Rides a Hero sb-2

by Heather Graham

  "What, Iris?"

  "Malachi, I did hear something about Fitz holding a woman. Just the other day, some of the boys were talking about Fitz having a blond woman in his jail. Said she was part of a conspiracy to murder Union soldiers."

  His heart sank, but it was what he had been expecting to hear. The Red Legs would have carried Kristin straight to Fitz. And Fitz surely knew that he was holding the key to Cole's whereabouts.

  "You think he'll—hurt her?" Malachi asked.

  She shook her head strenuously. "I—uh—I don't think so. He could kill her, Malachi, if he does anything. But hurt her? Not if he's using her for bait."

  "You hear anything about my brothers?" he asked her.

  She shook her head. "Not a word. Sorry, Malachi." She was silent for a minute. "But I can help you."

  "What?"

  "Like I said," she told him dryly, "I know Hayden Fitz. I know his sheriff, Tom Parkins, real well. The town ain't twenty miles from here, Malachi. I can take a trip over and bring you back some information."

  "Iris, that's good of you. That's real good, but I can't stay here—"

  "You can stay here if you can stay anyplace on God's good earth. I tell you, Malachi, for Yanks, these are real good people here. Stay. Just give me one or two days. I can ride over tomorrow, spend some time and ride back.

  "I can't have you do that—"

  "I do it now and then anyway, Malachi."

  He hesitated. If anything happened to Ms, he would never forgive himself. But if she could help him free Kristin and he didn't let her, he'd never forgive himself, either.

  "Iris, I can't believe I'm saying this, but all right. You think I'm really safe here?"

  "As safe as you're going to be."

  He exhaled slowly.

  "I won't let nothing happen to me, Malachi, I swear it," she insisted. "It's all right. It really is."

  He still hesitated, then he sighed. "All right. It's good to see you, Iris. So good. You stayin' on here?"

  "Don't look at me like that—I'll feel like I want to stand up and sing 'Dixie,' and that just ain't no good anymore. No. I'm going to California The war is too close here, Malachi. I want to leave it behind. My father fought with Grant, and he's dead. My brother was with General E. Kirby-Smith down south, and now he's dead, too. I want out of this hatred, Malachi. It ain't going to end here. Not in my lifetime."

  He laced his fingers through hers and squeezed them. They were very close and intimate, two friends who had run the same gamut

  That's how they were sitting when the saloon doors burst open and Shannon came into the room.

  She had a Colt shoved into her belt, and she looked around the saloon carefully, looking for any danger. He saw from the position of her hand that she could have grabbed the gun in a split second, and fired, with great accuracy, in less time than that.

  Her eyes fell on his.

  "Ma—Sloan!" she said, startled. Her eyes took in the two glasses, the whiskey bottle and his hand, his fingers inter-weaved with Iris's on the table. She took in Iris, from the little flare of her hat to her black petticoats peaking out from beneath her crimson gown. She looked from the poker players to the bar, where Matey was staring at her expectantly.

  Her eyes narrowed, dark lashes falling over her brilliant blue eyes. Her hair was loose and beautiful, spilling all

  around her shoulders. It was one of those occasions when her masculine apparel made her look all the more feminine, for her slender legs seemed very long, and her derriere was defined by her trousers just as her breasts were full and defined by her cotton shirt.

  She was furious. Malachi wondered why. Just because he had left her for so long, hadn't allowed her to take an equal part in this venture? Or was there, maybe, just maybe, more to it than that?

  Thinking about it made a pulse beat hard against his throat. He wanted to be with her somewhere alone, then, at that moment.

  He swallowed down his desire and fought the tension. She was striding his way. They were going to do battle again. Her claws were bared; he could almost see them. He nearly smiled. A woman didn't get that way unless she was jealous. At least a little bit jealous.

  "Darlin', I'm so very sorry to interrupt," she drawled. Her voice dripped with honey. She smiled sweetly at Iris. Then she knelt close to Malachi. "You son of a bitch! You left me over there scared to death…never mind. Bastard! Well, darlin', at least the whole town will be expecting a marital dispute. I'm checking into Mrs. Hay wood's. I assume you have other arrangements." She stood. "Nice to meet you, Miss—" she said to Iris.

  "Iris, honey. Iris Andre. And you're…?"

  "I'm—" Shannon paused and shot her very sweet and dazzling smile at Iris once again. "I'm Mrs. Sloan Gabriel," she said, and she picked up Iris's shot glass and tossed the whiskey into her face.

  Matey inhaled in a massive gasp; even the poker players went dead silent.

  Malachi leaped to his feet, reaching for Shannon. Iris was on her feet, too. Malachi knew Iris, and Iris didn't take that kind of thing from anybody. He jerked Shannon around behind him. "Ms, I do apologize for my wife's manners—"

  "Don't you dare apologize for me to any who—"

  He spun around, clamping his hand hard over Shannon's mouth. "Iris, I apologize with all my heart." He jerked Shannon's wrist and twisted her arm around so that she couldn't possibly fight him without feeling excruciating pain. "Darlin', please, Iris is an old friend, and we just have a few things to say to one another." He dropped his voice and whispered against her ear. "Darlin', you are acting like a brat, and I promise you, if you don't act grown-up real quick here, I'm going to peel those breeches and tan your hide, just to prove that the man wears the real pants in this family. I'll do it, Shannon, because I'll have to." He hesitated. "She knows something about Kristin. She can help us, Shannon!"

  He released her, very slowly. He waited expectantly, ready to snatch her back into his arms if need be.

  For once in her life, she seemed to have believed his threat Perhaps she was so concerned that she would grab at any scrap of information about her sister. She faced Ms.

  "Miss Andre, it was a pleasure," she said. Her voice was the softest drawl, her manner that of a charming, well-mannered belle. She swept from the saloon like a queen.

  A cheer went up from the poker crowd. One of the ranchers stood. "Mister, I sure salute you! That's one heck of a spirited filly, beautiful to boot, and you handled her like a man!"

  "Buy him a drink!" the heavyset professional gambler called. "If I'd been able to manage my wife like that, I might be a rich man by now!"

  Malachi laughed, sitting down and waving a hand in the air. "She's going to be mighty mad later, gents. We'll see how I handle her then." He looked at Iris. She sat beside him. He gave her his kerchief to wipe the whiskey from her face. She seemed more confused than angry.

  "Malachi, that really was your wife?"

  He shook his head. "Iris, she is my sister-in-law's sister. She wants Kristin back. I couldn't seem to stop her coming with me, and that's another long story, too."

  Iris sat back, smiling. Malachi poured her more whiskey, and she swallowed it.

  "Thanks for not ripping her hair out."

  "Don't kid yourself, Malachi. I saw that Colt in her pants. I'm willing to bet she knows how to use it."

  "Like a pro—except that she has a bad time aiming at people."

  Iris was smiling at him with a peculiar little grin. "She might not make you such a bad wife after all, my friend."

  Malachi frowned. "Iris—"

  "She's got spirit, and she's got courage. A little raw around the edges, as if she's got some scars on her. But we've all got scars. I can't see you with a namby-pamby woman, and she ain't that."

  "No, she isn't that. She's a pain in the damned—"

  "Butt!" Iris broke in, laughing. "Yes sir, she's that. But I can see something in your eyes there, Malachi. She ain't going to be checking into Mrs. Haywood's place alone, is she?"

&nb
sp; Malachi smiled, idly twirling his whiskey around in his glass. Miss McCahy had seen fit to comment upon his actions and whereabouts.

  He was damned ready to comment upon hers.

  "I think I should give her time to check in and settle down and get real, real comfortable. What do you think?"

  Iris laughed at the sizzle in his eyes.

  She wished that it was her. But it wasn't. He was more like a married man than he knew. The beautiful little blonde with the delicate features and the tough-as-nails stature had those golden tendrils of hers wrapped tightly around him.

  Still, Mrs. Sloan Gabriel's manners did need a little improvement.

  "Let her get real, real comfortable," Iris advised him sagely. "A game of poker might be right in line here. Come on over, I'll introduce you to the boys."

  "All right. I'm glad to meet the boys."

  The heavyset gambler was Nat Green. The slimmer man with him was Idaho Joe, and the ranchers were Billy and Jay Fulton, Carl Hicks and Jeremiah Henderson. It was a good game. Iris held onto his shoulders, laughing, while he played. She brought him drinks.

  Around supper time, she disappeared and came back with big plates of steak and potatoes and green beans.

  He lost at cards—a little bit—and the meal cost him almost as much as the liquor, but he didn't care much. He had a good time.

  And through all of it, he anticipated his arrival at Mrs. Haywood's Inn, Rooms by the Day, Month or Year.

  He was just dying to see his darlin' wife.

  Just dyin' to see her.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  He knew that the door would be locked.

  He even suspected that Shannon might have gone to Mrs. Haywood with quite a sob story about being ignored so that her husband could play around with another woman.

  Shannon was a good little actress. He was learning that quickly.

  And he was learning, too, that things had changed between them, irrevocably. Maybe they would always be at battle, but the battlegrounds were subtly changing. He might still spend ninety percent of his time thinking Mr. McCahy should have dragged his daughter into the woodshed a number of times at a far younger age, but he couldn't deny what she had done to him. Exactly what that was, he wasn't sure yet. And he didn't want to think about it; he didn't want to analyze it. He fixed it in his mind that Shannon had started this one. Either down in the store when she had kissed him with that pagan promise, or when she had come striding across to the saloon to douse Iris in whiskey. This one, she had begun.

  But he was going to finish it

  He had his own fair share of acting ability.

  "Mr. Gabriel!" Mrs. Haywood said with censure when Malachi came to ask for a key to the room. "Now, I know, sir, that a man has got to have a few simple pleasures of his own. And a saloon's a good place for a man to have whiskey and a cigar—keeps the scent out of his own parlor, you know. But when it comes to other things…when he leaves a beautiful little bride…" She shook her head in reproach.

  "Iris is just an old friend, ma'am." Mr. Haywood was in the kitchen, eating his supper. Malachi raised his voice a hair, determined to work on them both. "I don't know what my wife told you, Mrs. Haywood, but there was nothing going on. I had a few drinks, and I lost a few hands of poker. Ma'am, you got to understand. If a man lets his wife make a fool of him like that, well, then, he just ain't a man anymore."

  "That's right, Martha." Mr. Haywood dropped his napkin on the butcher-block kitchen dining table and strode to the door. "Martha, if the man wants a key to his own room, we'd best give it to him. She's his wife, and that's that."

  Mrs. Haywood was still uncertain. "Mr. Gabriel, I probably ain't got no right to keep man and wife apart, but—"

  "I'm going to try to make her understand, Mrs. Haywood. Honest, I am."

  "You give him the key, Martha," Mr. Haywood said.

  "You're right, Papa, I suppose. Oh, Mr. Gabriel, I was just giving my husband a piece of apple pie. Won't you have some?"

  "Why, that's mighty kind of you. Thank you, ma'am."

  He had the key, and he had a cup of good strong coffee and some of the best apple pie he'd tasted in his entire life. And it was the middle of summer.

  "I jar and preserve all my own fruits," Mrs. Haywood told him proudly.

  "Well, it's the finest eating I've done, ma'am, since way before the war."

  As Mrs. Haywood blushed, the door to the parlor opened. A pretty young girl in a maid's cap and smooth white apron walked in. She bobbed a nervous little curtsy to Malachi and looked at the Haywoods. "Mrs. Gabriel is all set for the night, Mrs. Haywood. She had me fetch her some of the lavender soap, and asked if we'd be so good as to put the price on the bill. She thanks you kindly for the use of the tub."

  His heart started ticking a staccato beat. If he'd gone by instinct, he would have knocked the table over, brushed the maid aside, burst through the door and raced up the stairs.

  Primitive, he warned himself reproachfully.

  That wasn't what he wanted. Slow torture was what he had in mind.

  He sipped his coffee like a gentleman. "My wife's in the bath?" he inquired innocently.

  "Oh, why, yes, Mr. Gabriel," Mrs. Haywood said. "Don't worry, young man, you're welcome to stay here in the kitchen if you're worrying about disturbing her."

  "Why, ma'am, I was thinking that I might steal a little of her water, and save someone having to haul more up the stairs." He spoke sincerely, rising.

  "That's thoughtful of you, Mr. Gabriel," Mrs. Haywood said. Around her ample figure, Mr. Haywood looked up at Malachi with his brow arched and a skeptical smile slipping onto his lips.

  "Mighty thoughtful, son," he said dryly.

  Malachi flashed him a quick grimace. "Mr. and Mrs. Haywood, thank you again. Good night, now."

  He nodded to the young maid and swept by her. He forced himself to walk slowly through the parlor and up the stairs. He glanced at the key. Room five.

  It wasn't hard to find.

  He took a deep breath outside the doorway, smiled again, and slipped the key into the lock. He heard her key fall out of the door on the other side as he pressed his in. He pushed open the door.

  The most outrageous bathtub he'd ever seen sat before the fire. It was a long wooden tub with headrests rising up at both ends. It was decorated with copper and delft tiles, and at that particular moment, it was laden with bubbles…and with Shannon.

  Her hair was curled high on top of her head, leaving the slim porcelain column of her neck bare. Her shoulders and just a peak of her breasts rose out of the bubbles.

  She turned on him, her eyes wide and startled and very blue. She almost leaped up, but then seemed to realize how much worse that would be. "Get out!"

  "Darlin'!" he said softly, with taunting reproach. And he stepped into the room, closing the door behind him, leaning against it. His eyes stayed on her while he twisted the key in the lock.

  She must have put on one hell of a performance with the Haywoods, he thought. She hadn't expected him that night. It was a pity that he hadn't gotten to see it.

  Shannon sank farther into the tub, watching him as he sauntered coolly into the room.

  "Don't you dare get comfortable," Shannon warned him. She felt herself burning all over, and it wasn't from the steam in the bath. It was caused just by the way his eyes fell upon her.

  The nerve of him. How dare he be here. How dare he look at her like that. When he had just left his redheaded slut!

  He tossed the key onto the side table and dropped down on Mrs. Haywood's beautiful crocheted bedspread, lacing his fingers behind his head and staring right at her. He smiled.

  "Don't let me disturb you."

  "You are disturbing me." She narrowed her eyes. "You've no right in this room. The Haywoods—"

  "The Haywoods know that a man has a right to be with his wife—beloved."

  "The Haywoods know that the man is a scoundrel and cad, seducing women from the Mississippi to the Pacific. They understood comple
tely that you deserved a night in the livery stables."

  "Tsk, tsk." His apparent relaxation had been deceptive. He moved all of a sudden, sleek and easy, twisting to stretch out on his stomach, facing her from the foot of the bed. There was no more than six feet between them. She could see the tension in his features and the pulses beating furiously against his throat and temple. There was a dangerous gleam in his eyes, and she was aware that he was angry with her—furious, probably, for her behavior in the saloon—and that he seemed to have forgotten any rules of fair play for the night.

  She sank lower in the tub. He wouldn't force her into anything. She knew him, and she knew that he would never force any woman. But what would he do?

  And what would she do? If he touched her, she would scream, she thought, and not with horror, but because her flesh seemed to cry out to know his hands again. She was hot inside and out, and trembling fiercely. The scent of the lavender soap was all around her, the softness of the bed awaited…

  And he had just spent hours and hours with a whore.

  "Malachi—" She paused. "Sloan," she hissed. "This is my room. Get out."

  He smiled, giving her a flash of white teeth against the golden strands of his mustache and beard. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I may be a cad, but I wouldn't dream of leaving my sweet young wife alone for the entire night."

  He rose and sat at the foot of the bed, nonchalantly kicking off his boots and peeling away his socks. Shannon watched him, stunned, as he proceeded to pull the tails of his shirt from his pants and unbutton his shirt and cast it aside.

  "What are you doing?" she asked him quickly.

  "I'm going to take a bath."

  "No, you're not. This is my bath."

  "Darlin', we've got to talk, and it looks like it's just the right place, to me."

  "Malachi, if you touch me, I'll scream."

  "You're my wife. They might shake their heads a bit downstairs, but they won't interfere."

  "I'm not your wife!" Shannon swore, panicking. The look in his eyes caused shivers to streak along her spine. The sight of his bare chest, sleek and gleaming, brought her body alive with memory. She lowered her head, determined not to look at him.