A Kiss in the Sunlight

by Marie Patrick

  Mouth dry, he edged along the wall to his study. No noise met his ears, but that didn’t mean anything. He held his breath and bolted into the doorway, pistols raised, his fingers on the triggers . . . and let out his breath in a groan of relief.

  It wasn’t Logan waiting for him, but Ryleigh, looking as beautiful as always . . . and just a bit smug.

  “You.” Teague uncocked his pistols and holstered them, his heart still thundering in his chest. “What the hell is wrong with you?” He came farther into the room, angry by what could have happened yet relieved and thankful that she was here at the same time. He wanted to pull her into his arms and hold her but wouldn’t allow himself to do so. Not yet. “I could have shot you, damn it!” He drew air into his lungs and tried to stop his body from trembling, knowing how close he’d come to firing.

  She didn’t move. Instead, her vibrant violet blue gaze met his and held steadily. She didn’t blink, either, but she did have the audacity to flash that brilliant smile at him as she picked up a glass of whiskey and took a sip. She licked her lips when she was done but kept the glass in her hand. “I knew you wouldn’t shoot me.”

  She spoke with confidence, but it didn’t help him. His heart still pounded in his chest. “You knew, did you? How did you know? My guns were in my hand, for God’s sake! It would have taken nothing to pull the trigger!”

  She remained silent, just continued to stare at him, the smile still on her face, showing him that she trusted him not in words but by the assurance in her expression. “Damn woman! Are you trying to make my heart stop?” He took a deep breath then another as he tried to control the anger that raged through his body. His hands were still shaking as he slumped into the room’s other chair, the butter soft leather cushioning his body. “I thought I put you on the stagecoach.”

  She poured more whiskey in the glass from the bottle beside her and offered it to him. “Here.”

  Teague downed the fiery liquid, but it didn’t have the desired effect. Instead of soothing his anger, it burned his throat all the way down to his gut. If it were milk, it would have curdled. As it was, the liquor settled in his stomach like a rock . . . a rock that was on fire.

  “Yes, you did put me on a stagecoach, but I made my escape as Mrs. Calvin, Desi Lyn, and your deputy were getting on the train in Durango. Don’t blame them. They couldn’t stop me.” She turned serious, the brilliance of her smile dimming, her eyes narrowing, hiding the soft violet blue, but not the annoyed glitter.

  “I understand why you did what you did, but as I told you before, I am not a woman to be manhandled.” Her tone conveyed her irritation with him, though she didn’t seem nearly as irate as she had been when he threw in the stagecoach. Perhaps the long ride to and from Durango had dulled her wrath. “You’ll find that I don’t take orders very well . . . from anyone. Ask my father. You may not want me here, but I have every right to stay.”

  Is this the same father who told her she’s too clumsy? Too tall? Too bold? Unworthy of love? He didn’t ask the questions out loud, nor would he ever, but he didn’t want her thinking he was in any way like the great Magnus Steele. “I am not your father, Ryleigh. I was only trying to protect you. Don’t you understand the danger you’re putting yourself in?”

  She said nothing, just kept staring at him.

  He threw up his hands in frustration. “You are the most stubborn . . . You know as well as I do Logan is being released from prison. In thirteen days, he’ll be riding for Paradise Falls with vengeance in his heart. He promised to come after me. Don’t you see? If you’re with me, then you could get hurt.”

  She shook her head. “If that’s the case, Teague, then everyone in Paradise Falls would have to clear out. Everyone. Not just Desi Lyn and Mrs. Calvin. Every single person who lives here.”

  “Not everyone. Just those closest to me. Logan never said he would go after anyone else, just me, but I . . . I don’t . . . He would use anyone I love to get to me.” Teague’s gaze followed her as she rose from her seat, bottle in her hand, and came toward him. She sat on the arm of his chair and poured a little more into his glass. He inhaled and smelled her peach scent, the fragrance calming him more than the whiskey ever could.

  “These people you love and want to protect―” She studied him, then put the bottle down on the table and smoothed her hand along the side of his face. The heat of her palm seeped into his skin. “You’re afraid.”

  “The truth?” He took a drink of his whiskey, the liquor again leaving a fiery burn down to his gullet. “Yes. Not for Desi Lyn and Mrs. Calvin. They’re safe. Logan can’t hurt them or use them against me.” He took a deep breath, trying with all his might not to think about what had happened before, but his throat constricted anyway. “It’s the knowledge that I could fail again. What if I can’t stop him before he hurts the people I care about?” He took another deep breath and admitted, “I thought about leaving town, but I can’t. It wouldn’t be right. I’ve never run from anything in my life. I’m not about to start now.”

  She didn’t say anything for the longest time, but her simple presence, the warmth emanating from her body so close to his, the feel of her fingers running through his hair, brought a comfort he hadn’t felt in a long time. Finally, she said, “You don’t want to kill Logan, and you might have to.”

  He nodded and swallowed hard. “Despite his promise to put a bullet in my back, no, I don’t want to kill him. I will if he forces my hand. I just hope I can get to him before he gets to me. I have no desire to lose my life.”

  “You’ll do what you have to do. And you won’t fail. I have faith in you.” She pulled his head against her breast, her fingers still combing through his hair. He heard the steady rhythm of her heart, and that eased his mind, more than he dared to admit. She kissed the top of his head, then moved, sliding from the arm of the chair into his lap. She touched her lips to his neck. “Teague?”

  “Hmmm?” he murmured, the warmth of her breath and mouth on his skin lulling him into a state of relaxation he had resisted for far too long.

  “Did you mean it?” she whispered, her words husky and low. Gooseflesh rose on his arms.

  “Mean what?”

  “You said you loved me. Is that true?”

  He didn’t hesitate at all. “Yes.”

  “Good. Because I love you, too. With all my heart.” She kissed his lips, then pulled back, that brilliant smile flashing. “And I’m staying.” She said it with the utmost confidence as her violet blue eyes gazed into his, her voice honeyed yet strong. Paired with that stubborn tilt of her chin, he knew he couldn’t fight her. Ryleigh was determined to stay. If he put her on another stagecoach, she’d find her way back, persistent to the very end.

  He let out a long sigh. He’d lost, but accepted it. He really had no other choice. “Fine. I’ll walk you back to the Prentice.”

  She laughed in that warm, sultry way she had, and the sound settled in his stomach. “That won’t do.”

  “Why not?”

  “You broke the door, remember? It won’t be fixed until tomorrow, and Krissa doesn’t have a room available for me. I’ll have to stay here.” She pressed her lips against where the pulse beat in his neck, the heat of her mouth firing up his blood, and when she lowered her voice and whispered, “Let’s go upstairs,” Teague knew she was exactly where she was meant to be. By his side.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Ah, Ryleigh, I was hoping I’d run into you.” Wesley Bronson doffed his hat and greeted her as she stepped out of the general store, a thick sheaf of plain white paper tied with string, a bag of peppermint sticks, and a new bottle of ink held close to her chest. “Has Sheriff MacDermott given you that interview yet?”

  “No, but that’s all right. I’ve given up on it, Wesley.”

  “You have?” He pushed his glasses up to settle on the bridge of his nose and gazed at her, his eyes squinting just a bit, his bushy white eyebrows drawn together. “Why?”

  She shrugged. “You were right. He’ll n
ever talk to me about that day and I . . . I guess my father is right as well. I’m not hard-hearted enough to pursue it. After what you told me, I just can’t make him . . . ” She couldn’t finish the sentence. The thought of how she’d come here, demanding Teague tell his story, the insensitivity she’d shown in regard to the worst day of his life, still filled her with regret and remorse. “I still think his story deserves to be told. He is a hero, even if he won’t admit it. I thought a book would be better way to portray that than just one newspaper article, so I’ve decided to write one. He won’t have to read it if he doesn’t want to.”

  “A book! How intriguing!” He clutched the brim of his hat in both hands and grinned. “How can I help?”

  Surprise and pleasure made her face flush. “You would be willing to help me?” He nodded, his expression open and friendly and so warmly inviting, she couldn’t resist asking, “Would you read what I’ve written so far? I could use another pair of eyes. And perhaps, you could correct me where my details are wrong. After all, you were there. You saw the shoot-out.”

  “I’d be delighted. And perhaps, my wife, Althea, could help as well. She’s an excellent editor.” His smile reached his eyes behind the lenses of his glasses. “A book,” he repeated, his curiosity obviously piqued. A moment later, concern changed his demeanor. “Not to be too personal, Ryleigh, but how will you support yourself while you write this epic? Will you be staying here in Paradise Falls?”

  She shifted her purchases from one arm to the other. They weren’t heavy, just awkward. “Yes, I’ll be staying. Perhaps I can find a house to rent. Or maybe get a room at Mrs. Bender’s Boarding House, though I really do like staying at the Prentice. Krissa and Oscar have been wonderful. I do have some resources at my disposal, but eventually, I may need to find employment.”

  He studied her, his stare a bit disconcerting. Her face heated beneath his scrutiny. Had she said too much? Telling him of her plans felt so natural, but she reminded herself, he was a newspaper man. People probably told him whatever he wanted to know, just as she had, blurting out information with hardly any encouragement at all. Wesley Bronson could most likely discern almost any secret, all under a gentle stare that was meant to encourage confidence.

  She blinked, then looked away, nodding to passersby on the sidewalk. When she faced him again, his gaze was still intent, yet there was a kindness in his expression, a goodness that shined through, and then he grinned at her, surprising her with the sudden change, his mustache stretching across his upper lip. “Ah, you’re in love with him.”

  Startled, Ryleigh stiffened, and her face warmed beneath his perusal. “Excuse me?”

  “You’re in love with him,” he stated once again and grinned wider, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Heard he loves you, too. The whole town knows.” He chuckled, his light blue eyes shining with amusement. “How would you like a job, Ryleigh?”

  He changed the subject so quickly, she couldn’t quite keep up. And wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly. “A job?”

  “Of course. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m getting a little older, and I could use some help. Althea thinks I work too hard chasing stories and putting out the Guardian. She wants us to spend more time together. She wants to travel, too.” He let out a sigh, as if he had no desire to travel.

  “Althea’s right. I would like to spend more time with her. And our daughter and grandchildren in Sacramento. We have four now. Althea could help with the paper, but she really has no interest in ink and printing presses, whereas I know you do. You’re quick-witted and personable, and I’ve noticed people like talking to you.” He shrugged as if what he offered her wasn’t important, when in reality, it was everything she’d always wanted and more.

  “Plus, you’ll have time to write your book. And get to know the sheriff even better. Never let it be said that Wesley Bronson stood in the way of true love.” His face took on a reddish hue, making his white whiskers seem even whiter. “Bring me a couple writing samples, and we’ll sit down and talk. If you’re interested, that is.”

  “Yes, yes, of course, I’m interested.” She stuck out her hand. “Is tomorrow too soon? I can drop them off in the afternoon.”

  “That would be perfect.” He gave her hand a few hardy pumps, then released her and put his hat on his head. He touched the brim. “Have a good day, Ryleigh.”

  “You as well, Wesley. And thank you! Thank you so much!”

  • • •

  Teague wiped the last of the shaving cream from his face and studied his reflection in the mirror, the towel wadded in his hand. A weary man stared back at him, his eyes haunted. He hadn’t realized until now, until this very moment, that his life, the one he’d known, had stopped the day the Logans changed everything.

  Yes, he patrolled the streets and tried his best to keep those he cared about safe, but he’d become stagnant, not doing much more than simply going through the motions of living and sleepwalking through his days while he waited for Logan to put a bullet in his back and the knowledge he may have to kill him first.

  He’d become very good at his pretense for Desi Lyn, Mrs. Calvin, and his close friends, but no one knew what was in his heart. Loneliness ate at him. He wanted what Kieran and Mary had, what his parents had, what his friends had, but denied himself marriage and family because of the vow that Logan had made.

  And he hadn’t minded so much . . . until now.

  Ryleigh changed all that with her sunny smile, positive attitude, and quirky personality. She made him feel things he didn’t want to feel. Made him want the things he had once wanted and thought he would have with Michaela―marriage, children―even grandchildren someday, if he hadn’t driven her away. And perhaps, that’s exactly what he’d done . . . driven her away with his silence and his reluctance to marry so she’d be safe. Just like he tried to send Ryleigh away.

  Ryleigh, though, had been too stubborn to stay gone. And for that, he was grateful, despite the fear that lived in his heart.

  Seven more days before Logan’s release. Seven more days of worrying. Of waiting. Of being afraid.

  And he was tired of it . . . so damned tired. He needed―no, wanted―to start living again.

  “Let him come, damn it! I’m ready!” He spoke aloud to the man in the mirror. And why not? There was no one else home to hear him except for Shotgun, who poked his head into the bathroom and whined. Mrs. Calvin and Desi Lyn were safe at Morning Mist Farms, probably being fussed over, and enjoying every moment of it.

  He missed them. The house was too quiet, and it wasn’t good to be left alone with his thoughts.

  He folded the towel and hung it over the rack, then left the bathroom. Shotgun followed him upstairs, then sprawled out on his bed, his eyebrows waggling as he watched Teague dress.

  Twenty minutes later, Teague left the house, the dog walking beside him, sniffing at bushes and trees and everything else that interested him. The streets were quiet except for occasional bursts of laughter from the homes he passed as he headed to Nate and Celia’s for his customary Friday dinner, his pace faster than usual, buoyed by his resolution to start living again. A smile crossed his lips as he stepped up to the porch, knocked twice on the door, then let himself into the house. Shotgun followed, his nails quiet on the thick rug. “Hello?”

  “In the kitchen!” Celia called out, and he headed in that direction, the aroma of roasted chicken and baking biscuits leading him. He passed the dining room and noticed the table had only been set for three. Ryleigh would not be coming. Hadn’t she been invited? That was odd. She’d become a frequent guest around the Finches’ table almost since she’d arrived in town.

  Instantly, his stomach tightened. Something was going on.

  I’m being ridiculous. He disregarded the notion as quickly as it came to him and entered the kitchen.

  “Hello, Teague.” Celia stopped slicing the cucumber for their salad and tilted her head toward him, waiting for a kiss on the cheek.

  He obliged, his lips m
eeting the smoothness of her face. “Celia. Smells delicious.” He plucked a cherry tomato from the salad bowl and popped it in his mouth while Shotgun lifted his nose and smelled the air.

  The woman cocked an eyebrow at him, then laughed, swatting his hand away from the bowl. “Nate’s out back. Dinner will be ready shortly.”

  Teague opened the door, allowing Shotgun to precede him. The dog approached Nate, his tongue hanging from the side of his mouth, tail sweeping back and forth, and nudged the man’s hand with his nose. Teague grinned as Nate rubbed Shotgun’s silky ears. “Hello, you mangy mutt! Where’s your master?”

  “Right here.” He stepped through the doorway, letting the door close behind him. “Evenin’, Nate.” He settled himself in a rocking chair as, satisfied with the amount of attention he’d received, Shotgun moved toward the small rug beside the dining room door, turned three times, and laid down with a contented sigh.

  Doc Finch poured him a whiskey, the same brand he drank at home, and handed him the glass. “Here. Have a snort.”

  Teague raised an eyebrow but took the glass and swallowed half the whiskey. The liquor burned all the way to his gut. “What’s going on? You’re acting . . . odd. You don’t usually have a drink before dinner.”

  Nate didn’t answer right away. Instead, he studied the flowers growing in the garden though he couldn’t really see them in the growing darkness, then looked out into the distance at the night sky and sighed. “You know me too well.” He let out another sigh, then finished the whiskey in his glass, still procrastinating.

  Teague grit his teeth with impatience. If Nate didn’t say something soon, he might just throttle the good doctor. Friend or not.

  After a few more minutes of silence, Nate cleared his throat. “Celia and I wanted to talk to you. Privately.”

  And there it was. Now he knew why Ryleigh had not been invited. His stomach clenched, and his appetite vanished in a split second.

  Nate set his rocking chair in motion, the runners making the floorboards squeak, and stuck a cigar in his mouth. He struck a match and brought it to the end, puffing the thing alight, procrastinating longer. “Celia and I . . . well, we think that maybe it is time you talked about . . . what happened.” He shook out the match. It made a plinking sound as he dropped it in the glass dish on the table beside him.