After Sundown

by Shelly Thacker

  The day Annie had left St. Charles behind, she had vowed that her life would be different. That she would be different. That never again would she allow herself to become a man’s plaything—or a man’s anything. She didn’t trust men, didn’t want one in her life. Didn’t want or need a man’s strength or his protection or his touch... or his kisses.

  For one irrational moment last week, she had forgotten all the promises she had made to herself.

  Lucas McKenna, who always seemed determined to remind her that she was nothing, had made her forget everything.

  “Rebecca, I don’t think you’ll find it,” she said at last, opening her eyes. “And really, it’s not necessary anymore, since he hasn’t used the handcuffs. And my ribs are hardly bothering me at all today. In fact, I...” She glanced at the open door between the sitting room and the hotel’s main room, where she could hear Travis’s harmonica.

  She lowered her voice. “I started thinking yesterday that I’m healed up enough to travel. Especially since the marshal has started making plans to leave for Missouri—buying supplies, checking the train schedules out of Denver.” She gestured to some torn newspaper pages tacked to his wall.

  “Tarnation.” Rebecca walked over to peer at them. “Ain’t it just like that man to lose the key we don’t need and keep the one we do need. Right when we need it.”

  “Are we still hoping to get copies of the keys?” Annie whispered.

  “Lessin’ you want me to take a sledgehammer to this here door.” Rebecca frowned at the cell’s sturdy lock.

  “No, but I thought maybe...” She glanced at her windows, looking out through the iron bars at the softly falling snow. “Rebecca, I heard footsteps outside my window last week. And again two nights ago.” She shivered with a sudden chill, despite the woolen dress she wore. The sound in the night had woken her up when she heard it this time—and scared her so badly, she had nearly called out to Lucas. “Katja and the others said they didn’t know anything about it, but I thought maybe it was you, planning something?”

  Rebecca shook her head. “I been laid up all week.” She came back over to the cell door, her brow furrowed. “Did you mention this to the marshal?”

  “No, but... but I guess I will.”

  Rebecca bent down and started taking Annie’s supper out of the basket. “Well, if you’re fit to travel and that varmint’s lookin’ at train schedules, we best do something about this here door, and right quick.” She handed the foods through the bars—a sandwich of cold sliced turkey, a pewter mug filled with corn chowder, and a dish of lemon cookies. “You eat up. I’ll go to Daniel’s place and see if he’s back from birthin’ Mrs. Hall’s baby. Maybe he’s found us a skeleton key or a good thief, and we can get you out of here.”

  Rebecca turned and grabbed her cloak and bonnet, then hurried out, leaving the basket. With a sigh, Annie carried the foods over to the table, though she wasn’t very hungry. She hadn’t had much of an appetite the last two days, she had been so busy worrying about Lucas’s plans to leave for Missouri, and wondering about the midnight prowler.

  And trying to forget that breath-stealing kiss.

  She was setting the foods down when she heard the hotel’s front door open again.

  Annie turned with a puzzled frown. Had Rebecca come back?

  From the sound of the heavy footsteps, it clearly wasn’t her friend. And it wasn’t Lucas. She heard Travis’s harmonica cut out in the middle of a note. Heard him say something.

  But whoever it was didn’t reply. There was only silence.

  Then the sound of something heavy hitting the floor.

  “Travis?” Annie rushed to the door of her cell, grabbing the bars, a cold tingle going down her back.

  The footsteps came toward the sitting room. A man appeared in the open doorway.

  Annie froze, her eyes widening. “Who are you?”

  ~ ~ ~

  Lucas had left the town behind before he even realized it, had stalked past the end of the board sidewalk and kept going, blindly, his blood hot with fury, his hand clenched into a fist around the two letters.

  He’d passed townspeople bustling along the street, standing in front of the general store, collecting their mail and visiting shops. Some of them had greeted him but he hadn’t even looked at them. Snowflakes swirled around him but he barely felt the cold, though he had left without his coat or hat or gloves.

  He just kept walking, unable to think, unable to feel anything but rage. Gut-churning, helpless rage.

  Thompson and Reynolds were dead.

  The road narrowed to a steep trail winding down the mountainside before Lucas finally stopped. Realized he was going nowhere and couldn’t do anything and stopped. His fingers tightened around the letters, crushing the pages. He wanted to smash his fist into the nearest rock. Wanted to shout his fury into the wind. Knew the mountain’s echoes would only throw it back in his face, over and over.

  Seth Thompson, the best of his deputies for more than three years, levelheaded and experienced and cool under fire. He had a wife and two boys.

  And Henry Reynolds, the youngest, such a skilled rider that they always kidded he should go work for one of the new wild west shows and make some real money.

  Dead. Both dead. Shot up by the Risco gang down in Las Cruces.

  The letter from his men reported that they had captured one of the gang and killed two more during the gunfight—but Jasper and Willie Risco had escaped and were still on the run, racing for the Rio Grande and safety in Mexico.

  Lucas stared up through the falling snow, into the dim afternoon sun, and realized only now that he had been walking south, without even thinking. His every instinct urged him to go after them.

  But he couldn’t go. He had to stay here.

  With her.

  He glared down at the other letter crumpled in his fist, the first one he’d opened—from an orphanage in Denver.

  Yes indeed, the headmaster wrote, they had received a large, anonymous donation two months ago: almost fifteen thousand dollars. If Lucas knew the donor’s name, the children would like to thank their kind benefactor...

  Lucas crushed the letter into a ball and flung it away. Like he wanted to push her away. From him, from his life. She was the one locked in a jail cell and he felt trapped. He wanted to get out of here. Get back to his duty. His work. While he still had some shred of sanity left.

  Because that seemed to be slipping through his fingers more and more with each day he spent in her company.

  Cursing, he shoved the other crumpled letter into his pocket. Why the hell had he kissed her? He’d had no business kissing her. Didn’t know what had made him give in to the impulsive desire to pull her into his arms and tangle his fingers in her hair and feel the warmth of her mouth beneath his.

  He was not impulsive. Hadn’t done anything rash in years. Hell, since he’d been a kid.

  No, not true. He’d even been steady and sensible as a kid. He hadn’t done anything rash in his whole life.

  Lucas paced, raking a hand through his snow-dampened hair. He had kept his distance from her, kept his hands off her, but that wasn’t helping. Even making plans for their return to Missouri wasn’t helping. Not enough. It didn’t stop him from wanting.

  And thinking.

  Thinking he might’ve been wrong about her.

  He glared at the crushed letter from Denver that lay in the snow a few yards away. How much more evidence did he need? She wasn’t some greedy, scheming female who only cared about money. She hadn’t given a damn about the money. Had given it to orphans. Orphans, for God’s sake.

  And in some part of his brain, he was beginning to suspect that maybe, just maybe, what had held his brother’s interest for three years hadn’t been Antoinette’s beauty or any tricks she’d learned from her mama... but a tender heart, like her friends kept insisting she had.

  His stomach clenched as he considered that possibility even for a moment. If Antoinette was capable of tenderness and caring, if sh
e had told the truth about her baby, and about the money...

  What else might she be telling the truth about?

  I didn’t mean to do it, Marshal. It was an accident...

  Lucas stopped pacing, ground the heels of both palms into his eyes. No. God, no. It was wrong. To believe for a second that she could be innocent was wrong. He’d heard those same words from a hundred other criminals, every one of them guilty as sin. He was letting his desire for her distract him, blind him to his duty.

  Being cooped up in that damned jail was making him crazy. He had to get out of here. Should be in Texas, on the Rio Grande, hunting the Risco brothers, pumping the bastards full of bullets. His men were risking their lives—losing their lives—and what was he doing?

  Sitting on his ass in Colorado. Feeling this overpowering attraction toward an outlaw.

  The woman who had killed his brother.

  Lucas glared up into the sky, welcoming the sharp, biting sting of the snow against his face. There was only one explanation, one reason Antoinette had him so... beguiled. He’d been without a woman for months now. Too long.

  That was why he couldn’t stop thinking about the lush sweetness of her lips against his and the silkiness of her hair in his fingers. Or the way her brown eyes looked in the firelight, all drowsy and languid. Or how he had felt when he made her smile...

  With a vivid curse, he turned on his heel and stalked back toward town, his steps echoing like gunshots when he reached the board sidewalk. He needed to go write two letters, the kind he hated to write—one to Seth Thompson’s widow and one to Henry Reynolds’s parents, expressing his condolences.

  But first he needed to douse this feeling that burned inside him for Antoinette Sutton.

  And he could think of two damn fine ways to do it.

  The dissonant noise of someone playing “Nelly Bly” on the piano set his teeth on edge as he shoved open the swinging doors to Fairfax’s saloon. There were only a few people inside: a scruffy prospector at the bar, another at the piano, and three more seated at a table with O’Donnell and Holt, playing poker.

  O’Donnell—who had a curvaceous, scantily dressed redhead in his lap—grinned and raised a hand in greeting. “Marshal.”

  Lucas stalked over to the bar. “Beer.”

  Fairfax looked delighted. “Coming right up, Marshal McKenna, sir. Finest ale in the state of Colorado. And let me say what a pleasure it is to see you again.”

  Lucas didn’t reply. He had said beer, not conversation.

  Fairfax filled a glass until foam bubbled over the top and slid it down the bar. Lucas caught the glass, drained a quarter of it in one long swallow, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The strong, dark brew burned pleasantly down his throat.

  “And what brings you here this afternoon, Marshal?” Holt asked, sounding curious.

  Lucas flicked a look over his shoulder. “You spend all your spare time in the saloon, Doc?”

  Holt frowned at him. “First spare time I’ve had in a while. Spent three days riding the mountain to call on sick homesteaders, dug a load of buckshot out of a miner’s backside at four this morning, and delivered a baby about an hour ago. And how’s your week been so far?”

  Lucas tossed a coin on the bar, scowling at him. “Just perfect.” He shifted his attention to two of the other card-players: a pair of bearded, middle-aged prospectors who were staring at him. “And what are you two looking at?”

  “Nothing, Marshal, sir.” One stood up and grabbed his money off the table, dropping some. “We was, uh, we was just on our way out, wasn’t we?” He headed for the door, without picking up the fallen coins.

  His friend grabbed his own winnings and followed. “Hyup.”

  Lucas shook his head, recognizing a hasty retreat when he saw one. At the moment, he didn’t especially care why the two were hightailing it out of his vicinity.

  O’Donnell looked up in dismay, watching as half his players walked out in the middle of the game. He slanted Lucas a dry look. “Have you noticed, Marshal, that you seem to have a certain effect on people?”

  The redhead on the gambler’s lap giggled.

  Before Lucas could reply, Fairfax came over to him, wiping his hands on his white apron. “The beer is on the house.” He slid the coin back across the bar. “Anything else I can get for you, Marshal?”

  Lucas turned toward him. “You got any whores left in this town?”

  Though his voice was low, the prospector seated at the bar overheard. “Whores?” he exclaimed, chuckling. “You lookin’ to clean up our streets now, Marshal? Fill up yer jail with pretty ladies?”

  Lucas gave him a quelling glare.

  But the others in the room had heard the man. O’Donnell, Holt, and the third remaining card player now seemed more interested in what was being said at the bar than in their game.

  Lucas took another long drink and told himself he didn’t give a damn.

  “Well sir,” Fairfax said smoothly, ever the efficient host, “we used to have quite an array, but these days we’ve got but two ladies of the evening still with us. One of them would be Miss Ivy there.” He gestured to the redhead seated in O’Donnell’s lap. “And Miss Indigo can usually be found here when she’s not with a customer, but I haven’t seen her yet today.”

  Lucas turned and considered the redhead. She was young and attractive, her plentiful assets almost spilling over the top of her tight-fitting green dress. And she smiled prettily at him.

  O’Donnell frowned, looping a possessive arm around the girl’s waist. “Ivy, honey, why don’t you go fetch Indigo,” he suggested.

  She sighed, linking her arms around his neck. “Aw, Morgan, you know I been trying to avoid her all day. She’s been dogging my heels like a... oh, hell.”

  “Ivy!” A tall brunette appeared at the saloon’s entrance, shouting. “What are you doin’ lollin’ around in there still? The stage will be leavin’ in an hour.”

  “I’m not going,” Ivy said sullenly.

  “What did you say?” the brunette cried, pushing open the doors.

  “I said I’m staying here!”

  This, Lucas guessed, arching one brow, would have to be Indigo. He silently observed the new arrival as she came sauntering in, dressed in a gown of blue satin and black lace and a matching cape that was thrown back over her shoulders.

  “The hell you are.” The brunette marched over to the card players’ table. “Ivy, we done decided already. We can’t make enough money in this town. There’s nothing left here but a bunch of... a bunch of... well, just look at them!” She gestured to the various men in the room. “Any man worth more than two bits cleared out last...” Her gaze settled on Lucas and she paused.

  And her voice suddenly shifted. “My, my.” She looked him up and down, then took a black lace fan from a pocket in her skirt and opened it. “You that famous lawman everyone’s been talkin’ about?” Her red lips curved upward as she fanned herself slowly. “Just look at you.”

  Lucas returned her regard. She had dark hair, dark eyes, a good body.

  “Indigo, I’m staying,” Ivy said.

  The brunette’s smile faded. “Be with you in a minute, cowboy,” she said to Lucas before she rounded on Ivy. “Staying for what? For him?” She stabbed a finger toward O’Donnell. “I bet you been givin’ him free ones again, ain’t you?”

  The gambler looked sheepish.

  Ivy stood up, planting her hands on her hips. “He doesn’t have much money right now, but he’s got plans—”

  “Oh, sure, he’s got plans. Big plans. That’s all he’s got. That’s all any man in this town has got. The ones with money and sense all cleared out a long time ago!”

  “And I’m going to be moving on soon as well,” O’Donnell said, reaching for a bottle in the middle of the table and refilling his glass.

  “Horsefeathers! You been sayin’ that for a year and you’re still sittin’ here with a glass of bourbon in your hand and five dollars to your name.” Indigo looked fro
m him to the redhead. “How many times I told you, Ivy?” She stamped her foot. “Don’t fall in love with the customers. Y’ain’t much of a whore if you give it away for free. You think he’s gonna marry you? You think he loves you?”

  Lucas took a long drink from his beer, feeling sorry for the naive little redhead.

  Ivy remained standing next to O’Donnell, clearly waiting for him to say something. “M-Morgan?” she asked tremulously.

  The gambler didn’t look at her as he spoke in that aristocratic Louisiana drawl. “You go on home and pack, honey. Like Indigo says.” He studied his cards. “I’m no good for you.”

  The girl blinked at him, covering her mouth with one hand. A stifled sob escaped her as she turned and ran out the swinging doors. They flapped in the chilly air behind her.

  Indigo sighed as if in relief, giving O’Donnell one last, withering look before she walked over to the bar.

  As she joined Lucas, her smile returned. “Now then,” she said, fanning herself, “where were we, lawman?”

  Lucas caught the scent of her perfume. Roses and musk. Her hair was brown. And so were her eyes. And she was voluptuous. And willing. What more could he ask? What more could any man ask?

  She placed a hand on his arm. “Stage’ll be leaving soon,” she said, in a low, purring voice, “but I got about an hour left in this town. Wasn’t planning on any more customers...” She smiled at him, stroking the muscles of his arm through his shirt. “But I might change my mind. My, oh my, I surely might.”

  Lucas couldn’t summon a smile in return. In fact, as he looked at her, he couldn’t seem to summon much enthusiasm, either. His gaze traveled down her body and back up again, from her curvaceous hips to her artfully displayed bosom to her ruby-painted mouth. And he felt...

  Indifferent. Unmoved.

  He stared at her in silence, astonished that she didn’t arouse his interest, when so many like her had in the past.

  Indigo wet her lips with her tongue. “You sure look like you could make an hour memorable for a lady.” She slid her hand up to his shoulder. “And something’s got you all knotted up like a bale of barbed wire. I could soothe those kinks out of you. Real slow and easy like.”