"Might as well say what I come to say. I guess." From behind his back, he pulled out a huge bouquet of snow white apple blossoms and clusters of blue and pink wildflowers. She didn't know why she hadn’t detected their delightful scent before this. Now, it seemed to fill the tiny schoolhouse.
"Oh my," she whispered as she took the flowers from him. Almost to herself, she said softly, "I've never received flowers from a gentleman before."
Fools, he told himself. Most men were fools. But he wasn’t, by thunder. The word gentleman echoed in his brain. He straightened a bit in response. Did she really think him a gentleman? And if she did, would she maybe be willing to think of him as something more? Something maybe permanent?
Taking heart from her words and the way she kept touching the fragile blossoms she held to her breast, he blurted out the reason for his visit.
"Miss Hester," he said the words he'd practiced for hours the night before. "Would you do me the honor of going with me to the town social?"
Silence dropped over them like an old, familiar blanket. Soft and warm and comforting, this silence held no threat, no reproach.
She stared up at him and slowly, a smile curved her lips. "I would like that very much."
Practiced speeches and worries forgotten, Charlie took his cue from the look in her pale eyes and spoke from his heart. "I think real highly of you, Miss Hester."
She gasped, and her eyes widened.
"Would you be interested… I mean, do you think maybe someday you might…" Charlie reached up and shoved one hand through his hair. A terrible thing to be so tongue-tied over something as important as this.
"Yes, Charlie?" she asked and again as looked into those eyes of hers. The eyes that had haunted his dreams and touched his soul.
He made one more try at sounding more intelligent than a stump.
"Do you think you might want to someday… I mean, I would be honored if you might one day let me be your… beau?"
She inhaled sharply, and he waited to find out if that meant yes or no. Thankfully, he didn't have long to wait.
"I would be honored, Charlie."
Pleasure, richer and deeper than any he had ever known before, welled up inside him. It filled his chest and made him stand even taller than usual.
Slowly, carefully, he bent his head down toward hers. Hester leaned in, still clutching her bouquet to her chest. The heady scent of apple blossoms surrounded them as their lips met in a brief, chaste kiss that tasted of promises.
When he straightened up again, he smiled down at her, then reached out to gently cradle her cheek in his palm. The warmth of his touch speared into her, and Hester felt it dissolve the shadow of loneliness that she'd lived with most of her life.
"Will you take a walk with me this evening, Hester?"
"Yes, Charlie."
He smiled again, this time grinning.
"And would you take supper with me at the restaurant?"
"I’d like that," she said. "Thank you for the flowers, too. They’re so beautiful."
His thumb lovingly traced the curve of her cheekbone as he vowed, "I will always give you flowers, Hester. And they will never be as beautiful as you."
A film of tears shimmered in her eyes as she stepped into the circle of his arms. Charlie rested his chin on the top of her head and held her carefully, his big hands moving lightly up and down her back. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel awkward and he knew just what to say.
"I love you, Hester."
#
By the time Jackson reached the saloon, it was late afternoon and he was fit to be tied. Rachel's image refused to leave his mind, and his body refused to quit responding.
On his way down the street, he'd had to pass the Mercantile. He'd kept his gaze locked straight ahead of him, yet somehow he’d sensed Rachel watching him as he strode past the windows. A flash of guilt had lanced through him, as if she had known exactly where he was headed and why.
Guilt, for God's sake.
Why should he feel guilty for going to visit one of the fancy women? He didn’t owe Rachel anything. She wasn't his wife.
His steps staggered a bit at that thought, then he determinedly kept on. Wife. Soon enough, she would be a wife. Though someone else's. He didn’t even want to think about why he didn’t like the sound of that.
Jackson paused outside the batwing doors for a moment and stared over their tops into the darkened saloon. A whiff of tobacco drifted out to him on the wings of cheap perfume and stale whiskey. As he stood there, the piano player started up, and it sounded to Jackson like the man was playing with his elbows.
But he hadn’t gone to the saloon to listen to the music. He swiveled his head and looked .back up the street toward the Mercantile. And Rachel. The fact that he would rather be there with her was enough to spur him on. Giving one of the half doors a shove, he stepped into a room that was all too familiar.
Oh, it wasn’t The Black Hound. But most western saloons, but for the rare, elegant types, were pretty much the same. Dark, a little on the scroungy side, with loud music, strong whiskey, and willing women.
Of course, he thought as he paused inside the door to let his gaze adjust to the dimness, this place also had Noble Lynch.
His guts twisted, and he welcomed it. Anything was better than the sick pup feeling he'd been having about Rachel the last couple of days. With any luck, he could have himself a woman and later, prod Noble into a fight where he, Jackson, could beat the crap out of the gambler.
Shadows took shape, the piano player started sounding better, and the bartender looked up at him with a hopeful nod.
"What'll it be, Mister'?"
To reach the bar, Jackson had to thread his way through the scarred, shaky tables sprinkled around the room. Once there, he slapped his palm onto the bar top and ordered, "Whiskey."
As the other man picked up a bottle and poured him a drink, Jackson dipped into his pants pocket. He pulled out a handful of change and one of the gold coins. The bartender's sharp eye landed on it like an eagle picking out a fat rabbit in the middle of a meadow.
"Here now," he sighed and made as if to grab it up."What's this?"
Jackson shook his head, picked up the coin, and dropped it into his shirt pocket for the moment. "None of your business," he said and laid a fifty-cent piece down on the water-stained bar top. Grabbing up his drink, he tossed it down his throat, slammed the empty glass back down, and ordered, "Fill it."
While he waited, Jackson looked around the room. Just a sprinkling of customers sat at the tables scattered around the building. And not one of the men was Noble Lynch.
Like most predators, though, he probably preferred to show himself at night. Still, this visit wasn't a waste, Jackson thought as his gaze landed on a bosomy woman with thick black hair, milky white calves, and a red rouged mouth just ripe for kissing.
Kitty wore a white chemise, a red corset, and tight white pantaloons. He gestured to her, and she hurried over. Jackson watched her full, heavy breasts sway with each step as she approached him and waited for a surge of desire to swamp him.
Nothing.
What the hell was wrong with him?
Grumbling to himself, he draped one arm around Kitty's shoulders and pulled her tight against him. Her practiced hands moved over his chest and belly with a bored disinterest that wasn't helping at all.
Still, he was determined to do this. To take this woman to bed and bury himself so deeply inside her that he wouldn't be able to see Rachel's face in his mind anymore.
Picking up his drink, he swallowed it quickly, tossed a dollar onto the bar, and grabbed the half empty bottle. Then, with one hand lying casually on the woman's breast, he said, "All right honey, let's go upstairs."
#
Rachel stood on the boardwalk for several long moments, hoping to see Jackson come right back out of that saloon. When he didn't, she finally gave up and went into the store.
Why did he go there? To see Lynch? To get drunk again? Sh
e closed the door and leaned against it. It didn't matter that she told herself not to care why he’d gone to the Golden Garter.
She did.
#
"No use," Jackson muttered and stomped, pacing around Kitty’s cluttered bedroom. He threw her a glance and shook his head solemnly. Definitely something wrong with him, he told himself as his gaze moved over the bored, nearly naked woman lying in bed filing her nails.
The rasp of her nail file irritated him, but he couldn’t blame her.
She'd been willing. Ready.
The problem was him.
He’d looked at those full breasts and imagined them to be smaller, firmer. He'd run his fingers through her long curly black hair and pictured it silky straight and the color of honey. He'd looked into her chocolate brown eyes and saw blue eyes, filled with reproach, looking back at him.
Disgusted, he dropped down into the nearest chair, braced his elbows on his knees, and cupped his head in his hands.
Not only didn't he want to crawl into bed with Kitty, he didn’t even feel like getting drunk. What the hell was the world coming to, anyway?
As he stared blindly into the darkness of his cupped palms, he heard the bedsprings shriek, then footsteps behind him. One corner of his brain asked, When did Kitty put on a pair of boots?
But then pain exploded in the back of his head, stars shot through the darkness, and he was tumbling forward onto the floor.
"He put it in his shirt pocket, honey," Kitty whispered. "I saw him do it."
Noble Lynch tucked the polished toe of his elegant boot beneath Jackson’s ribs and flipped the insensible man over onto his back. "Where would someone like him get a gold coin?"
"I don’t know, honey," Kitty shrugged her shoulders, and her heavy breasts shifted and swayed with the movement. "Is he the one says he knows you?"
"Yes." Noble studied the man's features for several seconds, then shook his head. "But from where?" he muttered, more to himself than to the woman.
"You really don't remember?"
One eyebrow arched high on his forehead. Wryly, he said, "May lightning strike me dead if I'm lying."
She nodded solemnly, and Noble wanted to laugh at her obvious adoration. But he didn't. Kitty wasn’t his dream woman by any means, but even she was better than sleeping alone.
"Noble, honey, you want me to get the coin for you?"
He nodded. "Get it."
Kitty dropped to her hands and knees, stuffed her fingers into Jackson’s shirt pocket, and pulled out the golden coin she'd noticed earlier. She turned it over and over in her hands, admiring the dull gleam of gold and the intricate drawings on the coin itself. "Sure is pretty," she whispered.
"Yes, it is," Noble said with a look at the fallen man.
Glancing up at the man she still couldn't believe wanted to spend every night in her well used bed, Kitty watched him study the coin carefully before tucking it into his vest pocket.
"An unusual piece," he said. "I believe I'll make a watch fob of it. Keep it for luck."
"You want me to go through the rest of his pockets?"
Noble leaned down and helped her to her feet. "Let's not be greedy, Kitty my love," he said. Then he shot a quick, thoughtful look at the man lying on the floor, arms outstretched. "Besides, how much more could he have?
Idly, he traced his fingertips across her rigid nipples. When she shuddered, he felt a flutter of interest leap into life inside him. "Kitty dear," he said and dropped one hand to her crotch. "This hour of your time is already paid for, let us not waste it, eh?"
Her head lolled back on her neck as his nimble fingers found the slit in her drawers.
Moaning softly, she asked, "What about him?"
Noble chuckled and dipped one finger into her warmth. Her surprisingly strong inner muscles clamped down on him and beads of sweat broke out on his upper lip as he bent to draw his tongue across one nipple. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, and her hips rocked against his hand.
Need rose up in him and as it did, he forgot about Rachel's troublemaking cousin.
"He won't be waking up any time soon," Noble said and steered his companion backward toward the rumpled bed. "We can toss him out when we’ve finished."
"Anything you say, honey," she murmured and flopped back onto the mattress, spreading her thighs in open invitation.
Hurriedly, Noble fumbled with the fly of his pants, freed himself, then drove into her. The unconscious man on the floor receded from his mind as Kitty's body squeezed him dry.
Chapter Fifteen
Water sloshed over his face, and Jackson sat up, sputtering. Pain blossomed behind his eyes, and he groaned aloud.
"What are you doing sitting in my alley?'"
A female voice, indignant.
Carefully, he turned his head to look at her. A tall woman, too thin for her size, with medium brown hair and raw, red hands fisted on her narrow hips stood in an open doorway glaring at him. Her face was flushed and wisps of damp hair clung to her forehead and cheeks. Steam rushed out of the room behind her like smoke from the fires of Hell.
"Who are you?" he asked.
She reached up and wiped her sweaty brow with the back of one hand. "I'd say that's my question to be asking you."
He squirmed uncomfortably in his soggy clothes and pulled his hands free of the muck beneath him. "Jackson Tate," he muttered. "You the one who threw water on me?"
"Yeah," she said and leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb. "But I didn’t know you were there. Just tossing out the dirty wash water."
"Wonderful," he grumbled under his breath.
"Jackson, huh?" she asked. "Then you'd be Rachel's cousin?"
"That's right." The lie seemed easy now. "Who are you?"
"Sally Wiley."
Information about the woman poured into his mind and seemed to increase the painful throbbing. Friend of Rachel's. A member of the Spinster Society. No family. Stubborn. Independent.
A woman too much like Rachel for comfort.
Where were all the weepy, weak women he'd known when he was alive?
"Sorry I about drowned you," she said. "But why were you taking a nap in my alley?"
He glanced at the sky, surprised to see twilight gathering. How long had he been lying in the dirt, unconscious? And who had dumped him in the alley?
Reaching up, he felt a hard, sizable knot on the back of his skull. Wincing as his fingers explored it, Jackson tried to think. What was the last thing he remembered?
Then it came to him in a blinding flash of humiliation.
He’d been with one of the fancy women and hadn’t been able to do a damned thing. His eyes slid shut on another groan. For the first time ever, his equipment had failed him.
But it wasn’t really a failure, he thought. Everything would have been fine if he had been with Rachel.
Jesus, he was in serious trouble.
"So," Sally asked, a laugh in her voice. "You planning on getting up any time soon, or are you just gonna sit in the muck for a while yet?"
He slanted her a look, then pushed himself to his feet. As he did, he kept thinking Kitty hadn’t hit him over the head. He vaguely remembered her stretched out on the unused bed filing her nails.
Footsteps.
His gaze narrowed as he stared blankly at the muddy ground. He'd heard footsteps. Someone in boots. A man.
Lynch.
A vicious, churning anger swelled in the pit of his stomach, and Jackson had to bite back the urge to howl in fury. He didn’t know why he was so sure of his assailant. But he was.
He could feel it.
"You all right?"
Jackson shifted his gaze to the woman in the doorway. Her expression altered slightly, and he knew she was reacting to the anger that was no doubt etched into his features. Deliberately, he forced his still building temper in to a dark corner inside him and somehow managed a smile.
She relaxed visibly.
"I'm fine," he said with a shrug. "Just wet."
&
nbsp; "Well," Sally offered, "come on inside, maybe I can find you something to wear."
"Don't bother. I'll just go home."
He caught himself, and his jaw snapped shut.
The word had slipped out. He hadn't even thought about it.
The Mercantile.
Rachel.
Home.
Oh Lord.
"Come on in anyway," Sally insisted. "I can at least give you a cup of coffee."
He accepted. Not so much because he wanted the coffee, but because it would put off, for a little while at least, having to face Rachel.
Sally's coffee would put hair on a newborn's chest, he told himself later. But it had been just what he'd needed. The ache in his head had faded to a livable, but uncomfortable, roar and even his clothes had dried a bit. He only half listened to the woman's conversation, as he studied her place of business.
Stacks of clean, folded laundry lined one wall. A bare counter stood at the front of the shop, and behind it were several barrels, sawn in half to make tubs that were full of clothes in various stages of completion. Some were soaking in cold water, others sat in tubs with steam lifting off the water to cloud the still air.
Jackson plucked at the front of his shirt and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. He looked at Sally, bent over a cast- iron kettle that sat atop one of two stoves in the rear of the shop, with her face beet red from the hot steam rising. She used a stick to stir the clothes churning in the boiling water.
How the devil did she stand it?
The damp heat in the laundry made him want to tear his shirt off and run into the cool of the evening. Yet there she was, moving from kettle to tub and back again. As she reached into one of the barrels, he noticed her hands again.
Cracked and raw, they looked painful, yet she didn't seem affected. While she talked about the town, Rachel and her friends, Sally's poor hands scrubbed, twisted, and wrung the clothes before turning to hang them on a series of ropes strung across the opposite wall.
Jackson’s eyebrows lifted. At least in this heat, the wet clothes would dry fast.
Someone stepped into the laundry, and Jackson turned to look at the big, red-headed man with an armful of dirty laundry clutched to his chest.
Still Close to Heaven Page 18
