Chuckling inwardly at how aroused she was by that particular suggestion, she followed him up.
The narrow, enclosed staircase veered to the right after the fourth step. It was dark, and she had to move carefully on her sore ankle, and run her hand along the wall to judge where she was going.
When they reached the top, a long hall stretched in front of them with a railing that overlooked the saloon.
"Stay here," Truman whispered before he knocked on the first door and quickly opened it.
After he ensured the room was empty, he gestured for Jessica to follow. She glanced over the railing into the saloon where only a few gamblers and drinkers sat around square tables. It was quiet, except for the sound of some rolling dice at a far table.
Once Jessica was safely inside the room, Truman shut and locked the door behind them. The floorboards creaked as he moved to inspect the lock on the window and check inside the wardrobe. A single kerosene lamp burned in the corner next to the wrought iron headboard.
"You're not to leave this room," he instructed, kneeling to look under the bed.
"What am I supposed to do? Just sit around and stare at the wall?"
What she would give for her laptop and a wireless Internet connection.
"I'll get you a book," he said dryly.
Jessica limped to the chair, sat down, pulled off her shoe, and began unwrapping the bandages.
"What are you doing?" he asked, rising to his feet. "Those should stay on."
“I need to fix it.”
He approached and knelt before her. “Then let me help you.”
With skillful fingers, he took hold of the bandages and rewrapped her ankle. It was another one of those moments when she found it difficult to imagine him shooting anyone.
After he retied the bandage, he looked up at her. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"
Yes, you can slide your hand up my leg, and it wouldn’t hurt to kiss me like you did in the boardinghouse.
"No, I'm quite fine," she replied.
"Then get some sleep." He stood up and held out his hand to help her to the bed.
But she didn’t want his help – not like that. She wanted something else, and she didn’t want to be alone.
"Will you stay with me?" she asked.
A muscle flicked at his jaw while he looked down at her.
“No,” he finally said. “I can’t do that. But I'll be in the saloon, where I can watch your door all night. Dempsey will be outside, keeping an eye on your window."
It wasn’t quite what she had in mind, but he had a job to do, so she resigned herself to the fact that it would have to be enough.
A few agonizing seconds ticked by, then Truman turned to leave.
All at once, before she could stop herself, she stood up and limped across the room to block his exit.
"Don't go," she said. "Stay.” The air between them sparked with electricity. “I don't want to be alone."
"Jessica..." He looked so uncertain.
Knowing it was a mistake to play with fire like this, she moved closer and laid her open hand upon his chest. “Just for tonight.”
He drew back to look into her eyes, and his Adam’s apple bobbed.
God, how she ached to slide her hands inside his shirt and slowly peel it off him....
“Don’t do this,” he said in a husky voice, heavy with arousal.
“Why not?”
“Because you’ll make it too hard for me to protect you. And resist you.”
She pressed her body close. “Then don’t resist me. I don’t want you to. I just want you to stay for a while.” She slid her hand around his waist. “That’s all I need.”
An undeniable surge of passion rose up between them, and she felt his breathing grow fast and ragged. Then he cupped the side of her face in a hand, looked down at her lips with ravenous hunger, and roughly pulled her to him, as if he were still trying to fight the potent attraction that pulsed in the air. At last he took her mouth with an almost brutal intensity, smothering her gasp with the delicious, intoxicating flavor of his kiss.
She met it recklessly, running her hands through his thick hair as he braced her up against the door. Their tongues mingled quickly and hotly, sending a feverish sexual yearning into her blood.
He kissed the side of her mouth, then buried his face in the crook of her neck and shoulder, kissing the sensitive flesh at her collarbone.
Jessica tipped her head back while he stroked his thumb along her cheekbone and held her body tight, cupping her buttocks in one hand, thrusting his hips firmly up against hers. As she lifted her knee to stroke the outside of his leg with her inner thigh, she bumped into his leather holster and felt the barrel of his gun.
In that moment she remembered the situation, and looked down.
"This isn’t right," he said, as if waking from a dream.
He dragged his mouth from hers, while her heart, pounding violently in her chest, felt the loss.
After a moment or two of agonizing indecision, he stepped back and raked his fingers through his hair.
“Don’t do this to me,” he said, a muscle flicking at his jaw. “I have a job to do, and you’re not helping."
She couldn’t miss the heightened level of his displeasure. "I’m sorry." She moved away from the door and sat down in the chair. “It was my fault.”
"No. It was mine, but you should know to keep away from me. Don’t tempt me like that.” He reached for the doorknob.
"Why?"
"Because I'm not someone you should get to know real well. I’m bad luck, and I don’t need this. I don’t want this. You shouldn’t either."
He pulled the door open, walked out, and shut it behind him.
Jessica listened. She could hear his boots pounding quickly down the hall.
She stared at the door, heart racing, breaths coming hard and fast.
Rising to her feet and limping to the bed, she flopped down and buried her face in the scratchy wool blanket, feeling utterly rejected and frustrated – both sexually and emotionally.
He said he didn’t want this, but she knew that he did. He desired her. There was no question about that. Something else was holding him back, and whatever it was, she wanted very badly to conquer it.
But maybe he was right. This whole situation was spinning out of control so quickly. They were two vastly different people from different worlds and different times. He was a gunfighter, a man of violence who lived in a lawless place. She was a woman from the future who loved technology, hated guns, and considered the sexual revolution an historic event.
She could never resign herself to the idea of hiding her ankles and giving up the right to vote. Besides those things, she couldn’t be happy knowing that she would never see her family again.
This magnetic pull she felt toward Truman was a powerful distraction, and it was preventing her from finding a way home.
If there even was a way. What if there wasn’t?
* * *
Truman hadn't gambled in years, but since a drink was out of the question, tonight he was going to lay his money on the table.
Because of the late hour, there were only a few gamblers in the saloon, so he walked up to the card table and waved the dealer over. He sat at an angle to keep Jessica's door in view and waited for the first card to be dealt.
"Didn't take you for a gamblin' man, Sheriff," the dealer said, as he sat down and shuffled the cards.
"I ain't."
"Feelin' lucky?"
"I wouldn't put it that way."
"How would you put it, then?" the dealer asked, snapping each card down.
"I'd call it deserving of punishment." Truman leaned back in his chair, every so often glancing up at that door.
"How's that now?"
"It ain't worth talking about."
The truth was, Truman hadn’t talked about anything personal to anyone in the full two years since Dorothy’s death. It just seemed easier to keep it secret. If no one knew what happe
ned, maybe he could forget it too. Pretend that part of his life never existed. He could even forget he’d been married.
But Jessica—with all her questions—had been pushing him to remember things. She’d been digging up the past. Rousing him when he didn’t want to be roused.
Was it just physical? he wondered broodingly. It certainly felt that way – like his body was thawing out and yearning for the kind of pleasure he’d not enjoyed in a very long time. He was a man, after all. He supposed he couldn’t deny that forever.
But was that all it was? His body’s aching need for sexual release and nothing else? If he satisfied it, would that be the end of it?
Truman played a card without thinking, then leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table. He glanced up at Jessica’s door again, wondering what she was doing in there. Had she undressed and gotten into bed? Was she thinking about him at all, wishing he’d come back and pick up where they’d left off?
Clenching his jaw, he played another card. He could feel it again—that deep sexual need, the ache to hold her and feel his bare skin heating up close to hers. He hadn’t enjoyed that kind of sexual pleasure in a long time. He wanted it now.
No, he didn’t want it.
He wanted her, and the whole thing made his head pound with the searing knowledge that no matter how hard he tried, he was going to lose this battle. Maybe he should just yield now, go back upstairs, and get on with it.
He laid his cards down on the table and nodded at the dealer.
* * *
When Jessica pulled the covers back, she took one look at the sheets and doubted they were changed since the last guest—or guests—had slept there, so she unpacked her bag and decided to sleep in her clothes on top of the covers. She'd use her dress to keep warm.
Turning the key in the lantern, without extinguishing the flame entirely, Jessica snuggled down and closed her eyes, but they flew open at the sound of thumping in the next room. Wide awake now, she couldn't help but listen.
The bed next door squeaked and bounced. An occasional grunt alternated with giggly moans from a loud-mouthed woman.
Jessica sat back on a heel. She draped an arm over her other knee and cupped her forehead in her palm. What next? It was impossible not to listen. She couldn't help herself. And with this being a whorehouse, the racket was probably going to continue all night.
Jessica waited for it to stop – thankfully it was over pretty quickly—then lay back down and pulled her dress up to her chin. A peculiar thought occurred to her, but she fanned it away. She was being ridiculous. Just then, the bed next door started squeaking again, faster this time. It thumped and whacked against the wall so hard, dust flew onto Jessica's bed. Anger boiled inside her until she sat up and swung her feet to the floor. She considered pounding against the wall to shut them up, but under the circumstances, she knew she had to keep quiet.
That ridiculous thought occurred to her again. It wasn’t Truman, was it?
Don't be so foolish, Jessica.
The woman next door screamed out in pleasure. You’d think she just won the lottery. Jessica could feel her blood pressure rising.
Sliding off the bed, she limped toward the door. Maybe she could take a brief look downstairs. It would set her mind to rest if she could see Truman. Then maybe she could get some sleep. She stopped pacing and stared at the doorknob. Just one little peek....
As she moved closer to the door, the squeaking and groaning stopped. Jessica stood listening, frozen in her spot as the door to the other room slowly creaked open. Slow footsteps tapped along the hall. Jessica's heart began to race as the footsteps approached.
She stared at the brass doorknob. Please, let them pass by, she thought, stepping back.
The knob turned. She placed her hand on her chest to try and calm her breathing, preparing to scream for Truman.
Or scream at Truman.
Then the door slowly opened.
Chapter Fifteen
All of a sudden, screaming didn't seem like the proper thing to do. Sneaking into Jessica's room and closing the door…was a woman.
Jessica examined the tattered looking pink lace and black stockings. The woman turned to face her with eyes that were darkened with kohl smeared thickly under her lower lashes. Jessica also noticed the woman's familiar red hair. She was the prostitute Truman had given money to on the street.
"You must be the secret guest," she said.
Jessica watched her carefully through narrowed eyes. “Yes, and who are you?”
She chuckled. "Don't worry, honey. I ain't your enemy." The woman crossed the room to the bed. "I just came in to make sure everything was to your likin’, that's all." She leaned forward and pulled the covers back. "Hmm, sheets aren’t too clean."
"I didn't think anyone knew I was here," Jessica said, her voice quiet and controlled.
"Yeah, well… your secret's safe with me." She looked Jessica up and down. "Truman said you were a real spitfire, but you don't look like much to me."
Being insulted had a funny way of shaking Jessica's senses into a workable order. "What do you want?" she asked, wishing the woman would state her business and leave.
"I wanted to get a look at the famous Junebug Jess, up close." She wandered casually to the window, pushed the curtain aside, and looked out onto the alley. Letting the curtain fall closed, she lifted her skirt, reached up to her garter, and retrieved a cigarette.
"What's your name?" Jessica asked.
"Rosalie." She took a match from the box on the bedside table, struck it, and lit her cigarette. The fresh scent of sulfur drifted across the room as Rosalie inhaled deeply.
"I'm Jessica."
"I know.”
“Did Truman tell you my real name?”
“Nah, he just said he needed a room for a woman to use, and I wasn't supposed to tell anyone. It just so happens I know about Lou's gang bein' in town, and it ain't hard to figure out why you're hidin' out here. Folks have been talkin' about nothing else since you killed little Louie."
The woman's casual manner of speaking struck Jessica as odd. "You knew him?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
Rosalie flicked ashes into a dish on the bedside table. "Let's just say, he was a very special customer of mine."
Jessica flinched. "I see. Well, I'm sorry about that. It was kind of an accident. A misunderstanding."
Rosalie smiled sardonically. "You don't have to give me that story, honey. I know what kind of man he was. You probably had a real good reason to shoot him."
"I told you it was an accident," Jessica said, growing increasingly impatient. She didn't enjoy pretending she killed Lou any more than she enjoyed talking to this woman.
"Whatever you say." Rosalie sauntered toward Jessica and blew smoke into her face.
Jessica fought a cough.
"What kind of danger are you in anyway?" Rosalie asked.
"Lou's gang wants something from me."
"Then I recommend you give it to them, Darlin'. I don't care who you are. It ain't too bright makin' enemies out of them boys."
"I'd give it to them if I knew what it was."
"They didn't tell you?"
"No."
The tip of Rosalie's cigarette glowed red as she took another drag. "Looks like you're in a whole lot of trouble. Those boys…they don't mess around. I'd watch your back."
"Thanks for the tip."
They stared at each other in silence.
"Well," Rosalie said in a bored way, "I better get back to work. I'll send someone in with some clean sheets." Just before she left, she turned around with one last word. "By the way. You're supposed to be my sister. Truman's orders."
Jessica clenched her jaw as she watched the door close behind her. Truman's orders. And in what scenario had he been giving orders to a prostitute?
* * *
The following morning, Jessica woke to an incessant knocking at her door and the rank smell of stale whisky, smoke, and body odor.
Quickly, she sat up,
staring at the boot she had wedged under her door last night to prevent any more unwelcome visitors.
"Is that you, Truman?"
"Yes, open up."
"Just a minute." She scrambled out of the bed, forgetting her sprained ankle until it hit the floor, causing a searing pain to shoot up her leg. After a brief recovery, she limped to the door. She bent forward to pull the boot out from under it but felt a sudden shock when the door burst open and hit her in the head.
"Ouch!" she cried, stumbling back.
Truman stepped inside. "Sorry. I didn't know you were there."
Jessica rubbed her head. "I wedged the door shut. What did you expect?"
"I told you I'd be downstairs. If anyone so much as looked at your door, besides Rosalie, of course—"
“Okay, okay.” Jessica, still half asleep, limped back to the bed and sat down. “Wow. I need coffee.”
"Breakfast will be here soon,” he replied. “And I've sent for Dempsey to watch over you today. I'm going to try to track down Lou's gang before nightfall and find out what they want." Truman yawned and sat down in the rocking chair.
“That would be good, because I'd hate to have to spend another night here."
"Believe me, if there was any other way..." He yawned again.
"Didn't you get any sleep?" Jessica asked.
"Not a wink."
"What did you do all night?"
"I lost most of my pay at the keno table."
Jessica watched him for a moment. She glanced down at his manly hands and muscular thighs and recalled how he had braced her up against the door last night with his strong, hard body and kissed her senseless.
"What would you have done if the gang had broken in here?” she asked in a desperate effort to distract herself from the thrill of that memory. “Would you have shot them?"
"If I had to," he flatly replied.
She regarded him keenly. “Doesn’t that ever make you feel guilty?”
“Which part?”
“Killing a man.”
He stared at her intently for a long time. "Most of the men I shoot are in bad need of killin'." Then he closed his eyes and leaned his head back as he rocked.
His casual comment made Jessica’s ears prickle. She couldn’t resist satisfying her curiosity another minute. “Tell me about the men you’ve killed.”
Taken by the Cowboy Page 12
