Mustang Annie

by Rachelle Morgan

That Rose would make such a sacrifice touched Honesty more than she could say, but she knew good and well that she hadn’t been hired as decoration. Rose could no more afford to lose a customer, than Honesty could afford to lose a possible means of solving the mystery her father had left her. If the man wanted more than a good scrubbing, well . . . Honesty hadn’t reached womanhood without a few tricks in her pocket.

  With a brave smile, she patted Rose’s arm. “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.” She’d had plenty of practice in the last three months.

  All right, she thought, grabbing the tub by its handles, so he wasn’t exactly the knight in shining armor she’d been hoping for.

  Come to think of it, his scruffy appearance could play to her advantage. No one would expect to find Deuce McGuire’s daughter with such a disreputable person. He might even provide opportunities to search places normally forbidden to her. And if Honesty had learned anything in her twenty years, it was never to overlook an opportunity.

  No matter how pitiful it appeared.

  Jesse took his time tending to Gemini, bathing the wound, bandaging his leg, doing his best to apologize for causing the injury in the first place. But even if the mustang hadn’t needed the extra attention, he’d have used it as an excuse to get himself under control.

  What had come over him? So Rose’s girl was a looker.

  The last thing he had time for was a sable-haired, misty-eyed temptress distracting him from his assignment.

  Then, with a grimace, he realized that until Gem’s leg healed, all he had was time. Too much of it.

  “What kind of trouble have you landed me into this time, huh, Gem?”

  The horse looked at him with soulful brown eyes, then turned to the bucket of hay Jess had filled for him. With a sigh, Jess gathered the strips of cloth and tin of ointment he’d used to doctor the horses leg.

  Once he had Gem settled in the rickety stall next to a bony, dark-hided mule, Jesse returned to the saloon, mounted the steps, and let himself into the first open room.

  The accommodations weren’t much to boast about. Plain walls, an iron bedstead and side table, two chairs tucked under a supper table, and a claw-footed wardrobe that smelled faintly of cedar. The red calico screen in the corner probably hid a commode and wash stand. He’d slept in worse places, though. It came with the territory.

  As promised, a tin tub sat waiting in the center of the room. All it lacked was water.

  Jesse lowered himself onto the bed and the ropes strained and screeched in protest under his one hundred seventy pound frame. The spread was a bit frayed, but at least there weren’t fleas jumping at him or questionable stains.

  Jesse discarded his duster, pulled off his boots, draped his gun belt around the foot-post, and topped it with his hat. The few shots of whiskey had his head pleasantly buzzing. As soon as his bath showed up, he’d indulge in the first good soaking he’d had in weeks. And after a good night’s sleep, he’d start scouring this two bit town for clues leading him to Duncan McGuire.

  A floorboard squeaked under his stockinged feet as he crossed to the window overlooking the empty street. It still amazed him that the case had been open for sixteen years. A kidnapping wasn’t his usual taste. Cattle rustling, train robberies, stagecoach heists and horse thieving . . . those were the cases that he fed on.

  Had fed on, Jess corrected. After twelve years, he was just fed up. He wouldn’t even have accepted this assignment if he could have avoided it. But what’s a fellow to do when the man who saved his life asks for a favor? McParland wouldn’t even have asked him to take the case if the agency wasn’t running so short-handed. But with a majority of the agents tied up with the McCormick strike and the Denver Branch just getting on its feet, Jess knew his old friend hadn’t had many options. Nor could Jess have turned him down.

  He rubbed his shoulder and continued staring out the window as a setting sun cast the deserted road in shades of red and black.

  Damn, but he wished he had more to go on than the scanty information in the file. Duncan McGuire had stolen the daughter of a San Francisco shipping magnate, then absconded with the ransom.

  The child, unfortunately, was lost to her family forever; a few weeks after the ransom had been paid, the clothes she’d been wearing washed ashore of San Francisco Bay. Jess didn’t hold out any hope of recovering the money, either; McGuire was a notorious con-artist with a penchant for gambling. But he’d find “Deuce” McGuire eventually—and once he did, he’d be done with the Pinkerton Detective Agency. A man could only spend so many years being shot at and beat up and left to rot in places unfit for the human race. . . .

  Jesse pushed back the incident chewing at the edge of his memory. Yeah, the faster he found McGuire, the sooner he could hang up his badge and get on with the rest of his life. Maybe buy himself a plot of land, find himself a wife, have a couple of kids.

  Unfortunately the hot lead he’d been following had grown colder than a Montana winter.

  “If I were a Scotsman, where would I be?”

  A rap on the door interrupted his musings.

  At his call, Honesty walked in, balancing a stack of towels and soap in one hand and a yoke of water buckets across her shoulders. As before, the sight of her chased conscious thought from his head. Belatedly Jesse realized he should have offered to relieve her of her burden, yet he seemed incapable of moving.

  What was it about her? She wasn’t the first sightly woman he’d seen and no doubt wouldn’t be the last. And yet, she carried herself with a regalness that made him want to touch her and keep his distance at the same time.

  She set the towels on the table, then poured the buckets into the tub. “Do you plan on bathing with your clothes on?”

  Jesse pushed away from the wall and unfastened first one shirt cuff, then the other. “Honesty. An unusual name.”

  “My father was an unusual man. You might want to test the water before you get in.”

  Ahh, a no-trespassing subject. He could respect that. He didn’t much care to discuss his father, either.

  After scooping his hand through the water and finding it to his satisfaction, he finished unfastening his shirt and tossed it carelessly on one of the chairs.

  “Good gravy, what happened to you?”

  Jesse didn’t have to look at the web-like scars above his heart to know what she was referring to. “I had a fight with a Winchester and lost.” He unbuttoned his trousers and she whipped away to face the wall. Jess paused for a second and quirk his brow. Hell, she acted as if she’d never seen a man undress before.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Only when I breathe.”

  “You’re lucky you’re able to do that. An inch lower and you’d be dead.”

  “That was the plan.” He shucked his pants, then lowered himself into the steaming water with a sigh. The tub was almost too small to hold him; Jess had to fold his knees to his chest just to fit. “You can turn around now,” he told her with a chuckle.

  Honesty peered over her shoulder, as if checking to see if it was safe, before lifting her chin and approaching him. She knelt behind him, and he heard her lathering her hands. He nearly melted when her soap-slick palms glided across his upper back.

  “So what brings you to Last Hope?”

  “Nothing in particular. Just passing through.”

  “Unless I miss my guess, you do that often.”

  She must take fishing lessons from Rose. “Often enough.”

  “Are you a miner?”

  “Not hardly.”

  “An outlaw?”

  “No.”

  “A gambler?”

  That one made him smile. “Sometimes. Are you always this nosey?”

  “Sometimes.”

  The sideways grin she gave him stole the breath from his lungs. It struck him as so pure and innocent that a moment passed before Jesse remembered that purity and innocence were hardly words connected with a women of her profession.

  “Close your eyes so I c
an wet your hair.”

  Jesse did as she bade, and groaned with plea sure when the warm water tumbled over his head. Damn, but that felt good. The scouring of her fingers against his scalp felt even better.

  He leaned back and allowed himself to enjoy the full extent of her ministrations. Lilac perfume and a woodsy scent he recognized as patchouli wafted around him as fingernails gently scored his scalp from brow to nape. Her hands then circled his neck, ran across his shoulders, and down his chest, taking extra care around the puckered scar born of McParland’s exceptional aim. . . .

  Remembering his cravings when he first arrived in town, he amended them. To hell with the meal—this bath was heaven itself.

  When he opened his eyes, he was treated to the delicious sight of Honesty’s breasts trying to push their way out of their tight confines. Yep, definitely heaven.

  Just then a glitter of gold caught his eye. Languidly, he slid his forefinger beneath the chain and lifted an object from the valley it called home. The size of the ruby set into a gold ring raised his eyebrows. “What’s this?”

  Soapy hands gently extracted the jewelry from his grip and dropped it between the pale swells. “A gift.”

  “You must be quite talented.”

  “From my father.”

  Even if her correction had called for a reply, the appearance of a straight blade in her hand would have warned Jesse against voicing it.

  “I hope you aren’t too fond of that scruff on your face, because you and it are parting company.” She gripped his chin between her thumb and forefinger. “I can’t abide whiskers.” Only then did Jess realize how deep a blue her eyes were, and right now, they glittered with a determination that set his nerves on edge.

  Biting her lip, she tilted her head first one way, then the other. The sight of those pearly whites nibbling on pink flesh made Jesse’s mouth water.

  “Have you ever shaved a man before?”

  Perfectly arced eyebrows shot upward. “Do I look like a woman who has never shaved a man?”

  Put that way, shaving was no doubt a drop in the bucket of services she offered.

  She did that thing with her lip again, and the images that arose in Jesse’s mind would have made even the bawdiest harlot blush. His skin became suddenly overly sensitive to the water, his senses acute to the woman beside him. The rasp of steel scraping away beard and her gentle breaths were the only sounds in the room.

  Normally he avoided bedding saloon girls. He knew the kind of men who paraded in and out of their beds each night, and had no desire to take with him any souvenirs gained from a few minutes of pleasure.

  So his swift, gripping desire to bed this one struck him as odd—and a little unsettling.

  It had to be the whiskey dulling his wits—not her sweet, fresh fragrance, so out of place among the pervading smells of spice and whiskey and sweat. Not the glossy black curls piled atop her head. Not the beads of bath water dotting her skin.

  Closing his eyes, Jess forced himself to concentrate on something other than Honesty. He’d just about succeeded when her soft cry echoed through the room.

  “Oh, my lands . . . !”

  His lids slowly lifted. He found her staring at him through eyes wide with astonishment. “What?”

  “You’re beautiful!”

  The remark shouldn’t have sent a spear of pleasure through his chest. It sounded far too feminine, and brought back the derogatory names thrown at him all his life by his own gender. Angel-face, pretty boy, buttercup . . . And those were the polite ones.

  She swiftly busied herself with wiping cream off his face. “I expect people tell you that all the time.”

  “Not if they want to live.” And not exactly in that manner. But as Jess had gotten older, he’d learned to close his ears to the names and use his looks to his own advantage: women seemed to appreciate them, and men were so busy underestimating him that they never realized how much danger they were in until it was too late.

  But strangely enough, when Honesty said it, instead of feeling that familiar surge of resentment, he’d felt a surge of power—as if she could pay him no higher a compliment. Hell, for all he knew, it could be part of her “routine.” All harlots had one; some were just better than others.

  Honesty was infinitely better than most, he decided when her hand delved beneath the water and her fingertips grazed his hips. He couldn’t decide if it was a move designed to arouse him, or an innocent mis-aim. Either way, hot blood centered in his groin. He seized her hand under the water. “Do you tend to all your customers so thoroughly?

  She blinked. “Rose said to oblige your every whim.”

  His every whim, huh?

  A wicked grin tugged at his mouth. What the hell was wrong with him, anyway? When a man found himself stranded with a beautiful, willing woman, he shouldn’t complain; he should fall on his knees and thank the gods.

  So what if he didn’t have time for the distraction? After two months of diligent tracking, he deserved a night off. And if that night included being pleasured by the prettiest harlot this side of the Rockies, he’d consider himself richly rewarded.

  “Honesty?”

  She swallowed heavily. “Yes?”

  “I’ve got a whim that needs obliging.” He dragged her hand to his shaft. Blue eyes widened in alarm, and for a moment Jess wondered how much experience she had in pleasing a man. She looked as if she’d never touched one before.

  Then her fingers tightened around him and he couldn’t think at all.

  “My, my, that’s quite a loaded weapon you’re packin’,” she drawled in that red-velvet voice.

  Jesse inhaled sharply. “You keep touchin’ me like that and it won’t stay loaded long.”

  Her lashes fell and she licked her lips. The sight of her pink tongue sliding across the seam of ripe flesh proved his undoing. With a half growl, half-groan, he cupped his hand around the back of her neck and dragged her face down to his.

  The instant their lips met, sensations swirled through Honesty in kaleidoscopic colors—the blue of desire, red of fire, purple of need. . . .

  As his tongue delved into her mouth, she thrust back, tasting whiskey and soap and man . . . oh, so much man. And as the shock of him filling her palm wore off, it gave way to glory. Honesty whimpered, suddenly unable to get enough of him. Her hand moved up his stiff organ, past the soft hair that nestled the core of him to a stomach rigid with muscle, then glided up to the tight wall of his chest. How could she ever have thought him scrawny? Lean, yes, but hardly scrawny. There was no mistaking the solid muscle beneath her fingers.

  “Damn, but you taste sweet,” he murmured against her lips.

  Dizzy from his assault on her mouth, Honesty’s head felt too heavy to support and fell back. He seemed to take that as an invitation to blaze a hot path down her neck with his mouth. Her limbs turned to liquid, her blood to lava. Her breathing grew so ragged she feared she would faint.

  “Your skin is so soft. . . .”

  And his was so . . . hot. Honesty knew she’d go up in flames if he kept this up.

  She’d die if he stopped.

  Only when his hand slipped under her skirt and slid past her stockings, over her garters to her bare thigh, did she come to her senses.

  Breathless, she pulled back, knowing if she didn’t put some distance between herself and this tub full of temptation, she’d never regain control of the situation. “How about if we take this to drier ground?” she suggested in a ragged whisper.

  Eyes impossibly thick-lashed and so green they’d have put jade to shame studied her with a twinkle of mischief. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of getting a little wet?” he dared.

  Honesty pushed away from him with a strength she wouldn’t have believed herself capable of, and hastened on weak-kneed legs to table. She pressed her hand against her breast, closed her eyes, and released a slow, pent-up breath. This had gone much too far.

  She slipped a trembling hand inside her skirt pocket, where she kept the �
�secret to a man’s greatest pleasure.” The packet had come in handy more times than Honesty cared to remember. “Would you care for another drink?” she asked, half amazed that she could even talk.

  “I’ve had enough, thanks.”

  “Well, I haven’t. And I think there’s a rule somewhere that a lady isn’t supposed to drink alone.”

  She poured them both a glass of whiskey from the bottle brought up earlier, then watered down the contents in her glass. She’d never had much tolerance for spirits, and getting soused would defeat her purpose.

  Then she unfolded the packet and lifted it to the rim of his glass. Instead of pouring the powder into his drink, though, she paused, tempted for a moment to toss it aside. To take what he offered and to hell with the consequences.

  Then Deuce’s face appeared before her, with laughing Scottish eyes and stern father’s mouth, and she knew she had no choice.

  Honestly pressed her lips tightly together and quickly finished her task. When she turned around, she nearly dropped their drinks.

  Jesse stood in a ray of setting sunlight in all his naked glory. Every inch of his tall, bronzed body was corded with sinew. With the grime washed away, his hair was the light blond of a sunbeam. Darker brows arched above eyes the color of spring grass, and a slight indentation channeled from the straight-bridged nose to a set of perfect, perfect lips; the whole masterpiece was framed by a sculpted jaw. She hadn’t imagined he’d turn out like this!

  Speechlessly, she watched him cross the room, flip the sheets over on the bed, and climb in. Seconds later he was propped against the headboard, arms winged behind his head, a devilish smile on his fallen-angel face, and wicked promise in eyes that glittered with a raw, aching need that matched the one pulsing through her veins.

  Oh, lands, she was in trouble.

  Aware that he was waiting, Honesty forced herself to walk to the bed. She handed him his glass of whiskey, lifted her own, and, hoping he never knew how dearly she regretted what she was about to do, proposed a toast: “To an unforgettable night.”

  He couldn’t remember a damn thing.

  With his elbows propped on splayed knees, his head cupped in his hands, Jesse sat at the edge of the bed, naked as the day he was born. Around him, the scent of lilacs swirled erotically.