From one of the saloons nearby she heard three quick gunshots and, despite the fact she would rather die right there on the spot than show it, fear began to shake her resolve. She gathered her courage around herself. If she cried in front of anyone it would be Abby and it would be in the privacy of her own room, not there on some filthy Western street in the middle of nowhere surrounded by derelicts and desperadoes and women hungry for a man, no matter what the cost.
"Hurry, Abigail," she said, her voice sharp. "Certainly it shouldn't be taking you this long to find our trunks."
Again that masculine voice from behind her. "Didn't nobody tell you Yankees that slavery is over?"
"I beg your pardon?" Caroline turned halfway toward him; she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of facing him head-on.
"I said, slavery's over, ma'am." He slurred the last word in a fashion so sarcastic that her palm itched to slap him. "Should I tell your servant?"
"She's not my servant," Caroline snapped. "She's my employee and I'll thank you to mind your own business." Picking up her skirts, she stepped off the curb. "Now if you'll just step aside..."
He didn't.
Instead he moved closer and, despite the glare, she caught a glimpse of angular cheekbones and skin tanned the color of burnished gold.
"You have a mighty sharp tongue for a spinster lookin' for a man."
Everyone was watching her: Abby and the McGuigan sisters and the two Wilder girls and every filthy cowboy in Silver Spur. If she backed down now all of her dreams for the Crazy Arrow would be over before they began. Aaron may have been a pawn of fate but she'd be forever damned if the same thing happened to her.
"Please move out of my way," she repeated.
"Not much point," he answered, his voice a low, annoying drawl. "Ain't nothing much here for you."
"I'd thank you to allow me to be the judge of that, Mr.—?"
"Reardon," he said, doffing his hat and sweeping an exaggerated bow. "And you're—?"
Before she could answer, the sickening crunch of fist meeting bone split the air and Caroline gasped as two cowboys, locked in mortal combat, crashed through the window of The Last Chance and landed close enough to spatter blood on her good leather boots. Control yourself. She forced air into her lungs. You've come this far. Don't fall apart now.
"Mr. Reardon, I'm tired and I'm hungry and I am most assuredly not in the mood to debate the issue with you."
"There's no issue to debate," he said, tossing her words back at her in a wickedly precise imitation of her Boston accent. "What you're lookin' for, we ain't willin' to give."
"And what, pray tell, is that?"
He moved so quickly she didn't have time to think, much less react. One moment he was standing there looking at her, the next moment, she was in his arms. His huge hands spanned her waist as he bent her torso backward.
"Why, you—!"
Her protests were stopped as he bent his head toward her. He was going to kiss her! A complete stranger, a cowboy she'd met just moments ago was actually going to put his mouth on hers and kiss her. What kind of insanity was this? Why wasn't she scratching at his face or screaming at the top of her lungs or withering him with one of her quelling glances that had worked so well back in Boston?
Instead, it seemed that everything in her mind was rapidly vanishing except for the dizzying, terrifying knowledge that this was to be the dark and secret pleasure she'd always wondered about but never found.
Just before she thought she would certainly swoon from the heat and the breathlessness and the shocking thrill of anticipation, the sound of gunshots pierced the fog she was in and a bullet whizzed past her left ear.
"Jesse!" a man screamed. "Watch out!"
The cowboy swooped her up into his arms then dropped to the ground and rolled with her under the stagecoach. Her heavy skirts rode up over her thighs and she struggled to pull them down before he got a glimpse of her lacy pantalettes but it was no use. He had her pinned with his body and the way they fit together was shameful. His chest was pressed so close to her that she was certain he could feel the outline of her breasts through her blue dress. His hipbones jutted against the slight soft curve of her stomach and she dared not imagine the cause of the powerful heat pressing against her belly.
He took full advantage of the situation, what with her skirts all tumbled up around her waist and her pantalettes covered with dirt, and positioned himself between her legs and she hated herself for noticing just how handsome he really was. She'd never felt more vulnerable—or more alive—in her entire life.
"You needn't look so pleased," she hissed as another round of gunfire ricocheted off the stagecoach above them. The sound reminded her of thunder and it took all of her will power to keep her fear hidden. "I don't know how any decent person can live in such a terrible, lawless place like—" She fumbled for words as he brought his mouth closer to hers.
"Welcome to Silver Spur," Jesse Reardon said.
And then he kissed her.
Chapter 4
Caroline heard the unmistakable sound of wood splintering overhead as a bullet found its mark on the stagecoach. The smell of powder burned her nostrils and caused her eyes to water but, at that moment, none of it mattered.
The ground beneath her back burned hotter than flame, sending waves of heat through her limbs, searing her mind of everything but the feel of his lips on hers. The way his body was pressing her into the dirt, the heavy solid weight of him, the demanding force of his kiss—these were the only things real in a madly spinning world.
"Don't they teach you to kiss back East," he demanded, lips hot and wild against hers.
She started to protest, to tell him he was an unthinking cad with the manners of a garden snake to take advantage of such a situation, but the slight parting of her lips was all the invitation he needed. His tongue danced along her lower lip, slid sensuously over her teeth then darted into the cavern of her mouth. No one before had ever caused these violent tremors that were shattering her reserve, turning her into a mindless creature hungry for the touch only a man could provide.
What on earth was happening to her? Certainly Thomas Addison's caresses had never enflamed her senses the way this cowboy was doing with the deep penetrating kisses that invaded her soul as well as her body.
How shameful to be entangled with this stranger whose knee rested between her thighs in the most shocking way. Her entire body shook with outrage that she could be so totally—so devastatingly—overwhelmed. Years of control, years of innocence were threatening to vanish like an early morning fog before the rising sun.
He teased her tongue with his, urging her into a sensual battle whose rules she could not pretend to understand as he slid his hand along her waist, fingers inching upward rib by rib. However, at the first touch of his fingers against the lower curve of her breast, reason returned at last and she managed to kick him in the shin with the sharp toe of her green kid traveling boots.
"What in hell is wrong with you?" he yelped, rolling off her and cracking his head against the undercarriage of the stage.
"What is wrong with me?" she retorted, aware again of the smell of dirt and horses all around her. "I'll have you know, sir, I do not take kindly to being manhandled by a stranger."
"I wasn't manhandling you, lady, I was savin' your life."
"I wasn't talking about my life; I'm talking about that kiss."
"I admit that ain't my best kiss, but under the circumstances..."
She blessed the shadows beneath the coach for she would rather die than let this Reardon person see her embarrassed blush. "If you should ever lay a hand upon me again, I shall not be held accountable for my response."
"I'd say your response was pretty much like I figured it'd be."
She lifted her hand to slap him but he grabbed her wrist between his thumb and forefinger and held her fast.
"I'd think twice about that, Miss Caroline," he said with an infuriating drawl. "I let you get away with kickin' me in the shi
n but don't think I'll let you get away with anything more than that."
"The risk would be worth it."
He released his hold on her and slid closer to where she lay in the dirt. "Go ahead," he said, his voice a menacing growl. "Hit me."
"I would not debase myself by striking you."
"What if I kissed you again?"
"Mr. Reardon, so help me, if you—"
"You folks ever comin' out from under there?" The stagecoach driver peeked in at them. "I got three more stops to make before nightfall and my horses is gettin' testy."
"Shootin's over?" Reardon asked.
"As over as it ever is in Silver Spur," the driver answered.
Reardon flipped on his side and with one agile motion rolled out from under the coach and stood up, providing Caroline with a bird's eye view of the toes of his fancy leather boots. Those boots seemed strangely at odds with his rough-and-tumble demeanor and she could quicker imagine them on her dandified father than this outlaw cowboy.
"Better come out, lady," he said, laughing, "or that pretty dress of yours ain't gonna be so pretty any more."
"I'm covered with a layer of dirt and grime," she muttered. "My dress is fit for the dustbin."
"Miss Caroline? Are you alright, Miss?" Abby's high-pitched voice rang out. "You just be sayin' the word and I'll call a sheriff to put this monster behind bars."
Abby's plain black boots appeared next to Reardon's ornately decorated ones, and they were quickly joined by four pairs of scuffed kid pumps, the Reverend's highly-polished brown brogans, and two dirty bare feet.
"I believe I'll stay here until nightfall," Caroline announced, struggling with her skirts which were twisted up around her hips and thighs. No matter how hard she tugged she was unable to move more than a few inches and she knew utter humiliation was close at hand when there came the sound of a gentle rustling, followed by a soft thud and a chorus of voices.
To her dismay, Reardon hunkered down and peered under the stagecoach at her. "Driver's gettin' ready to move out. Unless you're looking to be part of the road, I'd hightail it out of there."
"I can't," she hissed, face flaming as she wondered why Abby had so callously deserted her in her hour of need. "My petticoat is hooked on something."
Reardon flattened himself on the dirt and started sliding toward her exposed calves and knees.
"Don't you dare, Mr. Reardon! Call my maid over."
"Your maid is busy helpin' the preacher's wife. Seems the excitement was too much for her." His breath was hot against the curve of her leg and she feared she would swoon same as Penelope Nelson. "It's either you let me help you or you get dragged all the way up to Reno."
"Then do it," she ordered, summoning up her best Bostonian arrogance. "This is most unseemly."
"Not from where I'm sittin'." Reardon leaned over her torso and reached for the snagged hem of her petticoat. "In fact, I'd say it's right seemly."
"Unhook my hem and keep your comments to yourself, Mr. Reardon." Her best Bostonian manners were forgotten along with her modesty. "I didn't travel two thousand miles to be accosted by a filthy cowboy."
"Gotta correct you on that," he said as she heard the distinctive sound of ripping lace. "I'm no cowboy."
She tugged at her skirts in a vain attempt to cover her limbs. "But you admit to being filthy?" she snapped.
"Why don't you come up to my room at the King of Hearts for supper and find out."
"I would rather starve." Even in the shadowy light she could see the glimmer of danger in his eyes, danger that should be avoided at all costs.
"Don't look like you're in any danger, Caroline." His hand hovered over the swell of her breasts and she held her breath as he drew her name out in a most indecently familiar fashion. "So soft and—"
"If you do not move instantly, I'll scream this town down around your ears."
Her outrage must have been clear to him for he slid off her body and inched his way out from under the coach. She waited, fury building inside her chest with each second that passed, but he offered no helping hand. A flurry of vivid oaths she'd learned at her father's knee raced through her mind and she wondered what the cowboy would think if she told him exactly what she thought of him in words he would no doubt understand.
But Caroline Bennett was a lady and she would not forfeit what dignity she had left. She drew her skirts as close to her hips and legs as she could manage then, arms pinned against her sides, she slid awkwardly from under the coach and rose to her feet. The silence that greeted her was horrifying.
The McGuigan girls looked as if they saw a ghost rising from an abandoned grave. The Wilder sisters turned as red as their hair and Caroline dared not speculate upon what they were thinking. From Penelope Nelson, propped up in her husband's arms on the ground; to Abby, whose eyes were round as wagonwheels; to what seemed like every man in Silver Spur—all eyes were intent upon her.
And of course there was Jesse Reardon, with his shamefully close-fitting trousers and that look of devilment in his eyes, watching her more closely than anybody had a right to. Dear God, to think that wide mouth had been pressed against her leg, those large hands lingering near her breasts—it simply didn't bear contemplation.
She turned to two lanky cowboys leaning against her trunks and flashed them her best smile. "Would you two gentlemen be so kind as to carry our belongings for us?"
The men looked over at Reardon but his rugged face betrayed nothing.
"Certainly you gentlemen wouldn't mind earning free whiskey, would you?" she asked sweetly.
The larger man eyed her baggage suspiciously. "You carryin' whiskey in there?"
"Of course not, but I'm certain there's plenty of whiskey at my saloon."
Reardon stepped forward, thumbs hooked through his belt loops. "No saloons 'round here been sold that I know of."
"I do not recall saying I bought a saloon, Mr. Reardon." Motioning for Abby to follow, Caroline lifted her chin and glided across the street toward the Crazy Arrow. Her heart thundered inside her chest as she passed a score of grizzled prospectors and scowling cowboys and did her best to ignore the soft laughter from the fancy ladies gathered on the porch of the Golden Dragon.
She stepped onto the wooden planking that passed for sidewalks in Silver Spur. The heel of her right boot caught in a split board and only will power and good balance kept her from sprawling headlong. Oh, Poppa, she thought as she pushed open the door of the saloon, why couldn't you have been like other men and left me a dry goods store instead?
* * *
Jesse Reardon watched Caroline's fine figure disappear inside the Crazy Arrow. It wasn't everyday a beautiful blonde Easterner showed up in town with something other than matrimony on her mind and if it weren't for the fact she was hellbent on taking what belonged to him, he just might have found the whole thing damned funny.
"You see that, Jesse?" Next to him Sam Markham removed his hat and wiped his brow with the back of his arm. "That gal's goin' into the Crazy Arrow!"
"I see it," Jesse said, "but I sure as hell don't believe it."
"You up and sold the Arrow and didn't see fit to tell anybody?"
"I didn't sell a damn thing to anybody."
"You must've done somethin', Jesse. A gal don't just get off the St. Louis coach claimin' she owns a saloon in Silver Spur. It just don't make sense."
"Damn straight it don't make sense," Big Red Morgan called out. "What's this world comin' to when a man can't keep a woman in her place where she belongs?"
Raucous laughter floated over from the Golden Dragon. "You know our place, gents," one of the whores called out from a second floor window. "Our door is always open!"
The stagecoach driver spat tobacco juice on the ground and swore loudly. "I got me a passel of miles to go before nightfall," he said. "Ain't anybody gonna help me unload these trunks?"
"Don't bother," Jesse snapped. "These folks won't be stayin' in Silver Spur."
The reverend's wife raised her eyes heavenwa
rd. "Praise the Lord! Listen to this gentleman, William, and forget this foolish idea."
"Little woman's right, William," Jesse drawled over the reverend's objections. "What you got to offer we don't particularly need."
Gunshot rang out again from one of the saloons up the street and the latest batch of spinsters huddled near the door of the coach; their somber faces betrayed their fear and Jesse almost felt sorry for them. Gals plain as mud hens didn't stand much of a chance in the marriage market anywhere but a place like Silver Spur and now that the League was going strong, even Silver Spur didn't offer them much hope.
"Go home, little ladies," he offered as he stormed past them. "Get back on that coach with the reverend and his missus before one of you ends up on Cemetery Hill."
"What about Miss Caroline?" one of the redheaded gals piped up. "If she can stay here, surely we can—"
"She ain't stayin'," Jesse barked as he vaulted the steps to the Crazy Arrow and pushed open the door to the darkened saloon.
"You may put the trunks down over there." Caroline's cool Eastern voice drifted through the hot and dusty bar room. "Abigail will serve you whiskey as soon as she returns from the—"
"The stage is waitin'," Jesse interrupted, turning blindly in the direction of her voice. His eyes had yet to adjust to the dim light inside the saloon but he'd be damned if he let her know she was holding the high card for the moment. "I reckon you should hightail it outside and climb aboard."
"Thank you for the recommendation, Mr. Reardon." She moved closer and he caught the sweet scent of violets in the heated air. "However, I am here to stay."
"I don't think that's a good idea." He grinned as she stepped into a shaft of sunlight from the front window and was rewarded by her sharp intake of breath when his fingers encircled her wrist. "Silver Spur's too dangerous for the likes of you."
Her blue eyes flickered to her wrist then back to him. "Are you threatening me, Mr. Reardon?"
Midnight Lover Page 5
