The people roared, and a dozen males volunteered. Jed selected half, then assembled the men for the ride out to the ranch. Grim-faced, they started for the eastern part of town, wanting nothing more than revenge against Fess Tyson.
Amanda leaned against Luke as the carriage rolled into the stables. A full moon shone overhead, reminding her of the trail days when she and Luke had slept beneath a blanket of stars. Dimly she was aware of the carriage stopping, of Luke lifting her out, but her pregnancy made her sleepy and she enjoyed the luxury of having his arms around her as he took her toward the house.
“Looks like we have company.” Luke’s voice reflected his apprehension as he noticed the horses waiting by the porch, and as he recognized the local townsmen. Haskwell sprang to his mind, but the sheriff was no where to be seen.
“There she is. Slut!” Frank Mitchell said self-righteously as Amanda and Luke walked up to the porch. Amanda froze, and Luke turned in outrage to the group of men.
“What did you say?”
“I said, slut,” the shopkeeper persisted. He jabbed a finger toward her. “It’s her we’ve come for, to teach her a lesson.
“Amanda, get inside,” Luke ordered. He approached Mitchell, his teeth clenched, and he grabbed the man’s shirt by the collar and dragged him up to the porch. “Now what did you call my wife?”
“Let him go, Luke,” Jake said seriously. “This can’t be solved that easily, unfortunately.”
Luke shoved the man off the porch, watching in supreme satisfaction as Frank fell to the dirt, then scrambled up again. Luke stood in the same spot, taunting the man with his eyes, but Jed Brannigan, the mayor, stepped between them.
“Luke, I’m sorry to have to do this, but she’s coming with us. The townspeople are furious. I’ll have a riot on my hands if she doesn’t. They want her to stand trial and answer to their charges.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Luke demanded, clenching his fist. He saw Amanda standing frozen by the door and he snapped. “Get inside!”
Amanda obeyed, frightened by the look on the men’s faces—people who she’d considered friends just a day before. Peeking through the window, she trembled as she saw Luke turn toward the mayor, his face ashen with rage.
“I don’t know what this is all about,” he said carefully, “but you all owe my wife an apology. And without it, none of you are welcome here, ever again.”
“It’s that book!” Simon Ledden interrupted as Jed attempted to explain. “She made fools of us all. And it’s disgusting and perverted. Your wife is a disgrace to this town, and to you, man!”
“Because of her book?” Luke demanded.
This time, the mayor answered. “Have you read it, Luke?”
Silence fell over the ranch as Luke struggled to control his temper. “I read some of it, once. But I still don’t see what a harmless book that nobody has read has to do with—”
“It’s not harmless, and it’s not isolated,” Jed explained. “Apparently, it’s selling very well, and publicizing Waco as a town of thieves, drunkards, and small-minded people. But that isn’t the half of it.” Jed glanced toward the men, embarrassed, then continued. “Luke, with all due respect, the book is filthy. She’s written things in there that…” his voice trailed off and he glanced once more at the men, then back to the house. “All I can say is, read it.”
“Here.” Frank Mitchell handed Luke his copy. “I don’t want to keep books like that in my house.”
“You’ll probably want to beat some sense into her yourself,” Jed stated. “The townspeople are damned mad, Luke, and rightly so. We’ll be back.”
“You’re not taking her anywhere,” Luke said flatly. “If Amanda’s done something wrong, I’ll handle her. And legally, none of you have a leg to stand on. There happen to be constitutional amendments allowing freedom of the press and freedom of speech. And if any of you don’t like what she’s written, all you have to do is stop reading it.”
“Wait until you get to page eighty-seven, lover boy,” Frank sneered. “Let’s see what you think of your sweet wife then. I have a feeling we won’t need to convince you.”
Luke strode inside the house, clutching the yellow-backed book, furious. The men outside heard the door slam, then nodded to each other, satisfied.
Luke Parker would see to his wife. He would have to, when he’d read what Amanda had published for all the world to see.
Chapter
26
“Damn them! Self righteous idiots!” Luke swore, striding past Amanda as she stood in the hallway. “Do you believe this? They’re mad about your book! Damned one-horse-town. They should be glad you mentioned them at all.”
Amanda smiled, relieved, until her eyes fell to the glossy yellow novel in Luke’s hand. “What’s that?”
“The book,” Luke snapped, waving the novel for emphasis. “That hypocrite Frank Mitchell probably read it first himself. Then he storms in here like a minister, spouting sermons. They’re not getting away with it, Amanda, I promise you that.”
Amanda’s smile wavered, especially as Luke entered the parlor, poured himself a brandy, then sat before the fire with the book. “Why are you reading it now?”
“They said some things that just don’t sit right with me,” Luke explained. “But I can’t very well defend you if I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’ve wanted to read it, anyway, and now’s as good a time as any.”
Panicking, Amanda watched helplessly as Luke opened the book and began to read. “Luke, you really don’t have to do this. I don’t care what they think. This has happened to me my whole life. I’m used to it.”
“I’m not,” Luke said, obviously still angry. “And I care what they think. We have to live in this town, remember? The last thing we need is for some self-righteous opinionated bastard ruining your reputation. Goddamn them!”
“Luke, but still—”
“Amanda,” Luke said firmly. “I’m going to read this book, and I’ll talk to you about it afterwards. That’s the end of it.”
Biting her lip, Amanda said nothing as Luke continued to read. There was nothing she could do to stop him. Dimly, she began to realize that not everyone would see her literary triumph in the same light she did.
It was an expensive lesson, and she only hoped she could bear the cost.
He was still bleeding. Angel bit her lip as the doctor examined Chase, then rose from the bed and slowly put his stethoscope back into his black bag. He turned to her, his expression relieved.
“He’ll be alright. The Indians cut him up pretty bad, but it looks like he’ll live.” The doctor chuckled as the young woman hugged him exuberantly, tears in her eyes. “Now, now. No need for that. Your foreman will be just fine. I hear he was very brave.”
Angel nodded, choking back the joy that flowed through her. “Yes, he was. Even though some of your townspeople criticized him for not slaughtering the tribe, Chase understood that they were sick and desperate.”
“Ah.” The doctor glanced meaningfully at Mrs. Miller, who quickly hid her gin bottle in her pocket. Sam Smith, the butcher, gave her a sanctimonious smirk.
“Not all of us feel that way, Miss Hollister. Them Indians are a scourge and should have been wiped off the face of the earth. Chase had the chance—he should have done them in.”
“Mr. Smith, Chase did what he thought was right. He has a high sense of morals, unlike some other people,” Angel stated.
The townspeople tittered at her declaration. Everyone knew that Angel’s father, Ben Hollister, had pressed charges against the butcher for thievery. The man’s face went scarlet. “Why, I oughta see you walloped for that—”
“Sam, let’s go. I think the lady wants to be alone with her foreman.” Doc Westcott propelled the people out of the room, then closed the door softly behind himself.
Angel smiled in appreciation, then went to the unconscious man on the bed. Chase’s beautiful eyes were closed, but she could see the gentle rise and fall of his chest. The d
octor had done a good job of bandaging his cuts, and it seemed that most of him was covered with white sticky plaster. Tenderly, she pressed her finger to her lips, then lightly touched his forehead.
His eyes opened immediately and locked with hers. For a long moment, he didn’t speak, didn’t move. They communicated without words, in a timeless way. Slowly, his hand rose and reached for her own. Instead of holding it, he brought her finger back to his face and touched it with his lips.
Desire smoldered inside of her, coupled with an aching passion. Slowly, carefully, she slid beside him on the bed, balancing on her knees. His hand slid upward, through the silky blonde tangle of her hair, then he brought her lips to his. Like a hungry man, he drank deeply of her mouth, wanting to taste all of her, wanting to know she belonged to him.
And Angel gave. Leaning toward him, she returned his kiss with a passion born of fear—fear that he might have died this day, that she might never have told him what he meant to her. Instead, she showed him.
Climbing astride him, she pulled away the encumbrances of her skirts, then straddled him, watching his expression. His eyes grew darker, and he lifted her hips, guiding her to his manhood, then slowly he lowered her onto him, impaling her as her knees met the bed.
Angel gasped with pleasure, her eyes closing her body one with his. She began to move instinctively, coupling the motions of her body to the urgent need of his. Hearing his throaty groan, she arched her back, letting him do the work, letting him take her to forgetfulness, then fulfillment. Heat coiled within her like a snake in her loins, suddenly bursting forth and spreading through her like hot honey. She felt him convulse at her reaction, then he thrust into her roughly, two, three times, before slowly relaxing beneath her and sighing with extreme pleasure.
He smiled when his eyes opened once more, and his hands slid to her waist. “Angel, my sweet Angel You almost make it worth fighting Indians, do you know that?”
“It wasn’t bad for me either, cowboy.” She smiled, grateful to see him so happy. Grateful to see him alive.
“It was once, remember? The first time I loved you, you hated it.”
“That was then. I was just a lonely schoolgirl, living with my books and my dreams. You made me a woman, Chase. I think it was when you made me love you.”
“God, Angel.” He reached for her, kissing her hard, almost brutally. Angel sighed, content to be in his arms. It was where she’d stay. Forever.
He was in the same position when Amanda awoke the next morning, only the brandy bottle was empty and the book nearly finished. Dread filled her as she entered the parlor, carrying the coffee tray Pedro had given her as a peace offering. She had donned her best nightgown, a soft ivory lace that Aileen had insisted she buy along with the dresses, and had brushed her hair into a satin sheen. But when she placed the tray down with a cheerful bang, Luke looked right through her.
“Good mooorrningg,” Amanda stuttered. Something was horribly wrong. His face bore the grizzle of his beard, his blue eyes were bloodshot, and they looked out at her with such contempt that Amanda backed toward the door. “If you’d rather not have coffee—”
“Shut the door,” Luke said softly.
Not fooled by his tone for a minute, Amanda rushed to do his bidding, then turned toward him, fighting the fear that threatened to engulf her.
“Good. Now come here and sit down.”
His eyes impaled her. Amanda swallowed, glanced back to the door, then at him. “I prefer to stand—”
“Sit!” he barked, color rushing to his face.
Amanda sat down. Frantically, she tried to figure out just what she could say, but until he spoke, she decided it wiser to wait it out.
The clock ticked. The fire snapped. Cinders rose into the air like orange ghosts, disappearing in the black void beyond. Outside, the cowboys called to each other, and Pedro shuffled around the kitchen. Still Luke said nothing and didn’t move.
Amanda started to get up, but one swift glance from Luke made her return to her seat like a scolded child. Frantic, she prepared several defenses, but without knowing precisely what part of the book he was angry about, she could do nothing except brace for an attack.
She was almost relieved when it came, and then horrified when it did. Casually, as if performing an everyday task, Luke picked up her book and tossed it into the fire. Amanda cried out, but flames engulfed the novel until only the hardback cover remained, and even that shriveled up, the yellow jacket becoming a dismal black.
Tears filled Amanda’s enormous blue-green eyes, and she turned to Luke in outrage, but he rose and walked leisurely toward the fire, watching the book burn. When he turned to her, his voice was calm, betraying nothing.
“I’m leaving you.”
Nothing in his demeanor matched what he was saying. Desperate, Amanda searched his face for some of the kind understanding she had come to expect from him, but there was nothing. She saw cynicism and disgust, but nothing else.
“Luke, you can’t mean—”
“Yes, I mean exactly that.” He continued, as if discussing the weather. “Amanda, I thought I could forgive you anything. That’s how much I loved you. But I can’t forgive this, nor forget. How the hell could you write all that, especially about us?”
Pale and trembling, she rose to her feet and came to stand beside him. Timidly, she placed a hand on his shoulder, then withdrew it when he looked at her as if he hated her. Taking a fortifying breath, she explained what she thought needed no explanation.
“Luke, I didn’t know that you’d feel this way. I’m a writer, and I—”
“Dissect everyone’s intimate life with a scalpel,” Luke finished for her. Amanda fell into silence, aware that he was more than angry. Rage coupled with humiliation and pain played over his face, and he stared at her as if she was some kind of monster. “Amanda, how could you? How could you take something that was so beautiful and make it into nothing more than a piece of pulp fiction, that anyone with two bits could buy?”
“Luke, please—”
“No.” He slammed his fist onto the mantle, scarlet suffusing his face. “And you even had to put that night into it, Amanda. Our first night together. Then tell the whole world that I didn’t satisfy you. Every time I think of that, and see those words written on that page, unmistakably describing you, me, and our lovemaking—the private act between two people—I want to kill you with my bare hands. Do you understand?” He glared at her, his blue eyes blazing.
Amanda nodded, tears streaming down her face. “Luke, I never meant to hurt you.”
“Well, you did.” Picking up his hat, he strode toward the door, then stopped short. “You’ve got what you wanted, Amanda. I’m out of your life for good. The ranch is yours. I’ll send a solicitor out to take care of the paperwork.” His eyes raked over her, and Amanda wrapped her arms around herself as if for protection. “I hope you’re damned happy.”
Then he walked out. The wind rushed out of her lungs and Amanda fell to the floor in a sobbing heap.
“Sam, where are you going?” Honey asked as Haskwell emerged from the bath tub and began to dress. Normally, he waited until sundown to bathe and change into his good black trousers and snowy white shirt, but since he’d come to Waco, Sam had rarely left the hotel room. Now it was barely high noon, and Sam was combing back his slick black hair and applying shaving cream as if preparing for a night out on the town gambling.
“Why, I’d say that’s none of your business, darlin’,” Sam replied with a grin, watching her flinch at the endearment. “But seeing as you won’t be around much longer anyway, I’ll tell you. I’m about to finish my business here. Remember that woman I told you about—the writer who published that book about the shooting I did?” When Honey nodded, Sam rinsed his hands of the shaving cream and then took a seat, handing Honey the razor.
“Well, I’ve found her. Seems everyone in this town knows Fess Tyson. Had no trouble finding her at all.”
Honey whisked away a dollop of shaving crea
m, then stared at the throat that was enticingly bared before her. Her fingers shaking, she removed the next half-inch of cream and whiskers, fighting to still the trembling in her fingers. “So are you going to kill her?”
“Yes, darlin’.” Sam sighed, closing his eyes. “That’s what this whole trip is about. But don’t you fret none. Why, with that money you made the other night, I can buy you a damned nice funeral.”
Her fingers trembled even more, and the razor slipped on Sam’s slick neck. One black eye opened and bore into her, though his voice was deceptively kind.
“You aren’t thinking about cutting me, now are you Honey? I could kill you nice and easy, or I can kill you slow. The Indians do that, you know. Tie a man to a stake, strip him naked, then pour honey all over him. Then they leave him to the ants. Ever see what happens to a man in that condition?” When Honey didn’t reply, Haskwell finished the sentence. “He’d beg you to kill him. Now finish that shave.”
Biting her lip, Honey forced down her terror and obeyed. When she completed the job, Haskwell stood up, then examined his face in the mirror. He wiped the excess cream from his chin with a towel, then tossed it over the brass rail of the bed and nodded with satisfaction.
“Good. You did a good job. And for that, I will reward you. See this gun?” He removed one of the ivory-handled pistols from his belt and handed it to her. “There’s but one bullet left in it, darlin’. I’m leaving now, and the rest is up to you. You can either take your own life, or I’ll do it for you when I get back. But remember this. The man with the Indians would have prayed to have this choice. Do you understand me?”
Tears fell from Honey’s eyes, and she stared at the gun in her hand, felt the heavy weight of it and the gleam of ivory and tooled metal. “Please, Sam,” she whispered. “I can’t.”
“The choice is yours, darlin’. Now I’ll be back within a few hours. Think about it, and think hard.”
Wild Is the Night Page 29
