Anne's head jerked up and she looked at Bill for the slimmest moment before looking at the spot where Jack's voice had come from. Jack stepped into her range of vision, coming out of the darkness like a cougar and looking as dangerous as one.
He still looked good.
"You asked and she answered?" he asked Bill.
"Well, no, but we—"
"Then I'll escort the lady home, with your permission, ma'am."
Jack's eyes raked over her and she felt herself flush to her feet. Bill was forgotten in that instant. Unfortunately, Bill seemed to realize it.
"I don't leave a woman in the middle of the evening," Bill said. "I'll escort Anne home."
"Ma'am?" Jack asked, waiting for her to say what she wanted him to do.
"Come on, Anne," Bill said, taking her arm firmly.
Jack stepped up and stood in front of Anne, blocking her. If Bill forced it, she'd have to run right into Jack Skull, chest to chest. Bill wasn't going to force it under those conditions.
"Answer him, Anne," Bill said in exasperation.
She knew what she wanted. It wasn't going to make Bill happy. What was worse, she knew that Jack knew what she wanted.
"Thank you," she said. "Please join us."
"Yes, ma'am," Jack said, taking her other arm and walking off down the street. For a second or two there, he thought Bill might be left behind. He caught up quick enough, hanging on hard to Anne's arm. The woman would probably have bruises tomorrow.
Why didn't she say something and shake him off?
Same reason she didn't shake him off; she was too polite to make a fuss over her own murder. Jack shook his head at her dangerous vulnerability.
"You don't want to be here, you can go anytime," Tucker said, misreading Jack's action.
"I want to be here," Jack said. "I'm the sort that does what he wants, not what he should."
Anne coughed a bit and lowered her eyes to look at the dirt under her toes.
"I didn't figure you for anything else," Tucker said scathingly.
Jack figured he was counting on Anne's presence to protect him; he didn't see Tucker as the sort who'd say something like that without a witness around to make sure he didn't get hurt. Trouble was, he was right, at least around Anne. Jack didn't want to do anything to make her any more skittish than she was. Tucker didn't seem to give a damn.
"You take a good look, Tucker," he said, "and you'll see right clear what kind of man it is you're talking to."
"I know the kind of man. I don't need to look again."
Jack laughed and looked up at the starry sky. "What you gonna do when Anne steps out from between you 'n' me, Tucker? You gonna stand and face me, telling me you don't like the sound of my spurs?"
Tucker didn't say anything. That about said it all.
"He doesn't mean anything," Anne said quietly. It wasn't a sure bet who she was speaking to; could have been to both of them.
No one said anything for a spell after that. The sound of their footsteps on the dirt was soft and indistinct. He let the sound of it soothe him, urging the anger out of his blood.
Here she was, kissing two men in one day, one of them a stranger and the other a shade too slick. And when they growled over her as if she were a scrap of bone, she didn't get mad like she ought, she got sorry and apologized. For someone else. Damn, but she should be hissing at Tucker for bullying her and snapping at him for horning in where he had no call. But she wasn't doing anything like that; when anyone else would get mad, Anne Ross got sorry.
And found herself with two escorts shadowing her home.
Well, he wasn't leaving.
The body of that poor gal, lying dead on the prairie, thinking she was being courted by some smooth-talking man, lay like a heavy blanket on his mind.
He damn sure wasn't leaving.
Anne was stuck in the middle, without an arm to call her own. Her head came to about his shoulder, even with her hair piled up like it was. Her arm was soft under his hand, soft and round. She smelled as clean as prairie grass.
Even sharing her with Tucker, he liked walking beside her.
The lights from her house seemed to grow larger and brighter and then they were on her porch. All three of them.
He still wasn't leaving.
"You can leave anytime," Tucker said, eyeing him furiously.
"Thanks. I'll stay." Jack nodded.
"I have something I want to say to Anne. Privately."
"I won't repeat a word of it," Jack said, sitting down on the step and looking up at the two of them.
Anne didn't say anything. She just looked up at Bill like she was real sorry that things weren't going his way. And sorry that she couldn't do anything about it.
"Anne," Tucker said, "don't you have anything to say? Can't you encourage this ... guest of yours to—"
"Still shoving Anne in between, are ya?" Jack said. "No use roping her into doing what you ought to do. I ain't leavin'. I want to be right where I am. You want me to move, you just keep takin' it up with me and see where you land."
He said it pleasant enough, but his smile was miles gone. There was nothing the least bit amusing about a man who'd shame a girl into doing his fighting and then make her feel shamed that she couldn't see it done.
Tucker looked ready to kill.
Anne laid a hand on Tucker’s arm and smiled up into his blood-suffused face. "I had a wonderful time tonight. Thank you for taking me to dinner."
"You're welcome, Anne," he said stiffly, pointedly ignoring Jack, who was staring at the two of them with all the subtlety of a rattlesnake. "I'll be by tomorrow and we'll talk. Alone."
"Of course, Bill." She smiled sweetly. "Good night."
"Night."
Jack sat on the step watching Tucker fade into the darkness. He sat until the sound of Tucker's boots whispered out into nothing. Then he turned to look at Anne. She was staring off into the dark, after Tucker, looking flustered and uncomfortable and sorry. What was she going to apologize for now?
"Not even a good night kiss," he said with a hard and angry edge to his voice, "or is that my job?"
He could kiss her, he just couldn't be seen with her. Those were apparently the rules, unspoken but understood. He understood just where he stood in her polite little life; he knew what he was and what he would never be. And it made him mad. All of a sudden, just like that. And he knew she'd apologize and take it on herself and that just made him madder.
She turned abruptly to stare into his eyes and then dropped hers in embarrassment, obviously studying the condition of the porch boards; they were wearing through in a couple of spots. Did she always have to be so blamed sorry about things that had little or nothing to do with her? Couldn't she ever get mad?
"Well, doesn't he usually kiss you a time or two before the evening's over? He's kissed you once tonight already, right out on the street. I saw that one."
Anne twisted her hands together and then crossed her arms to keep herself still. She wouldn't look at him.
"Go ahead and tell me," Jack said.
"Why are you mad?" she said softly.
"Mad? I'm not mad, not even a little bit," he said, his voice hoarse and throaty even to his own ears. "You want to kiss two men in one day, that's your business. You want to have two men bellowing over you like you're a prize cow, you go right on and enjoy yourself."
"I'm not enjoying myself," she said. She looked like she was about to bust out and cry. And then apologize.
He was furious with her. Why wasn't she telling him to get off her damn porch and mind his own business instead of horning in on her evening with her proper beau? Why wasn't she marching into the house, into the safety of female numbers? Why was she standing on a half-dark porch, looking at him with sad and sorry blue eyes?
Damn, but he didn't want to feel this way about her, like he had to take care of her, like she needed something real bad and only he could give it. Tenderness, that's what it was, and he wasn't going to give it. There was no space f
or tenderness in him. That had been burned out of him long ago and it was well gone.
"You're not enjoying yourself?" he asked brusquely, standing up. "Well, I know how to fix that. I know what you like, don't I, Anne? You like what I got, don't ya?"
He was talking to her as if she were no better than a sporting gal, wanting her anger, wanting her to fend for herself. She did neither. What was wrong with her that she couldn't fight back?
Anne blushed ten shades of red and lifted her face to his, unafraid. It didn't matter what he said; she knew he was mad. She'd be mad too if he'd kissed her and another woman in the same day, and she'd had to watch.
Sarah might think it was great fun for her to have two beaus, but she wasn't managing it well. She was just terrible at courting. Good thing she didn't need to be good at it. All she had to do was keep everybody happy, her mama and Sarah and Miss Daphne and Bill and Jack, until she could run off to some town where she didn't know anybody and could worry about pleasing only herself. She just had to get ready, to be ready. Pretty soon now. Pretty soon and she'd be gone, away from them all, Jack, too. He was mad, but she wasn't afraid. What was it about him that made her unafraid?
She was a fool not to be afraid. With what he was feeling, she was a fool.
"Why don't you ask me for it?" he prodded, stalking her, hemming her in as she stood with her back to the rail. "Go ahead and ask. I'll give you what you want."
If she had a lick of grit, she'd run in the house and slam the door on his fingers. She didn't run.
Lifting her face, her eyes on his, she whispered, "Kiss me."
She didn't know why she did it. It wasn't as if she wanted a man. It wasn't as if she cared about him. It wasn't as if he would be any part of her future. No, she didn't want him. Not for anything. But she'd take his kisses. Just for now, she wanted his kiss. That one small touch of him on her, on her life, on her body. Nothing else, not one thing more. Just his kiss.
With a moan of desire mingled with self-disgust, he bent and kissed her, giving her whatever part of him she could take.
At the first touch, she seemed to melt against him, her arms going round his neck and pulling him down close. Her body pressed against his, from top to bottom, her breath coming on quick and hard, like a horse fighting his rider. But she wasn't fighting. No, she was yielding, giving, urging him to give her more of whatever he had that she wanted. She seemed to want it all. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her tight, and he opened her mouth with his tongue. She opened to him quick as lightning, groaning when his tongue touched hers. Sweet breath, soft heat, warm welcome; she offered all.
He could taste no fear in her response, not even when he slid a hand up to coast over her ribs and rest on the underside of her breast. She just kept kissing him back, holding nothing back, unafraid.
He was afraid for her.
She didn't have the weakest instinct for survival. And she needed to. There was a trail of bodies leading north to Abilene.
And here she was, ready and willing to give her kisses to a man who was a stranger and rough as a cob, to boot. She'd kiss herself right into a grave. But he couldn't stop kissing her, even knowing all that. He couldn't turn away from what she was giving so sweetly. He couldn't stop giving her that little bit of himself. If she was going to drown in his kisses, he'd go right down with her.
The porch door slamming put an end to it, bringing them both up for air.
"You coming in, Anne?" Sarah asked.
"Yes," she said, running quick hands over her hair and down her skirts. Her skirts were safe; he hadn't lifted them. Yet.
"Good night, Mr. Scullard," she said, not looking at him.
"Miss Ross." He tipped his hat.
The door slammed behind her. Sarah just stood leaning against the door frame, grinning.
"You seem to be doing all right. Bill still alive?"
"Yeah," Jack said, walking across the porch to where she stood.
"Where you going?"
"To bed."
"After that kiss? You'll sleep in the jail. Across town."
Jack studied the wry amusement in her blue eyes and saw that she was dead serious. No way she was letting him anywhere near her niece.
Smart woman.
"Yes, ma'am," he said, adjusting his hat as he walked down the porch steps into the night.
Lane was just throwing out the dregs from the coffeepot when he showed up.
"You got a spare bed in there?" Jack asked, cocking his head toward the cells.
"What you need a bed for? Ain't you got a good soft one over at Miss Daphne's?"
When Jack shrugged and kept his mouth shut, Lane smiled as he rammed the lid down hard on the tin pot. It made a noise that echoed three miles out.
"She threw you out, didn't she? Didn't figure she'd go for you dirtying up her sheets. You didn't last long, but no one does."
"Wasn't Miss Daphne," Jack said as he followed Lane into the jailhouse. "Was Miss Sarah and it's only for the night. I'll be back over there tomorrow."
"Sarah? She wouldn't throw a man out into the street no matter what his stripe." Lane sat down and leaned back in his chair, his legs up on the desk, ready for a long story. "What'd ya do?"
Jack didn't tell long stories. "Kissed Anne."
"What? Again? What are you doing, following her around?"
That was too much true so Jack didn't say anything.
"Well, at least it was dark this time."
It wasn't too dark on the porch of Anne's house, but Jack didn't say anything.
"You can't keep your hands off that gal and you won't be over there tomorrow, I can promise you that," Charles said. "They don't have much use for men over there and that's a known fact in these parts. You better walk careful in dealing with them women."
"They've had their share of man trouble," Jack said, sitting down. Charles got out the bottle and poured. Appeared that if Lane wasn't going to get to hear a long story, he was prepared to tell one.
"You ain't heard the worst," Lane began. "Sarah? Her man, Roy's his name, he marries her, runs off to war a month or two later, comes home a year after the war's done, spends his night of marital rights, and then lights out again. Now, none of this happened round here, but word gets out. That woman came to Abilene thinking she was lower than dirt. Time's taken care of some of that, but a woman don't forget that her man run off."
Jack didn't say anything. He took a drink and leaned back in his chair.
"Now, Miss Daphne, I told you about. Her man left on the train he helped build, but what I didn't tell was that he had a pretty young gal keeping him company just down the line. Word of that sort of thing gets out pretty quick since the train is always going back and forth, you see. Well, Miss Daphne, she's held her head up and kept her spine straight and not said a word about it. She's a hard woman, but she's respected."
"And Nell?" Jack took another swallow. He'd been drinking more since coming to Abilene than he ever had in his life.
Lane finished his drink in a long swallow and banged his cup down on the desk.
"He was a marshal and respected. A prime match, everybody smiling about the fine couple they made. Well, he was on the go most of the time, riding out, chasing outlaws. Time got to be where he was gone more than he was home and became more outlaw than lawman. One time, he just didn't come back." Lane shrugged, "It happens."
"You sound like you were there," Jack said quietly.
Lane poured himself another and drank off half of it before he answered.
"I was. I was his deputy."
Jack and Charles sat silently for a while, letting things settle down. The light flickered, sending tortured shadows against the wall and up into the air. It was quiet out on the street. A dog barked, twice, down near the stockyard and then was still.
"You've been dogging her a long time," Jack eventually said.
Lane smiled in wry humor and nodded. "I have. I knew right off she was the one. She didn't. She still doesn't."
"You mu
st remind her of her husband; every time she looks at you, she remembers."
"Yeah," Lane said, taking another healthy swallow.
"Anne must hate men by now," Jack mumbled, studying the contents of his cup.
Lane chuckled sadly. "Nell does. Hates them all, especially lawmen."
"Yeah"—Jack tipped up his drink and downed it in a swallow—"I guess she would."
The two men set their empty cups on the table. Lane put the bottle back in the drawer.
"You can always quit," Jack said, throwing his hat down on a cot in the corner.
Charles smiled at the joke. It was a joke. He was a lawman, it was all he wanted to do and he was good at it. More, he believed in it. He'd seen Tim Ross turn bad and it had turned his stomach. He was going to be the man Ross should have been. God willing, he'd get to be the husband Nell should have had.
"Yeah," Lane said and blew out the lamp.
* * *
He was playing in the dirt, hidden from the only home he had ever known by the brush along the Brazos River. He knew the name of the river because his mama had taught him. He knew how to lay out a house because his daddy had taught him that; his daddy had built his house. His home.
He worked now, just like his daddy, at planning his own house by the river. It was a small house, but then, he was a small boy.
With a stick, he carved the shape of his house into the dry dirt of the land, his tongue sticking out between lips compressed with effort. His bedroom, the fireplace, the door, a fancy kitchen for his own bride: all scratched into the hard dirt of Texas. He stood up and looked it over, the brush coming to his shoulder. In the distance, he could see the roof of his daddy's house. He could hear the chickens and the stamp of the horses; he could hear his mama when she called. But he couldn't see her and she couldn't see him when he was crouched down in the rough square he had decided would be his bedroom. He was far enough away for privacy and close enough for safety.
He was happy.
The sun was hot on his head, just a sliver away from being too hot. It was hot enough to warm him down to the center without burning. Sometimes a breeze would come sliding down the river and he would feel the trace of moisture on the skin of his face before the heat took over again.
Claudia Dain Page 16
