by Beth Ciotta
“And you shall. You’ll compose clever melodies and perform them on stage. Why, with your talent and wit you could write quite an amusing opera. You are going to be a star and I am going to be the happiest man on earth.” He came up behind her and tugged her pigtail. “You want to make me happy, pumpkin, don’t you?”
“I want to make you happy,” Paris mumbled, tossing and turning and making Josh insane.
“Then lay still,” he said, swabbing wet cloths over her naked body. Not that she heard his order. She was sleeping, though fitfully. Dreaming. Although the way she thrashed about he’d peg it more for a nightmare. Much like his life the past two hours.
A herd of morbid thoughts had stampeded his mind when he’d first laid eyes on her feverish body. Like the memory of his mother succumbing to consumption. Thankfully, Doc Farley had been a stone’s throw away. Thankfully the diagnosis hadn’t been worse. Still, he blamed himself for her fragile state. He should have protected her better from the sun. His punishment, severe by any healthy man’s standards, included ministering her firm young body.
“Can you teach me to juggle apples and sing rhymes at the same time?”
The corners of his mouth lifted. “What the devil are you dreaming about?”
Her eyes fluttered open. “Josh?”
“Right here, honey.”
“I’m cold.”
His hand stilled. “What?”
She shivered then turned onto her side and snuggled up against him.
His brain seized. A knock on the door had him swearing and on his feet. He peeled off the damp cloths, pulled the covers over her, and tucked the quilt tight around her trembling form.
Percy Loss greeted him at the door. “I know the missus brought you some tea, but this is even better.” He held up a tall glass of steaming amber liquid. “My miracle remedy.”
Josh lifted a suspect eyebrow. “What’s in it?”
Mr. Loss smiled. “Hot whiskey, lemon, and water. Cures just about everything.”
It would certainly knock her out, a blessing, given her restless state. “Thank you.” He took the glass and shut the door before the loose-lipped innkeeper could get an eyeful. Walking back to the bed, he coaxed Paris into a sitting position. “Sip this.”
“It smells disgusting.” She gulped down the remedy, shuddering as she passed him back the empty glass. “Tastes awful. Guess that means it’s good for me. At least that’s what London always says.” She fell back on the bed. “I’m still cold.”
London, he surmised, was another brother, and wouldn’t appreciate what he was about to do. Or maybe he would since it was for her well-being.
“Remember that,” he told himself as he shucked his clothes and crawled under the covers with the naked girl. “This is for her, not you.”
She draped her arm over his bare chest and threw her right leg over his thighs, pressing her soft thatch of curls against his hip. Every muscle in Josh’s body tensed.
“I’m not a freak.”
He frowned down at the top of her head. “Who called you a freak?”
“Did I show you the telegram?”
He assumed she was referring to the wire she’d received from Mason. “You can show me tomorrow.”
“M.B. isn’t in Florence,” she said in a small voice. “I lied. I’m sorry. It’s just that … I didn’t know you then.”
He hugged her close. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” When your mind’s not jumping tracks every three seconds.
“Seth is nice.”
“You think so, huh?”
“Is he married?”
He cursed a pang of jealousy, threaded his fingers through her silky hair. “No. Why?”
“I’m thinking he might be perfect for Emily.”
“A friend of yours?” His relief was immense and damned annoying.
“My best friend. She’s been forever in love with Rome. But he won’t give her the time of day.”
“Bastard.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Try to go to sleep.” He stroked her smooth, flushed curves, hoping to soothe her, trying not to admire her perfect breasts, her slender thighs. Ignoring the way she fidgeted, grinding her womanly mound against his upper thigh. She was hot, wet, and, as Doc Farley noted, delirious. Making love to a feverish woman was out of the question and yet it was all he could think about.
“Josh?” She snuggled her face into the crook of his neck.
He held her tight, groaning when she shifted, her knee brushing his erection.
“I don’t feel right.”
“I know, sweetheart.” He prayed for her fever to break, for Mr. Loss’s miracle remedy to kick in. He wouldn’t get a wink of sleep this night, but he would rest a helluva lot easier if she would just conk out. “It’ll pass. Think about something else.”
Sighing, she drummed her fingers on his chest. “All right. I thought of a good reason.”
“For what?”
“For not marrying you.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Marriage equals broken hearts and dreams,” she whispered, her fingers dancing over his abdomen.
He sucked in a breath, nabbing her hand before her fingers jigged lower. “I won’t break your heart.”
“Maybe I’ll break yours.”
Since he didn’t aim on giving her his heart, that wasn’t a worry. “I can take care of myself.”
“Really?” She slid her hand from his grasp and traced the jagged scar on his shoulder. “How’d you get this?”
“Tangling with an obstinate bandit.”
“Rome and Boston tangle with bandits too. I wonder if they have scars.”
“Probably.” Desperados rarely gave up without a fight. He wondered if she realized how freely she was talking. Wondered if he could take advantage. “About your brothers—”
“Touch me.” She snagged his hand and placed it at the sweet junction between her legs.
If she’d meant to distract him, she’d done a fine job. Hellfire, would his punishment never end? “Not now.”
She wiggled against his fingers and moaned. “I like that.”
The muscle in his cheek jumped as he summoned every ounce of decency in his bones. Either Mr. Loss’s remedy was lethal or she had zero tolerance to whiskey. “You’re not in your right mind.”
“According to Heaven, I’ve never been in my right mind.”
Heaven? Was she citing religion? Did she think sex was a sin? Shit. One more thing to beat herself up over. He tried to pull his hand away, tried to be a gentleman, but she refused to cooperate. She continued to wiggle against him, wrapping her free hand around his shaft. He clenched his jaw and cursed a silent blue streak.
“Do you fancy me?” she asked, her fingers gliding over his stiff rod.
If he weren’t in such misery, he’d laugh. He rolled on top of her, forcing her to release him. Hoping to distract her, he devoured her with a starving kiss.
“Touch me,” she pleaded, when he allowed her to come up for air. “Please?”
A naked woman. In bed. Begging for pleasure. How had every man’s dream turned into his personal nightmare? Giving up, he showered her with lusty kisses and stroked her, wanting to drive her into oblivion. It took a total of three minutes. She exploded under his touch, writhing, moaning his name, and, a split second later collapsed against him in exhaustion.
Damn. He’d never known a woman to peak so easily. What would it be like when they actually made love? If she wasn’t so ill, swear to God, he’d pack her off to that preacher tonight.
Another knock came at the door. He tried to get up, but she had her leg anchored over his thighs. “Just a minute!”
“Go away,” she mumbled, her voice slurred from the liquor.
He snagged his shirt off the nightstand and managed to button her into it, but when he tried to push out of bed, his legs got tangled in the sheets. Paris groaned, the knocking grew louder, and he lost his composure. “We don’t need any more whiskey!”
<
br /> The door swung open and Seth stepped into the room, a shotgun swinging at his side. He took one look at Josh’s naked state and swore.
A man wearing a black suit, with a skinny, white-banded collar stepped in behind him, and calmly shut the door.
Josh was trying to jam his legs in his trousers when the preacher opened his bible.
Seth cocked a wry grin. “You’ll thank me when the Garretts show up on your doorstep.”
Josh didn’t argue.
Mrs. Loss thinks we’re getting married.
We are.
Last night trickled back in distorted fragments, intensifying Paris’s foul mood. Still suffering from whatever had ailed her, she fought the urge to retch. Every step of her horse’s trot drove a railway spike into her sluggish brain. Frantic to reach her destination, she grimaced against the splitting headache and pressed onward. The more distance she put between her and Josh, the better.
“How long before we get to Chance?” she asked.
“At the pace we’re moving?” Harley Fox slowed his sorrel’s gait to match her mare’s. “Better part of the day.”
She ignored the prospector’s sarcasm. She couldn’t care beans about his surly disposition. He was passing by Chance on his way to the Superstition Mountains and that’s all that mattered. Clenching the saddle horn for dear life, she urged the mare on a little faster, praying all the while that she wouldn’t lose her seat and tumble to the hard ground.
This morning she’d awoken, half naked, her body tingling. She’d hugged a pillow and breathed in Josh’s distinct scent of sandalwood soap and leather. Her cheeks burned as erotic images flooded her mind. Josh unlacing her corset … crawling into bed … smoothing his hands over her skin.
Although the specific details blurred, she knew she’d acted scandalously. Now, with her goal as close as the next town, her childhood promise was in serious jeopardy.
When Mrs. Loss had knocked on her door bearing a selection of second-hand shirts, and news that Josh was out shopping for their new home, she’d made a split second decision. Ten minutes later, she sneaked out the back door, talked the livery owner into selling her his daughter’s horse and enlisted Harley Fox, who’d just saddled his own mount, as her guide.
By the time Josh discovered her missing, she’d be halfway to Chance. He’d be too fed up with her antics to follow. At least, that’s what she kept telling Harley.
The sound of thundering hooves caused her escort to swivel in his saddle. “Dad-burn it! I knew it!”
Paris didn’t need to turn around to know that Josh was bearing down. She could feel his fury radiating across the desert plain, prickly and as intimidating as any one of the surrounding cacti. Sweat trickled down the side of her face, and she didn’t think it was due to the mid-morning sun. Her fear of horses paled volumes in comparison to her apprehension of facing Josh’s wrath. Swallowing hard, she dug in her heels trying to urge Sunny into a record setting gallop. The horse refused to cooperate, holding to a trot.
A shrill whistle rent the air, nearly splitting her aching head wide open. Sunny stopped cold. Were Paris not clinging for dear life, she would’ve flown over the horse’s head. When she looked up to find Josh glaring at her, jaw clenched, chest heaving, she wished she’d taken that dive. Unconsciousness would be preferable to the blistering lecture coming her way. She just hoped he didn’t do something rude. Like shoot her.
Harley reined in his horse. “I know,” he said, casting Josh a sour look. “Get lost.”
“Wait!” she called, when he turned to leave. “I paid you to escort me to Chance!”
The prospector dug in his vest pocket and passed her the cash she’d paid him up front. “Ain’t worth dying for, lady.”
Three seconds later, Harley was gone and she faced Josh alone. Lordy, he was imposing. So tall. So broad. His unshaven jaw clenched tight. Wearing a stone-gray duster over a black vest and a blood-red shirt, he looked dark and dangerous, and mad enough to chew a bucket of nails without cracking a tooth.
He hadn’t said a word. Not to Harley. Not to her. His silence heightened her anxiety. She threaded her fingers through Sunny’s mane. For the life of her, she couldn’t look him in the eyes.
“How are you feeling?”
Like I’ve been dragged through the bush backward. “Better, thank you.”
“Let me know when you’re one-hundred percent so that I can give you the spanking you deserve.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“You’re right. Tell me when you’re ninety percent.” He leaned closer, the sheer force of his presence causing her to tilt sideways in her saddle. “Do you ever think before you act?”
She blushed profusely, feeling guilty for a dozen reasons.
“What the hell were you thinking riding into the desert with a stranger?”
She wished he would bellow. The controlled tone set her nerves on edge. “Harley isn’t a stranger,” she said, braiding another portion of Sunny’s mane. “We met him yesterday when he stumbled out of the saloon and winked at me.”
“That doesn’t ease my mind.” He wrapped his hand around her busy fingers and squeezed. “Look at me, Paris.”
The warmth of his hand seeped through her skin, causing her stomach to coil into a familiar knot. Touch me. She jerked her hand away, blasting him with the full force of her anxiety. “I can’t marry you!”
“Did I ask?”
“What?”
“Did I just ask you to marry me?”
She blinked at him, thoroughly confused. “But Mrs. Loss said … and I thought … after last night … what we … did.”
“Which was?”
If her cheeks burned any hotter they’d be on fire. “It.”
He furrowed his brow. “It?”
“Must I explain?”
“If you want me to understand what you’re talking about.”
“We were naked.”
“For medicinal reasons.”
“We slept together.”
“Actually, you slept. I had things on my mind.”
She threw up her hands in exasperation. Had she only imagined they’d been intimate? Wait a minute. Someone had called her delirious. Maybe it was her imagination!
“Who called you a freak?”
His question took her aback. “What?”
“Last night you said, I’m not a freak. I want to know who put that notion in your head.”
“Mary Lee Bernbaum.”
“Who’s Mary Lee Bernbaum?”
“My almost sister-in-law.” When he reached around to rub the back of his neck, she figured she’d better explain. “It was one of life’s most embarrassing moments. Up until now, that is. The annual Lemonade and Storytelling Social picnic. I made Mary Lee angry. She called me a musical freak.” She shrugged. “The whole town pretty much agreed.”
“Are you telling me you’re an outcast in your hometown?”
She couldn’t fathom why he looked so angry. It’s not that the townfolk walked around calling her vicious names. Her brothers would never stand for that. They simply kept their distance and regarded her with “that look.” “If you heard one of my ditties, you’d understand.”
“What’s a ditty?”
“That’s what my brothers call my musical rhymes. I don’t plan them ahead of time. They just pop out. A slice of life in catchy song.”
His eyes danced with understanding. “You sang one of those last night.”
She groaned. “I did?”
“Uh huh.”
“About who?”
“Doc Farley.”
“Was he insulted?”
“Why would he be insulted? It was amusing.”
The breath whooshed out of her lungs. “You liked my ditty?”
He nodded. “So did Seth.”
“Seth?” The name sounded vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t put a face to the name.
“The man you want to match up with your friend, Emily.”
She remembered the
n. A fair man with emerald-green eyes. He reminded her of Athens. “Oh, him. I said I wanted to match him up with Emily? I must have been out of mind. She wouldn’t have Seth.”
He looked surprised. “She wouldn’t?”
“Absolutely not. She’s hopelessly in love with … ”
“Yes?”
“One of my brothers.” She was relieved when he didn’t ask which one, but had to wonder what else she’d blabbered last night. She started to ask, but then another question popped into her head. “How did you know where to find me?”
“Seth.” He glowered again, making her sorry she’d asked. “He was passing by the livery and heard Milton Beane trying to explain to his seven-year-old daughter why he’d sold her horse to the pretty, crazy lady.”
Paris’s shoulders slumped. She’d been particularly nice and wholly reasonable with Mr. Beane. “Why did he think I was crazy?”
“Because you gave him a ridiculously high IOU for that nag.”
Her misfit heart ached for the swayback mare. “Sunny is not a nag. She’s gentle.”
“She’s a year away from being put out to pasture.” Josh cupped Paris’s chin, narrowed his eyes. “You are a genuine pain in the ass.”
Unnerved by his touch, she nudged away his hand. “It would seem as though I’m affecting more of your body parts daily.”
“That’s an understatement.”
“All the more reason why we should part ways. I’d hate to cause you anymore trouble.”
“I can’t imagine that’s possible.”
“In that case, I’ll be going. It was kind of you to be concerned, but as you can see, I’m fine. If I hurry maybe I can catch up with Harley.”
His right eye twitched. “I’ll escort you to Chance.”
He was almost whispering now. That couldn’t be good. Feigning ease, she leaned down to adjust her left stirrup. “I wouldn’t want to put you out.”
“Too late. And for the record, M.B. stands for Mason Burke.”
“You know M.B.?”
“He was my uncle.”
She would’ve slid right out of the saddle if he hadn’t caught her and pushed her upright. He leaned down and finished adjusting her stirrup while she assimilated the shocking news. M.B. was his uncle? But hadn’t his uncle died? Yes, he had specifically said his uncle had died and left him his business. “Oh, no.”
