Romancing the West

by Beth Ciotta

  Athens was aloof. Cordial, but aloof. It bothered her immensely, even though he’d warned her they had no future, intimating their coupling was a one-time affair. She’d assured him she’d be able to pretend as if no intimacies had transpired between them. So far, she’d kept her word. The moment she’d seen him and his beautiful family coming toward her, she’d shut down her emotions. It was second nature. But the longer they sat next to each other, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, in the crushing midday heat, the more her resolve melted.

  She ached to touch him, to kiss him. Wanton desires pulsed through her body. She yearned not only for sex, but for affection, and companionship. A relationship. Not with just any man, but with Athens. How was it she’d lost her heart to a man she barely knew? A man who’d made it clear they had no future. “Bloody hell,” she whispered.

  Athens glanced over. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” In truth, she felt faint.

  He studied her for a moment then turned to his right, mumbled something to his assistant and son. Mr. Parker nodded. Zach rolled his eyes then focused back on the hosiery and bloomer-clad man walking the tight wire. Next, Athens leaned across Kaila, touched Zoe’s shoulder. “Baby, I need to take Mrs. Dillingham home. She’s not feeling well.”

  Embarrassed, Kaila frowned. “I told you, I’m quite well.”

  “Don’t look it. Your face is grey,” Zoe shouted over a fanfare of music. “And you’re all sweaty.”

  She flushed at the unattractive description, gasped as her stomach cramped.

  “Looks like she’s gonna puke, Papa.”

  Athens motioned to Zoe. “Come over here. Sit next to Zach. Mind Mr. Parker and I’ll see you after awhile.”

  Packed as they were into the wooden stands, people grumbled at the shifting of bodies, especially since a bear just danced into the second ring wearing a bright red tutu. Kaila grumbled the loudest.

  “Don’t make me carry you out of here, Mrs. Dillingham.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “I would.”

  She excused herself when she stepped on a myriad of toes in her efforts to escape the big top on her own two feet. She expected a dose of bracing fresh air when they exited the tent. Instead she was hit with a stifling wave of heat. It didn’t help that she’d been sitting in tight confines for so long. Her knees wobbled, the music garbled, and the scenery blurred. “Blast.”

  Athens swept her off of her feet.

  “Put me down.”

  “So you can fall on you face? How’d you get here?”

  “I walked. It’s not so far,” she added when he frowned.

  “It is on a ninety-degree day. It is when you’re wearing layers of petticoats and a high-necked gown buttoned up to your chin.” He carried her across the grounds, toward a man leaning against a two-seater buckboard. “You’re not in the English countryside anymore, Mrs. Dillingham.”

  “I know where I am, Mr. Garrett. I’m faint, not delirious.”

  “You wouldn’t be faint if you dressed appropriately.”

  “I dressed for a special event.”

  “It’s a circus, not an opera.”

  “I know what it is,” she snapped. “Cease talking to me as though I were one of your children.”

  “My children have more sense.”

  Her cheeks stung as though he’d slapped her. Her entire body tingled. She would’ve retaliated but her mind went blank. The heat radiating from Athens rivaled that of the desert sun.

  “You’re Herb Miller, aren’t you?” she heard him ask over the buzzing in her ears.

  “You got a memory for faces and names, Mr. Garrett. We only met once. A few weeks back at the general store.”

  “You remembered my name.”

  “Yeah, but that’s cuz you’re famous by way of your brothers.”

  Kaila smiled to herself. She knew it. He was related to Rome and Boston Garrett.

  “Ain’t that the limey baker lady?”

  “Mrs. Kaila Dillingham,” she said, extending a limp hand.

  He shook her fingertips, addressed Athens. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “Overheated.”

  “Yeah, well, she looks the delicate sort and it is hot as a whorehouse on nickel night.” He scratched his whiskered jaw, tipped his hat. “Pardon my language.”

  “Can you give us a lift, Mr. Miller?”

  “Sure enough.”

  Once she was settled in the rear seat, she pushed off of Athens and forced her spine straight. “I’m trying to fit in here,” she whispered through clenched teeth, “and you’re not helping by making me seem like a namby-pamby tenderfoot.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Where’d you hear talk like that?”

  She hiked her chin a notch. “I read it somewhere.”

  “Like a dime novel maybe?”

  She pulled a laced kerchief from her sleeve, dabbed at her perspiring brow. What made him ask that? Did he find out about her obsession with the American tales? Did he think, as she’d first worried, that she was only interested in him because he was related to the famous Garrett Brothers? Is that why he’d been so standoffish today?

  They fell silent for the rest of the short ride. She felt more ill by the moment.

  “Thank you for seeing me home, Mr. Garrett,” she said as he helped her down from the buckboard. “Please express my apologies to Zach and Zoe for ruining your family outing.”

  “You didn’t ruin anything, and I’m seeing you inside.” He thanked Mr. Miller, waving goodbye as the man steered the horses back toward the circus grounds.

  “Are you certain I didn’t spoil your special day?” she said weakly as he helped her up the front steps. “You didn’t look as though you enjoyed the performance.”

  “I enjoyed it fine. It’s just that I’ve seen one or another variation of most of those acts multiple times over the years. My mother was a musical actress. My father owned an opera house. I grew up around theater people. Novelty acts, variety acts, singers, dancers, actors, musicians.”

  “How exciting.”

  He shrugged as if to say not really, opened the door and guided her inside.

  “I’ll be fine now,” she said forcing a smile and offering her hand in a farewell gesture. “Thank you again for your assistance.”

  “You’re welcome.” He ignored her hand, tossed his hat on the corner chair, and shrugged out of his jacket. “Take off your clothes.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “We have to lower your body temperature before you succumb to a heat stroke. Can you undress yourself or do you need my help?”

  “I can do it.”

  “Then do it.” He brushed past her and into the kitchen. Just now he had the compassion of a crooked barrister. Her temper flared. Why was he being so controlling? So rude? She didn’t recognize or like this side of him. She thought she’d escaped this sort of treatment when her husband’s heart had ceased to beat.

  She wanted to stomp into the kitchen and vent, but she didn’t have the strength. She sank down on her sofa and loosened the top buttons of her bodice. Quite the accomplishment since her fingertips were numb.

  Athens reentered the room with a glass of water and a folded cloth. “For the love of . . . “ He set aside the glass and cloth, sat down, and brushed away her fumbling fingers.

  “I can do it,” she protested.

  “I can do it faster.” He unhooked her bodice and unlaced her whalebone corset just as quickly as he’d done the day before, only this time the effort lacked unbridled heat.

  Her mind clouded over as he stripped her to her undergarments. She should’ve breathed easier, but her chest tightened with anger and grief. Where was the gentle, passionate man who’d shown her the stars?

  “Drink this.”

  She lamented her shaking hands, blessed the refreshing liquid trickling down her parched throat, and cursed the stern-faced man sitting at her side.

  When she set down the glass, he pressed the cool, damp cloth t
o her forehead, her cheeks, and lastly on the back of her neck. His tender ministrations reminded her of the man she’d fallen for. Tears pricked her eyes, so she closed them.

  “I want to know one thing, English. Were you distant today because you were pretending, as we agreed, that yesterday never happened? Are you that accomplished at hiding your feelings? Or did you lose interest when you discovered I’m a diplomat, a boring lawyer and father, nothing like my flamboyant, crime fighting brothers.”

  Were it not for his ragged tone, she might have slapped him for having so little faith in her. In himself. “I’m that accomplished at hiding my feelings.” She lifted her chin, opened her eyes, and allowed him to see her heart. “Usually.”

  “Well, damn.” He stroked away her tears with his thumb, rested his forehead against hers. “Don’t cry, honey.”

  “Is that why you acted so abominably today? Because you thought I was a . . . I don’t know the American term.”

  “You did say you were keen on an adventure, so, yes, the thought crossed my mind. Let me explain,” he said when she tensed. He eased her around so she was lying longwise on the sofa, her head in his lap. Then he lifted a copy of Harper Bazaar from the mahogany end table and fanned her face and body. “Feeling better?”

  “Getting there.”

  He smiled down at her. “Explanation for abominable behavior forthcoming.”

  Though she was not yet in the mood to return the smile, her heart was indeed lighter and breathing no longer a chore.

  “Yesterday, in my haste to ravish you, I knocked over a stack of your books and periodicals. When we were rolling around on the carpet, I noticed several dime novels in the mix. When I left by way of your back door, I saw one of them lying on your kitchen table, opened to a story featuring my brothers.”

  “Showdown in Sintown. I. M. Wilde’s latest.”

  “Wilde’s a bit of a sore spot with me, Kaila.”

  “Wilde’s the reason I am here. In America.”

  He furrowed his brow. “How’s that?”

  “My life in Kent was very structured. Sterile. I was expected to behave in a certain manner. Though I was a woman of title and wealth, I felt trapped, enslaved. A friend who often traveled abroad gifted me with several American dime novels. They all called to me, but specifically Wilde’s tales. So full of intrigue, justice, and romance. So full of . . . life. Were I ever presented the chance, I vowed I’d move to the land of opportunity. When Charles died, I acted upon that vow.”

  “You’re a woman of title?”

  ‘Was a woman of title.” She grasped his hand. “I beg you to keep that knowledge in your confidence.”

  He studied her face, brushed his thumb across her palm. “All right.”

  “I only revealed as such because I want you to know that I am well acquainted with people wanting to befriend me simply because of who I was and who I knew. I am not so shallow. Or devious. I care not that you are related to Rome and Boston. Nor do I think you boring.”

  He said nothing, but he did smile. His smile conjured all sorts of feelings stemming from tender to lustful. Indeed, he was the man she’d been waiting for all her life. How could fate be so cruel?

  “So, what do have against Mr. Wilde?”

  “He’s turned my brothers into larger-than-life heroes.”

  “Are you saying he exaggerates their adventures?”

  “A little, yes.”

  “Are they displeased?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “But you are displeased.”

  “For multiple reasons, yes.” He set aside the magazine. “How do you feel?”

  “Much better, thank you.” She pushed herself up. “You are right. I dressed inappropriately. I dressed like a duchess.”

  “You’re a duchess?”

  “Was.” She drew on ingrained dignity, even though she was clad only in a thin chemise. “I need to examine my life. Make adjustments. I must know . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you--”

  “Yes. But I can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve asked another woman to be my wife.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Napa Valley California

  Seth’s mood was as foul as yesterday’s weather. Bellamont had returned Mrs. Dunlap safely home late evening, saving him from a night alone with Emily. Not that she came out of her room. Mrs. Dunlap even carried up her supper. Reportedly, she was on a writing streak, burning the midnight oil with Antonio and Constance.

  Meanwhile, he’d spent a sleepless night burning for Emily.

  Frustrated, sexually and otherwise, he rose at dawn, washed and dressed. He’d fought an almighty desire to search the barn. He couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d stashed something in there, something she didn’t want anyone to see. But he had no idea what that something was and he worried she’d catch him in the act. He wanted to hang on to her trust for as long as he could because, for sure and for certain, he could kiss it goodbye when she learned his true identity. An inevitability that turned his gut.

  So he resisted the urge to poke around. He saddled Guinevere, vacated the barn with haste, and set off for an early ride. The mare was too docile for his taste, but, damn, it felt good to be back in the saddle. It reminded him of who he was, where he came from, and where he belonged. A hard-riding, hard-living lawman, policing the raw and restless southwest.

  He’d been detoured by a bedeviling librarian, but he’d get back to business, and he’d feel better, whole. Just now his mind was scattered to the four winds. He blamed the star-crossed situation, the Garretts. Mostly because it felt good to curse someone other than himself. Then he turned his ire on the weasel winemaker, simply because he didn’t like him.

  The storm had long since subsided. The ground was soft, the roads muddy, but the sky was cloudless, and the sun bright. Too early to hit town so he rode for Bellamont Winery. He didn’t venture too close, just rode the perimeter, perused the vineyards and the rambling estate. Noted several Chinese workers. Cheap labor. Not uncommon, but it galled him. A person deserved appropriate pay for his work, no matter his race, gender, or religion. He’d bet his Stetson Emily shared the same view. He couldn’t imagine her living here, couldn’t picture her in Bellamont’s bed.

  Or Sawyer’s, or Rome’s, or his goddamned boss’s. Well, he could, but it took its toll on his temper. He was in a hell of a fix.

  Jaw set, he swung Guinevere around and spurred her toward Heaven.

  Time to speed up this investigation.

  Time to rid Emily of her blackmailer and to deliver Athens’s proposal. He had promises to keep, outlaws to wrangle, and a fierce need to distance himself from the woman who’d roped his heart.

  Emily woke sprawled on her bed with her journal lying open on her stomach. Her heart pounded and her nightshirt was drenched with sweat. She’d fallen asleep writing about Constance and Antonio. She dreamt about them, too. Only, when they embraced, when he framed her face with his strong but gentle hands, Antonio transformed into Pinkerton. Constance faded away and Emily melted in his arms. The kiss.

  She’d dreamt about it over and over.

  Her body tingled and ached in intimate, scandalous places. Just as it had when Pinkerton swept his tongue into her mouth and moved his hands over her body. The sensations were intense and exhilarating. She knew there was more to lovemaking. She’d read explicit novels in her attempt to understand physical relations between men and women. If she was going to write about seduction and romance without the benefit of experience, she needed to learn about intimacy somewhere. Certainly her parents had never spoken of such things. She knew the words, the motions.

  Desire. Lust. Naked flesh. Entwined limbs. Intimate body parts joined in a primal dance. Giving, taking. Harder, faster. A moment when mind and body reach an earth-shuddering climax.

  Given last night’s encounter, she was as curious about the earth-shuddering climax as she was about the boner-inducing kiss. Her fondest desire was to ask P
inkerton for a demonstration. She was pretty sure what she’d felt for him was lust. But asking was impossible. Not because it would be inappropriate, although it would, but because it was Pinkerton. He’d already been so generous. She’d made a mad dash, escaped to her room, before branding herself a selfish, wanton fool. How could she ask him to appease her curiosity, knowing he wasn’t attracted to the female form?

  Although he had been aroused. Enormously aroused. She couldn’t make sense of that part. And she’d given it plenty of thought.

  Smiling, she stretched and squinted at her bedside clock. Ten o’clock a.m. That couldn’t be right. But then she realized her room was bursting with mid-morning sunlight. She also realized there was no need to squint. She could see fine.

  She palmed her face and sure enough, she’d fallen asleep wearing Pinkerton’s spectacles. She fingered the rims and sighed. With or without his eyeglasses he was a striking man. She thought him even more handsome than Rome.

  When had that happened?

  It probably had something to do with his attractive inner qualities, she mused. Kind, generous, courageous. Yes, there were occasional spells when he turned cool and commanding. But mostly he was smart, and funny, and tenderhearted. He was sensitive to her feelings whereas Rome, as Cole had so rudely stated, barely knew she was alive. If the rakish Garrett had the choice between playing poker and reading a book, he’d flip cards, not pages. Pinkerton shared her love of literature. That was a powerful connection.

  Uniquely arresting. Inside and out.

  His description of her applied to him as well.

  Mutual appreciation.

  Mutual interests.

  The bond.

  Similar to what she felt with Paris with one big difference. She didn’t want to experience an earth shuddering climax with her best friend.

  “You’ve got to stop thinking about that kiss, Emily McBride. You have no future with Poet.”

  Unless . . .

  She bolted upright in bed, her brain sparking with an unconventional idea.

  Could she? Would he? It’s not like it hadn’t been done before. She’d overheard Paris’s brothers talking about it. Common in the theater, they’d said.