“No,” Emma answered, hugging herself. “No, I’m not all right. I’m not all right at all!”
“May I ask what happened? You look like you used to when you were eleven or twelve, and you’d spent the day playing on the island.”
Emma knew real misery as she watched the truth dawn on Chloe. The older woman’s eyes, green as an Irish meadow, flashed with good humor.
“Why, Emma Chalmers. You let Steven kiss you. And pretty thoroughly, too, by the looks of you!”
“I’m no better than my mother!” Emma whispered brokenly.
Chloe’s manner immediately became firm. She went to the stove and with a practiced finger, tapped the side of the kettle Emma had just put on, to see if it was hot enough for tea. “Nonsense,” she answered, taking a china pot and a tin of orange pekoe from the shelf beside the stove. “You’d never abandon anyone who needed you, like she did. Why, look at the way you’ve searched for those sisters of yours.”
Chloe smiled kindly, sitting down next to Emma. “Why don’t you lock up the library tomorrow and spend the day doing something frivolous? You’re far too practical for your own good.”
“What could I do?” Emma asked forlornly.
Chloe’s shapely shoulders moved in a shrug beneath her pink feather boa, which complemented her cranberry-colored dress. “I’m going out to Big John’s for the afternoon. You could come along.”
Thinking of Joellen, Emma made a face. “No, thanks. You and Big John don’t need me underfoot.” At that, Emma promptly covered her eyes with both hands and began to sob.
“Emma, what happened up there? Surely a simple kiss wouldn’t upset you like this!”
For the first time since Emma had known Chloe, she found herself unable to confide in the woman. She was simply too ashamed to admit what she’d allowed Steven to do to her—or how much she’d liked it. “I’ll be all right,” she said suddenly, bolting out of her chair, the prospect of tea forgotten.
In her room she brushed and rebraided her hair, then wound the plait into a conservative coronet at the crown of her head. She didn’t pinch her cheeks or spray herself with perfume, either.
As she was leaving, having determined that even going back to the library would be better than staying in that house and remembering what a hussy she’d been, Emma froze in the hallway. She was possessed of the most insistent need to look in on Steven, and after all he’d done, too.
She crept to the door and reached for the knob, but her courage wavered. Then, after a moment of collecting herself, Emma rapped lightly and stepped inside.
Steven had put on the clothes she’d brought him, and he was clasping the bedpost in one hand in an effort to hoist himself to his feet. His jawline was set and his eyes were closed against what had to be a wrenching agony. Although he was surely aware of Emma’s presence, he paid her no mind at all.
Hastily, Emma hurried over to take his arm. “You shouldn’t be out of bed!” she blurted.
Steven scowled at her, as though it were somehow her fault that he couldn’t move about as he liked, and collapsed onto the mattress. He sagged back against his pillows, his skin gray with the strain of trying to rise, a muscle in his jawline standing out with hard annoyance.
Emma relaxed a little, and even managed a smile. Just as she’d pretended to be Guinevere or Joan of Arc as a young girl, she now pretended to be a person who had never lain beside a man or allowed him to open the bodice of her dress.
“How are you feeling?” she asked in the same tone she used on summer afternoons, when some of the town’s children came to sit beside the lake with her and listen while she read stories.
He ruined everything by saying, “I don’t like your hair that way. It makes you look like a spinster.”
Emma couldn’t help bristling. “Did it ever occur to you that I might want to look like a proper lady?”
“Why?” grumbled Steven, reaching for his book.
“I don’t have to stand here and be insulted!” Emma flared, wounded because a lady was what she most wanted to be. “Honestly, Mr. Fairfax—you are the most arrogant, impossible man!”
He smiled mischievously. “I’d like you to call me that from now on—in public, at least. Mr. Fairfax.” He paused to relish the name. “Yes, I’d like that very much.”
If there had been anything in Emma’s hand, she would have thrown it at him. “You can’t possibly think I mean to speak to you at all after this!”
He laughed. “You’ll do a whole lot more than speak, Miss Emma.”
Emma gave a strangled scream of fury and once again fled the room, striding along the hallway and down the rear stairs. Chloe was gone, but Daisy had returned from wherever she’d been, and she was rolling out pie dough on the work table.
She laughed when Emma hurtled into the kitchen. “What’s the matter, chile? The debil chasin’ after you?”
Emma paused to take a deep breath and recover her dignity. “Yes,” she said. “Do you know where Chloe put Mr. Fair—Steven’s pistol?”
“She done locked it up in her desk drawer with the derringer. Why? You gonna give it back to him?”
Emma nodded, then proceeded toward the hallway. “I most certainly am.”
“Why you wanna do that?” Daisy fussed, following her out of the kitchen and into Chloe’s study.
Finding the key in its customary hiding place, Emma unlocked Chloe’s desk and lifted the formidable Colt .45 gingerly from its depths. “There’s always the hope that he’ll shoot himself,” she said cheerfully.
Daisy shrank back against the doorway. “Miss Emma, you put that thing down right now, or I’s gonna take you over my knee and paddle you!”
Emma raised the gun and sited in on a book shelf across the room. She wondered what it would be like to fire the weapon. In the next instant she found out, for the gun went off with no intentional help from Emma, and several of Chloe’s leatherbound books exploded into a single smoldering tangle of paper.
Daisy screamed and so did Emma, who dropped the gun in horror only to have it fire again, this time splintering the leg of Big John’s favorite chair.
“Don’t you dare touch that thing again!” Daisy shrieked, when Emma bent to retrieve it.
Emma left the pistol lying on the rug and straightened up again, one hand pressed to her mouth in shock. The two women stood in their places for a long time, afraid to move. Emma, for her part, was busy imagining all the dreadful things that could have happened.
She was amazed to see Steven stumble into the room, fully dressed except for his boots, drenched in sweat from the effort of making his way down the stairs in a hurry. The expression in his eyes was wild and alert, almost predatory.
“What the hell’s going on in here?” he rasped.
Emma pointed to the pistol as though it were a snake coiled to strike. “It went off—twice.”
Steven was supporting himself by grasping the edge of Chloe’s desk. “Pick it up very carefully and hand it to me,” he said.
Emma bit her lower lip, remembering what had happened when she’d handled the gun before.
“You can do it,” Steven urged. “Just make sure you don’t touch the hammer or the trigger.”
Emma crouched and picked it up cautiously. The barrel was hot against her palm.
“Here,” Steven said, holding out his hand.
Emma surrendered the gun, and leaning back against the desk, Steven spun the chamber expertly, dropping the four remaining bullets into his palm. He gave a ragged sigh, then just stood there, cradling the pistol in his hands like a kitten or a puppy.
“I was going to bring it to you,” Emma confessed in a small voice.
“She was hopin’ you’d blow your brains out with it,” Daisy muttered, before she turned and went back to the kitchen.
Steven’s voice was ominously quiet. “What changed your mind, Emma? The last time I asked for this gun, you refused to get it for me.”
Emma ran her tongue nervously over her lips. The truth was, she wasn’t quite su
re why she’d wanted to touch and hold that terrible weapon. She guessed it probably had a dangerous fascination for her, just as its owner did.
“Answer me,” Steven insisted.
“I don’t know,” Emma replied.
“Where’s the holster?”
Emma went woodenly to Chloe’s desk drawer and collected the item he wanted. It was made of plain, creaky leather, and it had obviously seen long use. “You’re an outlaw, aren’t you?” she whispered, holding out the holster.
Steven took it and immediately sheathed the gun. He was weakening rapidly; Emma could see he was barely able to stand. “That depends on who you’re talking to, Miss Emma.”
She wet her lips again. “Give me the gun, Steven. We’ll put it away.”
He shook his head, dismissing the suggestion. “Will you help me back up the stairs?”
Emma nodded and Steven put his arm around her shoulder. She probably wasn’t much steadier than he was, since she was still trembling with fear, but somehow she managed to get him back to his room.
There Steven stretched out on his bed, the pistol at his side on the mattress, and closed his eyes. “I’m not a ciminal, Miss Emma,” he said wearily. “You’re safe with me.”
“Safe” was hardly the word Emma would have used, especially after what they’d done together, but she didn’t have the strength to argue. There was a great hammering at the front door, and Emma knew it would be the marshal and some of the townsmen, come to find out why two shots had been fired inside Miss Chloe Reese’s house.
There was an appeal in Steven’s hazel eyes when he opened them to look at her. “Lie if you have to,” he said, “but don’t mention me.”
Emma smoothed her hair before wrenching open the front door to greet the marshal. With him, to her chagrin, was a very concerned Fulton.
“Great Scot, Emma,” the latter boomed, pushing past her into the house. “What happened here? Are you hurt?”
“No,” she said quietly, pushing the door closed. “No one was hurt. I—I was handling a gun Chloe keeps in her desk. I shouldn’t have touched it.”
Fulton proceeded to the study, the elderly, forgetful marshal following after him. Together they inspected the demolished books and Big John’s broken chair.
“Where is this gun now?” Fulton demanded.
“I put it away,” Emma lied. She felt foolish over the shooting episode, but she was also annoyed. She’d told Fulton very firmly that she believed they shouldn’t be quite so friendly as they had been, and he was behaving as if nothing had changed between them.
“I want to see it.”
“Well, you can’t,” Emma retorted stubbornly, squaring her shoulders even as she gripped the back of Chloe’s desk chair for support. “No crime was committed here. There was an accident, that’s all.”
“All this has something to do with that damnable drifter!” Fulton accused, his face red with fury.
Old Marshal Woodridge just looked back and forth between Fulton and Emma.
“No, it doesn’t,” Emma insisted. If her hands hadn’t been in plain view, she would have crossed her fingers. “I told you—there was an accident.”
Fulton glared at her and pointed toward the upper floor. “I think the marshal and I should just go upstairs and have a little talk with your friend.”
Emma swallowed. She’d promised not to mention Steven, and she hadn’t. “Go ahead, then.”
“Just one damned minute,” another voice interceded, and Emma turned to see Chloe standing in the doorway. Her color was high, her artfully styled hair mussed, as though she’d made great haste to get home. “This is my house, and I’m choosy about who goes poking around in it.”
Marshal Woodridge, with his rheumy eyes and missing teeth, wasn’t inclined to argue with Chloe. He smiled at her. “N7;t,”l to get riled, now,” he said. “We just came on account of the shots.”
Chloe’s gaze locked with Emma’s. “Was anyone hurt?”
Emma shook her head and realized she was still trembling.
“Then I don’t see any need for you two to hang around here,” Chloe told the marshal and Fulton. “Good day, gentlemen, and thank you for your concern.”
“I’ll come calling tomorrow afternoon,” Fulton told Emma in a somewhat petulant tone. He made his retreat quickly, giving her no time to protest.
The marshal, who hadn’t bothered to remove his battered old hat, tilted the brim politely and followed Fulton out.
“What happened?” Chloe demanded the moment the men were gone.
Emma explained as well as she could.
“You know I forbid anyone to carry a gun in this house. Why did you even touch the thing?”
As she recalled the deadly expression in Steven’s eyes when he’d come downstairs to investigate the gunshot earlier, it came to Emma that his reasons for constantly pestering her to give him the pistol might be more far serious than she’d guessed. He’d clearly expected trouble.
“Steven needs to have it close at hand,” she said softly, frowning as some very disturbing possibilities presented themselves in her mind. “He’s—I think someone’s hunting him.”
Chloe didn’t look entirely convinced, but some of her anger had subsided. She went to the liquor cabinet and made herself a strong drink. “Who? A lawman? A bounty hunter?”
Emma was miserable. “I don’t know.”
Chloe gave a long sigh, then tossed back her drink with dispatch. Despite the fact that she didn’t receive callers herself, she had a lot of work to do at the Stardust, and the incident had been an interruption. “I’d ask Marshal Woodridge if he’s seen any posters or received wires about a man answering Fairfax’s description, but I don’t expect that old fool would recognize Billy the Kid or Butch Cassidy, let alone an outlaw who might not have made a name for himself.”
Although her opinion of the marshal’s competence was no higher than Chloe’s, Emma felt the color drain from her face at the prospect of drawing undue attention to Steven. “He’ll ride out soon,” she said hastily. “Can’t we just leave well enough alone?”
Already on her way to the door, Chloe frowned, then nodded. “I guess so, as long as there’s no more trouble.” She paused, her hand on the knob, her green eyes meeting Emma’s. “Mind you don’t fall in love with him, Emma. I’ve got Fairfax pegged for a good man, but I suspect you’re right in thinking he’s in some kind of trouble. I won’t have you caught in the middle of somebody else’s fight.”
Emma swallowed, unable to promise she wouldn’t give her heart to Steven, when she’d very nearly given him her body. “I’ll be careful,” was the best she could do.
When Chloe was gone, Emma found she had no spirit for returning to the library. Instead, she went to the piano, which stood in a corner of the small parlor, to play and sing the old-fashioned song she and Lily and Caroline had once sung in harmony.
Three flowers bloomed in the meadow,
Heads bent in sweet repose,
The daisy, the lily, and the rose…
When she rose from the bench, she felt lonelier than ever, but she was in a calmer state of mind.
She was just beginning to think she could cope when there was a ruckus in the kitchen. Hurrying to investigate, Emma found Callie at the back door, looking intimidated by Daisy’s upraised skillet and warning glower.
“I gotta come in, Miss Emma,” Callie blurted, when she saw her friend. “Miss Chloe done told me to come over here and take care of that drifter man.”
Emma reached out and clutched the back of a kitchen chair for support, but revealed no other sign of her true feelings in the matter. In fact, she smiled when she said, “Daisy, put down that skillet this minute and leave me to talk to Callie in private.”
Daisy complied, muttering about what this world was coming to when a decent woman was called upon to let a strumpet walk right into her kitchen.
“What do you mean, you’re supposed to ‘take care of Mr. Fairfax?” Emma asked pleasantly, lifting the tea
ket tie from the back of the stove.
Callie wet her painted lips nervously with her tongue. “Well, Miss Emma, I reckon I’m supposed to dump the slop jar and keep him company and such as that.”
Emma poured hot water over leaves of fragrant tea she’d sprinkled into the bottom of her favorite teapot. Although her demeanor was pleasant, she was still spinning inwardly in the whirlwind of jealousy that had possessed her from the moment Callie had stated her purpose. “What else were you told to do?”
Callie’s kohl-lined eyes scanned the kitchen as though expecting to find the answer written on a spice jar or a flour bag. “That’s all Miss Chloe said, but I reckon if he wanted some comfortin’, I’d see to that, too.”
Dropping into a chair facing Callie’s, a fixed smile on her face, Emma asked confidentially, “Just exactly how would you ‘comfort’ a man like Mr. Fairfax?”
The one task Callie probably felt competent at had been presented, and she beamed. “There’s things they all like, Miss Emma—don’t matter much what kind of man they are.”
Emma felt color pounding in her cheeks as she poured tea for Callie, then for herself. “Like what?”
At this, Callie actually blushed behind her heavy rouge. “You’re a lady,” she protested. “A lady don’t want to know things like that.”
“I suspect she does,” Emma replied wistfully, lifting her teacup to her lips, “if she wants to keep her husband from frequenting the Stardust Saloon.”
Callie squirhe one tas little in her chair, hesitating to pick up her cup even though it was obvious she wanted to. “Not many men in town do that, Miss Emma—stay away from the Stardust, I mean.”
“Nonsense,” Emma countered. “Fulton doesn’t go there.”
Callie overcame her hesitancy in that moment and took a slurping gulp of her tea.
“Tell me what you do to them,” Emma pressed, “that they find so appealing.”
After looking carefully around her to make sure Daisy wasn’t lurking somewhere, ready to descend on her like a wrathful angel, Callie leaned forward in her chair and whispered something that made Emma’s eyes go round.
She set her teacup down in its saucer with a rattling clink. “You don’t!”
Emma and the Outlaw Page 7
