Emma and the Outlaw

by Linda Lael Miller

  “Yes, we do,” Callie insisted. “And they like it.”

  Emma took a long, deep breath. Her cheeks felt as though they’d been doused in kerosene, then set afire, and her stomach seemed to be perched on the edge of some unseen precipice, ready to drop off into space. “If you do anything like that for Mr. Fairfax, Callie Visco, I’ll never fetch you another library book as long as I live!”

  Callie reared back in her chair, her expression a mingling of bafflement and concern, but she didn’t say anything.

  Emma found that unsettling, since she wanted a promise written in blood. “You can just go back to the Stardust Saloon,” she said with prim dispatch. “We don’t need you here.”

  At this, Callie shook her peroxided head. “And have Miss Chloe turn me out for disobeyin’ her orders? Not on your life—I’ve got no place to go from here!”

  “I suppose there’s nothing to do but let you stay, then,” Emma said with a sigh. Although she was now ashamed of her proprietary feelings toward Steven Fairfax, they hadn’t changed in the least. She assessed Callie’s wild hair and revealing red satin dress with a thoughtful eye. “We’ll have to do something about the way you look, though.”

  And so it was that Miss Visco was presented to Steven a full hour later, wearing a plain calico dress, her face scrubbed clean of paint, her billowing yellow hair brushed and tucked into a matronly snood.

  Steven maddened Emma by smiling at Callie as though she were an angel of mercy come to save him from ceaseless torment. “Hello, there,” he said.

  Callie gave an awkward little curtsey and tossed a wary glance in Emma’s direction. “Hello,” she responded.

  “Mr. Fairfax,” Emma said formally, “this is Miss Callie Visco. She’s going to look after you since—since I’m so busy at the library.”

  Steven closed the book he was reading. “Whatever you say, Miss Emma.”

  Emma didn’t like the way he was studying Callie. “I know I can trust you to be a gentleman,” she said, in a strait-laced tone of voice.

  “Whatever gave you that idea?” eplied, his eyes laughing as they moved, a little reluctantly, it seemed to Emma, from Callie’s body to Emma’s face.

  In another minute Emma knew she was going to have a childish jealousy fit and disgrace herself. Determined not to give Steven that satisfaction, she squared her shoulders and said, “Good day, then.” After that, she slipped out of the room and closed the door firmly.

  There was nothing to do then but go to the library. Once there, however, Emma couldn’t keep her thoughts on books. No, they kept straying back to Chloe’s guest room, where Callie might even now be doing to Steven what men supposedly liked so much. The thought made Emma spitting mad, and her color was high when Fulton strolled in unexpectedly.

  “I brought you a present,” he said in a tone that was, for him, quite meek. Doffing his hat, he stepped over the returned library books Emma had yet to put away and extended a blue satin box to her. “I’m sorry about that little spat we had earlier, Emma. Will you go walking with me tonight, after supper?”

  Emma looked at the box of chocolates but did not accept it. “Fulton, I thought we agreed not to see each other for a while.”

  He set the candy on the counter and, although he couldn’t hide the muscle that flexed in his jawline, he did seem to be making an effort at calmness. “We agreed to no such thing,” he said reasonably. “Emma, that man is not suited to you. He’s a saddlebum, a drifter. He can’t give you a home and family, the way I can.”

  Emma thought of the sweet, piercing things Steven had made her feel in his arms, and she suffered a twinge of sorrow. She ran her fingers over the letters of a title embossed on the cover of a book. “This has nothing to do with Mr. Fairfax,” she said quietly. And sadly. For Fulton was at least partly right—Steven couldn’t give her the respectable life she longed for, he probably didn’t even want to settle down and start a family. But the few kisses Fulton had stolen from her over the course of their friendship had never stirred a response inside her, either. And she could no longer convince herself that her coolness to his touch didn’t matter.

  Fulton sighed. “I hope you’ll give me an opportunity to change your mind, my dear. After all, we are still friends, aren’t we? Or have we become enemies?”

  Emma shook her head. “Of course we haven’t,” she said in a small voice. Although Fulton was a little stuffy and quite fond of getting his own way, Emma liked him.

  “Then there’s no reason why you shouldn’t take the chocolate,” he said, holding the candy out to her again.

  “Thank you,” she said, having no choice but to take the box.

  Callie Visco, Steven decided, was a good sport. She’d helped him out of bed, even though he could see the idea was against her better judgment, and spent a good part of the afternoon escorting him back and forth across the floor while he practiced walking.

  Now, with the sun sinking in the sky, he was half-sick with exhaustion. He collapsed gratefully onto the bed and let Callie cover him with the blankets like a weary child.

  Laying her small hand on his forehead, she smoothed his hair back. ÜYou’d like some soothin’, wouldn’t you, Mr. Fairfax?” she asked in a sympathetic voice.

  A raw chuckle left his throat as he thought of Emma forcing this poor little minx into a calico dress and an old lady’s snood. “I sure would, Callie,” he answered honestly, “but I’m afraid there’s only one woman I want.”

  A mischievous grin curved Callie’s mouth. “Miss Emma?”

  “The same,” Steven admitted with a sigh, “but don’t you tell her. I want this to be our little secret.”

  Callie sat down in the chair Emma always occupied when she read to him. He found himself missing that redheaded hellcat with a fierce keenness, as though they’d been parted a month instead of a few hours. “She got real upset, Miss Emma did,” Callie confided in a happy whisper, “when I came over here and told her Miss Chloe’d sent me to look after you.”

  Steven laughed. “Good,” he replied, staring out the window at the sun. It seemed to be immersing itself in the far side of the lake. “I’m making progress.”

  Callie was fidgeting with the snood that bound her yellow hair. “I guess I’d better be gettin’ back to the Stardust, Mr. Fairfax.”

  He reached out to clasp her hand and give it a friendly squeeze. “Steven,” he corrected.

  She looked delighted. “Steven, then.” Callie paused to peer at him, squinting as though she needed spectacles. “You don’t look like a man anybody’d call ‘Steve,’ I reckon.”

  “I reckon I’m not,” Steven said smoothly. “Callie, there is one thing you could do for me, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  Callie’s eyes lit up. “What?”

  “There’s some money in the pocket of that coat over there. Take what you need and get me a box of cigars, will you?”

  “Anything else?” she asked, and Steven thought he heard a note of hopefulness in her voice as she headed toward Steven’s long canvas coat, which was still draped over the back of a chair near the window.

  Steven grinned. “Yes. Buy yourself a handkerchief or something—whatever you’d like.”

  Callie looked back at him, the money in her hand, a touching expression of surprise on her face. “Thanks, Steven—for everything.”

  “Thank you,” Steven answered, settling back on his pillows and closing his eyes against the glare of the sun on the lake.

  “See you tomorrow,” Callie replied, and then he heard the door close behind her.

  Emma stood stock-still in the hallway, her eyes wide as she watched Callie leave Steven’s room, clasping a ten-dollar bill in one hand.

  “Hello, Miss Emma,” Callie said brightly.

  It required all Emma’s Christian forbearance not to grab the woman by the hair and snatch her baldheaded. “How is Mr. Fairfax?Ý she asked, her voice stiff with the effort it took not to scream.

  Callie smiled. “He’s right happy, but he’s pretty ti
red.”

  Emma must have looked ferocious at that point, for Callie shrank back in surprise, then scurried toward the front stairway like a field mouse with a cat on its tail.

  After taking a moment to compose herself, Emma knocked at the guest-room door in an unquestionably proper fashion.

  “Come in,” Steven called from inside. It wasn’t his usual bark; indeed, Emma thought, he sounded “right happy.”

  She stormed into the room and stood at his bedside, her hands on her hips, her blue eyes shooting sparks. There was a silly grin on his face and he had the audacity to add insult to injury by following that with a yawn.

  “Deviant!” Emma hissed.

  “Jealous, Miss Emma?”

  “Hardly, Mr. Fairfax.”

  “I think you are,” he countered matter-of-factly. “You’re breathing fire, and Callie’s got to be the reason.”

  Emma still wanted to stomp her feet and scream in frustrated rage, but she managed to keep her composure. She didn’t speak because she couldn’t think of an argument Steven wouldn’t see straight through.

  To her surprise he smiled at her, and there was no sign of mockery in his eyes or the set of his mouth. “You saw Callie leaving this room with money in her hand, didn’t you?” he asked.

  “Yes!” Emma spat, moving her coppery braid from her right shoulder to her left, and then back again.

  “I sent her to buy cigars.”

  Emma stood very still. “You what?”

  “You heard me, Emma.”

  Sinking her teeth into her bottom lip, Emma groped for a chair and sank into it. She swallowed hard. “She’d better have them with her when she comes back,” she warned.

  Steven chuckled. “So you do care about me, just a little?”

  “Just a very little,” Emma said primly, sitting up straight and smoothing her skirts.

  “We’ll see how little you care,” Steven told her, his eyes slipping from her mouth to her breasts and back again, “when I’ve got these damn sheets off my middle.”

  “You presume a great deal, Mr. Fairfax. It just so happens that my interest in you is no more than ordinary Christian charity.”

  Steven smiled a slow, leisurely smile that made Emma’s heart and stomach collide with a jolt. “It’s been my experience that ‘Christian charity’ isn’t all that ordinary,” he said. “And it generally doesn’t involve letting a man take his comfort in quite the way I did with you.”

  Emma flushed hotly, for she could not deny having allowed Steven to bare her breasts, then kiss and fondle her in e ht intimate way. Nor could she claim she hadn’t reveled in every caress. “There is no need to remind me of my—error in judgment,” she said, clasping her hands together and lifting her chin. She thought of the things Callie had told her men liked, and her color deepened even more.

  “Come here,” Steven said evenly. The formidable pistol was close at hand on the bedside table.

  Emma was backing toward the door. “No,” she said, with breathless resolution. But she wanted desperately to go to Steven, to lie with him and let him kiss her and touch her the way he had before.

  He only smiled, shrugged, and closed his eyes.

  The task of carrying up his supper fell to Emma that evening, since Chloe was busy at the Stardust and Daisy had gone home with a headache soon after the meal was cooked. Although Emma told herself she would have preferred to avoid contact with Mr. Fairfax, the truth was that she felt a certain dizzying excitement at the prospect.

  Steven looked weary and suspiciously docile when she walked into the room, carefully balancing the tray. She made sure she left the door wide open.

  “That smells good,” he said.

  Emma was inordinately pleased. Although she hadn’t cooked the savory meat and vegetable pie herself, she found herself wanting to take the credit. “Sit up, please,” she said in a remote tone.

  The patient raised himself with great effort, and when Emma set the tray across his lap, he made no move to pick up his spoon or fork. “It’s been a long day,” he said with a heavy sigh. “I’m not sure I want to make the effort to eat.”

  She sank into the chair beside the bed. “But you must eat,” she replied. “You’ll never get your strength back if you don’t.”

  Steven lifted one shoulder in a dispirited shrug and looked away.

  After drawing a deep breath and letting it out again, Emma reached for his fork, stabbed a piece of Daisy’s meat pie, with its thick, flaky crust, and raised it to Steven’s lips.

  He smiled wanly and allowed her to feed him. In fact, it seemed to Emma that he was enjoying this particular moment of incapacity.

  The experience was oddly sensual for Emma; she found herself getting lost in the graceful mechanics of it. When Steven grasped her hand, very gently, and lightly kissed her palm, the fork slipped from her fingers and clattered to the tray. Her breasts swelled as she drew in a quick, fevered breath.

  Steven trailed his lips over the delicate flesh on the inner side of her forearm until he reached her elbow. When his tongue touched her at the crux, the pleasure was so swift and so keen that she flinched and gave a soft moan.

  His eyes locked with hers and he told her, without speaking aloud, that there were other places on her body he wanted to kiss. Places he fully intended to explore and master.

  Emma took hold of the tray with a hasty, awkward movement and bolted to her feet, feeling hot and achy all over. “Well,” she said with a brightness that was entirely false, “if you’re not hungry any longer…”

  “I didn’t say that, Miss Emma,” he interrupted, his voice as rough as gravel. “It’s just that it isn’t food I’m hungry for.”

  Only her fierce grasp on the sides of the tray kept Emma from dropping it to the floor—plate, cup, leftover food, and all. “What a scandalous remark!”

  Steven smiled and stretched, wincing a little at the resultant pain. “I can think of plenty of ‘scandalous’ remarks,” he said, “if you’d like to hear more.”

  Emma was painfully conscious of the pulse at the inside of her elbow, where Steven had kissed her. A number of other fragile points, such as the backs of her knees and the arches of her feet, tingled in belated response. “Good night, Mr. Fairfax,” she said, with feigned dignity. And then she turned and walked out of the room.

  Steven didn’t see Emma again for a full week, and while he told himself it was for the best, he ached to see her every moment of that time. He spent his days pacing the room with Callie Visco under his left arm for support, and his nights cleaning the .45 and listening for Emma’s footsteps in the hallway.

  He supposed she was either embarrassed to face him or meting out punishment for the hard time he’d given her. He sure as hell hoped she hadn’t pegged him as a bad influence and decided to stay away from him.

  Of course, he reflected ruefully, he probably was a bad influence. He’d seen innocence in Emma’s dark blue eyes, as well as passion, and experience told him she’d never before allowed a man to touch her in quite that way.

  His blood stirred as he considered some of the other ways he wanted to caress Emma. Damn, but he was tired of being confined to that bed—at least, alone.

  It was Saturday morning when he finally dragged himself out of bed and into the clothes Emma had bought for him. While any sort of motion hurt intensely, especially bending over to pull on his boots, Steven was determined not to spend another day lying around waiting for Macon to close in on him.

  Gripping the bedpost, he shut his eyes against the last crushing wave of pain. When it had ebbed, he collected his gunbelt from the drawer of his bedside table and strapped it on, tying the rawhide strip loosely but firmly around the lower part of his thigh. Then he crossed the room to the wardrobe and reached up, again at great cost to his rib cage, to take his .45 from the hat shelf.

  Because he’d cleaned it repeatedly during the long nights when Emma was avoiding him, it glistened with a cold, lethal beauty. Steven spun the chamber with his thumb, then l
oaded it with bullets from his belt. He was spinning the six-shooter on his finger, getting reacquainted with the feel and weight of it, when there was a knock at the door. Quickly, he slipped the gun back into its holster. “Come in.”

  After all this time, he still hoped the visitor would be Emma, but it was Daisy, bringing his breakfast.

  “You goin’?” she asked in her blunt way, and Steven smiled and nodded.

  “That’d be the best thing,” Daisy agreed with a nod, putting the tray down on his bedside table. “But you better eat somethin’ first.”

  Steven was anxious to leave, since he’d been cooped up in that room for nearly two weeks, but he didn’t want to hurt Daisy’s feelings. If she’d gone to the trouble to cook him a meal, he’d eat it. “Thanks,” he said.

  “You goin’ to see Miss Emma afore you move on?”

  He sighed, sitting down on the edge of the bed and reaching for the fork Daisy had brought along. There were scrambled eggs, sausage links and biscuits on the plate. “I’m not sure. I think maybe it would be better if I just rode out without bothering her.”

  Daisy narrowed her eyes. “You done trifled with that girl, ain’t you?”

  Steven swallowed a bite of sausage before answering. “In a manner of speaking,” he confessed, remembering the warm softness of Emma’s breasts, and the way their peaks had hardened for him like sweet candy.

  Daisy’s hardworking hands were resting on her generous hips. “There gonna be a baby?”

  Steven shook his head. Things hadn’t gone quite that far; no, Emma’s babies would probably look like that banker Callie had told him about, not him, and the realization filled him with sadness. “No chance of that, Daisy, so you don’t need to worry.”

  “Well, I is worried,” Daisy insisted. “Miss Emma ain’t herself. She’s off her food, she don’t sleep at night. Not only that, she don’t argue back with me or Chloe when we bosses her around. Somethin’s wrong.”

  Steven’s appetite was gone, and he laid down his fork. “She’ll be all right,” he promised gently, but he wasn’t at all sure of that. Some women couldn’t forgive themselves for even the slightest intimacy with a man. He didn’t want Emma suffering that way. “Where is she?” he asked, rising to his feet.