Connie Brockway

by Anything For Love

  She gasped.

  It was a small sound.

  But it was enough. With a low curse, he came to his senses, understood how close he stood to the brink of taking whatever he could bully, beg, or steal from her.

  He let her go, dropping her legs and lowering her to the ground. She clutched at his arms, steadying herself.

  “God, you’re pretty” he allowed in a tight voice. “Pretty enough to tear the heart clean out of a man and serve it up for your amusement. The only question is, whose chest are you lookin’ to rip open . . . ma’am? My own poor self? Sorry. I can’t oblige.”

  He stepped back. She would never know how much that one step—breaking the sweet agony of her mocking touch—cost him. Her hands dropped.

  “Like I said, you’d best be ready to leave at daybreak. I’ll meet you outside the Gold Dust at five o’clock. I have something for you to deliver to Milton.”

  She stared at him, her expression unreadable. For the life of him he couldn’t resist one last touch. He tilted her chin, forcing her to look up at him. Her eyes were shuttered, wary. Good, he told himself, and trailed his finger along her cheek.

  “And no more New York society games. Or next time, I’ll play to the bloody end.”

  Chapter 13

  “This town stinks and I am getting wet standing here,” Trees-Too-Tall told Venice. He waited for her reply from atop his pony. Venice, standing on the boardwalk outside the Gold dust, blinked up at him through the fine mist. She didn’t know what to say.

  “We will wait inside the trees.” Trees-too-Tall pointed to one of the trail heads leading out of the valley. “Reed must come soon or we will leave without him.”

  “He’ll be here,” Venice promised, hoping she was right. Trees-Too-High kicked his pony forward.

  “Aren’t you going to take the pack animals?” she asked.

  “McCaneaghy wants to put somethin’ on ‘em,” he said, moving past her. “You and Reed bring ‘em.”

  McCaneaghy wants, thought Venice bitterly. So what? She slung her satchel up behind her mule’s saddle. The animal stood patiently, enduring the steady beat of cold rain. It looked as miserable as she felt. She tugged her wide-brimmed felt hat lower over her forehead and twisted her woolen scarf tighter around her neck. Her mood mirrored the black, boiling sky overhead.

  Angrily, she dashed tears from her cheeks, glad the rain masked her sorrow, even if it was five-thirty in the morning and only a bedraggled yellow hound was there to witness it. There wasn’t another soul on the streets, just a few carts, abandoned at some point last night, axle-deep in mud. What yesterday had been dust and hard-baked ruts was now knee-deep, reddish brown ooze.

  The capricious wind turned suddenly, spitting chill sleet into Venice’s face. Shivering, she turned her back to it, as she vowed to turn her back on Noble McCaneaghy.

  He was convinced she was a . . . a wanton!

  She had to admit, she had certainly acted the role last night. She had learned the meaning of desire, had responded to Noble’s heat and passion with an answering hunger. She shivered as she thought of his mouth on her breast and immediately renounced her body’s treacherous reaction.

  Angry with herself, she blew on her hands, rubbing them briskly together. Another gust of wind stung her cheeks. Cassius had better get here soon.

  And where was Noble? This morning, when she had come downstairs, she had found Tim Gilpin sitting at the bar in front of a long line of upended shotglasses. He’d said Noble would be arriving with the packages he wanted brought up to Milton.

  That had been twenty minutes ago.

  “Well, get on the mule.”

  Venice whirled around. Noble stood behind her, towering over her, his face shadowed by the brim of his battered Stetson. The whites of his eyes caught what little light there was in the pre-dawn gloom, making them seem to gleam with a feral light. A long, oiled canvas coat, the back slit open, flapped around the tops of his scarred, mud-dabbed cavalry boots. His collar was pulled up, obscuring most of his face.

  He looked ominous standing there, the rain beading on his broad shoulders, his face a shaded impression of hard planes and sharp angles, his amber eyes aglow. He stretched out a gloved hand. Instinctively, Venice jumped back. She could see a brief flash of white teeth and then he was reaching past her, ensuring the saddle roll was secure.

  “You ever been on a mule, Venice?” he drawled.

  “Plenty of times,” she answered haughtily. “I am conversant with all things mulish.”

  His eyes narrowed and she was certain she saw the twitch of a quickly restrained smile. “Sure it wasn’t just a real ugly horse?”

  “Yes, McCaneaghy. I’m sure.”

  “Good.” Without a word of warning, Noble placed his big hands on either side of her waist and hoisted her into the saddle.

  “That was unnecessary.” She wanted to sound icy with contempt. She suspected she sounded breathless. “I wasn’t ready to mount yet.”

  “That supposed to make me laugh?” The humor was gone from his voice as though it had never been.

  “What do you mean?” She scowled down at him.

  “Don’t play dumb, Venice.”

  “I assure you I am not playing anything. I was warned, remember?” she answered frostily.

  He peered up at her, his expression unconvinced. “Look,” she said, “I won’t even begin to try and guess what you’re referring to, but since your poor opinion of me couldn’t be more apparent, I think I can safely assume that you believe I have made a lewd, racy, or immoral quip. So, since I wouldn’t want to disillusion you, yes . . . you’re supposed to laugh.”

  His posture subtly relaxed. “Ha.”

  “And I reiterate; I was not yet prepared to get up on this mule!”

  “I’m dreadfully sorry, Miss Leiland.” Noble tilted his head back. “Haven’t all the men you danced with been by to say their fare-thee-wells yet?”

  The devil spoke: Venice listened.

  “Oh, my, Noble!” She trilled a little laugh. “The men heard everything—and I do mean everything—they wanted to hear last night. Anything I added now would be redundant.”

  His damnable gold eyes went flat and cold. His dark brows dipped over his eyes in a scowl. Wordlessly, he grabbed hold of her ankle. Venice squeaked. Noble smiled.

  He lifted her leg over his shoulder, releasing her ankle so her leg rested against his back as he checked her stirrup length. Her awareness was instant, intense, and scandalous. She felt exposed, vulnerable, and weak with her knee notched over him like this. She could feel the big muscles of his shoulder bunch beneath her thigh as he silently worked the leather cinch. If she slid off the saddle, she’d be straddling him. Venice gulped. Noble snapped the buckle in place. He dipped his shoulder and her leg slid down and off his arm.

  “Check the other stirrup.” His voice sounded strangled. She stared at him. She was breathing too fast.

  “You know how?” he barked.

  “Yes, I do. I will.” Trying to catch her breath, Venice leaned over, hoping Noble wouldn’t notice her response to him. Damn! Of all the men in the world this one alone had to have the power to affect her so viscerally.

  Noble, however, seemed too busy to pay her much attention. Muttering savagely, he lifted a heavy-looking crate to the back of a mule. He threw a rope over the box and wrenched it taut.

  “You’ve got to be kidding!” a female voice intoned. Venice looked up.

  Katie stood in the open doorway, her fluffy blonde hair sticking out in oddly becoming puffs about her sleepy face. She blinked blearily at them. “First, that Suzanne Whatever-the-hell-her-name-is is giggling with that scrawny Farley kid on my front porch ‘til midnight—and her brother playing chaperone from the side alley didn’t help business none, let me tell you. Then that dumb-ass editor mooning around the bar all night. Now, you two looking angry as May hornets and here it ain’t even, it ain’t even—Chrissakes, what time is it, anyway?”

  “Six,” Noble said,
pulling a slip knot tighter.

  “Six! Chrissakes. What? The mountain ain’t gonna be there if you leave after breakfast? Geez,” she grumbled. “I need my sleep. I gotta big day ahead of me.”

  “Big day?” asked Venice.

  “Yeah. What with you leaving town, I expect all your beaus will be drowning their sorrows. And I expect they’ll be doin’ that drowning at my bar.” The thought cheered her considerably. She rubbed her hands together with satisfaction. “Big day ahead. Yup. Big day.”

  “I’m sorry if I woke you, Miss Jones,” Venice said. “I was waiting for Mr. Reed. And Mr. McCaneaghy. He wants to ship something up to my uncle.” She eyed Noble accusingly. “What is it you wished to send?” she asked sweetly. “A copy of my dance card?”

  “What?”

  “Well, with your interesting preoccupation with the number and frequency of my dance partners last night, I felt sure you were keeping a running tally.”

  He grunted.

  “You mean my Uncle Milton hasn’t hired you to play the part of dutch uncle in his absence?”

  “Nope.” There was a grudging note of amusement in his voice.

  “Good. Because you aren’t very good at it.”

  “Lady, you aren’t telling me anything I don’t already know.”

  “So, what are you sending him?”

  “Fossils. Nah, not the type your uncle’s looking for, Venice. No dinosaurs. But I’m sure you know that. Just seashells. I promised Milton I’d send him any fossils I couldn’t recognize. Been doing it for years.”

  “How long is it gonna take Venice and that Reed feller to get to her uncle’s camp, Mr. McCaneaghy?” Katie asked.

  “Crooked Hand says four or five days.” He snapped the words out. “Plenty of time for a nice adventure.”

  Venice felt her back go rigid. “Oh . . . an adventure can occur in one day, Mr. McCaneaghy. Or one night. You should have stuck around last night.”

  The rope Noble had been pulling snapped. He swore. The bronze hue of his skin deepened.

  Good, thought Venice.

  “What’d ya mean?” Katie asked. “McCaneaghy here was camped out under the balcony last night.”

  Venice’s eyes grew wide. “You were. You mean you were playing nanny all night?” she demanded angrily.

  “Don’t give yourself so much credit. I didn’t want to contend with the lice at the Pay Dirt and the Gold Dust is the only place in town with a balcony to keep the rain off. Nuthin’ more to it than that.”

  Katie’s gaze darted back and forth between the two of them. “I shoulda known,” she muttered under her breath. “But it woulda worked with two normal people! Like that Blaine Farley. All that boy needed was to see a petticoat—” she grumbled to a halt. “Hellfire!”

  As Venice and Noble glared at each other, Cassius emerged from around the corner of the Gold Dust perched astride a weary-looking mule. He was rigged out in a short, caped tweed jacket and wool trousers. A tan bowler with a dented crown was perched at jaunty angle on his macassar-slicked hair.

  “Good morning, Miss Leiland.” He touched the brim of his hat. “I say, where are the Indian fellows?”

  “Good morning—” Venice darted a quick glance at Noble’s grim profile and made herself smile, “—Cassius. Our guides are waiting for us at the trail head.”

  Cassius beamed. “Ah, good. We’re ready to leave . . . Venice?” Her name slid unpleasantly off his tongue, like oil on still water.

  With an unintelligible growl, Noble vaulted atop the boardwalk and slammed open the door to the saloon, disappearing inside. She stared after him. The doorway framed empty darkness.

  Goodbye. Her heart seemed to be beating too slowly. She couldn’t seem to tear her gaze from the place where he’d been. She would probably never see him again.

  “Er . . . Venice?” Cassius repeated.

  “Yes.” Goodbye. “Yes. I’m ready to leave.”

  Cassius cracked the mule on the rump with his furled umbrella, moving the placid animal up beside Venice’s. “Shall we, then?”

  “Wait!” Tim Gilpin emerged from the Gold Dust. With one beefy hand he rubbed his head, standing his rumpled hair on end. “You take care, now,” he said gruffly to Venice. “There are things in these mountains that can take anyone, no matter how capable, clean by surprise.”

  He walked out from beneath the protective overhang of the porch, heedless of the icy rain soaking his grizzled locks. He leaned a hand on Venice’s pommel, capturing her gloved hand in his and squeezing gently. “Be careful, Miss Leiland.”

  Venice smiled down at him. Cassius snorted. “I assure you, sir, Miss Leiland will be more than adequately provided for.”

  He kicked his mule past the editor and, without a backward glance, started down the road. Withdrawing his hand, Tim narrowed his eyes on Cassius’s plodding figure and, with careful deliberation, spat a stream of chaw-stained spittle after him.

  “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Gilpin.” Venice turned to Katie. “And thank you for your kindness, Miss Jones.” She tried to keep from peering into the dark bar.

  “Shoot, ain’t nothing,” Katie answered. “And don’t you worry. I ain’t never seen a feller got a worse case of the itch than that one.” She jerked her head toward the Gold Dust’s door. “You wait and see.”

  “Oh,” Venice said, striving for a bright tone. “I somehow believe Mr. McCaneaghy and I have seen quite the last of each other. And I’m just as certain he’s delighted about that.”

  “Honey,” Katie said slowly, “about that stuff I told you about Josiah and me—”

  “Our meeting up again after all these years was an accident. It should never have happened.”

  “Damn it, Venice. Listen to me. Maybe I was wrong. Josiah never looked at me the way McCaneaghy looks at you. Maybe there is such a thing as true—”

  Venice didn’t need anyone fanning dead hopes to life. It hurt too much. “I have to go. Please, tell Mr. McCaneaghy I—Tell him he was wrong about me.” She somehow found a smile. “He suspects I put that snake in the armoire myself.”

  “Oh, yeah—well, about that snake, I hate to admit it but I—”

  “I’m sorry, Katie, I have to go.” She nudged her mule forward. “And, please, tell him goodbye.”

  “Be careful!” Katie called, backing under the overhang and pulling her shawl tighter about herself.

  “I will,” Venice promised.

  “Good luck!” Tim yelled.

  Katie and Tim stood beneath the porch for ten minutes, watching Venice and Reed make their way slowly out of town and disappear among the pine trees. Katie sighed.

  They were just about to go back inside when the door burst open and McCaneaghy strode out, his eyes sparkling dangerously and his mouth set tighter than bark to a tree.

  “Which way?” he asked Tim.

  “Well, that didn’t take long,” Tim said, looking grimly amused.

  McCaneaghy rounded on Tim, his long, hard length tense. His voice was low, deliberate. “Look, Tim, if it starts really raining, their trail can be wiped out in a matter of minutes and with Trees-Too-High leading ‘em, I wouldn’t have a chance in hell of knowing which way they went. Utes don’t follow the same trails as whites. Now, which way?”

  Tim met McCaneaghy’s burning gaze and pointed toward where Venice and Reed had entered the pines.

  “Thanks,” McCaneaghy bit out. “I’ll be taking your horse.”

  “You just take care of Miss Leiland, Noble,” Tim said gruffly.

  “Yeah,” Noble said, reaching into his coat and fastening the inside tabs around his thighs.

  “I mean it.”

  “Sure.” Noble flipped the coat shut and pulled his Stetson lower over his brow.

  “If anything happens to her, I’ll hold you responsible for—”

  “If anything happens to her, I’ll be where a lecture from you ain’t gonna do any earthly good, Tim,” Noble bit out between clenched teeth.

  He impaled the stocky edito
r with a hard glare. Tim met his gaze. Unspoken words stretched between them. Finally, Tim broke the staring match with a curt nod. Without another word, Noble leapt from the boardwalk and headed for the stable.

  “You mean he’s going after her?” Katie asked, wide-eyes with confusion.

  “Yup. Told me so when he came into the bar. He’s going to trail them to make sure nothing happens. He isn’t all that happy about it, though.”

  “I’ll be damned! But if he ain’t so happy about it, how come he’s doin’ it?”

  Tim, still watching Noble striding up the mud-choked street, shook his head. “I don’t think he can help himself.”

  The import of Tim’s statement took about ten seconds to penetrate Katie’s usually sharp mind. When it did, a huge smile spread across her face. She threw back her head and let out an enormous whoop of delight.

  A shouting match between the new saloon owner and one of the whores woke Harry Grundy from a sound sleep. Cat fights, though common enough, were rare this early in the morning. Especially after a fandango like last night’s, following hard on the heels of Preacher Niss’s revival. Harry rose to his knees and peered out the window, his mud-colored eyes marking Noble McCaneaghy’s progress.

  “Well, the jigs about up on that one, boy,” Harry muttered, flopping back on a bare mattress and staring moodily at the ceiling. The army blanket separating the Grundy brothers’ respective sides of the room rustled.

  “You hear me, Anton?”

  “Yeah.” A belch punctuated the remark. “I told you she was gonna see them bolts and wires.”

  “Shut up. How’s I to know she was so all-fired clever?

  “Think she’s clever enough to figure out there ain’t nuthin’ in these mountains but a bunch of played-out mines and rock?” Anton asked.

  “Yup.”

  “Think she’ll close down the spur line?”

  “Yup.”

  “That means no more free freight shipments.”

  “Wal now, that’s right bright of you, Anton.”

  There was no word from the other side of the blanket. Anton’s brain musta just up and quit trying to wrestle with that notion, thought Harry.