Love of a Cowboy 1

by Paige Tyler

  She fell silent as she reached for the pitcher to wash his hair. Now that was a chore she enjoyed, because it involved holding his head below water. But once she’d finished with that, she’d already gotten all of the areas on his body that she considered relatively safe. Now what could she do?

  Mary Rose’s hand was still on his broad chest as his wet hair dripped down onto his shoulders. Rafe watched her. He wanted to see what she would do.

  Finally, after a long while, she began to rub his chest with the cloth, very reluctantly, and Rafe almost grabbed her hand to stop her, but it felt so good that he indulged himself for a while. Her touch was absolutely electrifying—however reluctant—and he found himself craving more—much, much more. His nipples—as well as other parts of him—had been at attention since the moment they entered the makeshift tent she’d created.

  Rafe found himself wishing desperately that the situation were different. With what was probably going to go on, she would likely end up hating him, and he didn’t know if he could stand it. He just had to hope that things worked out the way he was trying to get them to.

  Suddenly, she stopped the gentle swirling motions she’d been using and stepped back from the tub, her face a bright, painful red as she rubbed her wet hand on her skirt. “I—I can’t do any more,” she whispered, looking down.

  Rafe felt a twinge in his heart at her extreme discomfort. He was amazed that it hurt him to see her so cowed, but it did. He had thought himself hardened to things like that—even to the worst of human suffering. But not to hers, apparently.

  He was just lying there, not saying anything. Mary Rose was sure she’d die before she’d be able to wash him any further. Her stomach was in knots and she felt like she was going to throw up. “Please don’t make me,” she breathed quietly, as if it was a prayer.

  There was nothing Rafe could do but relent. “Go inside and fix something for lunch.”

  Mary Rose couldn’t believe she’d been given a reprieve. She stepped back from the tub quickly, drying her hands on her skirt. “I—I will.”

  She whirled around instantly to leave, and something in the defeated set of her small shoulders made him speak. “Thank you for the bath.” How lame could he get, he thought to himself.

  But she surprised him, turning back and meeting his eyes for the first time since they’d entered the almost tent. He could see her swallow. “Thank you for not—not–” If her face got any redder he figured it would just burst. “Insisting.”

  He inclined his head and touched his fingertips to his forehead, as if he was tipping his hat. It was an automatic move, one drilled into him by his mother, who was an absolute bear about good manners. “You’re very welcome, Ma’am.”

  Then he turned to the business at hand and Mary Rose flew out of the enclosure, her heart lighter than it should have been at the reprieve she’d been granted so unexpectedly.

  ~

  The thought of that strange exchange lay in the back of her mind all day, coming to the forefront whenever the abject fear of their situation almost got the best of her. Could it really be that El Diablo wasn’t that bad a man at all? After all, any other man would never have hesitated under the same circumstances to force her to wash them completely—and probably do much, much more depraved things that she couldn’t even imagine. Why, he hadn’t touched her last night, either. For the most part, she couldn’t reconcile his behavior with his reputation as an evil, ruthless killer.

  After lunch, the kitchen was in an even worse state, but they were again shepherded into the saloon where time continued to drag, until the Devil, who had been out scouting around the grounds, came in and announced he was going into town.

  “Are you loco, Boss?” Hernandez cried, rocking his chair back onto all four legs. Toze joined in with his own objections.

  “Yer sure to git caught if you go down there, Boss.”

  Rafe ignored the clamor as he brought out a small box and proceeded to glue a mustache onto his upper lip, and thicker but tapered sideburns onto his cheeks. “I’m not going to get caught, boys,” he said calmly. “The law is looking for three gunmen traveling together. The wanted posters have probably not even been printed yet, much less made their way here. So my face isn’t all that well known.” He faced Mary Rose, who was sitting in a chair at one of the tables, as far away from the men as she could get. “And I’m not going to be alone. I’m going to take your wagon, Missy, and you’re going to come with me. They won’t be looking for a couple.”

  “But how am I going to explain you to the townsfolk?”

  He had an answer for that, too. “I’m your beau, come out to help you with the business—a young lady such as yourself shouldn’t be doing all of this alone. You need a man to help you.”

  “But we told Stu—” Mary Rose did not want to go into town with him under any circumstances. She was terrified that—despite his assurances—someone was going to recognize him and there would be a shootout. And she’d be right next to him, in the line of fire.

  “And,” he continued emphatically, “I’m helping you nurse Penny back to health.”

  Mary Rose stood, her back exceptionally straight as she confronted him. “It would be highly irregular and improper—it is highly irregular and improper for me to stay alone in this house with a man I’m not married to.”

  Rafe took several steps towards her, holding her eyes the entire time, everything about his stance a challenge. Mary Rose felt an unfamiliar ache in the pit of her tummy, and her nipples peaked painfully. What was happening to her? It seemed that anytime she came within a few feet of this awful man, her body wanted him to reach out and touch her. It seemed to crave the touch of a killer and that made her question her own morals—and her sanity, frankly.

  He was inches away from her, so close she could smell the masculine scent of him mixed with the strong lye soap she had used on him in his bath. His hair was still a little damp, and jet-black strands of it clung lovingly to his forehead. The wild thought crossed her mind that she would like to cling to him like that but she quickly discarded it, shifting restlessly in front of him.

  “It’s highly irregular and improper of you to harbor a whore, too,” he commented, turning to Penny and nodding at her. “Sorry, Ma’am.”

  Penny—who at the ripe old age of eighteen had seen and done most everything with any man—blushed full and bright at his apology, bowing her head. “’At’s okay. I know what I am.”

  “She brings in business—men who buy drinks and rent rooms. You’ll just be someone who’s hard for me to explain to everyone I know in town.” Mary Rose refused to acknowledge how gentlemanly he was acting towards Penny. It was an aberration. He was an evil man, and he deserved whatever horrible end he came to.

  “I’ll do the explaining, Missy,” he countered authoritatively. “Let’s go upstairs and you can get into some nicer duds.”

  Mary Rose debated about arguing her point further, but he merely cocked an eyebrow at her and she started for the stairs, damning her own feminine weakness. She was still smarting from the last spankings, and she knew she didn’t want to earn any more of them. She wasn’t at all sure that it wouldn’t be better just to let him shoot her and get it over with, rather than having to live under his rule with the threat of him taking her over his knee at any given second, treating her like a little girl of five rather than a full grown woman.

  Of course, he watched her undress then dress again, standing in her feminine, frilly room looking like a bull in a china shop. She was hardly of a mind to dress for him, so she pulled out her oldest dress. It was a faded blue cotton concoction that had, at one time, been her favorite. Somehow, it soothed her frayed nerves as she pulled it over her head and settled the familiar gathered skirt down around her hips.

  As had quickly become her habit under these unusual circumstances, she continued to look anywhere but at him. But when she was ready, she met his eyes, and was thunderstruck by the intensity of his gaze. He was looking at her like a starving
wolf contemplates a limping rabbit, and just that look made her step back, away from him, crossing her arms over her chest in an instinctively protective movement. Her heart was trying to pound out of her chest, and she knew her face was an unflattering shade of red.

  But like that rabbit, she couldn’t quite look away.

  Just watching her had Rafe aching like a boy with his first whore. But she was far from a whore, and he knew it. He swallowed hard, never taking his eyes off her as the fabric of the dress molded itself to her torso, then flared out over her lower body. He just hoped he could keep himself in check long enough to get the job done, leaving her life as intact as possible, as if they had never met. That would be the best thing for her—although he knew, somehow, in a startling revelation that nearly blinded him, that he would go to his grave wanting her.

  He prayed he was man enough not to do anything about it.

  “Let’s go. We haven’t got all day,” he ordered, more gruffly than he intended, but he swore if she gave him but the smallest inkling of encouragement they would never make it out of the bedroom regardless of the business he needed to conduct in town. “And no funny business from you,” he added in warning.

  He brought her back to the room they’d shared last night, where his saddlebags held a cleaner shirt and a bolo that he donned quickly, and Mary Rose had to admit that he cleaned up nicely. He looked fairly presentable—much more so than the majority of men in Clementine.

  She scurried out the door—very obviously trying not to, but it was definitely a scurry—and down the stairs with him hot on her heels.

  The ride into town was accomplished in an awkward silenced. Rafe was trying to disabuse himself of the pictures that flashed through his mind over and over—Mary Rose in various states of dishabille … and lying naked beneath him in bed this morning. He was constantly uncomfortably hard around her. Why this starchy little chit aroused him, he would never know, but she did. And it didn’t help that her leg bumped up against his all the way there, either.

  Mary Rose was trying to sit as far away from him as possible, but the wagon seat wasn’t very wide, and she didn’t have much choice but to sit right next to him and bump up against him constantly, what with the horrid condition of the road. She didn’t think she’d ever been this scared in her life, even more so than when they’d burst into the saloon with their guns drawn. There were a lot more guns to be drawn in Clementine, and she’d never considered herself much of an actress. She almost never lied, and wasn’t very good at it.

  “That’s why I’m doing the talking,” he said.

  Mary Rose started at his voice, not aware that she’d said the last sentence she’d thought out loud. She just nodded, and huddled in on herself a little more. All she wanted was for this whole ordeal to be over so that she could get on with her boring life.

  Of course, once he’d helped her down from the wagon, putting his hands on her waist and lifting her down with all too much familiarity, the first person they ran into was Henrietta Seymour, the biggest gossip in town. She looked El Diablo up and down as if she couldn’t believe Mary Rose had finally caught someone. Mary Rose was going to make introductions, but then she realized that she didn’t even know his real name.

  But Rafe took matters into his own hands, tipping his hat and kissing the back of Henrietta’s hand, making her blush like a schoolgirl. “Raphael Black, at your service, Ma’am. Rafe to my friends. I do believe that the town of Clementine is blessed with an inordinate amount of beautiful women.”

  Henrietta fluttered at the compliment, and it was all Mary Rose could do not to roll her eyes. If the matronly woman only knew whose lips had touched her hand she’d soak it in lye for a week. “Why, Mr. Black, you are too kind. What brought you to our fair town?”

  Rafe reached out to Mary Rose and wrapped his arm around her waist protectively. “I came to fetch my girl, here, and marry her. Couldn’t stand being away from her any longer. I was shocked to see that she was all alone—”

  The fact that Mary Rose had continued to run her aunt and uncle’s businesses after they died was a source of great consternation to Henrietta, who thought that it was highly improper, even though she was a proprietress of her own mercantile. But she was married, and owned it jointly with her husband. She thought it terribly unseemly that a single woman should own and run two highly questionable establishments. “I know!” she interrupted vehemently, laying her hand on Rafe’s arm for even more emphasis. “She should have sold it and gone back home to her parents in Virginia, I always told her. It’s not right for a single woman to run businesses, I say. Not right at all. And not safe, either. There’s no telling what kind of riff raff she could run into, out there all by herself.”

  Mary Rose was thinking unkindly that she could run into the exact kind of riff raff who would take two women captive and then pass themselves off as one of their beaus in town, but she didn’t say it for fear of her life.

  Rafe would have said something, but Henrietta was on a roll. “But now that you’re there—properly chaperoned, I’m assuming?” she asked, pointedly.

  “Oh, yes, Ma’am, of course. I brought several of my friends when I came. I can assure you everything is quite above board.”

  Mrs. Seymour nodded and grinned at him like a fool. “Wonderful. Since you’re there I’m sure that she’ll be quite all right. The wedding is imminent?”

  Mary Rose was trying to wander out of his hold, so he tightened it, gluing her to his side with his arm around her waist, all the while smiling beatifically down at a totally spellbound Henrietta. “Yes, of course. We’ll be married on Sunday.”

  “Marvelous! Congratulations, Mary Rose,” Henrietta drew the reluctant younger woman into a bear hug, patting her cheek condescendingly. “I knew you’d find someone, eventually, dear.”

  “I’m a very lucky man,” Rafe murmured, hauling Mary Rose back into his arms.

  Henrietta checked her watch and looked flustered. “Oh, dear, I need to get back to the store. It was very nice to meet you, Mr. Black. Do invite me to the wedding.” She nodded and toddled off, much to Mary Rose’s relief.

  “You’ll be the first person we invite, I’m sure, Henrietta,” she mumbled sarcastically under her breath.

  Rafe looked down at her as they started down the wooden sidewalk again. “See, it wasn’t that bad.”

  “No, it was horrid. Married on Sunday, indeed.”

  Rafe laughed. She looked like she was being put through the tortures of the damned, and he was quite enjoying himself. It was an interesting novelty to be looked on as an accepted part of polite society again. It had been a while.

  The most frightening thing of all was that telling Henrietta that they were to be married this Sunday had just rolled off his tongue—it felt truly natural. Rafe shuddered slightly. He’d always avoided marriage assiduously because of his chosen profession.

  But marriage to Mary Rose didn’t seem half bad to contemplate.

  They met several other people that Mary Rose knew as they strolled. Rafe kept them to a leisurely pace, tucking Mary Rose’s hand into the crook of his elbow and walking with her as if they were really a couple about to get married. Everyone seemed thrilled at her news, and accepted Rafe immediately as what he said he was. She had to admit that he pretty much looked the part. No one seemed to notice her unease. Rafe handled almost all of the exchanges, and only let Mary Rose speak when someone was addressing her directly.

  There was one unsettling encounter, with a man who was about Rafe’s size, dressed head to toe in black—from hat to boots. He looked a bit like Rafe—dark and rough and capable of anything. He had been walking with his head down, and nearly ran into them. When he looked at Rafe, the stranger became very still for a long moment, then skirted around them with a mumbled, “’Scuse me.” Mary Rose didn’t recognize the man, but then there were so many people coming in and out of town at any given time that it wasn’t at all unusual that she wouldn’t know him.

  They ended up at the
bank, and Mary Rose was terrified that he was going to rob it. He’d come into town with the bare minimum of arms, not wanting to set off any alarms, but he did have his six shooter strapped around his hips, as did pretty much every man in town who wanted to live longer than a day. Instead, he sent a telegram, handing a message to the clerk in the cage.

  Mary Rose was stumped, niggling the questions that were rolling around in her mind as she waited next to him. Why would an outlaw want to send a telegram? And to whom? Other outlaws? Were more scoundrels going to descend on her?

  Chapter 6

  That evening, after dinner, Hernandez proceeded to get roaring drunk. The only one of the three that stayed completely sober was Rafe. Mary Rose thought his name fit him somehow, with his classic, dark good looks. Good looks? Was she going to moon around after this ruffian now?

  Even she was indulging this evening, and she never drank. Fear and tension drove her to it, along with a need to assuage her guilt at feeling any sort of attraction to a man like Diablo.

  She had enough to make her tipsy—just enough to make her forget those uncomfortable feelings he aroused in her.

  “Gimme another drink,” Hernandez screamed. Penny was being otherwise occupied by Tozier, who had captured her and plunked her down on his lap. She didn’t seem to be fighting him about it, but didn’t look very happy about it either. Mary Rose figured that she was probably trying to do the same thing as she was—just get through it alive.

  So she got up—slowly, because the room seemed to be floating around her in the opposite direction as her eyes—and brought the whole bottle over to the smelly, wobbling man, settling it on the table in front of him and turning to leave. But he reached out and caught her skirt, bringing her up short and reeling her in so that he could loop his arm around her legs, just below her bottom. “Kish me,” he drooled.

  Mary Rose looked blearily down at the man’s dirty face, barely able to breathe for the stench of both alcohol and body odor that pervaded the air around him. He had puckered his lips as if he expected her to obey him instantaneously.