by Mary McBride
And although her reply was an immediate and sharp yes, Gideon saw the spark of fear in her eyes. Fear of him. God, he hated that. But somebody had to teach her fear for her own protection.
He slipped his fingers from her wrist. “Well, you tried, bright eyes. Now stop trying, will you? It’s done.”
“Not till I get the money back.”
Gideon shook his head. “You’re not going to find that sack, and you can be damn sure I’m not going to lead you to it.”
She licked a biscuit crumb from the corner of her mouth, and Gideon found himself watching her mouth more than listening to her words. Those lips had such a fetching, downright kissable curve that he had to force himself to look away while she told him, “You’ll have to pick it up sometime, you know. It can’t be much fun having a sack full of money you can’t spend. I’ll bet there was ten thousand dollars in there. Did you count it?”
“Yup.”
“Well?”
He gave her a sidelong glance. “Well, what?”
“How much was it? Ten thousand? Twelve?”
“Enough,” Gideon said, returning his gaze to the fire.
“Enough for what? What are you planning to do with all that loot, Gideon? Buy fast horses? Fancy clothes? Fancy women?”
He grinned, then reached to adjust the blanket that had slipped down on her bare shoulders. “Looks like I’ve already got me one of those,” he said, letting his hand rest on her upper arm.
With a snort, she brushed his hand away. “I doubt if you’d know the difference between a lady and a tart.”
“Maybe not,” he agreed, “but I know a horse thief when I see one.” Saying that, he leaned back against his saddle, crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes. “Finish your supper and then get some sleep, bright eyes. We’ve got a long way to ride tomorrow.”
“Back to Cerrillos?” A dull dread filled her. Her father might be waiting there, and he was the last person Honey wanted to see right now. Empty-handed, anyway.
“Nope. We’re going south.”
“Oh.” Honey wasn’t sure if what she felt was relief or an even deeper dread. “What’s south?”
Gideon dug his shoulders into the curve of his saddle and raised a forearm to cover his eyes. “A big fat bank,” he said. “Now be quiet and get some sleep.”
* * *
A cloud cut across the three-quarter moon. The stars rolled across the sky like diamonds slung out on a black velvet cloth. It had taken five years in prison to make Gideon Summerfield appreciate the warmth of the stars. Before he was forced to stare up at a cold blank ceiling, the night sky had always seemed cold and forbidding to him. Now it seemed warm as a dark wool blanket, rich as spangled black satin.
Nor had he ever appreciated the simple physical nearness of another human being—until he had been denied it so long. He shifted his arm now, careful not to wake the woman who had curled in to him in her sleep like a trusting child. He angled his head in order to rest his cheek against her dark, silky hair. What he felt right now wasn’t sexual desire—though that was always there, like a bass chord in a song—but rather a deep pleasure in just being close to another living, breathing soul.
Dear Lord, they had denied him everything that made a man a civilized creature, kept him in solitary so often and so long that he thought sometimes he’d go mad listening to the sound of his own breath.
Now he tuned his ears to the sweet rhythm of Edwina Cassidy’s breath. She’d been so tired she hadn’t even been able to find the strength to argue with him or to protest when he’d told her they would be heading south to rob another bank. She had just curled up in the blanket, closed her sea green, sky blue eyes and instantly fallen asleep. Only a child, he thought, or an innocent could fall asleep that fast.
And what did that say about him? Gideon wondered as he lay there wide-awake and staring at the sky. He wondered if he had ever been innocent. He knew for certain, though, that he hadn’t been a child since ‘63 when General Ewing had given the order to depopulate Bates and Cass and Jackson Counties. Depopulate! The militia turned better than twenty thousand citizens out of their homes and then burned most of the buildings to the ground.
He had been ten years old, no bigger than a cornstalk in July, when the bluebellies had ridden into their front yard and started ripping the shutters off the house and then hacking at the railing of the front porch. He had run out with a rifle that was bigger than he was, and somebody had grabbed it out of his hands while somebody else pushed him down and wound him tight with rope.
He never saw who threw the torch into the house. In fact, he never even saw the fire because one of the soldiers tugged a feed sack over his head and tied it around his neck. But he heard his mother’s screams from one of the upstairs windows as they tossed him on a horse and galloped away. And he heard his own screams. After a while that was all he could hear. And then, for a long time, he couldn’t hear anything at all. Or feel anything.
In prison he had once again tutored himself in numbness, learned how to shut down inside his head, not to feel anything.
What he felt now was the sleeping warmth of a woman in his arms. This was what life was supposed to be, Gideon thought as he gazed up at the dark heavens. What it might have been.
He took in a deep breath, choosing to ignore the wet catch in his throat and the way the stars blurred in his vision. The past was the past, dammit. It was over and done with. And there wasn’t a whole hell of a lot he could do about his future except to make damn sure he didn’t wind up back in prison.
He glanced down at Edwina’s face—dark lashes against soft skin, her mouth relaxed in sleep, a tiny bead of moisture cornered there. She’d probably never been kissed much, he thought, judging from her initial startled reaction when they were standing on the train. But judging from the way she had melted then and from the way her soft mouth had yielded beneath his, Gideon suspected it wouldn’t take her very long to acquire the habit or to be downright good at it.
“Hell,” he muttered. That was fine to think about, but all he planned to do was keep the little bank teller out of trouble for the next few days and see that she got back home in one piece. One intact piece. That, he thought, was about the greatest gift a man like him could give to a young lady like her.
Chapter Seven
The sun had been up just long enough to take the chill out of the morning air and had climbed just high enough to light the campsite where Honey stood now, trying to shake the wrinkles out of the dress that Gideon had handed her. Well, not handed so much as shoved into her arms with a gruff “Here” before he had stalked away toward the creek.
She had awakened thoroughly rested, almost cheerful. He, on the other hand, had been as prickly as the whiskers on his face from the minute he had opened his eyes. When she had thanked him for the dress, he’d merely grunted over his shoulder as he continued walking away.
Honey shrugged and continued working on the rumpled fabric of her skirt. His foul mood wasn’t her problem, after all. Her immediate concern was seven or eight yards of linen that had been wadded up in a saddlebag so long the wrinkles would probably never smooth out. Wonderful as it was to be wearing a proper dress again as opposed to the red-and-black dance hall delight, Honey had to shake her head in dismay.
“I look like something the cat dragged in,” she muttered.
“Smart cat.”
Whirling toward the sound of the deep voice, Honey found herself the focus of Gideon’s intense, appreciative gaze. The rough stubble on his cheeks and chin, while darkening his face, made his eyes appear nearly silver in contrast. They glinted now, like sunlight on the blade of a knife, as he came slowly toward her.
Her heart vaulted into her throat as he reached for the top button of her bodice, but oddly enough her hands failed to rise in defense. Her arms suddenly felt leaden.
“You forgot one,” Gideon said softly as he worked the button through the buttonhole.
He was so close Honey could feel the
heat radiating from his body and smell the faint tang of creek water on his damp hair. His breath riffled the hair at the crown of her head, sending a cascade of shivers down her spine.
“Thank you for looking after my dress for me,” she said. “It was very thoughtful of you.”
“No problem.” He was done buttoning now but his hands remained, tracing a shoulder seam. “I figured on a bank clerk’s wages you probably didn’t have dresses to spare.”
Honey thought of the three trunks she had brought home with her from school. Suddenly she wished she were standing before this man in her white satin ball gown, the one that had won her so many compliments from the young men back east. She wished, instead of hanging in bedraggled locks, her hair were swept atop her head and anchored with her pearl-studded tortoiseshell combs. She was accustomed to the appreciative stares of men. Well, boys. Still, even in this woebegone linen and with her hair a jumble of knots, there was something in Gideon Summerfield’s voice and in his pewter gaze that made her feel utterly and unaccountably beautiful.
She made herself shake off the feeling. Silly, she thought. She didn’t want to feel beautiful, but smart and responsible. And, anyway, it wasn’t Gideon Summerfield she was interested in. It was the money. Besides, even if she were attracted to him, he was a bank robber. A married one, at that. The latter fact probably accounted for his proficiency with tiny mother-of-pearl buttons.
Taking a step back, Honey said stiffly, “You’re right. I don’t have clothes to spare. Or money. I work hard for my wages.” She paused, looking around the campsite, trying to locate the canvas sack she’d seen the night before. “Speaking of money, what the devil have you done with it?”
He grinned. “Why, Miss Edwina! Most gals aren’t so obvious about where their interests lie with a fella. They at least let the poor fool believe it’s true love until they get him down the aisle.”
She gave her long, tumbled hair a toss. “Well, you’d know about that, I’m sure, having already taken that little walk down the aisle yourself.”
Gideon’s smile evaporated instantly. “The money’s in a safe place,” he growled. “And your stolen horse is saddled. Let’s go.”
He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Honey wondering just what he had done with the second sack of money and when he was coming back for it. He couldn’t just plant money sacks all over the countryside, could he, in the hope to retrieve them all later? How in the world would he ever get away when the authorities came after him? And when, she wondered, would that be?
She was still wondering about the lack of pursuit when they rode into the little town of Golden a few hours later. It seemed to her that a man planning to rob a bank would have slunk into town like the proverbial thief in the night—shoulders hunched, keeping against walls and looking over his shoulder. But Gideon sat tall and handsome in the saddle as he guided his horse right down the middle of the dusty little street, looking for all the world as if he was an honest man on an honest mission.
After he tethered his roan gelding to the rail in front of the saloon, he lifted his hands to help Honey down. His fingers splayed out over her rib cage, and they remained there—warm and protective—once she was on her feet.
“Thank you,” she said.
He just stood there, staring down, still holding her. The dun mare whinnied and sidestepped, jarring them both. Gideon’s grip tightened on Honey’s midriff.
“I’ve got my balance,” Honey said.
“What?”
“I said I’ve got my balance. My feet are firmly on the ground. You can let me go now.”
His hands jerked away. Damned if he even realized he was holding her, Gideon thought. He’d best gather his wits together or the next thing he knew he’d be walking into a church instead of a bank. Best get away from this warm, sweet-smelling, ocean-eyed distraction before his brain stiffened up like the rest of him.
“I need a drink,” he grumbled, reaching into his saddlebag and coming up with a wad of bank notes, which he thrust into her hand. “Here. Why don’t you walk down to the mercantile and get us some supplies?”
She blinked. “Supplies?”
“Food. Coffee. Whatever you want,” he said curtly. “I’ll be about fifteen minutes.” Saying that, he started toward the door of the saloon.
“Gideon?”
He took a deep breath and turned back to her. Still standing in the street, tiny between the two horses, clutching the bills in her hand, she reminded him of a little country girl just come to town in her best bedraggled dress. “What?” he asked quietly.
“Be careful,” she said.
Gideon felt his heart jam, like logs caught in a swift river. Nobody had said that to him since he was ten years old. Nobody. Not Cora, for sure, and not any of his cutthroat cousins. But he didn’t need to hear that now. He couldn’t afford what it cost his soul to have anybody care. Not her anyway. Not now.
“I’m always careful, bright eyes,” he said, then turned his back on her and walked into the saloon.
* * *
The little mercantile reminded Honey so much of her mother’s long-ago, decrepit store in Loma Parda. It had been nearly seventeen years since Honey had last seen Cassidy’s Mercantile, the grim little place where she’d spent the first three years of her life, but the minute she walked in the door, memories came flooding back.
The rough-hewn shelves were crammed with dusty bottles and tins. The floor was stacked with wooden crates, and overhead, the ceiling almost seemed to sway with its coils of ropes and chains, its shovels and ax handles and brooms.
“Howdy.” The dark-haired young shopkeeper leaned across the counter, smiling a little crookedly as she drawled, “What can I do for you?”
Honey blinked. The scene and the girl were so familiar it was as if she were looking at a version of herself. As if she had been transported through time to a real, remembered place that was inhabited now by someone who had never had a chance to exist. Herself. Not Honey Logan, though. She was staring at Edwina Cassidy.
Suddenly she felt dizzy and a bit off center. The ceiling, with its loops of rope and chain, seemed to shift, and the floor felt as if it were sliding away from under her feet. “I need a few things,” she told the apparition on the opposite side of the counter, then proceeded to rattle off the first items that came into her head.
Edwina Cassidy! That was who Honey had been for her first three years. That was who she’d be this minute if her father hadn’t come back from the war to claim both her and her mother, to whisk them away from the little store in Loma Parda, to take them to Santa Fe where he’d kept them both in glass boxes, high on pedestals, safe and secure.
Safe, secure and utterly useless. Honey watched her other self move with grace and brisk efficiency behind the counter. The girl hiked up her calico skirt and climbed two steps up a rickety ladder to reach for a jar on a high shelf, then backed down to the floor with the jar tucked under her chin.
“That was strawberry jam you wanted, right?” she asked Honey, who nodded, despite the fact that she had barely comprehended the question.
If Race Logan had never come back, she was thinking, it would be Edwina Cassidy hiking up her skirt and taking the rungs of a ladder in stride. If Race Logan hadn’t turned her into a pampered and useless female—a house pet, practically—with his money and his overbearing love, she’d be a competent young woman today. She wouldn’t have to battle for every shred of the responsibility she craved.
For a minute, Honey wished her father hadn’t come back. For a split second, she found herself wishing Race Logan had died with all the other prisoners at Andersonville so that she might have lived a different kind of life as Edwina Cassidy.
She shook her head to clear her brain of such disturbing, disloyal, even downright evil thoughts. She couldn’t, though. The vision of the Edwina Cassidy who might have been kept haunting her, and by the time the dark-haired girl had wrapped and tied her purchases, Honey could barely breathe for the terrible guilt
she was feeling. She swept the packages from the counter and raced outside to gulp a great, cleansing draft of air, only to find herself rushing right into the arms of Gideon Summerfield.
Those arms tightened around her. “Whoa! Slow down, Ed. You look like you just saw a ghost.”
“I...I did,” she answered without even thinking. Then, as she realized exactly where she was, Honey corrected herself. “No, I didn’t. It was nothing.”
Gideon tipped her chin up. “Doesn’t sound like nothing. Doesn’t look like nothing either. Are you all right?”
She nodded.
The palms of his hands flattened on her neck as his thumbs held her face tilted upward for his inspection. He flicked his gaze toward the mercantile’s door. “Did somebody bother you in there? Somebody do something?—”
“No, Gideon,” she said, cutting him off. “For heaven’s sake. I told you nothing happened. Nobody did anything. I just...I just wanted to get out in the fresh air.” She took a step back, out of the circle of his arms. “You’re crushing these packages,” she snapped.
He gave her one last, inquisitive look before letting her go. “If you’re sure...”
“I’m sure,” she said quickly. Standing away from him now, Honey was able to see the canvas sack in the dust by his boots. He must have dropped it, she thought, in order to hold her, but he picked it up now and held it against his leg.
“I guess you’re all done with your, um, business.” Honey gestured toward the sack on whose canvas side was stenciled The Bank of Golden, New Mexico Territory.
“All done.”
His reply was as casual as it was amazing. The man had just robbed a bank, for heaven’s sake. Either he was the most brazen thief in the world or he didn’t have enough sense to hightail it out of town.
Honey stared up at his calm face. “Shouldn’t we escape?” she asked, a thread of panic in her voice.
