by Jodi Thomas
“Don’t worry. I’ve walked it a hundred times without a light. I know it by heart.”
Brant placed his hands on her shoulders and lowered her to sit on the bed. He knelt in front of her and took her hands. “What is it? What’s happened?”
Cherish fought back the tears. Then, like opening a window, something clicked in her mind. “What did you say?” She pushed the tears away with her palm.
“I said I know the tunnel by heart.”
“No. About the light.”
Brant looked confused. “I never use a light. Daniel is the one that always has to carry a lantern through the tunnel. He can’t stand to be in the dark.”
Now her tears were falling with relief.
“What is it?” Brant demanded.
“Last night …”
The door suddenly flew open and Holliday hurried in. “Sorry to have to cut this short, but Wart just found Westley Alexander’s body down by the river.” She smiled as if she’d just delivered grand news. “Someone said they saw you, Brant, dragging it there early this morning and everyone’s looking for you. You’d better get while you can. I don’t want no more bullet holes in my walls.”
Brant pulled Cherish to her feet. “I didn’t …”
“I know,” she answered, suddenly realizing she could never have loved a man who could have killed someone so callously. Tears ran down her face as she looked up at him, knowing that this might be the last time she saw him. “Take care, my love.”
Brant ran, more because he couldn’t face seeing the pain in her eyes than because of any posse chasing him. He knew she was afraid for him, but he’d also seen the trust. Somehow she’d known he hadn’t killed Westley.
Maggie sat on the porch with her gun across her lap. She’d decided Cherish and Bar had gone insane. They knew today was the day Westley had said he was coming, yet they acted as if it was just any ordinary day. Cherish had even trotted off to Holliday’s to help some poor injured drunk without even taking her gun. Bar had wandered off to the barn, even after they’d agreed yesterday not to go anywhere unless someone was with them.
Well, she wouldn’t let down her guard. She’d be ready when he came.
Maggie let out a long sigh and watched the sun touch the roofs of Hell’s Half-Acre. One good thing about today: Westley hadn’t shown his face. All her worry and dread would have to wait for another day. She had slept very little the night before and Cherish and Bar looked like they hadn’t slept at all. Now they’d face another night without sleep, dreading what the morrow would bring.
Maggie rested her rifle against the door frame. For a little while, she’d thought she’d travel down the hill and confront Westley before dark. She wanted to have it out once and for all and be done with him. But she wasn’t sure what she’d find down there. It was better to wait for him to show up here.
The quiet evening was shattered suddenly by two men heavy into drink. They lurched up toward her, carrying a load in a blanket. Maggie stood and watched them as they approached. She could only guess what kind of wild animal they carried in the quilt stretched between them.
Hearing a moan from beneath the blanket, Maggie quickly lifted her rifle and slid her finger over the trigger. This might be some kind of trick Westley was using to get near the house without being shot.
Grayson remained still for fear they’d drop him again. He’d decided he’d died and been left in hell with two of Holliday’s drunks. They’d twisted the blanket so tight he could hardly breathe, then they’d accidentally bumped into every post between Holliday’s and Hattie’s. Twice, the imbecile carrying Grayson’s feet dropped him, causing great pain to his wounded leg. By the time they pitched him onto the porch, Grayson was promising to murder them both slowly.
Neither man waited for him to untwist from the blanket, but ran as soon as he hit the wooden porch.
Grayson threw the quilt aside and tried to stand, wondering what he’d ever done to Holliday to make her hate him so much. Now, to add to the bullet wounds in his shoulder and leg, he had a bruise over one eye from where he guessed his head had collided with a hitching post, and a cut in his side where he’d scraped against something when one of the drunks stumbled.
When he turned toward Margaret, the murder in his eyes would have struck most women dead on sight. But Maggie simply stared at him as if disapproving of the fact that he was getting blood on her porch. She didn’t even bother to lower her gun, which was pointed at his middle. At this point, Grayson doubted if one more wound would add any more pain to what he was already feeling.
“You look like death warmed over in a dirty pot.”
He smiled despite the pain. “Hell, woman, you think I look bad on the outside. You should see what you’ve done to my heart since I’ve known you.”
When she didn’t run to him, like he’d hoped she would, he pulled himself up and swore over the pain in his leg. She should be hugging him just about now, he thought. Hell, what did the outlaw have that made Cherish run into his arms? Grayson looked at Maggie, knowing that if he wanted her he’d have to go and get her himself, for she didn’t look like she was going to budge an inch.
He tried a step, but when he put his weight on his leg, pain jabbed into his consciousness and everything faded to black.
Maggie broke his fall with her body, but she couldn’t hold his weight. She crumbled to the ground with him in her arms. For a few minutes she just held him, feeling his pain and thanking God that even wounded he’d come back to her. Then, Bar and Cherish were there, helping her get her man into the house.
It was completely dark when Grayson opened his eyes again. He was lying on a bed in the front room of Maggie’s house with both women staring at him. Cherish looked as though she’d been crying and Maggie looked as beautiful and angry as ever. Several lanterns were lit around him and the smell of lye soap was thick in the air.
“We decided it would be easier to bring the bed down than to try to get you up those stairs,” Margaret said in her matter-of-fact way. “I’ve seen men die with half the injuries you’ve suffered.”
Grayson smiled. For the first time since he’d been shot he felt wonderful. His wounds were expertly cleaned and bandaged and Maggie was softly touching his arms even as she scolded him.
“I don’t plan on dying.” He stared at her.
“I should hope not!” Bar yelled from the hallway. “I’d have hated to waste all that time haulin’ water for a man that just up and died on me.”
Grayson laughed and forced himself to look away from Maggie. “I appreciate it, son.”
Bar smiled. “Don’t mention it.”
A pounding at the door made everyone jump.
“Stay with him,” Maggie ordered Cherish and Bar as she grabbed her gun.
Like a mini-army, they all took their battle positions. Cherish moved to Grayson’s side and handed him back the Colt he’d loaned her. They both relaxed at the sound of Wart’s nervous voice at the door.
“I’m mighty sorry to bother you so late,” he began.
“Nonsense, Mr. Tucker. Come in.”
Wart stepped just inside and removed his hat. While he mutilated the brim, Maggie waited. She didn’t bother to set her gun aside, since his nervousness told her the news he carried was not good.
Finally, he took a deep breath and blurted out, “I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, but they found your husband dead a few hours ago. Holliday wouldn’t even let me have a drink until I came up to tell you just in case no one else had.”
Grayson couldn’t help but notice that no one in the room looked shocked except Maggie. He breathed a deep sigh, for he’d already decided he’d have to kill one worthless husband before he married Maggie. Someone had saved him the trouble.
“Now, don’t worry, ma’am. We know who did it.” Wart ran his hand through his thinning hair. “An outlaw by the name of Brant Coulter. Two men identified him as the one dragging the body toward the river.”
Cherish looked at Grayso
n and whispered, “He didn’t do it.”
“I know,” Grayson answered with a wink. “He was too busy making my life hell to try and kill anyone else.”
“Mrs. Alexander, if you’ll step out on the porch, there’s some men needing answers about what to do with the body.”
Margaret nodded as Wart continued, “The murder weren’t robbery ‘cause he had this in his pocket.” Wart handed her a fistful of bills.
Accepting the money, Maggie stepped outside without saying a word or showing any feeling beyond the first shock of learning of Westley’s murder.
As soon as the door was closed, Grayson leaned on one elbow and frowned at Cherish and the boy. “All right. Let’s have the story about how he died.”
They both started talking at once as if thankful to finally lay what they’d seen onto someone else’s shoulders. They had to trust someone with their story. If they told the sheriff, he’d think it was proof that Brant was the killer and never would have believed it could be Father Daniel. Although Cherish and Bar knew it was him, neither had seen his face.
When Maggie returned, no tears were in her eyes. “I’ve made arrangements for him to be laid out at the hotel. He’ll be buried at dawn. I’ll not wear black,” she stated simply; then she disappeared into the kitchen to cook the evening meal. She’d done all the grieving for that man she planned to do. Now there were folks to feed.
Cherish remained with Grayson a few moments. “I’m not sorry he’s dead, but I wish Brant wasn’t the one hunted for his murder.”
“Brant can take care of himself. If he’s smart, he’s fifty miles away from here by now.”
Cherish didn’t reply. She only looked out the window and remembered what Brant had whispered to her about coming to her room tonight. If he came, it could mean his death. If he didn’t, she felt that her heart might break from longing for him.
Maggie returned with a supper of soup and hot bread. She insisted on feeding Grayson, finally threatening to break his good arm if he didn’t allow her to take care of him.
Bar disappeared into his room upstairs, looking exhausted, and Cherish followed minutes later, more to leave Grayson and Maggie alone than because she thought she could sleep.
Maggie cleared the dishes and pulled her chair close to Grayson’s bed.
“What are you doing?” Grayson raised one bushy eyebrow at her.
“I’m going to sit up with you tonight,” Maggie answered simply.
“I don’t need anyone coddling me like I was a child. I think if I survived the past two weeks in the open, I can last the night with a roof over my head.”
Margaret stood and began to tuck his covers around him. “Stop shouting at me. I’m right here and I’m going to stay right here in case you need me during the night.”
Grayson’s unharmed arm shot out from the covers and grabbed her by the shoulder. He pulled her to him with one mighty jerk. When his lips were touching her cheek, he whispered, “I need you during every night, Maggie, but not as a nurse.” His mouth moved over her face, lightly tasting her skin.
She tried to pull away, but he held her fast.
“When I’m able to get out of this bed, I plan to get right back into it with you.”
Anger flamed in her indigo eyes. “Turn loose of my neck, you mammoth brute, or I’ll shoot your other leg and you’ll never walk out of this parlor.”
Grayson studied her closely before slowly releasing his fingers from around her shoulder. He expected her to pull away, but her face remained a breath away from his.
“Don’t ever threaten me again, Grayson Kirkland,” she whispered. “And don’t ever use force on me. You may be as strong as an ox and about as bright, but my aim is true. I’ll not be manhandled by you or any other.”
He suddenly wished he’d tightened his grip around her neck a moment before when he’d had the chance, but he didn’t touch her now. When she was all angry and afire she was even more beautiful to him. He’d realized other men couldn’t see her beauty and he only felt sorry for them. For when she was like this, she reminded him of a storm, all flash and thunder and raw beauty.
Her bottom lip brushed his jaw as she continued, “You’ll not get me in your bed with threats or by bullying me. When I come to you, it will be of my own will and for no other reason.”
She moved an inch closer and suddenly her lips found his. Her kiss was slow and filled with the passion he loved to taste. He lifted his arm and lay it gently across her back, then pulled her next to him. Careful of his wounds, she leaned into him until he could feel the light rise and fall of her breasts against his chest. Her back was still as slender as ever, but her breasts seemed fuller, more inviting.
He moved his fingers over the front of her blouse and pulled the buttons free, smothering her protest as he kissed her. When he shoved the material from her breast, her mouth opened wide to him. While his tongue tasted the soft lining of her mouth, his hand covered her ripe flesh. For a moment he spread his palm over its peak and circled, loving the way she arched to his touch. He kept his palm only barely touching as her flesh strained for his embrace. Slowly, he lowered his hand over her full breast. As his fingers tightened around his find, he heard her moan low in the back of her throat.
“Maggie.” He whispered the name of his world as she returned his kiss. Her hands were moving mindlessly in his hair, pulling, stroking, loving.
Reluctantly, his hand left her breast. He gently knotted the mass of her hair into his fist. “You’ll come to me, my Maggie,” he whispered as his lips moved over her face, loving the way her mouth remained slightly open and waiting for his return. “And when you do, I want your hair down and free.” With her hair still between his fingers he returned his hand to her breast. His mouth claimed hers as he moved the silk of her hair over the velvet of her skin.
He wanted all of her at once. She was his woman, the woman no one knew existed except him. His kisses grew hungry, bruising her lips with need while his huge hand closed over her breast, claiming ownership.
Finally, when he could live without the taste of her soft globe no longer, he broke their kiss. With a swift action, he slid his hand down her back and shoved her up so that his mouth could reach its goal. She pushed at him gently in a halfhearted effort to escape, but her cries were only of pleasure. Her breath came fast and ragged as he took his fill of her softness. Her hands gripped the headboard above her as she willingly accepted his loving attack. He brushed his hand along her arm to her shoulder and down. As he stroked her side, she moved closer, filling his mouth with her flesh. When he moved his fingers lower to her long, slender thigh, she began to cry his name in pleasure. He took his time, loving the way she moved against him as his tongue circled her softness. He was mindless with the pleasure of her and the knowledge that she was his alone.
Suddenly, she grabbed his hair and pulled his mouth back to her lips. Now the inside of her mouth was hot with need and wanton with desire. His kisses turned gentle.
When she leaned away, her eyes were filled with a fire not started by anger. “When I come to you,” she whispered, “you’ll have to do more than kiss me.”
Grayson smiled, knowing exactly what his Maggie wanted and needed. “I’d best mend fast or a night with you in my bed might kill me.”
“It very well might, Yankee.” Maggie laughed.
They were too wrapped up in one another to notice the thin black shadow that opened the kitchen door and slipped past them to the stairs leading to Cherish’s room.
Chapter 27
Cherish was curled by the warm fire, almost asleep, when she heard her door slowly open. She’d gone two nights without sleep and her mind drifted between dreams and reality. For a moment she listened to the creaking and didn’t move; she’d known he’d risk everything to keep his promise. Somehow, no matter the danger, Brant had come to her tonight.
“Brant,” she whispered as the thin black shadow moved into her room.
Abruptly, the shadowy figure brought back all
the evil she’d seen the night before. She could smell Westley’s blood once more and feel the depravity as thick in the air as humidity. The stranger was not her lover, but the devil she’d seen murder a man with no more care than if he were slaughtering an animal.
Jumping to her feet, Cherish ran toward the gun at her bedside table. Her only chance was to shoot before he pulled the knife from his boot. The memory of the night on the train when it had been Brant’s hand that held a knife flooded back to her. Daniel and Brant blended in her tired mind until they became one. The scars were not on one’s left and the other’s right arm, but on both arms of one man.
As she touched the weapon gloved fingers covered her hand. With only the firelight to see by, the darkened figure above her seemed huge and frightening. The leather of his glove was cool against her hand as his fingers pried the gun free of her grip.
Cherish jerked away, fighting wildly. Terror fed upon her wildest nightmares and grew in her mind. She would not die, helpless, on her knees, as Westley had, but fighting.
He twisted her violently toward him and covered her mouth with his free hand.
“Cherish,” he whispered. “Baby, it’s me.”
Cherish froze, trying to understand his words. She looked up, but his face was in shadows.
“Don’t be afraid of me,” he whispered and the sorrow in his voice touched her heart.
She melted into Brant’s arms. The horror of her nightmare vanished as the memory of his love surrounded her. Suddenly she was crying and laughing at the same time. “I thought you were …,” she whispered as he kissed her tears. “I was so afraid.”
Brant cupped her face in his hands. “You thought I was who?”
Cherish closed her eyes, not wanting to tell Brant the truth about his friend. “The priest,” she finally answered in a voice so low it could have been a thought that passed between them.
“Has Daniel harmed you?” His fingers were rough in his need to know. “Has he done something to you?”
“No,” she answered, realizing how important her reply was to him. “Bar and I saw him kill Westley last night. He looked so much like you did just now, that for a moment I thought it was Father Daniel in my room.”
