“Wh-what?”
“Say something. Anything! I’m starved for conversation.”
Cole looked down at her eager face. “I thought you were conversing. Looked like it anyway.”
She hesitated. “You want the truth?”
“Yeah, tell me.”
“The past fifteen minutes with Sheriff Rivera have been the dullest fifteen minutes I’ve ever spent.”
“Is that right?” Cole worked to keep from grinning.
“Oh, yes, most definitely. Cole, it’s no fun at all talking to a man with no observations or opinions or wit or…”
“Does he smell good?”
A laugh spluttered out of her mouth and she clapped her hand over her lips. “Smell good?”
“You know, like bay rum or tobacco smoke or peppermint?”
“Who cares how he smells? He doesn’t talk!”
Cole pulled her close and hid his smile against her hair. “You like talking, huh?”
He felt her head dip in a nod. “I do. You know I do. I never realized how much until tonight. I love it when we talk, Cole. When you tease me and we argue and… Oh, Cole, you are so not like Sheriff Anderson Rivera!”
“Yeah?”
“You are smart. And well-educated. And witty. And…well, fun.”
“Fun,” he said uncertainly.
“Of course.” She squeezed the hand that held hers. “I couldn’t live without at least a little bit of laughter. Life is too short not to enjoy things. Not to laugh about things. There are enough sad and serious things in the world.”
His heart flipped up into his throat and for a moment he couldn’t speak.
“You do understand, don’t you, Cole?”
Oh, God yes, he understood. He folded her hand in against his chest and tightened his arm around her. “You know I understand, Jess. And dammit to hell, you know—” he steadied his voice “—that I love you.”
“Cole,” she murmured.
“Yeah?”
“Kiss me.”
“Right here? In front of Sheriff Rivera and everybody?”
“Yes,” she breathed. “Right this instant. Especially in front of Sheriff Rivera and everybody.”
“No,” he whispered. “Come outside with me. I want to do this properly.”
Cole walked her around the corner of the barn, turned her to face him and drew her soft body against his. His thoughts careened around in his brain like caged squirrels. When she tipped her face up, he settled his mouth over hers and let himself enjoy what she offered.
After a long interval, he heard her moan and he lifted his head slightly. His groin ached with the driving hunger inside him.
“What brought this on all of a sudden?” he said against her lips.
“Dancing with Anderson Rivera.”
“How come you don’t want him kissing you?”
“I should think that would be perfectly obvious,” she murmured.
He kissed her again. “Tell me.”
“I like you,” she breathed. “I think I may even love you. And I hardly know Sheriff Rivera.”
“That,” he said dryly, “is one helluva comfort. What about when you do know Rivera better?”
Her warm breath gusted near his ear. “Then I’ll want to kiss you some more.”
All at once he had to set her apart from him. “Whoa, Jess. Slow down a minute.”
She just looked at him, her eyes beginning to darken the way they had when they made love that first night. Mercy, that was way last Christmas. Oh, God. She had no idea how many nights since then he’d lain awake, aching for her. Damn long nights.
He unhooked her arms from around his neck. “Jess, right now I can back off, but if we keep this up much longer, I won’t be able to.”
“I don’t want you to back off, Cole.”
He let out a long breath. “Hell’s bells, honey, I thought you didn’t want us to get serious. You’re afraid of losing your newspaper, remember?”
“I do remember,” she said quietly. “And I know you don’t want a committed relationship, either.” She stretched up on tiptoe and pressed her lips to his neck.
“Jess, dammit, stop kissing me,” he groaned. “I want you like I’ve never wanted another woman, not even Maryann, but I’m only human.”
“What do you want, Cole? Tell me?”
“Ought to be pretty obvious. I want to get in that buggy and drive back to town and take you to bed. I want to make love to you.”
She gave him a long, misty-eyed look. “I’ll get my shawl.”
*
Upstairs in her room, Cole puffed out the candle on the nightstand and reached for her. “Seems like years since I’ve been close enough to you to—” he slipped free the top button of her silky pink shirtwaist “—take off your clothes.”
He undid the rest of the buttons, slid the garment off her bare shoulder and pressed his lips against her warm skin. She tugged at his belt buckle.
Her fingers fluttered too close to his erection, and if she brushed against him he didn’t think he could stand it. Quickly he stripped down to his underdrawers, then laid his hands at the fastening of her skirt.
She stepped out of the garment, and he carefully worked the hairpins out of the low bun at the back of her neck and dropped them to the floor. Then he untied her petticoat and next the ribbon of her chemise. Finally he unhooked her corset, tossed it away and spread his hand over her breast.
She murmured something. He bent, pressed his face between her breasts and ran his tongue over one nipple. God, she was sweet.
She made another little sound, and he turned to her other nipple. She brought his hands to her waist, and he freed the button of her pantalets. They slithered over her hips, and he shrugged off his drawers and fell backward onto the bed, bringing her down with him.
Her hair spilled over her shoulders, and he gathered it up in his fist, then brought it to his nose. “You smell like ripe strawberries,” he murmured.
“You smell like pine trees,” she said. She surprised him by running her tongue down his neck to his breastbone, and then on to his nipple, lightly nipping it with her teeth. It felt so exquisite he wanted to weep.
“And,” she breathed, “you taste like…late-summer plums.”
He touched his hand to the back of her head to keep her mouth where it was, but she moved to his navel and then—damn!—she wrapped her fingers around his erect member and touched the tip with her tongue.
His breath hissed in. In the next instant she drew his hand away from her breast, then pushed it farther down. When he slid a finger into her velvety folds, she cried out, and the next thing he knew he was inside her, moving in rhythm with her breathing and praying he could last until her release.
He had made love with her only twice before; each time it had been different, once sweet and once desperate. Tonight it was both. He didn’t know how it happened, but something with dark wings settled over him and bore him up and up until he couldn’t breathe. He wanted to shout, but he couldn’t make a sound, could only move inside her slick warmth and soar far, far away.
She made a sound and suddenly went still. He felt her sheath close tight around him and begin to pulse in warm waves, and that pushed him over the edge.
“Jess. Jess.”
It had never been like this before, with anyone.
It scared the hell out of him.
Her cheeks were wet with tears. He kissed her face, her neck, licked up the moisture with his tongue and heard her long drawn-out sigh.
“Oh, my,” she said, a lazy smile in her voice.
“Jess.” He did his best not to withdraw; he wanted to keep holding her close. “Jess, I don’t believe what just happened.”
“I do. It was beautiful, Cole. It is beautiful being with you. It always is.”
But then her breathing hitched.
Cole ran his hand slowly down her arm. “What’s wrong?”
“I am wondering whether I am being fair to you.”
“T
o me? What about you? Your reputation could suffer. There could even be a child.”
“My reputation won’t suffer if we are discreet,” she said. “And, if we are careful, there won’t be a child.”
“How do you figure that?”
“I talked to Maddie Silver about how she…well, her twins were conceived by accident, but before she even knew she was expecting, she and Jericho were married. Doc Dougherty told her there are safe days and unsafe days for women.”
“So?”
“These are my ‘safe’ days.”
“No,” he said flatly. “I’m not going to gamble.”
“But…but, Cole…”
He rolled to one side, taking her with him. “Let’s get married.”
“What?”
“I said—”
“I heard you. I just don’t believe…how much whiskey have you drunk tonight?”
“Not enough, apparently. I’m stone-cold sober, and I’m asking you to marry me and I’m scared to death. And you think I don’t know what I’m doing, is that it?”
“Maybe you do know, but I certainly don’t. I thought you didn’t want to marry again, ever.”
He hesitated. “I didn’t. And I remember that you said you would never marry because of your newspaper.”
“I did say that, yes. And I meant it.”
“Then has something changed?”
“Nothing has changed for me, Cole. I still can’t bear the thought of losing control over the Sentinel, but that doesn’t mean…” Her eyes flooded with tears. “That d-doesn’t mean I don’t care for you.” She buried her face against his neck and he felt her body tremble.
He let out another groan. “Jess, I need to stop thinking about all this.”
“I can’t stop thinking about it. Cole, listen. If I cut you loose, so to speak, you could find someone else, someone who wouldn’t hesitate to be your wife.”
“I don’t want anyone else.”
“Neither do I, really.”
“So…” He pressed his mouth against her hair. “That leaves us with each other.”
She nodded slowly. “You know, when you think about it, it’s a matter of trust.”
“Damn right. You have to trust me not to usurp control over your family newspaper. And I have to trust you—” he gave a halfhearted laugh “—not to die and break my heart.”
“Oh, Cole,” she whispered. “I would never do that.”
He was quiet for a long minute, idly combing his fingers through her long, dark hair. “My wife didn’t die accidentally, Jess. She was killed.”
“Oh, yes, I remember.”
He tightened his arms around her. “You came close, too, the night your office was firebombed.”
“Oh,” she said again. “I see now.”
He chuckled softly. “I’d still marry you. I’ll just have to pray a lot.”
“I—I guess I’m the one who’s not ready to take the risk.”
He sighed. “Guess not.” He felt as if he were butting up against an oak tree. She wouldn’t budge, and he couldn’t get her to bend. That meant he had no choice.
Damn. It was like opening a handsomely bound book to find all the pages had been ripped out. There would never be a story written on them. He pressed his lips into her hair. He loved her. And she loved him; at least she said she did.
But maybe not enough.
Chapter Twenty-Five
On Tuesday morning a week later, Jess noticed that Eli was acting a little peculiar. More than a little, in fact. He sat hunched oddly over his type stick, his head down so low his nose almost brushed the font case. Every so often a strange sound hung on the air, a high sort of whine.
“Eli, are you wheezing?”
“Not me, by cracky. Ain’t never wheezed in my life.”
There, she heard it again. “What is that noise?”
The old man lifted his head a fraction of an inch. “What noise?”
“That noise. Don’t you hear it?”
“Nope.” He ducked his head and rattled a handful of type fonts onto his table. Jess shrugged, picked up her pencil and idly studied Eli while she gathered her thoughts for the editorial she planned on planting spring flowers.
All at once she noted that Eli was keeping one hand in his vest pocket. Had he injured it? Maybe gotten it caught in the lawn mower Ilsa Rowell kept on her back porch? She knew Eli liked to help out at the boardinghouse; maybe he’d burned a finger baking a batch of his oatmeal cookies.
Or maybe not. “Eli, what do you have in your pocket?”
“N-nuthin’, Jess.”
“Eli?”
The old man ducked his head even farther, patted his vest pocket and then shamefacedly drew forth a tiny ball of orange fluff and set it next to his type stick.
A kitten! Jess shot to her feet. “Oh, the darling little thing!”
Eli tried not to grin. “Ya don’t mind?”
“Oh, Eli, it’s so sweet. Of course I don’t mind. I adore kittens. Especially orange ones. Mama used to have a big orange mama cat, and when it curled up on the settee it looked just like a bowl of orange sherbet.”
“Yeah, it’s cute, ain’t it?” He waggled his forefinger to catch the kitten’s attention, and the animal followed it around and around on the table top. “Spins jest like one of them whirlin’ dervishes.”
Jess’s heart lifted. After the past few weeks of chasing after stories that didn’t amount to anything newsworthy, and trying not to chase after Cole, she needed a distraction. “That’s just what we’ll call him, Eli. Dervish.”
“Um, well, hate to tell ya this, Jess, but this here cute little critter ain’t a ‘him.’ It’s a ‘her.’”
“Oh. It doesn’t matter. ‘Dervish’ is a neutral name.”
Eli studiously smoothed his gnarled hand over the animal’s thick orange fur. “Hate to tell ya somethin’ else, Jess.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
He avoided her eyes. “Dervish done peed in my vest pocket.”
*
Within two days, Dervish had made herself at home in the Sentinel office. Eli fed her scraps of bacon and fried eggs from Ilsa’s breakfast table, and during the day the kitten scampered about, intoxicated with the interesting playthings she found. A crumpled piece of notepaper. Eli’s shoelaces. The buttons on Jessamine’s shirtwaists, which the animal batted at while perched on her desk. At night Dervish slept at the foot of Jess’s bed.
*
The next week was the first week of spring, and Jess kept herself busy reporting on the happenings around Smoke River. Jericho Silver again traveled to Portland to take his law examination, and this time he passed it. When he returned, Maddie invited Jess and Cole over for a celebration, complete with champagne and a burnt-sugar cake from Uncle Charlie’s Bakery.
The following Monday Jericho presided at the trials of Conway Arbuckle on the charge of attempted murder for his role in firebombing the Sentinel office and Jim Trautner on the charge of kidnapping Cole.
The proceedings took place as the first daffodils began to bloom in gardens all over town, including, Jess noted with distaste, the run-down two-story frame house belonging to that disreputable woman, Lucy, the one Rosie Greywolf referred to as Arbuckle’s “other wife.”
Juries found both Arbuckle and Trautner guilty, and Sheriff Anderson Rivera escorted the two men to the state prison east of Portland. That same day, Rosie Greywolf visited the Sentinel office.
When the Indian woman spied Dervish, her dark eyebrows drew together. “Keep inside,” she warned. “Coyotes close to town.”
“Thank you for the warning, Rosie.”
“Also bring news,” Rosie said. “For newspaper.”
“Oh?” Rosie was an invaluable source of news around town, a source that Cole did not have access to. “What have you heard?”
“Hear nothing,” came the terse reply. “But Rosie see much.”
Jess picked up a pencil and her notepad. “Tell me.”
The older woman
’s black eyes snapped with amusement. “First Mrs. Coffee Man leave town. And then Second Mrs. leave town, also.”
“Really?”
“Together.”
“You mean…why, they can’t possibly be friends.”
“Not friends, maybe, but go same place. On same day. On same train.”
Jess put her pencil down. “How do you know this?”
The Indian woman licked her lips. “I watch. Good story, eh?”
So, Mrs. Arbuckle and Lucy Whatsername, Arbuckle’s fancy woman, had joined forces, so to speak. Conway Arbuckle was on his way to prison, and this new bit of information would be a juicy piece of news for the next issue of the Sentinel.
She could hardly wait to see Cole’s face when he read it.
*
The next afternoon Rosie Greywolf appeared in Cole’s newspaper office.
“Rosie,” Cole greeted the Indian woman. “What can I do for you?”
“You should know this thing,” she began.
Cole waited. “What should I know?”
“About house. Coffee Man’s other wife’s house.”
“You mean Lucy Gaynor’s place? What about it?”
“Empty now,” Rosie pronounced.
“Ye-es.” Again he waited.
Rosie pinned him with sharp black eyes. “Needs fix-up.”
“Ah.”
The woman peered up at him as if doubting he had even half a brain. “You fix up.”
“Me! Why? I don’t own the place.”
“Buy, maybe. Very cheap.”
“Rosie, I live upstairs here. I don’t need a house.”
“You need,” she persisted. Her gaze swung across the street to the Sentinel office and back to Cole. “Come summer,” she pronounced.
His collar felt too tight. “Yeah? What about summer?”
Rosie blew out a long-suffering breath, and all at once Cole understood. Rosie Greywolf thought he’d need a bigger place to live come summer because…
Jumping jennies! Because the Indian woman expected that he and Jess…
“Rosie, what makes you think Miss Lassiter and I…?”
The woman huffed in exasperation and rolled her eyes. “Thought you smart, Newsman,” she said. Then she spun on her moccasins and glided out the door.
I’ll be damned. Did Rosie know something he didn’t?
Printer in Petticoats Page 16
