by Zoe Blake
“Hello, Miss Emma!”
Horn and Emma both looked up to see a little girl in a bright blue pinafore a few feet away staring at them in wonder.
“Did you break a boot lace, Miss Emma?” asked the child innocently, pointing to Emma’s exposed ankle and kid boot.
“What?” responded a flustered Emma still locked in Horn’s embrace.
“Did you break a boot lace? Is that why that man is holding up your skirt for you?”
Emma broke free and ran toward the girl, kneeling before her. “Why yes, Mary Sue. This nice gentleman was just helping me with my boot lace,” responded Emma, sending Horn a smirk over her shoulder. “Why don’t we go find your mother?”
“Emma, we haven’t finished our conversation,” admonished Horn through clenched teeth.
Emma took in his stern look of warning and the special emphasis on her name. So he hadn’t missed that had he?
“Oh, we’re finished.” Emma grabbed Mary Sue’s hand and ran out of the alley without looking back.
Horn picked up his Stetson which had fallen off in the scuffle. Knocking the dust off against his knee before putting it back on, Horn pulled it down low over his eyes before amusing aloud, “Not even close, little bunny.”
As he turned to walk away, he noticed a small scrap of paper on the ground. Reaching down to retrieve it, Horn realized it was a supplies list. It must be Emma’s. It would only be neighborly to return the list to her thought Horn with a smile. For now, the pleasure of her company would have to wait, he was late for a meeting of quite a different color.
Horn raised the grubby, canvas tent flap and scanned the dim interior. The man he was looking for was painfully obvious. Crossing the packed dirt floor, Horn grabbed the back of a small spindle chair and flipped it around before straddling it.
“Laster.” Horn’s voice was low and dark. His business was nobody else's.
The man nervously gripped the handle of his gun. “How did you know it was me? I’m dressed like a cowboy!” declared Laster indignantly.
Horn shook his head in disgust. Laster was nothing but a no-good bootblack, cowpuncher, although they preferred to be called cattle barons. Cowards was what they really were. When good men were dying, brother shooting brother, the nation tearing at the seams, these men slunk West. Grabbed up all the land. Stole cattle from widows and untended farms. They got rich while the nation bled. Now they strutted around in their fancy silk suits and gold pocket watches, giving themselves English titles and playacting respectable. Meanwhile, they hired men like him to do their dirty work for them. Ah, hell. What did he care? Gold was gold. Except this time. He didn’t want gold. He wanted information.
Instead of meeting at the hotel in town, Laster had insisted on meeting at the saloon just outside. Saloon was a stretch. It was a rundown piece of canvas stretched over some packed earth with some tables and chairs.
“Bar dog!” shouted Horn without taking his eyes off Laster. Smiling when the squirrelly man jumped in his seat. “Two shots of coffin varnish.” Laster paled.
Horn waited till the bartender dropped two glasses filled with a murky brown liquid in front of them. His friend, Mason, damn his hide, had introduced him to the finer points of drinking apple-jack whiskey. It had really ruined him for the rotten wood soaked turpentine these backwoods saloons called whiskey but it would be worth it to see Laster drink it.
“Drink,” ordered Horn.
“How did you know who I was?” stalled Laster, unable to keep the whine from his voice. He had worked hard on his disguise. He also wanted to test Horn to see if the man was as good as his reputation implied.
Horn grit his teeth. Reminding himself that he needed this man for information. Taking in the man’s short pants, wide brim hat and bright sash tied around his corpulent waist, Horn groused, “You are not dressed like a cowboy. You’re dressed like a vaqueros.”
At Laster’s confused look, Horn explained.
“A Spaniard. And since you are neither a Spaniard or in the California territories,” Horn finished with a disgusted wave of his hand. “You might also have considered roughing up the clothes a bit.”
Laster’s attire was so new the sewed seams still gleamed white.
“It is also unlikely a vaqueros would carry around a polished, unfired Smith & Wesson Double Action .45. So if you are finished questioning me, I would like to conclude our business,” ground out Horn.
Laster nodded, now thoroughly convinced Horn’s reputation for tracking down men must be well-deserved.
“Earlier this year the Black Canyon stage line was hit by a man name Clayton and his crew.”
Horn nodded. “Heard about it.” There was a sizable bounty on that job. The stage lines didn’t take too kindly to their coaches getting robbed. “Also heard the crew took some losses.”
“Yes. Word is there are still some of them hanging around the territory. I want them found and…taken care of. Cattle season is coming up. I’ve got a lot of men who will expect to be paid. A lot of cattle to be moved. A lot of money moving around. I can’t afford to have another one of those stages get hit.”
“You working for the Black Canyon stage line now?” asked Horn sardonically.
“Let’s just say they aren’t willing to spend the capital on the job,” replied Laster evasively.
They weren’t willing to spill blood, thought Horn.
“You know my price.”
“Come on, Horn. Be reasonable. Name your price in gold.”
“No.”
“He’s a powerful man. If he found out I gave him up, he’ll come after me.”
“That’s my price, Laster. How bad you want the Clayton crew found?”
“Fine, Horn,” gave in Laster. “You take care of Clayton and anyone who robbed that stage and I will tell you the name of the man who framed you for murder.”
Chapter 3
It wasn’t possible. It simply wasn’t possible.
It was not possible the entire classroom of children had suddenly turned into a troop of warring Apache Indians.
Yet that is precisely what they sounded like to Emma this morning.
She had barely slept a wink the previous night. Tortured by visions of a dark-eyed scoundrel chasing her. And when he caught her…the press of his body. The strength of his grip. The feel of his breath against her neck. Each sensation more vivid and real than the next. It was more than a dream. It felt like a premonition. Emma shivered at the prescient thought.
There was another delighted shriek of laughter sending a spike of pain straight to Emma’s temple.
“Children, please! Take out your slates. I want you all to do your sums.”
There was a collective groan. Emma smiled. Despite her current megrim, she really did enjoy teaching. After making sure all the children were settled, even the troublesome Kirby, Emma crossed the small room and raised the heavy, homespun blanket that separated the schoolroom from her private quarters. Walking over to the fireplace, she removed the blue tin ware kettle from the grate over the low flame. Giving up a small prayer of thanks to Alice for introducing her to this new drink called coffee. Having only been familiar with tea, she was at first unsettled by the strong, bitter taste but with ample amounts of sorghum she found the brew oddly invigorating. It had a strange way of assisting her in her daily routine with the children, especially after a restless night of no sleep.
Emma poured a generous portion of the inky brew into her chipped cup, filling the room with its rich, dark scent. Taking in a deep breath, drawing in the aroma, she took one long sip and instantly felt better. Everything was going to be fine. Jackson Horn was probably miles from here by now. There had been nothing in the newsprints about the law looking for Emma Fairfax. He was probably just passing through town. He wasn’t here looking for her. She had overreacted. It had just been a coincidence. And as to the rest? Well? She had just been a bit of sport for him. That was all. Yes, that was all. She ignored the odd twist in her stomach at the thought. To thi
nk any further on the man would be ludicrous. She was perfectly safe here in Wickenburg as simple Glendolene Rimmel, school teacher. Emma took another sip of coffee and closed her eyes in appreciation.
Yes, Jackson Horn was miles away.
“Show us another one! Show us another one!”
Emma opened her eyes. Startled by the childish outburst followed by a round of little hands clapping.
The sound of deep, masculine laughter had her tripping over her long skirts to scurry around the table, knocking over the thin spindle chair in her haste to return to the classroom. Lifting the heavy blanket, the sight which greeted Emma was so incongruous as to not be believed.
Jackson Horn was standing in the middle of a passel of children swinging his guns around.
“That one was called the border shift,” he explained.
Already a powerfully built man, he appeared all the more so in front of his pint-sized audience. The majority of the children barely reached his mid-section.
From his well-over six-foot frame, to his broad chest and thickly muscled thighs, there wasn’t an inch of him that didn’t scream danger.
Emma watched in horror as the children squealed in delight.
“Now, say some sneaky son-of-a-rattler gets the drop on you,” continued Horn with a suggestive wink in Emma’s direction. “He demands you surrender your guns. Well, then you pull what’s called the road-agent’s spin.”
Drawing both Colts from their hip holsters with alarming speed, Horn flipped them upside down and seemed to hand them to two of the students with the butt up facing away from him, barrels down. Emma opened her mouth to object just as the eager boys stretched out their grubby fingers to touch the smooth walnut handles. Quick as lightening, Horn spun both hands again. With his forefingers hooked in the trigger guards, the guns easily flipped back in his grip, cocked and ready.
Once again the children broke out into excited laughter.
“Let that be a lesson to you boys. Always make a man drop his hardware in the dust. Never try to take a man’s guns directly from him,” instructed Horn ominously.
“Well, I think that is quite enough lessons for one day,” said Emma shakily. Stretching out her arms, pressing her hands against the backs of the children as she herded them away from Horn’s threatening presence. “Gather your things. Timmy, don’t forget your lunch pail again.”
She needed to get the children safely away. As much as she longed for the protective buffer they provided, it would be unconscionable to use them that way.
Mary Sue went running up to Horn. Her carefully pressed pink pinafore in stark contrast to his unrelenting black clothes, right to the tip of his hat. Her tiny hand stretched out to show a small bunch of violet petunias lovingly wrapped in a white hair ribbon. “Momma says these are the last of the winter flowers. I was bringing them for Miss Emma but I don’t think she’d mind if I gave them to you.”
Horn went down on his haunches. “Well, that is mighty kind of you. Thank you.” Gingerly taking the delicate flowers, he rose. “But I would hate to deprive Miss Emma of such a pretty prize.”
Horn raised his dark gaze to pin Emma where she stood. Crossing the small classroom in three easy strides, the deep thud of his boot heels followed by the high pitch clang of his silver spurs resonating off the bare walls. Horn stood so close, his tall boots pressed against her hooped skirts, causing them to swing back like a bell. Emma had worn the more elaborate undergarment today after yesterday’s scandalous encounter with him. Somehow feeling the width of the hoop skirt would have kept him more at bay, as it is intended to do for most men. Although somehow she knew this man would not have been deterred by a bit of wire and stiffened fabric.
Horn ran the tip of his left index finger along the modest lace edge of Emma’s gown. Her skin felt soft and warm. Her hair was swept up in a loose chignon exposing her slender neck and delicate ears. The late afternoon sun burned her hair a bright coppery-red turning her eyes a luminous emerald green. In their depths he saw the unmistakable spark of desire…too bad it was mixed with deceit and fear. He would learn her secret and strip away her fear. Then he would strip away a great deal more. The thought brought a slow, seductive smile to his lips.
Emma felt powerless. She should slap his hand away. She should run to where the children still stood putting on their sweaters. She should scold him for entering her classroom and order him to leave. Yet she did nothing but stand practically in his embrace. Powerless. Everything about him overwhelmed her. His height. His strength. His commanding presence. The way he looked at her as though he knew every deep, dark corner of her mind. Those searching dark brown eyes that missed nothing. That jaw which hardened and clenched, seeming to guess you were lying before the words left your lips. That mouth. Oh, that mouth! That even now smiled knowingly at her!
Slipping his finger between the warm cleft of her ample breasts, ignoring Emma’s shocked gasp, Horn pulled the fabric of her gown towards him, exposing just the barest glimpse of her creamy, white corset. “I believe I have found the perfect place for them to go,” he intoned dark and low.
Emma’s eyes widened as the back of his knuckles brushed her exposed skin as he pushed the stems of the small bouquet between her breasts.
Stroking one soft petal, he observed for her ears only, “Soft, but not as soft as your skin.”
Emma could feel her cheeks blush hotly from both his intimate touch and attentions. Quickly trying to move away, there was a strong grip around her delicate wrist, pulling her back. “You haven’t thanked me for my gift,” he admonished with a teasing smile.
“You should thank him, Miss Emma. You always say it is good manners to thank people when they give you a gift,” chastised Mary Sue.
Emma stared at the slightly reproachful look of Mary Sue and the various curious glances of the children from across the classroom. Good Lord! She had forgotten they were all still there! She turned startled eyes back to Horn.
Leaning towards her, he playfully tapped his cheek with his finger.
“You cannot be serious!”
“Children?” asked Horn with both hands raised in a false pleading gesture.
“Oh please, Miss Emma! Kiss him, Miss Emma! Yes, Miss Emma!” rang out a chorus of gleeful, high-pitched, little voices.
Sending a glaring scowl in Horn’s direction, Emma leaned as far over on her toes as she could possibly manage and gave him a dry, chaste kiss on the cheek.
Shouting over the burst of oohs and ahhs, Emma told the children to hurry home but when she tried to usher them out of the room, she found Horn refusing to relinquish his grip on her wrist. With a telling look at her hand, she said tartly, “I must see to the children.”
“They’re doing just fine on their own,” he grinned. Then just for good measure. Horn placed his lip between his teeth and rent the air with a piercing whistle. “Go on now. Git!” he shouted. Within a heartbeat, the room was silent; not a single trace of a child remained, not even so much as a giggle out in the school yard. It seems she was not the only one who followed his command.
Before Emma could even give a thought on how to now get Horn to disappear just as easily, the option was stolen from her.
“Time for a proper kiss,” said Horn as he tossed his Stetson onto a nearby bench.
“What?”
Horn pulled on her wrist, slamming her body into his own. Wrapping his arm around her petite frame, his right hand spanned her upper back forcing her as close as possible. He wanted to feel the press of those full breasts against his chest as he took her mouth.
Emma grabbed fistfuls of his shirt trying to steady herself. Lifting her head in protest, the words never left her lips. Horn’s mouth came crashing down. Crushing all resistance. His tongue swept inside, taking possession. This wasn’t how people kissed thought Emma frantically! They kissed with closed mouths! Chastely and with dignity and restraint. There was nothing restrained about Horn’s kiss.
Horn walked her backwards till Emma felt the coarse
boards of the classroom wall. Widening his stance, Horn bent his knees slightly so he could grind his hips and the hard ridge of his shaft against the softness of her belly. Running his hands over her jaw, his fingers delved in the thickness of her hair, needing to touch its cool, softness. All the while, his tongue plunged and swirled around her own. Stealing her breath.
The taste of coffee mixed with tobacco and a hint of whiskey. The heady, cinnamon scent of the petunias still nestled between her breasts wafted around them. The call of a cactus wren outside the only sound.
Lost in the moment, her hands dug into his messy waves of midnight black hair. It felt soft. She had half expected it to feel rough and harsh like the stubble of his beard. Like him. The last several months, even in her quiet moments with the children, she had always felt on edge, scared, constantly anxious. His kiss turned all that nervous energy into something raw. As if he was forcing it from her body, taking it on his own shoulders. In some strange way, his overpowering her actually made her feel safe. By stealing her breath away with his potent strength, he actually allowed her to breathe. Emma leaned in.
“That’s it, Bunny. Open for me,” he ground out hoarsely against her lips.
Bunny.
The intimate endearment bringing her precarious position back into stark focus. She wasn’t safe. This man was dangerous! This man was a gunfighter! A lawman! This man was out to find her to bring her to justice! She needed to get away from this man not pull him closer!
Emma wrenched her mouth away. “Stop,” she breathed.
“No.”
Horn tried to recapture her mouth, using his hands in her hair to angle her head.
Emma did the only thing a woman in her position could…she dropped onto her bottom and crawled between his widened legs to escape.
“What the hell?” shouted Horn as he twisted around. Incredulous at the site of Emma’s raised bottom bouncing up and down on the floor as she crawled between the old pews now used as school seats. Her wide hoop skirt giving him an ample view of her pantalets and stockings as it popped up each time she emerged from between a bench. “Get back here,” he ground out.
