by Debra Cowan
“Would there happen to be any dessert left?” His deep voice came from behind her and had her turning in a whirl of skirts. Her anger climbed another notch at the friendly look on his face.
He swept off his hat and finger-combed his dark hair. Her gaze slid over shoulders as wide as a wagon brace, down a flat belly to well-fitting denims that emphasized the power in his long legs. Blue eyes glinted in the light glowing from the lamp in the kitchen. Whisker stubble covered his solid jaw and his dark hair curled damply against the nape of his neck.
Heat swept her body. She wasn’t sure if it was from the sultry summer temperature or from the big man standing in her kitchen doorway. Or because she was still seething over what she had learned from her friends earlier.
Merritt squashed the urge to fan herself. Though she told herself to remain calm, her words shot out, “I know what you’ve been up to.”
He arched a brow.
Ooh, if he even thought about denying it… “Livvy and Rosa were here. They told me you questioned them.”
“I did.” He folded his muscular arms, looking unmovable and utterly male. A traitorous flash of desire mixed with her ire.
The unapologetic look on his face had her clenching her fists. “Don’t drag my friends into this.”
“If you’d tell me what I need to know, I wouldn’t have to.”
Of course he would put it on her. She wanted to scream. “Keep your voice down.”
“Lefty’s staying at the jail tonight.”
“Well, Mr. Wilson isn’t,” she said hotly.
“He’s in the parlor asleep. I saw him when I was looking for you.”
“It’s bad enough that I’m smack-dab in the middle of this. You shouldn’t drag my friends into it.”
“It’s my job to find out what I can about my parents’ murders, whether you like where it takes me or not. Whether I like what I have to do or not.”
“Does that mean you’re sorry?”
“No.” He moved into the room, stopping a few inches from her. “You wouldn’t tell me what I needed to know so I had to try to get the information somewhere else.”
“Not from my friends,” she gritted out, struggling to keep her voice low. He smelled like male and soap and the outdoors. His nearness caused her belly to quiver, which only angered her further.
“Did you tell them why I was asking?”
“No.” She glared. Even if it was for a good reason, it annoyed her that she couldn’t confide in her friends.
He eased closer, the steely glint in his eyes at odds with his soft words. “Rosa and Livvy weren’t upset about it. Why are you?”
“Because you went behind my back to do it!”
“Behind your back?” His dangerously quiet voice had her pressing against the long counter behind her, but she refused to retreat even a step. “That’s not how it works, sweetheart. I don’t have to ask your permission, but if I had, would you have agreed?”
“No.”
“That’s right, so I did my job.”
The smug certainty on his face had her chest squeezing painfully tight. “Your job,” she repeated flatly.
“Yes.” He tapped the star pinned to his pale blue shirt. “I am the law.”
She knew that! His gaze met hers and for a moment they just stared at each other. Her gaze dropped to his mouth, tight with disapproval. To her utter frustration, she recalled their near-kiss from yesterday. And the tortured look in his eyes as he spoke about his sister.
That was really why she was upset, wasn’t it? Because she had felt close to him, believed he felt the same, foolishly believed that connection would somehow influence his behavior. But it hadn’t. And it wouldn’t.
The rigid set of his shoulders said he was waiting for her to say something else.
Suddenly, she felt closed in, trapped. She couldn’t stay in here, just inches from him, and risk him seeing how much he affected her.
“I’m…sorry for getting so upset.” She sensed Bowie’s surprise in the stillness of his body. With jerky movements, she pointed to the covered plate in the corner to her right. “There’s a big piece of butter cake.” He frowned.
“Help yourself.” She skirted the cookstove and walked out of the door, giving a ragged sigh.
The anger drained completely out of her, leaving an ache in her chest.
Bowie hadn’t tried to hurt her but he still had. All he had done was his job. His job. He was a lawman and she would do well to remember that.
Chapter Eight
That conversation in the kitchen two nights ago bothered Bowie more than it should have. He was doing his job, dammit, and Merritt had taken it personally. Even though she had apologized for that, he didn’t like that she felt he would run over her to get what he wanted. He wouldn’t. He didn’t think.
Maybe she was right and a lawman couldn’t put a woman first. Bowie could. If she was the right woman. And Merritt Dixon couldn’t be.
A big part of his frustration was physical. He could lie about it, keep pushing it to the back of his mind, but it was there all the time. An ever-present awareness of her and a dark pulsing throb in his blood. As much as he tried not to, he wanted her. He had realized just how much that night in the kitchen when he had burned to shake her silly and kiss her at the same time. That had never happened before and it buffaloed him.
Over the next couple of days, Bowie was left in no doubt that he had crossed some invisible line with Merritt. She didn’t avoid him, was polite when she spoke, but the warmth and openness he had been drawn to when they had first met was gone.
Each day, he asked if she needed help with anything and each day she said no. She said it with a smile, but it was still a “no.”
Two nights after their little hen fight, Bowie offered to help her clean up after supper, but she refused. Politely. Tamping down a flare of exasperation, he followed Mr. Wilson into the parlor. The older gentleman sat in one of the chairs adjacent to the fireplace, so Bowie took the other one. To his surprise, Merritt joined them, choosing a seat next to the piano in the corner, her profile to Bowie.
While Mr. Wilson read a heavy green-bound book, Bowie cleaned his Colt. He hadn’t seen Lefty in the past day or so.
Merritt settled into the straight-backed wood chair and opened the skirt of her white apron to reveal a lap full of pecans. The last of the day’s sun streamed through the double windows behind him and painted the room in a soft gold, outlining his landlady’s pert nose and the soft curve of her jaw.
Wearing a yellow-and-white-striped day dress, she had swept her hair up into a chignon, baring her dainty nape and the tender skin behind her ear. The only sign that she felt the summer heat was one undone button at the top of her bodice. The slight V revealed the hollow at the base of her throat and the sheen of damp skin. Bowie wanted to put his mouth on her there.
She cracked the nuts, then cleaned the hulls from the meat and dropped the shelled pecans into a bowl wedged between her side and the chair arm.
Evening noises drifted through the open windows. Across the railroad tracks on the north side of town, the faint sounds of piano music rang in the air. Absently polishing the barrel of his revolver, he watched Merritt as she worked industriously.
She had barely looked at him all evening and he wanted to see if the cool remoteness was still in her eyes.
“That was a real good supper, Merritt.”
“Thank you.” She smiled, but didn’t glance his way.
“Do you need some help shelling those pecans?”
“I’m doing fine on my own.”
Frustrated, he dragged a hand down his face. She’d been doing fine on her own every damn time he’d offered to help in the past two days.
“Mr. Wilson, did you find the shirts I left in your room?” she asked.
“Yes, and thank you for mending them.”
“You’re welcome.” Her lips curved in a smile, a real smile. Bowie’s eyes narrowed. He rose, sliding his gun into his holster as he covered the small distance
between them.
Hoping to get a reaction out of her, he reached down and lightly touched the hand that had been injured in his room. “You sure it’s okay to do that? It doesn’t bother your hand?”
“No, it doesn’t. It’s all healed up.” She pulled away, finally peeking up at him from beneath her lashes.
It was hard to be sure through the hazy sunlight, but he thought he caught a flicker of irritation in her eyes. His gaze moved to her face and he reached out to feather his finger over the fading scar at her temple. “And here?”
She went as taut as a bowstring, her voice cool. “I’m fine. Thank you.”
At last he saw something besides her polite, downright aggravating demeanor. He thought about running his finger down her cheek, but the rigid set of her shoulders plainly warned him off.
Too restless to sit, Bowie backed against the wall and crossed one booted foot over the other. “What are you going to do with those pecans?”
“Make a couple of pies.”
He studied her, trying to figure out why she got under his skin so easily. She couldn’t be more put out with him than he was with her right now. It seemed that the less she wanted to do with him, the more he wanted her. That was plumb loco.
Every night since she had come to his room, he had been dreaming about her. Hot, sweaty tangled-sheet dreams where he didn’t only get to see her silky naked flesh, he could touch it.
He had tried to ignore the want, then combat it by thinking about other women. He noticed other women, even appreciated them, but once they were out of sight, he couldn’t recall anything about them. It seemed there was no space in his head for anyone or anything except Merritt.
Which boiled his water because he should be thinking about the investigation more than he thought about her.
She was aware of him, too. It was there in the slight stiffness of her body whenever he was in the room. He had tension in his body, too, but it wasn’t from being near her. It was from not being near enough.
With a look of fierce concentration, she pulled open the cracked nuts and peeled off the hulls and any other parts of the shell that might be inside. After shelling the last pecan, she gathered her apron skirt to contain the broken hulls and got to her feet holding the bowl in her other hand.
“May I get anyone anything? More cake? Coffee?”
“Nothing for me. Thanks,” Bowie said as Mr. Wilson nodded his agreement.
“All right.” She walked out of the room, her boot heels tapping against the wood floor.
After a few minutes, he heard her start back across the dining room. Then the front door clattered shut. Footsteps sounded on the porch, then nothing.
His head came up as he listened for her. Perhaps she was just checking on something outside, but his gut said no.
Mr. Wilson was engrossed in his novel. Bowie pushed away from the wall and went to the door. The light turned to a golden haze as the sun sank lower in the sky. He saw Merritt was already across the street that ran in front of the boardinghouse.
She was headed for town. Where was she going? Why had she just up and left?
He slipped outside, careful to shut the door quietly. Maybe she had heard from her friend and foster brother, Saul, and was on her way to meet him. There had been no sign of anyone around the Morning Glory the past couple of days; Bowie had been shadowing Merritt’s every move. But maybe the man had slipped her a note like he had the last time.
Bowie didn’t like spying on her, but he had to find out who had killed his parents. Right now she was the closest thing he had to a lead and this was the quickest way to get to her source.
If she had told him what he needed to know, he wouldn’t have to resort to this. She crossed the street at the Porter Hotel and Café, angling in the general direction of the shoemaker, the boot and saddle shop and the livery.
Bowie followed, easing to the corner of the bathhouse and pausing to watch. A quick look around showed the streets were empty, as they usually were this time of day.
As Merritt passed the shoemaker’s store, Bowie moved to the next building, staying close to the structure, stopping at the corner of the barbershop.
She was between the barbershop and the shoemaker’s store when a man stepped out in front of her. Bowie tensed, frowning when Merritt stopped to speak. The man’s face was hidden until he stepped around in front of Merritt.
Hobbs. Without his ever-present bowler hat. A strange heat shoved through Bowie’s chest. Had the ex-marshal been waiting for Merritt? Was she surprised to see him? Since her back was to Bowie, he couldn’t tell a damn thing.
He didn’t think she had come out to meet Hobbs, but what did he know? Whether it was planned or not, seeing her with the murdering bastard blistered him up good.
She began to walk, and the trim, dark-haired man fell into step with her. She appeared to put up no protest. Of course, Bowie couldn’t see her face or hear what she was saying, which raked at his nerves. Why was she letting Hobbs accompany her? Why was the man tagging along? What could he possibly want?
Bowie had to get closer. Wishing the sun had already set, he quietly made his way behind the barbershop, then to the shoemaker’s store next door, where he saw Merritt stop in front of the boot and saddle shop. Hobbs stopped, too.
It didn’t look as if she was encouraging the man, but she didn’t appear to be discouraging him, either, which had Bowie grinding his teeth. From his position, he could finally hear.
“I’d show you a good time,” Hobbs said.
On a wave of anger, Bowie’s spine snapped straight.
Merritt’s reply was too soft for him to understand.
“Just think about it, all right, Miss Merritt? It’s a week away so there’s time.”
She murmured something else Bowie couldn’t hear.
That might’ve been due to the roaring in his ears, because he had just realized what Tobias had asked her.
The Independence Day celebration was in a week and the former marshal was inviting Merritt to attend Cahill Crossing’s all-day festivities with him.
No way in hell. The thought shot through Bowie’s mind before he could stop it. Impulse had him starting forward to warn Hobbs off, but Bowie managed to stop himself just in time.
In the next instant, that almost changed when he saw Hobbs kiss her hand. An unfamiliar heat charged through him and Bowie’s hand went to his gun. He didn’t want that lying, murdering no-good’s hands anywhere on Merritt, for any reason. He didn’t want her spending any time with the lowlife, either.
One way he could stop that would be to ask Merritt to the Independence Day celebration himself. The thought had him going still. He needed to watch her and, if he was with her, he could watch her up close.
The idea was tempting. Too tempting. He would only get in deeper with her and that was a bad idea. He already had trouble staying away from her. Besides, he would have a better opportunity to see who approached or observed her if he weren’t by her side.
She shifted, just enough to step back and shrug off the ex-marshal’s touch. She appeared to handle Hobbs just fine, but Bowie still seethed.
She knew Hobbs was involved in the murders of Bowie’s parents. Just as she was aware that the former marshal was probably also looking for her foster brother, Saul. She wouldn’t go anywhere with Hobbs, Bowie reassured himself.
Unless she felt she couldn’t say no because he had told her to hide her dislike of the man if possible. She hadn’t put up a fuss about the poetry and flowers Hobbs had brought her for that very reason.
Bowie didn’t want her feeling that way. He wanted to show himself, warn the former marshal off, but if he did that, he would give away that he had been watching her.
As much as Merritt had disliked him questioning her friends, she would hate the thought of him now following her every move. She would immediately know that he was waiting for her to meet up with Saul so Bowie could arrest him.
If she also found out that Bowie had gotten her family’s las
t name from Ace and sent a wire to her parents, Tom and Carolyn Jensen, in Austin about Saul, she would be walking mad all over. Bowie couldn’t reveal himself, couldn’t give up his chance to be there when she next met her foster brother.
Bowie had no claim on her and couldn’t stake one. He had a job to do and watching her was part of it. That job had never seemed as hard as it did right now.
Muscles rigid, he waited to see what she would do next.
The tightness in his chest eased when she opened the door to Ace’s shop and went inside alone. For the first time in minutes, Bowie drew a full breath. He waited to see where Hobbs would go, but for long moments, the ex-marshal lingered outside the saddle shop until Bowie’s patience was stretched to its absolute limit.
Tobias finally left, walking to the north side of town rather than coming back toward the place where Bowie waited. Pressed against the side of the building, he watched as Hobbs stepped into Steven’s Restaurant. He appeared to have no idea he was being watched. Bowie had to make sure Merritt didn’t, either.
He settled in to wait for her to leave. After about an hour and a half, she came out with both Ace and Livvy. They said their goodbyes and she began walking back toward him.
He didn’t move, staying motionless against the back corner of the shoemaker’s store so as not to draw attention. He didn’t think she could see him from her angle, but he wasn’t sure. She was smiling and looked more relaxed than she had in days. At least around Bowie.
He couldn’t tear his gaze from the curve of her mouth, the sun’s golden hue on her velvety skin. He stayed behind her, slipping silently along the rear side of the businesses on the way back to the boardinghouse. There was no sign of Hobbs, which was a relief. Bowie had wondered if Tobias might be watching Merritt himself, looking for another opportunity to speak to her.
After their conversation the other night, after Bowie had nearly kissed her, the smartest thing for him to do would be to leave her alone, keep her as far from this investigation as possible, but he couldn’t.
If he stopped his surveillance, he might lose his chance to get to her friend. And if he kept watching her on the sly, he wouldn’t be able to say certain things to her, warn her to steer clear of Hobbs.
