Maura clenched her hands on the table before her. "I'm afraid I... lied, Mr. Lassiter. This isn't about a job."
His mouth tightened. "Then what?" he said impatiently.
Shaken by the fact that even now he showed no signs of recognizing her, she forced herself to continue. "It might be better if we speak privately." Maura glanced over her shoulder at the assortment of people in the saloon. "Perhaps we could step outside—"
"Curly," Lassiter interrupted her to call to the bartender. "You got a back room I can use to conduct some business?"
The bartender jerked his head toward a door beside the stairs. Lassiter grabbed her by the elbow and hauled her toward it. He pushed her into the small, cluttered office where sunlight filtered in between the slats of brown shutters, then kicked the door shut behind him and folded his arms across his chest.
"Talk."
Maura found that her voice failed her beneath that harsh, unsympathetic stare. Well, what did you expect? she asked herself. Hearts and daisies? Open arms and welcoming kisses?
"This isn't easy for me," she began, then faltered. He looked as stern, unapproachable, and intimidating as a mountain.
"Spit it out." There wasn't a trace of warmth or encouragement in his tone, only an unmistakable warning.
"Mr. Lassiter—Quinn." His name tumbled awkwardly over her tongue. "Don't you remember me at all?" she asked desperately.
Those hard eyes, like splinters of ice, narrowed on her face, growing, if anything, even colder.
"Should I?"
She nodded.
"Lady, I've never seen you before in my life."
"In January. The blizzard... The Duncan Hotel in Knotsville..."
Her voice died away as he shook his head.
"Please." Maura tried again, lifting her eyes to his face, willing him to look at her, really look at her, to recall even one moment of that night which had had such a drastic impact on her life. "Take a... good look at me. Try to remember."
He studied her a moment, then shrugged. "What town did you say you were from?"
Her face flamed with humiliation. Nausea clutched harder at her. For one awful moment she was afraid she was going to be sick right here in front of him, that she'd lose her meager lunch all over his boots!
"This would be much easier if you remembered me," she managed to mutter.
"Well, I don't. And lady, interesting as all this is, if you don't want to hire me, and you're not going to tell me what the hell this is about, I've got a poker game to get back to."
He turned on his heel and started toward the door.
"Wait!"
Slowly, hitching his thumbs in his gunbelt, he turned back toward her, his expression distant. Perhaps even bored.
Suddenly anger burst through her, pure, white-hot, scalding anger. How dare he. When she thought of the days of anxiety she'd suffered, huddled on that stagecoach, alone, fighting queasiness, dizziness, and the fear that Judd and Homer would come after her, she wanted to scream at him and hit him and make him sorry he had ever set foot inside the Duncan Hotel.
"You ought to remember me, Mr. Lassiter," she snapped, advancing toward him, her hands clenched. "Because I certainly remember you. And I'm not likely to forget the time we spent together. Because the fact is, Mr. Quinn Lassiter, that whether you remember me or not—whether you like it or not—I'm going to have your baby!"
Oh, God, she hadn't meant to tell him like that. Never like that. Of all the scenarios she'd ever imagined, none had ever included shouting, anger, her own voice throbbing with accusations.
He didn't move. Only his jaw tensed and his mouth twisted into a razor-thin line. A dangerous glitter came into his eyes. Maura instinctively took a step backward.
"Is that so?" The words lanced through her.
"Yes." She spoke through trembling lips. "That is so!"
"Seems to me I'd remember something like that."
"One would think so." How stiff she sounded, how cold. Almost haughty. But it was time she developed some backbone. If she didn't stand up for herself—and her child—no one else would.
She gripped her skirt, glaring into Quinn Lassiter's handsome face.
"You were different that night," she said scathingly. "Maybe that's why I—" She took a breath. "Never mind. It was a mistake. A very stupid mistake."
"Not as stupid as the one you just made."
Before Maura could blink, Quinn Lassiter's brawny arm shot out. He snagged her wrist in an unbreakable grip and yanked her toward him. "Telling me that whopper just won you the big prize." Granite eyes nailed her own brown ones. "You're not going anywhere until you explain what you're up to."
"How d-dare you. Take your hands off me right now."
"Not until you've filled me in, sweetheart." His lip curled in a tight, humorless smile. "I want to know if this little scam you're trying to pull was your idea—or did somebody put you up to it?"
"Scam?" Maura tried to wrench free of his grasp but failed. Frustration swept through her. "You think I'm lying? Why would I lie about something like this?"
"That's what I'd like to know, lady."
"Lady?" A near-hysterical laugh bubbled from her lips. "My name is Maura. Maura Jane Reed. Don't you remember that either?"
Maura. Quinn frowned. The name triggered something...
He stared at the slender, auburn-haired girl more closely.
There was a delicate beauty about her. Something subtly alluring about her fine pale skin and all that bright curly hair so tidily swept up off her neck and carefully pinned. And her eyes, those soft, golden-brown eyes that were so clear, so velvety, and so enchantingly expressive. Right now they expressed fury—and a touch of apprehension. But there was something familiar about them—he seemed to recall them glowing with a different kind of passion....
Maura.
A jolt hit Quinn, a flash of memory that struck him like a bolt of summer lightning. In his mind's eye he saw a girl with fiery curls entangled with him in a hotel bed. A roaring fire, hot kisses... a godawful blizzard...
"Hell and damnation!" he exclaimed. "The girl who was all bundled up in those ridiculous layers of clothes. That was you!"
Crimson color stained her cheeks. She felt ill. The girl all bundled up in those ridiculous layers of clothes—that was how he remembered her. She felt as though he'd struck her across the face. "Well, Mr. Lassiter, what do you know?" she managed to say in a high, tight little voice. "You do remember after all."
"Yep." His gaze ran over her with insulting languor. "I sure do. You were awfully cold that night—at first. Seems we managed to keep each other warm."
Maura wondered if she was going to die from humiliation or from nausea. She struggled to speak calmly, though she wanted to shriek. "So now you know. I'm telling the truth."
"Like hell." He dragged her closer, his fingers tightening around her wrist like steel bands. "All I know is that I met you before and that we had a little fun—no," he amended ruthlessly, a mocking light entering his eyes, "a lot of fun. But I sure as hell don't know that you're carrying my baby."
His taunting words, the coldness in his eyes, the cynical arrogance with which he was treating her all swirled around her in a nightmare haze. She stared up at him, no longer able to see the big, gentle man who had loved her that January night, the man who had told her she was pretty and kissed her mouth as if he were drunk with the taste of her. He'd only been drunk with whiskey, she realized. Today he was stone-cold sober and about as gentle as a grizzly.
"How dare you speak to me this way. You have no right."
The words poured out of her in a torrent. "I only came here because I thought you might want to know—about the child. Your child! Our child!" Frustration shone in her eyes as she tried without success to break his grip. "I was trying to do the right thing. I thought you might want to do the right thing too."
"And what might that be, sweetheart?"
"You could... marry me."
For an instant shock widened his
eyes, then laughter burst out of him, ringing through the room. "You picked the wrong man to try to play for a sucker, angel. In case you haven't noticed, I'm not the marrying, settling-down kind."
"I know that!" Bitterness filled her. And so did a ragged, determined pride. "And what makes you think I'd want to be saddled with you for a husband the rest of my life? I'd rather jump into a rattlesnake pit."
"Then what's this all about?"
"It's about my giving you a chance—a chance to do the right thing by me—and by our baby. I thought you might want to marry me so that you could give this child your name. So it wouldn't be ... a bastard." She choked a little over the word, then mustered her composure and rushed on. "That's it. Just your name, nothing more. I thought you owed it to him, or her"—she drew a deep breath, fighting back the tears scalding her eyelids— "and to me," she finished quietly. "I thought you owed both of us that much."
A muscle twitched in his jaw. She saw cynicism in his eyes, and a fierce scorn that seared her to the core. "So I'm supposed to marry you and then light out?"
Her chin inched up a notch. "You could go your way and I'd go mine. I wouldn't ask anything else of you— unless you wanted to help me get settled somewhere with a little bit of money until I can get started on my own—"
Harsh laughter cut her off, chilling her to the bone. "Nice try. But you're not getting one red cent, sweetheart." He hauled her closer, hard against his rock-solid, muscled frame, and his eyes bored down into her face. She could smell the cigar in his vest pocket, the musky male scent of his skin, the danger of his anger. The heat of his temper scorched her, radiating from every inch of his powerful frame. "I don't believe for a minute that there even is a baby, and if by some chance there is, it sure as hell isn't mine."
"Why would I—"
"Good question." He studied her upturned face with cold, measuring eyes. "I don't know why the hell you're lying to me, or who put you up to it, but I've got to hand it to you, it takes guts to come in here and try to pull this off." His voice was low, like the menacing growl of a wolf. "Trouble is, it's not working. You picked the wrong man when you laid this trap."
Just as suddenly as he had grabbed her, he flung her away. Maura stumbled back, nearly falling over a chair. She grabbed it and steadied herself just in time, clutching it as her knees shook beneath her gingham gown.
"Now get out and stay out." Quinn Lassiter's voice whipped at her in that cluttered office where sunlight illuminated the hard planes of his face. "I'd better not lay eyes on you again while I'm in Whisper Valley. It wouldn't be healthy. You understand?"
Maura didn't trust herself to speak. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.
"You understand?" he demanded again, and took one threatening step forward.
She immediately jumped back. "Yes, yes—I understand!" Infuriated tears stung Maura's eyes. One slipped down her cheek before she could blink it away. But her voice came out low and strong, shaking with fury.
"I can't imagine what made me ever think that a man like you, a man who hired out his gun for a living, who kills for a living, would care about the birth of a new life." She drew a deep, shuddering breath. "Just forget I was ever here. Forget I ever mentioned it. Just like you forgot me."
She whirled around and bolted for the door. The next thing she knew she was running through the saloon, abandoning dignity with the greater need to get away from Quinn Lassiter, far far away.
Quinn followed her back to the main room and watched her flee as if pursued by a mountain cat. Even when the double doors stopped swinging behind her, he continued to stare after her.
Pretty little thing, he admitted, returning to the poker table. Too bad she was a liar and a con artist and nothing but a pack of trouble. He remembered her body being warm, soft, and kissable. Her eyes, that snow-swept night, had hypnotized him deeper than the flames of any fire. And she'd been hot and lush as a rose beneath all those thick ugly clothes.
He grimaced and mentally shook himself. It wasn't like him to go on about a woman's charms. There were many women in the world and each of them had their charms—and he'd never met one yet who could make him forget about all the others—or the ones yet to come.
And this one, lovely as she might be, was obviously a conniving liar, not to be trusted. If she knew what was good for her, she'd steer clear of him—or better yet, hightail it out of Whisper Valley.
Curly the bartender was clearing away old bottles and replacing them with new ones as Quinn took his seat. Lassiter nodded to the dealer, picked up his freshly dealt cards, and put the girl in the faded gingham gown out of his mind.
Chapter 7
Maura didn't stop running until she reached the privacy of her room. There she bolted the lock, pressed her hands to her burning cheeks, and leaned against the door.
"He's a terrible man," she gasped to herself, taking in deep, powerful gulps of air. "I hate him. And we don't need him," she whispered to the baby, her hands touching her belly, as if she could somehow reassure the tiny child growing within her. "I was so wrong about him. He seemed different that night—I didn't know what he was really like. But don't worry, we'll never have to see him again."
She stumbled to the bed and sank down. Then she spilled out the contents of her handbag and began counting her money. Three dollars, seventy-five cents. It wouldn't last long, but she had enough for a small dinner tonight, breakfast in the morning, and another day's travel on the stagecoach. After that, she'd have to find work and earn some more money for her journey. She'd need train fare to San Francisco, and the sooner the better. She couldn't shake the fear that Judd and Homer would come after her, so the sooner she was clear out of Montana, the safer she'd be.
Closing her eyes, Maura tried to rest. Exhaustion dragged at her, the weariness pulling not only at the limbs of her body but at her mind, her heart. Everything looming before her seemed huge and formidable. Nearly impossible.
You can do it, she told herself. You can do whatever you have to do. You must. The child has no one else.
The thought filled her with anxiety, but also with a profound determination. Curling on her side upon the bed, she forced herself to relax enough to drift into sleep.
It was dark in the room when she awoke. The sun had long since slipped behind the mountains and a velvet blackness cloaked the sky, broken only by a handful of stars and a glimmering silver half-moon hanging low among the treetops at the edge of Whisper Valley.
With her muscles still aching from the hours spent in the cramped stagecoach, Maura rose and lit the kerosene lamp on the bureau. She washed her face and brushed out her hair. Carefully, she pinned it all up once more, this time allowing no strands to escape.
Then she went down to the dining room, determined to eat something to keep up her strength, even though she had little appetite and the smell of grease drifting through the hotel lobby and hall made her queasy.
Maura scarcely noticed the other people dining, she barely tasted the chicken fricassee and dumplings placed before her on the pretty blue-and-white china plates. The coffee tasted bitter, and the dark-crusted wedge of apple pie remained uneaten.
She wondered if Judd and Homer were pursuing her yet. She wondered how far she might get before they caught up with her, what they would do if they did. She wondered if anyone in San Francisco would hire her as a seamstress. And if this awful queasiness would ever go away....
The room seemed to be closing in on her. No longer able to sit still, Maura hastily paid for her dinner and hurried outside. Her thin gray shawl did little to protect her from the bitter cold of the night wind, but for a moment, just a moment, the chill felt good. She lifted her face to the wind, and breathed deep, as if trying to draw strength from the cold, crystal night.
Quickly she began to walk, consumed by restlessness. She had nearly reached the end of the boardwalk before she realized how violently she was shivering. If she caught a chill, that wouldn't be good for the baby. She started back.
She was
passing the saloon when a man suddenly lurched out the doors. He stumbled into the wall, clung to it, belched, and then turned and squinted through the darkness at Maura, who had paused, startled, at the sight of him. As she started to edge past in the darkness, he reached out and grabbed her.
"Hey, lady, can I have this dance?" he bellowed drunkenly.
It was the same cowboy who'd spoken to her this afternoon. He must have been drinking all day and all night, Maura realized, repulsed by his red eyes, whiskey breath, and leering, slack-jawed grin. He was scarcely able to stand without swaying, yet his grip on her was surprisingly strong.
"I don't wish to dance, and you don't look as if you're in much shape for it," she retorted breathlessly. "Let me go." She tried to yank her arm free, but he only dug his fingers into her flesh that much tighter, and laughed again.
"I jest wan' one little dancy. C'mon," he pleaded.
He dragged her against him and started to spin her around as if they were dancing, but he lost his balance, tottering sideways suddenly, dragging her along with him.
Together they fell against the side of the saloon, and Maura winced in pain as she struck the wall.
The cowboy didn't seem to feel anything. He twisted suddenly, chuckling, and pinned her against the saloon's wooden exterior with his body. "Whee, now that was kinda fun, wasn't it, honey?"
"Let me go this instant!" Maura struggled, gasping at the sweat and whiskey stink of him, intensified by his proximity. Her panicked efforts to break free mounted as he pawed at her breasts.
"Stop that! Stop, you're hurting me—"
Suddenly an unseen figure hurled the cowboy away from her and into the street. As Maura clutched her shawl around her, the cowboy tried to rise to his knees, but instead groaned and collapsed back into the dust.
A wave of dizziness assailed her. She tried to clear her head and swallow down the fear as she turned to thank whoever had come to her aid. "I don't know how to thank you. I'm so grateful—"
She broke off in shock.
Quinn Lassiter loomed over her.
"What the hell are you doing wandering around outdoors at this hour? Coming back to the saloon to try and bamboozle me again?"
Gregory, Jill Page 6
