by Lori Wilde
She’d felt so perfect in his arms. So right. Her face had been so incredibly wistful and enchanting in the glow of the oil lamp. He saw her lips again in his mind’s eye. Trembling and stretched into a shy, tentative smile that reached into his heart and squeezed so hard he could barely breathe.
While he had hoped to persuade her, he also knew she’d had the same motive. But somehow both had become lost in the overwhelming passion that had swept over both of them.
A groan escaped his lips. How had he allowed this to go so far? He didn’t like seeing himself as a despoiler.
When had his job become so important he was ready to discard every scruple he had?
He started picking up the scattered cards. He couldn’t reach them all, but he stacked the ones he could and placed them on the chair near the bed. The others would have to wait.
He found himself smiling as he remembered the chagrined look on her face when the deck virtually exploded from her hand. She was probably a good poker player. There seemed to be no end to her talents. Nothing seemed to frighten her.
She was a walking mass of contradictions, of toughness and unconscious femininity. When he put them all together, he had to admit someone had done well in raising her. Except for the fact she had shot him—which was a big except—she was smart and kind and competent. Her joy for life was evident, and she had a heart that loved well, too well.
Damn, what a mess he’d made.
She’d left the oil lamp on low, too low to read. It was out of his reach, and he couldn’t turn it up. He was left with pain and memories and self-disgust to pass the time, and none were satisfactory.
He turned on his side.
He suspected it was going to be a long, lonely night. And he was worried. He couldn’t get that posse out of his mind. They wouldn’t care if Sam was in the cross fire, and he knew her well enough now to realize she would be in the middle of things.
But why would MacDonald allow her to stay if he thought she was in danger? That question bothered Jared. And why hadn’t the outlaw been in to see him if he was in the valley? And if he wasn’t, why was Sam so worried about the posse?
One idea kept pounding at him, though, and it wouldn’t go away. How could someone like Sam love and respect the man Jared wanted? Love him enough to risk her life. Love him enough to shoot another human being.
Women had been known to love bad men. But she loved this man like a father. Sam was no one’s fool. She would recognize evil, even in a father figure, and he didn’t think she would condone it.
He wondered now whether he was chasing the right man.
SAM WASHED all the pots and pans and dishes. From now on they would be eating mostly bacon and beans. There was still half a pie, and bread dough was rising. She would bake it at first light. But the last of the venison was gone.
Everything else was ready. Half their supplies were in the cave. The other half were in bundles in the saloon. She had little to do, and that annoyed her. She needed to keep busy. She needed to divert her mind from the man just feet away from her.
Rain slashed against the windows, and a clap of thunder rocked the building. Her first instinct was a prayer of thanks. More rain would further delay any posse. Maybe long enough for Mac to heal. Maybe enough to raft down the stream.
She also thought how miserable both Ike and Jake must be, up watching the pass.
Sam filled pitchers of water. She would take one to Mac and Archie, although she expected both would be asleep. The marshal already had plenty of water. She put several logs in the fireplace and poured water into a pot to heat. She would use that to wash.
Then she sat and waited for it. She was restless, thinking about her time with the marshal. She’d been wanton. Maybe too wanton. Her face flushed as she remembered his rejection.
She looked down at her britches and shirt. Was that it? The fact she didn’t look like a woman.
Another roll of thunder roared through the building, this one louder than before. It would have woken the marshal if he slept. Possibly Mac, too. She took the water upstairs to Mac’s room. Both he and Archie were asleep.
Dawg raised his head, then got up lazily and followed her out. She stopped by her room, picked up her guitar and took it downstairs. She sat in one of the chairs by the window and watched the storm with Dawg beside her. Despite his presence, loneliness echoed in her.
She strummed the notes to a song. A lullaby. Then her fingers went to “Lorena.” Lightning streaked through the sky, revealing the muddy road, the dilapidated building on the other side of it. Bombarded by emotions, she feasted on a sight most would probably consider sad. Not her. This had been her home since she could remember. Her mother’s and father’s graves were a block away in the haphazard cemetery. She had been a child in this place, and still felt only half-grown, too inexperienced to know the ways of men and women.
She blinked back tears. She cared about the marshal. Too much. Maybe she even loved him. And she didn’t know what to do about it. She had hoped to convince him that Mac was not the man he thought him to be. She wanted the marshal to trust her. But then maybe he wanted her to trust him.
She felt as if she were betraying Mac. And yet she couldn’t stop thinking about the marshal and that half smile and those intense dark blue eyes and the strong body that was a thing of beauty.
Dawg nudged her as though he knew something was very wrong. She shook herself back to reality. The water should be ready.
She left the guitar on the chair. The boiling water, when mixed with water from the pump, would be enough to wash herself, if not to make a bath.
She turned off all but one oil lamp and went upstairs. She refused to look at the marshal’s room. No more excuses to go inside. She’d used them all up.
Sam washed quickly and then looked at herself in the mirror. She frowned as she stared at her short hair and faded shirt and old britches. Plain, she thought again.
Opening her door, she looked out. She waited a few moments, grabbed her lamp by the handle and went up the narrow steps to the attic. The door was locked but she’d once watched Mac put the key on the ledge above.
Once inside, she made her way through old beds and chairs and other odds and ends. She finally found the trunk and opened it. Most of the dresses were designed to show legs and breasts. A little too red. A little too gaudy.
She needed something more subtle. She kept searching. Maybe there was another trunk. She finally found one pushed into the corner. She rifled through it. Three dresses. Two plain and one of a better quality. Nothing fancy, but the material was a pretty sky-blue, and slightly yellowed lace trimmed the neckline.
She suddenly realized she’d seen it before. Her mother had worn it the last night before she got sick. A dancing dress, she’d said. Sam held it tight for a moment, trying to find some trace of her mother in it, some comfort.
How she wished…
Sam swallowed hard, then combed through the rest of the trunk’s contents. Undergarments. A night shift. Ribbons and a locket.
She hesitated, then took the blue dress. She added the locket to the pile. The dress probably wouldn’t fit, and it was musty. And she had no shoes to go with it, only boots. Still she carried it down to her room, Dawg matching her steps.
To her surprise, the dress fit. Not perfectly but well enough. She gazed at a different Sam in the mirror. She had no paints. Nothing to ripen her lips or make her skin less brown from the sun. And her hair? What she wouldn’t give at the moment for long golden locks.
She took off the dress and very carefully hung it in the wardrobe to air.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow she might wear it.
For tonight, she would try to get some sleep while they were safe.
If only she could stop thinking of the man below…
JARED WOKE and wondered what time it was. He’d stayed awake for hours. Thunder seemed to rumble through the room, and he could hear the rain. But what kept him awake had nothing to do with the elements, and everything to do with a
bewitching sprite named Sam.
He couldn’t forget the look on her face when he’d stopped what was a certain disaster for both of them.
God help him, but it had taken every bit of his willpower to stop. He’d thought, hoped even, that she would return last night. But she hadn’t. She had looked confused and hurt when she’d left. He’d wounded her, and there was nothing he could do to repair the situation. He had led her on, had stimulated and aroused her with his hand and lips for his own twisted motives.
Who was he to condemn a man he didn’t even know?
Javet. Inspector Javet. The damn policeman was haunting him now.
He tried to sleep, but he was too edgy. He was confounded by the sexual attraction between Sam and him, the way the air became electrified when they were together, the way their eyes locked when he had no intention of letting it happen.
Life with Sarah had been simple and comfortable and natural. Like an evening sunset. Sam, on the other hand, was all fire and storm, and he suspected she would be more challenging and exciting than…comfortable.
What in the hell am I thinking?
No doubt she was thinking of ways to manipulate him, to keep him from finding MacDonald. He suddenly realized he was beginning to think of Thornton as MacDonald. Resident saint.
It was obvious Thornton lived here occasionally. But how occasionally? And why hadn’t Jared heard of this town during his hunt for the man now called MacDonald?
Maybe because for all practical purposes Gideon’s Hope really was a ghost town and, worse, a “bad-luck town,” as Sam had called it. Miners were a superstitious bunch.
The locals might also be loyal to MacDonald, keeping their knowledge of him to themselves, which was remarkable. He didn’t know many outlaws who could claim that. In his experience, they usually turned against one another.
He reached over and found the pitcher. He poured himself a cup of water and drank it. Morning yet? Usually his mental clock gave him a good estimate of time, but now it was confused.
Jared yanked the chain even though he couldn’t free himself. Still, the pain helped dull the frustration in his head. At least he still heard the rain. That would slow Benson’s posse. But for how long?
He turned awkwardly, attacking the pillow. Maybe he could bargain with the laconic Archie. If he could face MacDonald…
He lay back and willed himself to be patient, to try to sleep. He started counting fence posts.
SAM WOKE UP with the daylight. She wasn’t sure when she actually went to sleep, but her eyes felt heavy, maybe because of the tears she’d shed. She stood and looked out the window. It was still raining but more gently now. The clouds weren’t as heavy and glowering.
She thought of the dress in the wardrobe, then pulled on her britches and shirt. She wasn’t going to try to be something she wasn’t for a man who didn’t give a fig for her.
She went downstairs, Dawg padding along beside her. Archie was already up, waiting for the coffee to boil.
“You should have wakened me,” she said.
“No reason. Mac’s better this morning, and it’s time you got more rest.”
Archie seemed restless. They all were with this threat hanging over them.
He looked at the guitar she’d left on the table. “Been playing some?” She nodded.
“I’ve missed it,” he said. “You and Reese playing together, and Mac singing.”
She was surprised. Archie wasn’t usually sentimental. “I’ll play for you later.”
He nodded. “Mac would like that. Not much else to be done today except maybe gathering all the guns together and loading ’em. Doesn’t hurt to be prepared.” He poured coffee into three cups. “I’ll take one in to the marshal.”
She felt a moment’s relief. She wouldn’t have to face him for a while. Wouldn’t have to hide emotions that threatened to betray her true feelings.
While Archie tended to the marshal, she put the bread that had risen into the stove, then set the beans on to boil and mixed and rolled out some biscuits. She would add bacon to the beans later. Nothing to do until then.
Why was Archie taking so long? What were they taking about?
She was fidgety, uncommonly so. She took the guitar and picked out an old folk tune. The music usually calmed her but her stomach was roiling and her fingers were clumsy.
Then the door opened again.
She continued to play as Archie locked the door and walked over to the stove. He sniffed. “Biscuits?”
Her fingers stopped plucking. “Yes.”
“I’ll be up with Mac,” he said. “I checked the marshal’s wound. It seems to have opened some. You’ll need to cut another sheet for bandages.”
She knew exactly how the wound had opened. She didn’t want to bandage it. She didn’t want to get that close to him again. But she nodded. Obviously, Archie had not sensed any…problem. Good. She nodded.
“We’ll go through the saloon, then, and gather the guns and ammunition. We’ll see what we’ve got. Include the marshal’s pistol and rifle.”
He took two cups of coffee and limped up the stairs. The rain was making his rheumatism worse, and that was why he’d asked her to look after the marshal again. He knew she was safe as long as he had the key to the handcuffs. He didn’t know there was another kind of danger he couldn’t protect her from.
She finished with breakfast preparations and went upstairs. Mac was sitting in a chair drinking coffee. He looked pale. “Archie said you had your guitar out.”
She nodded. “I’ll come up later and play for you.”
He looked at her with searching eyes. “You look different,” he said. “Even prettier. And sad.”
“I’ve been worried about you,” she replied.
“No need. I have nine lives.”
“And you’ve used up eight and a half,” she retorted. She wondered why Archie hadn’t told him about the marshal yet. Probably because he knew Mac would try to go downstairs—and agree to go with the marshal to save Sam.
She glanced over at Archie and knew she was right. She saw it in his eyes. He wanted to find some way to get rid of the marshal before Mac found out.
Her blood ran cold. Archie was not a cruel man. Despite his rough exterior he was a healer at heart. But he was also extremely loyal and would not hesitate to give up his life for a friend. Or take one.
She forced a smile and hugged Mac, then returned to the kitchen. Oddly enough, Dawg stayed with her instead of returning to Mac’s side. It was as if he sensed who needed him most. She cut one of the last three worn sheets they had. At least it was clean. She put on some water to heat. Then she filled a plate with food and unlocked the door.
Apparently Archie had turned the oil lamp higher. The marshal was sitting up reading. His eyes were shadowed when he looked up at her. “Was that you playing the guitar?” he asked.
She nodded. He wouldn’t have been able to hear through the door last night. It was too thick. He must have heard her when Archie left his room earlier.
“Will you play for me?”
“Maybe. In return for something else.”
She put the plate on the table and the bandage on the bed, then sat down in the chair. Archie had taken off the old bandage and she saw fresh blood seeping from the wound. The burn had turned yellowish and needed cleaning, as well.
“Do you want to eat first?” she asked in the most normal voice she could manage.
His eyes didn’t change. “No.” Then he raised his free hand and tipped her chin to meet his gaze. “It’s not your fault,” he added.
It was unnerving that he seemed to read her every thought. She went back to the kitchen area for the hot water and poured some into a basin. When she returned, she concentrated totally on the wound. Washing away the fresh blood, cleaning the pus from the burn. It still looked ugly and she knew it must hurt like the very furies.
She went back to the kitchen for salve and lightly rubbed a layer over the wound, then bandaged it. When she finished
, she handed him the plate of food, put his coffee on the chair where he could reach it, then left.
HUNGRY, JARED ATE QUICKLY and wondered whether she would return. He missed her every moment she was gone.
As he finished the last of his plate, Sam appeared with the guitar. Dawg was at her side and he came over and put a paw on the bed.
Jared rubbed the dog’s ears and Dawg growled with pleasure, his tail waving back and forth.
She strummed a few chords, then stopped. “In return for information,” she reminded him.
It was as if last night had never happened, or else she was very good at pretending. “What do you want to know?” he asked.
“Why you became a marshal, for one.”
He mulled over the question. It seemed harmless enough except it was a place he didn’t want to revisit, a decision that had come from bottomless pain and rage. The rage had cooled, but the grief was always there. He suspected she sensed that from what little he had already told her. He knew what she really wanted. Mercy for a killer, and that was one thing he would not grant.
He shrugged, wondering whether he was making another mistake. But he was losing himself in those damn eyes. So many different colors. Amber and gold and a little moss-green when the light from the lantern hit them just right. They seemed to change with her every mood. And he’d been struck by the music he’d heard when Archie opened the door. Still another side of her. She would always be a surprise. A challenge.
Now those eyes were steady on him. Demanding answers. And he suddenly wanted to explain. “I went after the men who killed my family. It took better than a year and…then there was nothing left for me in Kansas. I was offered a marshal’s badge by someone I met along the way. Seemed as good a way as any to make a living.”
She strummed the guitar. “Anything you particularly like to hear?”
He shook his head.
She started to play “Aura Lee.”
He knew the song, and the haunting melody. She was good, and he wondered who had taught her to play.
