence Grady had passed on her opinion that there was definitely something going on between Miss Devlin and the gunslinger, and furthermore, Felton Reeves seemed to be involved.
Sweetwater Seduction Page 10
