Connie Brockway

by Anything For Love

  He stared into her eyes. “I won’t hound you any longer. Just promise me you’ll think about what I’ve said.” He turned and effortlessly hoisted himself up onto the bank, unselfconsciously walking over to the mule’s saddle pack.

  She watched him. Broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips and tight buttocks; long-muscled thighs and calves, oddly pale in contrast to his bronzed upper torso and water-dark hair laying in slick ropes on his strong neck.

  “Here you go,” he said, turning and tossing her something palm-sized, hard, and cream-colored. She caught it.

  “Soap!” she breathed. “Lavender soap! Wherever did you get it?”

  “Templeton found a piece in the mess kit yesterday. He uses it for the bed linen at your uncle’s camp.”

  “Bless Templeton.”

  “Double bless Templeton. He also had a comb.”

  “Oh,” Venice purred in pleasure, starting to soap her arms. “I shall truly love combing my hair. Next you’ll tell me you have a masseuse in there.”

  In answer, he paused in his rummaging and turned his head, flashing her a wolfish smile. “I’m a quick study.”

  He was tempting and tantalizing and she was a weak, weak woman. She cleared her throat, chasing away the erotic images he inspired. “I don’t suppose you have anything I could wear in there?” she asked doubtfully.

  “Yup. You owe Templeton again. He also gave up some of his clothes for your sake.”

  “His clothes?” Venice asked, her eyes widening.

  “I have here a clean white shirt, compliments of your Uncle Milton, a pair of wool trousers—black, of course—from Templeton, and from my own cache of things never to be without, a pair of fresh socks.”

  She dunked under the water, coming up already working a thick lather of soap into her hair, to find him laughing.

  His humor was irresistible.

  “Thank you, Noble,” she said softly

  His smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. He opened his mouth as if to say something and must have thought better of it. “Anything for love,” he said flippantly and left her to finish her bath alone.

  “How much longer, m’boy?” Carter asked as they plodded along on their mounts.

  Soon, thought Venice. The terrain looked familiar and the scents of coal, grease, and baking refuse— Salvage’s own unique perfume—danced past them on the wind.

  “Just down the next draw,” Noble said. He sounded distracted and he looked tired. His big body drooped in the saddle as if he’d been up all night wrestling demons. She watched as he stretched in the saddle, twisting this way and that.

  True to Noble’s word, they rode into town twenty minutes later. Salvage was just as appealing a little hamlet as she remembered. The only discernible difference was that the deep ruts in the hard-baked surface of the main street held a thin scum of stagnant water, and there were a few more men than usual leaning against the sides of the buildings, enjoying the afternoon sun. On further consideration, Venice decided there were simply a few more men than usual sleeping off a drunk.

  A few curious faces turned toward them as they made their way down the street. The curiosity quickly turned into expressions of incredulity and then bewilderment, and finally shock.

  Venice was uncomfortably aware of her purloined valet’s outfit. Still, this seemed an extreme reaction to a woman dressing in black trousers and a white bib shirt. At least she didn’t smell bad.

  “She’s alive!” a miner hollered through cupped hands. “Venice Leiland’s alive!”

  Venice scowled. What the devil?

  “She’s alive!” The call bounced from man to man, shouted from doorway to window, traveling twenty yards ahead of the small bewildered troop.

  On reaching the far end of town and the Gold Dust Emporium, Venice dropped lightly from her saddle to the ground. Immediately, she was surrounded by a group of men.

  “You’re not dead,” said one of the rougher looking fellows, wiping a tear from his creased cheeks.

  “No,” Venice agreed.

  “What the hell is—” Noble began. His words were abruptly cut off as someone elbowed her way past him, hitting him in the ribs in her hurry. It was Katie.

  She pushed through the milling group until she was within reach of Venice. Her lower lip trembled, threatening a display of emotion Noble was willing to bet Katie hadn’t indulged in for decades.

  “You ain’t dead!” she sniffed and pulled Venice into a back-thumping embrace.

  “No, no. But I might be if you don’t loosen up your grip! Geez, Miss Jones! I can’t breathe!” protested Venice.

  “Geez?” Katie laughed, releasing her. “We’ll turn you into a western gal, yet!”

  She stepped back but not before reaching out and patting Venice’s face as though she were a favored child and Katie a fond parent. Venice gave the blonde saloonkeeper a baffled smile.

  “You call me Katie, hon.”

  Venice blinked in confusion. “Thank you . . . Katie.”

  Tim Gilpin emerged from the crowd. “Miss Leiland!”

  “Mr. Gilpin.”

  “I am so happy—that is, I am so pleased to see—”

  “Well, look who’s here to welcome the corpse! The undertaker what took the gold fillings,” Katie drawled. Tim flushed.

  “What’s going on?” Milton demanded.

  “Mr. Gilpin here wrote your obituary,” Katie explained to Venice. “Sold it to the New York newspaper on the telegraph and made hisself a pretty penny doing it, too.”

  “My obituary? Why would you sell my obituary to the newspapers, Mr. Gilpin?”

  Noble couldn’t help hearing the hurt in her voice. He hated hearing Venice sound hurt. He took a step forward.

  “Why would anyone think that Miss Leiland was, er, dead?” asked Carter.

  “Who’s that?” Katie asked, jerking her head at Carter, who was fastidiously retucking the tails of his shirt.

  “Mr. Makepeace, an associate and great friend of my uncle’s,” explained Venice. “And please, Miss Jones, Katie, why is everyone surprised to see me alive?”

  Katie’s brows dropped in a thunderous line over her eyes. Her fists leapt to her hips and she straddled the ground. ‘Why?” she said. “Why? ‘Cause that pissant piece of toad-sucking crap said you were dead!”

  “Which pissant piece of—ah, whatever might that be?” asked Milton.

  “Who’s that?” Katie pointed at Milton.

  “My uncle, Milton Leiland.”

  “Oh.” Katie nodded. She gave scant attention to Milton, one of the richest men in the territory, her anger apparently robbing her of her usual financial acumen. “I’m talking about Mr. Cassius Thornton Reed, who has spent the past five nights getting drunk in my saloon and wailing about how he tried to save you from a flood up in the mountains but couldn’t ‘cause his rescue was botched by Noble McCaneaghy!”

  “What?!”

  “That’s right, Venice. He told how Noble— having an animal lust fer you—stalked after you and stole you away from the camp one night. The Utes disappeared and ole Thorny lit out after you, only to find the both of you clinging to a tree in the middle of a flooding river. He swam out after you, but Noble here in a panic flung himself on Thorny and they was both swept away. When he waked up he was lying on the river bank and you and Noble was dead!”

  Venice’s eyes narrowed. “Noble’s cowardice got us killed?”

  “Yup.”

  “And he tried to save us?”

  “You got it. The yellow-bellied son of a bitch has been wallowing in it ever since he dragged his sorry ass down out of the mountains. And Mr. Gilpin here hammered out a telegram, a grandiose piece of cake about Venice Leiland’s Last Great Adventure. Made me sick!”

  “Miss Leiland. I . . .” The editor obviously didn’t know what to say. His distress was as acute as it was apparent.

  One look at Venice’s face and Noble found he wasn’t feeling particularly merciful. “You just had to use her,” he accused Gilpin.
“Just like every other rag. Must be a great passion you have . . . for a buck.”

  “Grand passion?” Venice said bemused. “I don’t understand. The obituary doesn’t matter, Noble.”

  Noble promised himself he was going to have a little talk with Tim Gilpin—after the one he had with Cassius Reed. “So ole Thorny knew Venice was alive,” he murmured in a dangerous voice. “Thought I was dead and still he left Venice up there, alone.”

  Noble started pushing his way through the crowd.

  “Where are you going?” Venice demanded, following him. He just kept pushing his big shoulders through the crowd.

  “Noble!” She caught up with him and seized his wrist in both hands, digging in her heels and making him drag her a few feet before he realized she was holding on to him. He looked down at her and frowned, obviously annoyed.

  “Noble,” she said, trying to sound calm, reasonable, but still refusing to relinquish his wrist.

  “What?”

  “Might I ask where you are off to?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I shall just have to restrain you until you are more forthcoming with your answers.”

  A corner of his mouth quirked up.

  “Really?” he said.

  “Yes, really. Now, I reiterate, where are you going?”

  “I thought I’d have me a little drink.”

  “ ‘Have me a little drink.’ Every time you are on the cusp of doing something hideously reckless and extravagantly masculine, you fall into these atrocious speech patterns. Where do you intend to have you a little drink?”

  “Wherever Cassius Reed is. There. Is that what you wanted to know?”

  “Really, dear boy, I’d leave it,” said Milton, who’d hurried over to them. “You’ll only end up in jail.”

  “Don’t go,” Venice pleaded.

  Noble smiled, not a pleasant smile, and shook his head. “Lass, you are something else again. The man left you, fully expecting you to die. In fact, he was so sure you were going to die that he gave the story out that you were dead. And you expect me to do nothing about it?”

  She was enraptured by the love she read in his eyes. There was nothing of himself he would keep from her. Noble McCaneaghy would always offer himself as a friend, a protector, a lover, a mentor, a companion, whatever she had need of.

  She released her grip on his wrist.

  “Stay with me, Noble.”

  “What?”

  “Stay with me.”

  “Where?”

  “She-et,” Katie said softly, her eyes growing wide. She cleared her throat. “Okay, ain’t all you gawking jerkwater, no-accounts got nuthin’ better to do than ogle a lady in need of . . . of a . . . bath? Go on, all of you. Get on! Drinks are on the house!”

  As a single entity, the crowd wheeled away from Venice and Noble and stampeded for the doors of the Gold Dust. Within three minutes, the street was empty except for the Leiland party and Katie. Katie wiped her heavy satin skirts with her palms.

  “Ah, Venice?” she said.

  Venice ignored her. She was still lost in the love she read in Noble’s eyes.

  “Venice, about your room. Well, I never did get around to changing nuthin’ and none of the other girls wanted to sleep where a dead—What I’m trying to say is that all your things is still there. All the things you told me to keep till you came back for them.”

  “Venice will be staying with me, ma’am,” Milton said.

  “ ‘Fraid not, Milty,” Katie said. “Your house has been reoccupied by the skunks.”

  “What?”

  “Skunks, Uncle Milton,” Venice murmured. “We can’t stay there.”

  “Well, this is a fine pickle,” Milton said. “Might you have rooms to let, Miss Jones?”

  Katie pondered a minute. To her credit it didn’t take much more time than that to decide Venice needed her privacy more than Katie needed Milton’s money. She must be going soft in the head.

  “Uh-uh. Sorry, Milty. You might try the Pay Dirt, though,” she suggested. Her mind racing to come up with a way to extort a finder’s fee from the Pay Dirt’s owner, she wandered into the Gold Dust.

  “Oh,” Milton said. “Oh, well. I suppose we’d best be getting along. Carter. Templeton.” He looked as if he was going to add Noble’s name to the list, but after a quick glance, he turned and got back up on the pony Templeton had been patiently holding.

  “We’ll see you for dinner, Venice?” Milton said over his shoulder, plodding down the street, Carter and Templeton trailing behind him.

  Venice nodded, waggling her fingers in farewell. Her eyes never left Noble’s face.

  He was not happy. A thunderous scowl marred his lean, handsome face. She had offered him a horrible dilemma: go and enjoy beating the living hell out of Cassius Reed, the man who’d blind-sided him, almost gotten him killed, and—by far the most grievous sin—left Venice alone in the mountains. Or stay with Venice.

  He wanted to stay with Venice.

  She took a deep breath. She needed to talk to Noble, and she didn’t want any interruptions. Besides, it was way too late for a chaperone.

  “Noble.”

  “Lass?” She let go of him, suddenly shy, and looked down. The movement drew her attention to her sweat-stained shirt and boys’ trousers. Her hand flew to the ratty old red felt hat crammed atop her snarled locks. She made an attempt at discreetly hoisting up her trousers. Noble began to smile. This would never do.

  “I would like to invite you to have . . .” Have what? Her mind raced. “. . . tea with me this afternoon.”

  His gentlemanly facade cracked. “Tea?”

  “Yes. Shall we say three o’clock? In my room?”

  A wolfish, altogether charming smile bent Noble’s lips.

  He’d be able to have his cake and eat it too. “My pleasure, Miss Leiland,” he said, tipping two fingers to a nonexistent hat and bowing forward at the waist.

  “At three, then?”

  “Aye.”

  She started to turn around and then, thinking better of it, stopped.

  “And, Noble, should I hear you have been engaged in any ‘discussions’ with Mr. Reed, you needn’t bother showing up . . . ever.”

  “Now, Venice, that’s—”

  “Those are the terms, Mr. McCaneaghy,” Venice said. She wasn’t going to have the daft man getting killed. Not now. Not ever.

  “Agreed?”

  Silence.

  “Agreed?”

  “Yes, goddammit, agreed,” Noble ground out.

  Chapter 27

  Venice dragged a brush through her hair for the third time. The long black strands crackled and snapped, clinging to her hand in a static sheet, falling over her face and flying about her head.

  Drat! Hauling her hair back, she ruthlessly twisted the thick mass into a long coil, tugging it into a heavy loop on the crown of her head. She glanced in the mirror and waved a dismissive hand at her reflection. The curls were already springing free and sticking to her forehead. She’d deal with her hair later.

  Slipping into a white petticoat, Venice tied the satin waistband over her delicately edged camisole.

  “Which dress, which dress . . .” she muttered, rifling through the armoire packed with clothes. She scrunched her nose at a primrose muslin, puffed distraught cheeks as she considered a lilac print dress with velvet piping, dismissed an organdy gown of deep emerald green. She ran her hands through her hair, vaguely conscious of the loop falling askew at the side of her head. Her gaze lit on the periwinkle dress.

  Perfect.

  She snatched it from the closet and tossed it on the bed. Digging through the bureau’s top drawer, she pulled out a pair of sheer silk stockings, cream-colored with pale green ribbons at the top. She sat down on the edge of the bed and flipped up her petticoats.

  The door opened. Noble walked in, his eyes widening for a second before he gulped and glued his gaze a foot over Venice’s head.

  “Damn it, Venice,” he said. “Get dress
ed!”

  Get dressed? Now, where had she gotten the notion that he’d been spending the past week trying to get her undressed? He was wearing his priest-at-the-pulpit look of worried censure again.

  Reaching for a sheet to pull over herself, Venice was surprised to realize she wasn’t the least bit disconcerted to have Noble see her half-clad. Which only made sense. He had, after all, seen her naked. The thought didn’t make her feel awkward or shy. It was right, natural.

  She’d known what she wanted from the moment she’d seen Noble beneath her balcony: strong, tall, beautiful. And when he’d started making those breathtaking contortions, her heart had recognized what her eyes had not—the self-deprecating humor and wit of “Slats.” She loved Noble. How could she be embarrassed?

  Venice smiled. Noble flushed. Poor Noble. He seemed very disconcerted, one might even say nonplussed.

  “You’re early,” Venice said, languidly extending a leg and slipping her foot into the stocking.

  “Yeah,” Noble returned tightly.

  “You didn’t knock.”

  He let himself look at her. Her stocking was unrolled halfway up a smooth, shapely calf, creeping toward a smooth, shapely thigh. Sweat popped out on his forehead. He forced himself to look at the lampshade behind Venice’s bed.

  “I knocked. You must not have heard.”

  “Oh.”

  She was fussing around with the top of that damned stocking. From the corner of his eye, he could see her long legs emerging from a flurry of white lace and frothy ruffles, a ribbon of white satin shining around her waist, her skin glowing pink and clean above the low neckline of the camisole.

  “Maybe I should come back later.”

  “No,” she said calmly. “It’s okay. Did you know that in the previous century it was customary to have several gentlemen attend a lady’s toilette to advise her on her choices.”

  “This isn’t the previous century.”

  “No,” Venice agreed. “But think of it this way: if I were attending a ball, I would certainly have on less than I am currently wearing.”

  “The hell you say!” Noble ground out and immediately felt like a fool. God, he hoped Venice didn’t think he was possessive. He hated possessive people. But there were certain matters of decency . . .