Connie Brockway

by Anything For Love

  Noble stared at the cloudy brew settling to the bottom of his mug. He was tiptoeing along the fine edge of infatuation himself and he knew it. It was stupid, it was futile, and it could only mean a whole world of hurt. And Venice Leiland already accounted for more than her share of hurt in his history.

  All evening he tried not to watch Venice, but he might as well have avoided watching a lightning bug at midnight. She was wearing a scarlet skirt with deep, ruffled tiers, the heavy flounces belling out in rippling swirls as she twirled. Her blouse was a simple white smock like those worn by most Mexican women. Nothing special, until Venice put it on, cinching it at the waist with a bright twist of satin. Then it became something else. Something that ought to be outlawed.

  The thin cotton dipped low over her breasts, clinging to the soft swells. Each time she bent, the fabric seemed on the verge of falling off her shoulders. What the hell was she doing in that get-up, anyway? Was this supposed to be her way of blending in with the locals?

  Smiling humorlessly, Noble groped under the cloth covering the bar, pulling out a whiskey bottle and pouring himself another finger or so, his gaze drawn once more to Venice.

  It wasn’t just the way she looked, like some exotic species of bird. It was everything—her smile, her voice, the way she laughingly agreed to yet another leering man’s demand for yet another dance, the way her eyes sparked with amusement when the idiots plied her with enough nonsense to fertilize Kansas.

  Abruptly, Noble wondered if he amused her. He didn’t much like the thought.

  Bringing one man at a time to his knees must seem pretty tame stuff to a coquette of her accomplishments. Hell, why not bring a whole town of men to their knees? Now there was a challenge, Noble thought bitterly

  Yeah, and you’d be just about the first to break your kneecaps, you’d drop to ‘em so fast, a wicked voice inside him jeered. Who do you think you’re fooling? Every opportunity you get, every excuse, you use it to touch her. Because you want her as badly as . . .

  He tipped his head back, pouring the raw alcohol down his throat in one huge gulp, drowning the voice. His head swam. Damned cheap rotgut.

  “I’d go easy on that if I was you.” The woman— Kitty? Katie?—was watching him with concern.

  Why couldn’t Venice have eyes like hers? A nice shade of blue, like a sky or something. Why’d Venice have to have eyes like green woodsmoke? Soft and deep and warm.

  “Not to worry, ma’am.” Noble brought two fingers to his forehead in a polite salute. “I acquired quite a head for whiskey during the war.”

  “Mister, I can’t tell you how many ex-soldiers have told me the same thing,” Katie said. “You ain’t been settin’ here drinkin’ this whiskey all afternoon, have ya?”

  “Not all afternoon, ma’am. Just the last few hours.” Noble straightened indignantly. He might be a little off balance, but he wasn’t that foxed!

  Cassius Reed came up from behind them. “The Irish are by nature predisposed to certain weaknesses. Alcohol is but one of them.”

  Venice had danced with him, too, thought Noble. And she was going to be traveling with him. Alone except for the Utes, laughing with him . . . smiling at him. Because he, as Noble had gone to pains to point out to Crooked Hand this afternoon, could afford to keep her. Well, fine. She belonged with him, didn’t she?

  “What’ll you have, Mr. Reed?” Katie asked. “How’s about a nice stiff bourbon? Drinks on the house.”

  “Fine. Just don’t try and foist some of your watered-down cider off on me.”

  “This has plenty of kick to it, mister,” Katie promised, handing him a shotglass.

  “Cheers, madame,” Cassius snickered, taking the glass and tipping it in Katie’s direction. He drained it in one long pull before returning it to Katie with a curt, “Again.”

  Wordlessly, Katie complied. Cassius turned his attention to Noble. “You look all out of sorts, McCaneaghy. What’s the matter? Smithsonian finally realize they’re wasting their money on you?”

  “Everything’s just fine, Reed,” Noble said, man aging to pull a smile from some hidden reserve. He wanted to slug the guy. Venice would probably end up marrying this ass, and the hell of it was he’d all but handed her to him on a silver platter.

  “How ‘bout you, Thorny? Oh, that’s right. You sorta gambled away most of your inheritance, didn’t you?”

  Cassius’s face went blank.

  Noble stroked a thumb down his cheek, considering Cassius carefully. “You know, when I saw you out here, all togged out in those nice new clothes and toting that nice fancy luggage, I sort of thought you’d found a new cash cow. But now I don’t think so. Nope. I don’t think you have much money at all.”

  “I’ll recoup my losses, McCaneaghy,” Reed said smoothly. “Maybe even here. This territory is just one big pie and everyone back East wants a piece. I could bring down an entire mountain with the new hydraulic systems, and do it for pennies. Find gold or silver or whatever treasures they hide.”

  He was just the type of man who’d do it, too. The thought made Noble’s jaw ache. Cassius was just one of a thousand like-minded, greedy developers. What were millenniums of nature’s careful artistry to those cigar-smoking men in Park Avenue club rooms? Nothing.

  A sudden, sickening notion occurred to Noble. “You know, Reed, I’ll bet you haven’t had much luck getting those investors. Is that why you chased Venice Leiland out here?”

  Cassius didn’t answer. There was something ominous about his uncharacteristic silence.

  “You didn’t follow her here just so she would have someone of her own class to play cribbage with. Ain’t your style,” Noble continued thoughtfully. “You’ve never been concerned about anyone but yourself. I wonder if Venice knows about the Reed family fortune. Or should I say mis-fortune?”

  Reed’s thin control broke. “Celtic peasant! Just because you managed to gamble your beggarly pence into a few dollars doesn’t make you any more palatable! You just stay away from Venice Leiland. Do you hear me? Or I’ll thrash you within an inch of your life.”

  Suddenly, Noble was tired of this game. Tired of Cassius and his blind arrogance and his pathetic threats.

  “Did you hear me, McCaneaghy?”

  “Yeah,” Noble said, studying the sunset and the mountains and the ugly little town of Salvage. “I heard you. But my back isn’t turned and it isn’t going be turned so you’ll just have to wait for another day—or night—to make good on your threat.”

  He heard Cassius sputter with rage but didn’t bother lifting his eyes from the mug he held until he heard the man stomp off.

  “You gonna sit here and let that shavetail mule scare you off?” Katie demanded, her hands on her hips.

  “Scare me off what?”

  “He told you to stay away from Venice! You gonna stand for that?”

  Noble shrugged. “She’s not my concern.”

  “The hell she ain’t. I’ve seen how you two look at each other. Makes a blacksmith’s forge seem cool.”

  Noble twisted uncomfortably. “You got one helluva imagination.”

  “You’re a bloody fool, Noble McCaneaghy.” Katie shook her head in disgust. “Of all the men in this territory she could set her fancy on, Venice Leiland—the prettiest, finest piece of womanhood I ever met—sets it on you. And you just sit here, moping in the dark while she dances with every—”

  “And just what the hell am I supposed to do about it?” Noble burst out angrily “Venice Leiland might as well be the Queen of Sheba for all the good it’ll do me.”

  “Pig-headed, ornery . . . she likes you!”

  Somewhere, deep inside, he realized that if he weren’t half-lit he wouldn’t be shouting his anguish for all of Salvage to hear. Unfortunately, he was half-lit. “Bloody hell! What am I supposed to do?” he repeated. “Follow her around like some stray hound begging for a pat?”

  “Nope,” Katie said, suddenly smiling like a cat in front of a bowl of cream.

  “Then what the hel
l do you want from me? Want me to set myself up so the next time she walks out of my life I can—”

  “Remember when you and I used to dance in the conservatory?”

  Damn it all! He’d always had a sixth sense where Venice was concerned. Why now, of all times, did it have to fail him? He spun around so quickly that his head swam and he had to grab hold of the bar to keep from falling.

  “Remember?” Venice repeated.

  Her eyes were shining, her hair piled in gleaming waves atop her head, exposing the graceful, vulnerable length of her neck. She arched a brow. “Do you remember how to dance?”

  “Nope.”

  “Oh, fer Chrissake,” Katie sputtered and, with a disgusted snort, left.

  “I’m not surprised,” Venice said saucily.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Judging from your impaired ability to stand upright, I’d say you were inebriated.”

  “You got that right.”

  She narrowed her fine eyes on him. “Well, small wonder you can’t dance. You can’t even walk.”

  “I can walk just fine. I got drinking down to an art form.”

  “Oh, Noble. Is that how things are for you?”

  Distress was evident in her expression. Distress and . . . concern? He couldn’t stand to have her concerned about his immortal soul.

  “Don’t get your fur up, Venice. I just meant that I know to the drop how much whiskey it takes to get me drunk. Learned it somewhere south of Missionary Ridge.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I got a bit beat up in the war. Ended up in a field hospital. They used whiskey to take the edge off my . . . discomfort. As of yet, I haven’t had nearly enough.”

  He didn’t tell her the rest. That they’d used whiskey because there was no laudanum or morphine. He didn’t want to watch her concern become pity. He really did not think he could stand her pity.

  She released her breath. He got the distinct impression his answer had relieved her. Her next words confirmed it. “Good,” she breathed. “I mean, I’ve been to the homes for the ex-soldiers.” She lowered her eyes. “I’m glad you haven’t succumbed to any addictions.”

  “You’ve visited veterans?”

  “Yes. You needn’t sound so incredulous.” That got her dander up. “The Leiland Foundation endows several Soldiers’ Relief Funds. I even administered one.”

  What else had she done in the past decade? He was about to ask, but she had already returned to her original topic.

  “Still, it’s a pity to find that you haven’t any excuse for not dancing other than that you haven’t the rudimentary athleticism necessary”

  Now his dander was up.

  “What’da ya mean?” Noble demanded.

  “You were never any good at it, anyway. No sense of rhythm. Bad timing. Tin ear.”

  “Hey! I wasn’t the one who was always stomping all over her partner’s feet. I’ve been around horses and mules and oxen for the past ten years and I haven’t ever had feet near as black and blue as the summer you taught me how to dance.”

  She sniffed haughtily. “I haven’t heard anyone complaining tonight.”

  “These men are too well-mannered, or too oblivious, to complain.”

  “Ha! I have gotten much, much better.”

  “We’ll just see, shall we?” He held out his hand, the uncomfortable notion he’d been adroitly maneuvered tickling his dignity. He ignored it.

  She stepped forward and took his proffered hand. Trying desperately to see this as a challenge rather than an opportunity to hold her, Noble tugged her after him to the edge of the churning, swirling dancers. He set his hand on her waist and she placed her hand on his shoulder, burning him with sensation, even through his shirt.

  “Ready?” he asked, his voice gruff.

  “Yes.” She looked happy and eager and just a trifle shy. He relaxed and with a smile swept her out into the crowd as the Pay Dirt’s cook began to play a savage-sweet Spanish melody.

  She was graceful and fluid and elegantly formed and she had, indeed, become a wonderful dancer. Thank God Katie’s whiskey had loosened his inhibitions or he would surely be tromping all over her. As it was, when he misstepped he simply caught her light form against him rather than stumble into her. She didn’t seem to mind. She laughed. A pretty sound. A beautiful sound.

  “Do you give up?”

  “Yes,” he said solemnly.

  “Then I have improved?” she asked pertly.

  “That too.”

  “You aren’t half bad yourself.”

  “Ha. I just pick you up and fling you around.”

  “Yes, but not every man here ‘flings’ as rhythmically as you do.”

  He laughed and she joined him, tightening her hand on his shoulder as he twirled her one more time, lifting her high against his chest before dipping down with the last strains of the haunting Spanish tune. He ended bent over her body.

  The candles in the fluttering Chinese lanterns spread flickering light and shadow across her cheeks and softly parted lips, over her throat and the gentle swell of her breasts. He felt awash in sensation, trembling on the cusp of something dangerous and mysterious and far more addictive than mere alcohol.

  He drew her upward.

  She’d linked her hands around his neck to steady herself. He picked her up in his arms and strode out of the crowd, away from the dancing candlelights and into the shadow-cloaked night beyond the circle of laughter and gaiety and safety.

  Wordlessly he released her, let her warm, womanly body slide down his own hard, shivering length. She swallowed. He could just see the movement in her throat. The cloud-burdened night sky was a fathomless darkness above them, the deepening twilight affording scant light.

  “Noble . . .”

  “Shh.” His breath labored in his chest. “I won’t do anything.”

  “You won’t?” He wanted to believe he heard regret in her hushed reply.

  “I just want a minute. Just a minute to hold you without sharing you.”

  “I don’t understand.” She hadn’t made any move to retreat from him. She sounded breathless and confused and a little drunk herself.

  “I don’t either.” He reached up and touched her cheek, skated his fingertips along the delicate line of her chin, brushed them across the incredible soft swell of her lips. “I just want to be with you.”

  “But you can be with me.” He could barely make out her face now; the evening shadows had nearly enveloped them. But he heard the confusion in her voice. “You can accompany me to my uncle’s camp.”

  His hand dropped. “And take Cassius’s place?”

  She was silent.

  “Instead of Cassius?” he insisted.

  He barely made out her tiny nod.

  “For how long?” He’d almost forgotten, God help him, almost forgotten that she didn’t belong here. Didn’t belong with him.

  “Take his place for how long? A week? Two weeks? No thanks, honey. I never hire on for piecework.”

  Suddenly he had to get away from her. He thought to leave her standing in the dark, but the darkness seemed to follow him instead.

  Chapter 12

  Venice stalked the perimeters of the party. Her hem switched angrily around her ankles, creating a trail of dust that marked her progress. She had had enough of Noble McCaneaghy’s on-again, off-again responses, one minute kissing her, the next pushing her away.

  When she’d been a lonely little girl, Noble had been a godsend. But the way she felt right now, he might as well have come straight from the fires of hell. And she wanted to send him straight back.

  It was her own fault. She’d expected he would take her to his uncle, she’d expected he’d want to be with her, she’d expected they’d pick up the friendship that had been left hanging ten years ago. She twisted her fingers in her skirt, her childlike sense of betrayal still fresh and raw. You’d think she’d have learned not to expect things from people by now. Still, he had no right to treat her so call
ously.

  “I brought you some champagne, Miz Leiland,” Blaine said, trotting toward her, champagne sloshing in his haste. “Guess I finally beat Noble to the punch.”

  Venice gasped. “You didn’t hit Noble, did you?”

  “Hit Noble?” Blaine parroted, wide-eyed. “Mrs. Farley didn’t raise no fools, Miss Leiland.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m never gettin` into a fist fight with Noble McCaneaghy. They say he’s faster with a right hook than most men are with a gun.”

  “Then what did you mean that you beat his punches?”

  Blaine smiled in sudden understanding. “I meant I got here before he did.”

  Venice shot a swift glance over to where Noble’s broad back had disappeared into the crowd.

  “Yeah,” Blaine continued, “the way he grabbed that liquor bottle from Miss Katie’s hand, I thought fer sure he was hurrying to get you a refreshment. So, I thought to myself, ‘Miss Leiland’s taste probably runs more to champagne than rot-gut.’ So I hightailed it over here with this.” He grinned triumphantly.

  “Very perceptive of you,” Venice said, accepting the glass he thrust at her and taking a sip.

  “Yeah . . . well.” Blaine nudged the dirt with the toe of his boot, obviously casting about for some topic of conversation. “I . . . I guess you was real surprised when you figured out that Noble was your cook’s kid.”

  “Cook’s kid? Is that what he told you?” Venice asked. “He didn’t tell you we were friends?”

  “Ah, no. He just said his ma used to work for your daddy and he had to, ah, wipe your nose.”

  Had to?! So that was all she’d meant to him. A snotty-nosed brat he’d had to keep an eye on. That was probably why he was so loath to take her to her uncle. He didn’t want to resume old responsibilities.

  “Quite right,” she said, lifting the glass to her lips and tossing down the champagne. “And that’s all he said?”