by Deborah Camp
“I know.” She squeezed his hand. “If you’re not a marshal, what do you see yourself doing?”
“I’ve been approached to work for Pinkerton.”
“The detective group that works with the railroads?”
“Yes, but their work with the railroads is only part of what they do. I’ve been thinking of hiring on as long as I can be stationed in a city. I’d want to live in a place where there are theaters, restaurants and dance halls.”
“Oh, I see.” She had warmed to the idea, but imagining him squiring other young ladies to gay events dampened her enthusiasm. “The bachelor about town.” She placed the remaining items into the basket. “I should be going.” She stood.
Dalton shot out a hand to detain her and the swift action made him wince in discomfort. Lacy was immediately contrite.
“Be careful,” she cooed, resting a hand on his shoulder. “You really should be resting, Dalton. Give your body a chance to heal, will you?”
He rose to his feet and walked her to the door, his hand on her elbow. “I appreciate your concern, Lacy, but as you said before, I’ve been looking after myself since I was a sprout.”
“That’s not entirely true.” Instead of leaving, she turned and leaned back against the wall next to the door. “You forget that you told me you were spoiled by your sisters and doting mother. You’re used to having women fuss over you, Dalton Moon. Don’t pretend that you’re not.” She knew she was flirting and she enjoyed it. Over the years, she’d become quite astute at it, but having a man who deserved her flirtatious attentions was rare. Feeling daring, she switched the basket she held to one hand and ran her fingertips along the buttons marching down his dark blue shirt. “Promise me that you’ll get a good night’s rest and then come by tomorrow to let Dutch look at your wound and dress it again.”
He caught her hand and brought the tips of her fingers to his smiling lips. “Are you trying to drive me crazy?”
“Me? No.” She smiled as innocently as she could, given that she was fibbing.
Bringing the hand he held up to his neck he leaned in for a kiss, his lips barely touching hers, hovering, touching again, lifting. “You’re a pretty liar. Prettiest one I’ve ever known.”
She pursed her lips and touched his. “I’m waiting for your promise, Marshal.”
He moved in closer and his mouth trailed fire down the side of her neck while his hand cupped the other side to hold her in place. “I promise that I want you more than I’ve ever wanted a woman in my life,” he whispered huskily in her ear. “I dream of you. How can I get any rest when I ache for you?”
“Stop,” she murmured. Her whole body hummed from his tender onslaught. No man had ever tempted her as much as he did. With others, she’d always held the reins. But with Dalton, she wanted to let him have his way, let herself go along for a wild ride. While her mind clung to her modesty, her body besieged her with feelings that made her simmer with need. The basket slipped from her lax fingers and she paid it no mind as she curled her other hand behind his head and turned her mouth to his.
The kiss was powerful; an explosion of pent up emotion that had them clinging to each other, moaning into each other’s mouths, their tongues engaged in a dance of pure lust. He lifted his mouth from hers to take a breath and change positions. His lips on hers commanded, beseeched, seduced, and ravaged. Helpless sounds vibrated in her throat as she clung to him, her mind reeling, and her limbs trembling as her feminine core heated and began to melt the last of her defenses. He raked a hand down to her hip then back up to the side of her breast. Her nipple hardened and throbbed for his touch. God, how she wanted this man!
The very thought of that sent a shiver of reckoning through her and lent her the strength to turn her head, removing her stinging lips from his. She flattened one hand on his chest and he allowed her a scant inch of space.
“Dalton, I can’t. I mustn’t.” The words were true but the way she spoke them betrayed her weakness toward him. She opened her eyes and stared into his, letting him see the torture of her dilemma and what it was costing her. “Please.”
The hot intensity of his gaze tempered. He rested his forehead against hers and closed his eyes in defeat. “What are you doing to me, Lacy? You’re killing me. That’s what you’re doing.”
“No. You should rest. I didn’t come here to . . .” She slumped back against the wall, her body throbbing while she tried to remember who she was and why she needed to leave. “You should . . . I need to go.”
He caught her waist, holding her still, but he kept his eyes closed, his forehead pressed to hers. “I swear to God, you’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted.” A smile teased the corners of his mouth. “I crave you like other men crave drinks or smokes.”
“You’re trying to seduce me.”
His eyes opened. Dark, lustrous brown that didn’t waver. “Damn right I am.” He planted one hand on the wall beside her head and pushed himself away from her with effort. “Go on, then. I can see that you’re determined to remain upright.”
Laughing nervously, she retrieved the basket and slipped around the door and out onto the boardwalk.
“I should walk you back,” he said.
“No need.” She raised a hand to a woman crossing the street. “Here’s Britta, Dutch’s wife. I’ll walk with her.” Turning back to him, she reached out and let her fingertips trail down his sleeve. “Don’t forget to come by the hotel in the morning.”
He nodded and watched her leave.
Chapter 13
The next morning he was stiff and felt like he’d taken a kicking by a mule. Rolling out of his bed in the tack room took some doing. The blood loss had weakened him. Straightening up to his fullest height took even more out of him. He dressed slowly, moving with the energy of a field hand who had worked all day in the hot sun. Staring at his pinched expression in the mirror as he shaved, he had to agree with Lacy that he wasn’t quite ready to resume his regular activities.
“Guess getting shot takes more than a slug of lead out of a man,” he grumbled as he wielded the straight razor to swipe the last bit of stubble from his chin.
His stomach growled as he made his way from the stables to the back door of the jail. He’d left it unlocked since there were no prisoners, Otis hadn’t returned to “his” cell yet, and he’d taken his revolver and rifle with him to the tack room. He held them now as he stepped into the office area and caught the scent of cigar smoke. Instantly alert, he peered through the bright shaft of sunlight at the man sitting in the chair near his desk. He was the last one he expected to see that morning.
“What brings you around here, Pullman?” he asked, forcing more energy into his stride as he approached the man. He propped the rifle in the corner and laid his holstered gun on the desk top.
Junior Pullman’s lop-sided, smart-aleck grin grated on Dalton’s nerves. Pullman blew a stream of blue smoke into the room and sent Dalton a wink. “Happy Thanksgiving to you, too. Good to see you up and around, Marshal Moon. I heard about your mishap.” He dipped his fingers into his jacket pocket and removed a fresh cheroot. “Can I offer you one?”
“No, thanks.” He sat down behind his desk, trying not to look as uncomfortable as he felt. The wound on his back burned and the skin around it pinched. “Have you been waiting long for me?”
“No.” Junior tucked the cheroot back into his pocket. Wearing black pants and vest, white shirt with pearl buttons, and a black and blue kerchief tied around his neck, he carried the look of a gentleman rancher who surveyed his land, but didn’t get his clothes dirty. His fancy-stitched boots had a high shine on them and his black, wide-brimmed hat was spotless. “I heard you stirring around in the tack room when I first got here and went scouting for you.” His grin widened a smidgen. “I decided I’d wait in here for you. You don’t mind, do you?”
“I don’t suppose you know who shot me?” he asked cutting through the man’s smokescreen.
Junior’s eyebrows lifted slightly before he c
huckled. “It sure wasn’t me, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“You’ve already threatened to shoot me, so it’s only natural your name would be first on my list of suspects.”
“I said I’d shoot you if you trespassed on my land.” He chewed on the cheroot a few moments, his small, deep-set eyes studying Dalton. “I do take a heap of pride in my land, Marshal. My pa started ranching here when he was younger than you. Little by little, he added to his holdings, buying a few hundred acres whenever he could until he was the most prosperous rancher in these parts. During the war, we held onto what was ours, and that wasn’t an easy task, I’m here to tell you. Hell, over the years, someone has always been trying to take from us what we’ve worked hard to acquire.” He stared at the glowing end of the smoke and shook his head. “Guess that’s why I’m prickly about anyone poking around my place without an invitation.”
“Railroad agents aren’t just anyone, Pullman, and they aren’t takers. They pay for land. You know that.”
“They sure as hell don’t pay what land is worth and they’re strangers to me,” Pullman said. His tone was lazy, but his jaw had tightened and his smile had lost some of its cockiness. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his thighs and fix Dalton with a beady-eyed glare. “It’s just ground to them. Ground where they aim to lay tracks. But to me it’s blood and sweat and sacrifice. It’s my livelihood, my inheritance, and what keeps my cattle the best in the whole damned county. Over the years, we Pullmans have held off Indians, cattle thieves, soldiers, scalawags, carpetbaggers, and every other devil in disguise. We’re not about to let anyone take one acre of Pullman land.” He seemed to realize that he’d gotten fired up because he smirked, sucked on the cheroot a time or two, and settled back in the chair.
“Most people want the railroad to come in or near where they live,” Dalton pointed out, although he figured it wasn’t news to Pullman. “Railroads bring commerce and opportunities.”
“Far Creek is doing fine.” He pointed the cheroot at Dalton. “You know that my pa built this town, don’t you? There was nothing here but a trading post and a lot of dirt. Pa talked people into putting down roots here. He helped them build and lent them money so they could get started. That was before the bank opened here, you see. Pa was the bank. Pa and me built the schoolhouse. I was fourteen. I even helped choose the first schoolmarm for the place.” His eyes glinted with shabby secrets. “She was a pretty blond with freckles and only three years older than me. She lasted a year. When Pa found out I’d managed to get between her legs, he strapped me and sent her packing.” He lowered his voice and placed the side of his hand against the corner of his mouth in a conspiratorial gesture. “Pa wasn’t all that angry about it. Truth was, he got a laugh outta it and she was worth the whippin’. We went at it a few times before Pa caught on.”
Dalton didn’t crack a smile. The anecdote added another page to the sorry tome he was compiling on Junior Pullman. The more he could read the man, the more he could anticipate his actions and that would help Dalton defeat him.
The humor bled from Junior’s face. He cleared his throat, inhaled another lungful of smoke, and exhaled it a long sigh. “Anyway, Far Creek exists because of the Pullman family. Ask any merchant and he’ll tell you that he owes a hell of a lot to me. They know that I’m looking out for what I’ve built and I’m not letting any of those railroad land grabbers steal from me.” He studied the end of the cheroot a moment before his gaze slid to Dalton again. “You think you’re acting on the behalf of Far Creek?” He made a scoffing sound. “I’m Far Creek, Moon. I don’t think you understand that, but it’s a fact. No matter what that pompous peacock of a mayor told you.” He jerked a thumb at his chest. “This town is mine. When I decide to call in my chits, everyone around here will fall in line behind me and tell the railroad to vamoose.”
“Is that why you’ve asked the agents to attend the Leaguers meeting at your place? You want them to know that you control everyone in town?”
Junior switched the cheroot from one corner of his mouth to the other. “That’s right. They need to understand that they’re wasting their time. You’re invited, too, Marshal Moon. I dearly want you there.” His smile was back, crooked like him. “Think you can make it? Will you be well enough?”
“I was planning on it.”
“Oh?” He inched the brim of his hat back a bit so that more light illuminated his smug expression. “I’m delighted to hear that.” He stood and tucked a thumb in his vest pocket as he rocked back on his boot heels and looked around like a king admiring his holdings. “I’ll let you get on with . . . well, whatever you do around here.” He ambled to the door and flung it open, turning to face Dalton, who had risen from the chair. “Good luck finding out who shot you. I reckon you’re itching to hang him.”
Dalton approached him and leaned a shoulder against the doorframe. “I’d like to discuss one more thing with you, Pullman.”
Junior squinted through the smoke before removing the stogie and tossing it out onto the street. “I’m listening.”
Dalton waited until the man’s gaze met his again because he wanted his undivided attention. He kept his tone even, although his insides were taut with anger. “If I ever hear of you speaking disrespectfully of Lacy Tyrell again, I’ll punch your teeth down your throat and kick your balls until they’re black as pitch.” The hot flare of temper in Pullman’s eyes was a sweet reward.
Pullman’s off-centered smirk straightened into a hard line and his eyes grew as cold as gun metal. “I thought I could talk some sense into you, but you’re nothing but a fool.” He issued a grunt of contempt and stalked toward his tethered horse. Once in the saddle, he shot Dalton one more look of disdain before riding into the bright morning sunlight.
Dalton spit, trying to exorcise the sour taste in his mouth. Going back inside, he sat at the desk and removed his gun from its holster. Methodically, he cleaned it as he went back over Pullman’s words and actions. The impromptu visit had changed his assessment of the man. After looking in Junior Pullman’s eyes and observing every expression and every nuance, he didn’t think it was Pullman who shot him in the back, but he was certain that Pullman knew who did. Junior was a big man – behind a bush. Even had others do his ranching for him from the looks of him. Dalton had noticed that Pullman’s hands bore no scars or callouses. Did Trey take after him or had he grown a backbone? What influence, if any, did Carmella have on Junior and Trey? From what Dalton had observed already, he could tell that she was a pretty bauble in the eyes of Junior. Something else he could flash and make others envious. She’d probably brought a nice dowry with her, too.
He sighted the revolver and then loaded it. He’d go to the meeting to get a clearer picture of who was on Pullman’s side and who straddled the fence. He had a suspicion that several of the Leaguers sided with Pullman because it was easier than going against him. After the meeting, after he’d taken the measure of each man there, he’d make it clear that no one – not even Pullman – could stand in the way of progress. The men needed to get on board or get out of the way.
After sharing a Thanksgiving meal with Lacy, Otis, Bobbie Sue, Dutch, and Britta, Dalton went back to his bed in the tack room. He hated to admit it, but his wound burned and itched and he had a touch of fever. Dutch had changed the bandage and applied some salve to the stitches and puckered skin at Britta’s urging. After drinking a couple of dippers of cool water, he settled into bed and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
For the next three days, he was in his bed more than he was out of it, allowing Otis to resume his deputy duties. Lacy stopped by a couple of times, bringing him food and news of the town, most of which he barely heard. He preferred to simply watch the expressions flit across her pretty face and listen to the rise and fall of her voice. He amused himself by imagining the shape of her breasts and how they would feel in his hands. His fever had dissipated, but his fever for her had not.
The days crawled by and the date of the League mee
ting drew closer. Dalton could feel something ominous in the air like the heaviness before a rainstorm. Several of Pullman’s ranch hands had caused a little stir last night at the saloon. According to Otis, they’d gotten drunk and had fought over one of the saloon girls, but Dutch and Otis had broken it up. Otis had escorted them out of town.
After a week of convalescing, Dalton felt his health and energy return. When Dutch changed his bandage again and checked on the wound after supper that evening, he’d confirmed that the redness had faded. The skin was bruised, but no longer angry looking. Dutch figured he would remove the stitches in another week. He applied more of the salve, which kept the stitches from itching and pulling too tight.
“You going to the League meeting Saturday night?” Dutch asked.
Dalton put his shirt back on and buttoned it. “I am. How about you?”
“Nah. Got no interest in that.”
“No interest in the railroad?”
“No interest in the Leaguers and their bellyaching and threats.”
“They’ve threatened you?”
“Not outright, okay? But they’re always saying that I should fall in with them for the good of the town. Like Junior does. He lets you know what he expects and he doesn’t want any argument.”
“But you don’t owe him anything, do you, Dutch? He’s not holding anything over your head.”
“No. Not like others here. Some of the merchants owe him money and some are afraid he’ll burn them out.”
“I was told by the mayor that the merchants think he’s set fire to some of the buildings, but nobody can prove it.”
“That’s right. And it’s always someplace that belongs to someone who got on the wrong side of Junior.” Dutch’s blue eyes slid to him, full of things he wasn’t saying. “Some actions don’t need any proof. Like how day follows night or how water quenches a man’s thirst. Okay?”
