Hope nodded, then belted the rest of the whiskey down in one long gulp. She exhaled hard as the molten fire seared her throat.
“Thank you, Mr. Tubbs,” she said, her thickened accent stripped to the bones now. “You can’t begin to imagine how much help you’ve been.”
Tubbs didn’t acknowledge her words, having already turned his attention to the card game at a nearby table. Pulling up a seat, he threw a few coins onto the center of the table and motioned for the dealer to count him in.
A smile played on Hope's lips, and as she turned back to the bar, she found it was returned by the enormous barkeep.
“Want another?” he asked, throwing the grimy towel over his shoulder and nodding to her empty glass. When she hesitated, he grinned and let his gaze slip to Tubbs. “Don’t worry, I’ll put it on his bill.”
Hope smiled. “Thanks, but I think this should be sufficient.” She reached over and plucked up the glass of whiskey Tubbs had forgotten. The barkeep chuckled as he turned to a reed-thin barmaid who was setting a tray of empty glasses on the bar.
Looking at the glass, she contemplated the amber-colored liquid. Her head was beginning to feel light, but not unpleasantly so. Her speech had yet to slur and her vision was intact. If anything, the liquor had bolstered her courage for the encounter that was to come. So what would one more drink hurt? It might make facing Drake Frazier that much easier. Or it might get her drunk. It was a chance Hope decided she was willing to take. With a vision of a hardened, arrogant gunslinger floating in her mind, she downed the whiskey. No fire cut down her throat this time. If anything, the drink tasted pretty damn good. If she wasn’t careful, she would acquire a taste for the fiery brew.
Sighing, she set the glass down on the bar, then slipped off the uncomfortable stool. The barkeep grinned in her direction as she wobbled past him, and Hope thought she might have sent him a conspiratorial wink and wave, but she wasn’t sure.
Why did I have that last glass of whiskey? she thought as she concentrated on placing one foot after the next on the narrow steps. Her knees felt like unthickened strawberry jam, and, at the rate the alcohol was seeping into her system, she would be lucky if she made it to the landing at the top of the stairs without tumbling back into the saloon.
Somehow she made it, though she thought the feat was accomplished more by luck than coordination. Now, if she could only remember what room the little weasel had told her Drake Frazier was in. Was it the second door on the right for the first on the left?
An intoxicated giggle escaped her lips before she could clamp a hand over her mouth to stifle it. She’d just try every damn door until she found the one that housed the man she was looking for. Should be easy enough, she thought as she staggered for the door straight ahead.
“Don’t knock first,” he had said. Hadn’t he? She couldn’t remember. Shrugging, she grabbed the handle and turned. The door wouldn’t budge.
Not that one, she decided as she moved on to the next. Ah, now that handle turned quite easily. Too easily, if the unclothed occupants of the room had anything to say about it.
“Sorry, honey, you’re too late,” a brassy, feminine voice cackled as Hope quickly closed the door. The girl wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know. At the first sight of the man’s blond hair she had already guessed it to be the wrong room.
She staggered to the one across the hall, realizing as she went that she hadn’t tried the one nearest the stairs. That one would be next, she decided as she grabbed the door knob. Which doorknob? At the moment she was seeing three of them spinning before her eyes. Her hand lurched for the middle one, though her mind hadn’t given it permission to do so. Miraculously, it turned.
The door swung open into a vacant room illuminated in the soft orange glow of lamplight. This was the room, wasn’t it? Oh God, she should never have drunk that last glass of whiskey! Now she was seeing two beds in the center of the room instead of just one. And her stomach was—
Sick! She was going to be sick!
Without thinking, she raced to the closed door to the left. Flinging it wide, she collided into what felt like a brick wall, a very fuzzy, very warm, very muscular brick wall.
Hope staggered backwards, and by the time two large hands had wrapped around her upper arms to steady her, she had passed out cold.
Chapter 2
The last time Hope remembered feeling this awful was on the ship that carried them around the Horn, bound for that cursed place called California. Her stomach had heaved for nearly the entire voyage, and by the time they’d finally reached port, she was ten pounds lighter.
But this was worse. While the soft thing beneath her now wasn’t rocking, it might as well have been. Even with her eyes closed, she felt the world spinning in slow, agonizing circles. Perhaps if she had something to focus on, she thought. Maybe that would help stop the dreaded rotation of the dark world she was desperately trying to lose herself in.
Slowly, bit by painful bit, Hope opened her eyes. The light, a pale orange glow reeking of kerosene, pierced her eyes, and she felt as though a dagger had been thrust clear through to the back of her skull. Stubbornly, she refused to give in to the pain. As she opened her eyes a little more, the fuzzy blur of a wood planked ceiling came into view.
Ah, much better. With her gaze focused on the cracks between the planks, and the tiny nail heads that held them together, her world blessedly stopped spinning. This did nothing to relieve the throbbing in her temples, however.
Deciding her mind needed something else to think of, she let her gaze drift over to the hastily constructed end table by the side of the bed. It was a crude little thing, she thought, confident that Luke could have produced a better piece of furniture than the carpenter who had built that atrocity. The wooden wardrobe was even less elaborate, as was the squat, rectangular table resting against the wall near the foot of the bed. The porcelain washbasin and pitcher atop the rickety table looked like they had seen better days. And as for the chair the man was sitting in, well, that was—
Man!?
Hope’s eyes widened in surprise, then squinted as she tried to focus on the boots so casually crossed atop the chipped oak bed rail. They were black, those boots, with low heels worn down where the sole first touched the ground. The leather was cracked, molded to curve over the large feet within. Where the surface had once been shiny, it was now dulled with a fine coat of dirt. Her gaze rose to where the top of the boots disappeared beneath the hem of blue denim trousers. The sinewy legs encased in that rough material had muscular calves and thighs that extended for what seemed to be miles before tapering off into lean hips, a taut stomach, and a broad, virile, completely naked chest; a chest that brought a vague sense of familiarity to the outskirts of her memory. There was a V-shaped pelt of soft golden curls there, disappearing just as the broad, muscular shoulders came into view. The tendons beneath the sun-kissed flesh were well defined. It didn’t take much exertion on Hope’s part to imagine how the muscular biceps would ripple with even the slightest movement.
The nausea that had been forming in her stomach was suddenly forgotten. Boldly, her gaze rose. She wasn’t at all surprised to see the thick cord of neck that smoothed itself up into a hard, square jaw. There was just the slightest indentation in the chin resting below sensuous lips. Even the light, bristly coat of stubble shadowing the jaw and lower part of his face could not conceal the high, rugged cheekbones or the enticing hollows beneath. His hair was sun-bleached blonde and shaggy, accentuating the mold of his cheeks as it swept away from the high, broad brow. The color reminded her of endless fields of wheat, rich and steady to harvest as it basked under a midday sun.
Then there were his eyes. Narrow beneath the bushy, golden brows, they were the same shade as the tumultuous seas that had carried her to this godforsaken land. A deep, almost translucent shade of green shot with shimmering silver flecks, eyes that had a penetrating quality about them that both shocked and mesmerized.
“Should I ask how
much you’ve had to drink?” His voice was a deep, husky whisper that tingled its way down Hope's spine. A smile curled his lips, a gesture not mirrored in the piercing gaze.
Hope scowled, then immediately regretted the impulse. The result was a feeling akin to a renegade herd of cattle stampeding through her head.
“Drink?” she asked, her voice a hoarse, dry whisper. Whiskey, she remembered with a groan, I drank some whiskey. It took a few more seconds for the memory of what had transpired in the bar to come flooding back—as well as her mission for going there in the first place. “Two glasses of whiskey,” she answered finally, squinting at the man as she sent him a weak smile. “No, maybe more. I don’t remember exactly.”
Oh God, I’m in the wrong room. It was the first real thought to pierce the haze of alcohol fogging her mind. She winced as the pain of the realization shot through her already throbbing temples. And what would happen if Luke decided to disobey her instructions and come looking for her? The last thing she needed was for her brother to find her lying in a stranger’s bed, with the stranger in question half-naked to boot!
The stranger nodded, his cold smile turning into one of pure deviltry. “Good, we’re making progress. Not only have you rejoined the world of the living, but you’ve also proven you do indeed have a voice. All this in the matter of a few short seconds. Now,” his voice grew hard and the smile disappeared as though it had never been, “why don’t we move on to what brought you barging into my room in the middle of the night, drunker than a river rat, and who the hell sent you here?” His gaze narrowed. “Keep in mind, I’ll settle for nothing less than the truth.”
“No one sent me,” she replied indignantly, hoisting herself up by way of her elbows as she slid her legs over the side of the bed. The world around her swam with the suddenness of the motion, and her stomach rolled. Gripping the edge of the bed, she waited for the nausea to subside before attempting to stand. Her knees were still weak, but at least they held her weight, albeit with a slight sway. “I—I was looking for someone. Apparently, I picked the wrong room.” She cleared her throat, mentally willing the slur from her voice. “It was an honest mistake.”
“If it was a mistake.”
The voice, filled with mistrust, made Hope slowly turn back toward him. A scowl etched her brow as she peered into the penetrating depths of his eyes. “Of course it was a mistake,” she scoffed, slowly plucking up her cloak from where it had been carefully folded at the foot of the bed. “Why wouldn’t it be?” Flinging the cloth around her shoulders, she tied a poorly shaped knot beneath her chin.
“I was hoping you’d tell me.” The smile was back, but there was nothing at all endearing about it as the man reached behind him and extracted from his belt loop the glistening curved blade of her bowie knife. Hope’s eyes widened, her hand awkwardly groping at the pocket of her skirt. She sighed in relief when she felt the small but solid form of her revolver tucked beside the two nuggets of gold. Her relief, she was quick to find, was painfully short-lived.
“Don’t bother,” he informed her coldly, his eyes glistening with an emotion she didn’t dare contemplate. “It’s as good as worthless without these.”
One by one he tossed the metal bullets atop the bedspread, and she watched in despair as they bounced on the pale ivory surface. Though the effects of the alcohol were beginning to wear off, the sluggishness wasn’t entirely gone. Her coordination was slow, her reflexes off, and her head was throbbing fiercely. There was no possible way to get to the bullets before he did, even though an equal amount of distance separated them from the bed.
Hope swallowed hard as her gaze wavered between the bullets and the man she was quickly beginning to dislike. “Is there a point to all of this?” she asked tightly.
“Um-hmmm,” he nodded, lazily regarding her through heavy lids. “The point being, you are not going to leave this room until you tell me why you came here.”
“I’ve already told you,” she repeated, keeping her voice stern but soft in respect to her aching head. "I made a mistake. People do make mistakes, you know. Unfortunately, mine had to be in entering your room.” She hesitated, willing calm into the rising panic that laced her words. “Now, why don’t you give me back my knife and my bullets so I can leave and find the room I’m supposed to be in.”
“Sorry.” If it wouldn’t have hurt so much, Hope would have screamed when the man merely shook his head and clucked his tongue. “It was a nice try, that story about stumbling into the wrong room. Very original. But I’m not stupid enough to buy it.”
“You’re not—”
To hell with the knife and bullets, she decided abruptly. The rat could keep them for all she cared.
Taking a deep breath, she spun on her heel and bolted for the door. Since the man seemed so intent on keeping her here, she was more than a little surprised that he didn’t rush from the chair to stop her. When the doorknob refused to turn under her sweat-coated palm, she realized why.
“Damn it!” she yelled, ignoring the searing pain throbbing in her temples. Pulling back her foot, she hurled her toe into the solid piece of wood. The pain that exploded in her foot was small in comparison to the anger that rushed through her blood. Shifting her weight onto the foot she hadn’t been foolish enough to injure, Hope lifted her fists and began pummeling the door. “Help!” she screamed as loud as her headache would allow. “Someone help! Let me out!”
The staccato click of boot heels echoed in the hallway, and her spirits soared. Thank God, help was on the way!
“I’m in here,” she called, her heart hammering quick with the relief that warmed her blood. “Quick, please, he’s trying to rape me!”
The footsteps approached the door and hesitated. She increased her frantic pounding. Through the crack beneath the door she heard a thick, slurred chuckle, then the footsteps moved on. Shocked into sudden silence, she took a step back and regarded the closed door with all the warmth she would show a rattlesnake. And speaking of rattlesnakes, there was a certain arrogant reptile laughing quite humorously behind her back.
She turned, silencing the deep, pleasantly husky chuckle with an icy glare. “You rat,” she hissed, her lips thinning into a hard white line. “You knew he wouldn’t stop, didn’t you?” She paused, taking a deep gulp of air. “Of course you knew. That’s why you didn’t stop me from making a total idiot out of myself, isn’t it? Because you knew he wouldn’t care enough about what was happening in here to even think about offering help.”
“Don’t be a fool,” he scolded, his tone patronizingly dry. “Of course I knew he wouldn’t stop. Yelling and screaming goes on around here night and day. Nobody thinks a thing of it. Where are you going?” To his surprise the woman gathered the cloak tightly around her and marched with rigid determination toward the single window behind his chair.
“As far away from you as I can get,” she informed him briskly as she gave a push to the smeared bottom pane of glass. Her heard skipped as beat as the wooden frame stuck, then slid high. Unfortunately, it slipped down just as easily, but that minor hindrance could be worked around. She was feeling braver, more confident with the cool night air wafting around her, clearing her senses. Her headache receded to a dull throb.
“We’re on the second story,” he informed her, his tone dry and unemotional. From the sound of his voice, he hadn’t bothered to get up; a fact that hardly surprised her. “It’s quite a fall.”
“Not if I land on that drunk,” she said as she peeked out the window and saw the sprawled from of a man lying face first in the dirt. She wasn’t sure, but she would have sworn it was the same one who had almost smacked her in the face with the swinging bar door.
By the time Hope felt the viselike grip wrap around her upper arm, she had already managed to swing both legs out the window and was perched on the sill. She used one hand to prop up the frame above her head while the other steadied her precarious balance. The rose-colored skirt was hoisted well above her knees, exposing more than a proper amount
of creamy calves and delicately turned ankles. The folds of her cloak, still inside the room, floated down the wall and draped over the crudely planed floor.
“You’re not going anywhere, young lady,” the man growled as a hand wrapped around her other arm. It was all she could do to keep the window from falling on her legs as she was forcefully dragged back inside.
As her back came up hard against his chest, she suddenly prayed Luke would disobey her as he always did and come looking for her, fast. The sight of her gigantic brother would certainly knock that overly inflated ego down a peg or two, something this man sorely needed.
“Let go of me this instant, you idiot,” she demanded, trying to twist away from his grasp. She might as well have been heaving herself against a brick wall for all the good it did her.
In a repeat performance of what she had done to Luke, Hope pulled back her foot and kicked for all she was worth. Apparently she was worth more than she thought, especially if the man’s grunt of pain was anything to judge by.
“Stop it,” he ordered as the heel of her boot collided with his shin yet again.
“Not until you let me go,” she snapped, and slammed her heel down on his toe. Unfortunately, his boots made sure the blow did little damage. She resorted to kicking again.
This time the man waited until her foot was drawn back and ready to strike, the unexpectedly let her go. Hope, unprepared for the sudden release, tumbled backwards, her bottom meeting the hardwood floor in a bone-jarring collision. The force of her momentum thrust her backward, her legs pinned by the twisting skirt and cloak. It was sheer luck that she was able to reach out in time to stop her head from hitting the floor.
So much for fighting fair! She thought as she staggered to her feet and faced her opponent. Expecting a man the size of the rest of the prospectors of Thirst Gulch, it was not a pleasant surprise to see that this one towered over her by almost a full head. Her courage floundered.
California Caress Page 3
