by Addison Cain
He blinked, he stared, and for some reason he couldn’t pin, Charlie blushed all the harder.
Warm fingers wrapped the sprain in a long strip of cloth, taking care to minimize her hurts. All the while, she watched him work, Matthew under the impression her hooded eyes were counting the scars on his chest.
She spoke, and his ears went red as her cheeks. “I shouldn’t be surprised you’re good at this. You seem to have a knack for taking care of your fool kin.”
Matthew said nothing, instead he rose, standing over her for a full count of ten. It wasn’t like he meant to be loomin’, but he couldn’t move, now with her eyes wide. Not with that vulnerable look on her face.
She needed tending, and a chair by the fire wouldn’t do.
Slipping his arms under her body, Matthew hefted her against his chest. Charlie threw her arms around his neck, jumping as if she thought he might drop her. “What are you doing?”
“Puttin’ you to bed.” He stared forward, determined to get her up the stairs.
On the pitch-black second floor, an unseen door whined. Three more steps forward, and Matthew knelt to place her on his still warm mattress. After pulling a quilt over her rigid form, he climbed behind her, then turned so they lay back to back.
“Ummm, you should…” Matthew cleared his throat, offering instruction as if teaching her how to fry an egg. “You better put your hurt foot up on my leg to keep it elevated while you sleep.”
Under the warmth of his quilt, the tense golden girl complied, resting her sore ankle on his calf. She even mumbled a sweet, “Thank you, Matthew.”
It was sheer torture for him. She was so soft, her back pressed to his, her legs naked and… Jesus Christ, he was rock hard again. In a last ditch effort to distract himself from the way she smelled, or how smooth the skin of her ankle had been, Matthew asked, “Al Capone really shoot you?”
Charlie took a drowsy breath, offering a half-awake, “Mmmhmmm. Wearing a fancy three-piece suit and the shiniest shoes I had ever seen.” Letting out a sleepy yawn, she added, “I was thirteen.”
He grunted, shifting instinctively closer to her shivering.
Chapter 5
By the time dawn arrived, Matthew had turned in his sleep, his arms wrapped tightly around the golden girl. Drawing in a deep breath, the man froze, the scent of warm things, the unaccountable feeling of his nose and lips pressed to soft hair, snapping him out of what had been one very peaceful moment. Realizing what he’d done—what he was doing—pale eyes went wide.
Mortified Charlie would wake up to find him all over her, he uncurled, moving as if he might set off a landmine. Easing out of bed, watching for signs of disturbance, Matthew found he couldn’t help but think it nice to see her natural—to see the telling scar on her lower lip usually hidden under rouge.
After dressing quiet as a church mouse, he made his way downstairs, anticipating that Eli would come bounding through the back door any minute now demanding breakfast.
Matthew was kept waiting.
By the time his cousin decided to grace the grill with his presence, it was obvious what had caused his delay. Grinning madly, a half-awake Nathaniel was in tow behind the kid.
“Well, I’ll be. When Eli came running to tell me there was lady clothes hanging on your back porch, Matthew, I just had to come see it for myself.” Nathaniel wasn’t even half sober, but he sure was sly enough to rile up his brother. “I’m certain I recognize that dress. Must’ve taken a goddamn miracle to get her into your bed.”
Eli snorted a laugh.
“Lower your goddamn voice before she hears you.” Matthew thumped down his coffee, splashing the clean counter with pitch black brew. “Charlotte was run off the road yesterday and got stuck walking in the storm. Heard her pounding on my door in the middle of the night, half frozen and hurt. She’s sleeping now, and I swear to God, if you wake her up and embarrass her, I’ll wring your fuckin’ necks.”
Instantly abashed, Nathaniel’s smile slipped. “She all right?”
“Sprained ankle’s all.” Matthew glared at Eli. “Make breakfast, then you two jackasses go find her car and pull it out of the ditch it’s stuck in.”
Nathaniel took to sucking down what coffee was left on the stove, Eli going about his business, ears red, and looking guilty.
In no time flat, the boys ran out to do as they were told.
When two hours had passed, Matthew was certain Charlotte would be waking soon. The woman probably hadn’t eaten the night before and must have walked pretty far if the time it was taking his kin to return was any sign. She would be half-starved. Setting his chores aside, Matthew fired up the grill, and went to get the special tea he’d purchased at the general store—the flashy brand he’d picked up the day after he’d hurt Charlotte’s feelings.
Tray in hand, he climbed the steps. Matthew found her still sleeping, sprawled on her belly, one arm reaching to where his body had been.
Clearing his throat, he tried to wake her. “Miss Elliot.”
Charlie pressed her face into the pillow and groaned. He was about to leave when he heard her grumble, “For God’s sake, Matthew, would you please start calling me Charlie?”
He set the tray on the bedside table, watching her turn over and peep up at him through her messy hair. “Thought you might be hungry.”
Sleepy eyes sharpened. With a grin, Charlie sat up. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather I ate downstairs? I don’t want to get crumbs in your bed.”
“S’alright.” Trying not to stare where her shoulder peeked out of his nightshirt, Matthew said, “Your dress ain’t dry yet. It’s best you stay up here and rest your ankle in the meantime.”
He’d brought her quite a spread—flapjacks, eggs, bacon—more than she’d ever be able to eat. There was even a steaming cup of tea she smiled over. Tray in her lap, she called for him before he shuffled off. “Matthew?”
Pausing at the door, he threw her a glance.
Bottom lip caught between her teeth, it seemed she’d changed her mind about talking, but just as he was about to turn she blurted out, “Could I copy down a few of your recipes? Not any Emerson family secrets, mind you, just the simple ones. I... I like your cooking.”
Ears turning red, he made some low, unintelligible mutter and shut the door.
* * *
At least she’d tried... but talking to that man was damn near impossible.
So Charlie ate. When she had all but licked the plate clean, she lay back on the pillow, awful sleepy again, and stared about the lackluster room.
Her room at the boarding house wasn’t showy, but it was a far sight nicer than this. Flaked plaster walls, sparse spindle furnishings. Aside from the quilt on his bed, there were no decorations. No curtains, no rug—nothing.
The room was downright spartan.
The man’s bootlegging brought in a pretty penny, but he certainly didn’t spend it on himself. Unsure why it made her feel bad, Charlie shut her eyes, humming at the comfortable feeling of a full belly and the sweetness of syrup on her tongue.
When she woke again, the tray was gone and the small suitcase she’d left in her car sat in its place. After pulling on a fresh dress, she stumbled to the lavatory. One look at herself and Charlie rolled her eyes. She did her best to smooth her fluffy hair, brushed her teeth, pinched her cheeks, and covered up her scar with rouge. The effort was wasted; the woman in the mirror still looked like something the cat had dragged home.
Hobbling to the top of the stairs, luggage in hand, Charlie climbed down one step at a time. The downstairs chattering lunch crowd covered her cursing each time her ankle twinged, but it didn’t camouflage the angry, stomping footsteps of one irate Matthew barreling down on her.
He snatched her suitcase out of her hand. “You crazy, woman? You’ll break your neck going down the stairs with a bum foot and heavy bag.”
Charlie waved him off. “Matthew, I can manage just fine.”
There was a snap to his words, an edge of irritated s
arcasm. “Miss Charlotte, if you could manage just fine, you wouldn’t have been bangin’ on my door last night.”
The room went quiet. One mortified glance up and Charlie found every last customer staring right at her.
As if pleased he’d managed to get her to shut her mouth, Matthew slid an arm around her waist, hitching her up before she might yap. He carried her right back to the same seat by the fire, and put her down like she was made of glass. Expression daring her to so much as speak a word, another chair was yanked forward and set down with a thud before Matthew gestured that either she could prop up her ankle, or he’d do it for her—in front of the whole room.
Eli stood slack-jawed, Nathaniel smart enough to not make a peep—not that anyone was speaking. Everyone was just plain gawking.
Matthew’s disapproving eyes left Charlotte’s pinkened cheeks and ran over the men gathered, a glare warning that each of them had their own business to mind. When that weighty gaze got to Eli, Matthew barked, “Watch the grill,” then left, letting the screen bang shut behind him.
Nathaniel followed him right out.
Eli broke the awful silence, stepping closer with an unsteady smile. “We found your car. Uh, the front axle got busted when you ran into the ditch.” That car wasn’t going anywhere until repaired. “Sorry.”
Muttering under her breath, embarrassment turned to far more comfortable frustration. “Who names a road Devil’s Hollow anyway? That damn stretch keeps trying to kill me.”
Seeing she was upset, Eli offered a small bit of reassurance. “I can fix it for you, Miss Charlie, but it’ll take me a few days. Till then, I’m afraid you’ll have to walk.” Stupidly, he looked down at her ankle. “I mean, well…”
Charlie slumped back and smirked. “I catch your meaning, Eli.”
“If you like—” Eli reached towards a nearby table and snatched the day’s newspaper. “—read while you rest up. When Matthew gets back, I’ll drive you home.”
Charlie took the offered paper, not at all happy with the idea of being trapped at the roadhouse.
Lunch ended and the grill grew empty, not that Charlie noticed. She kept her head in the paper, reading every damn article, and was about to toss the dumb thing aside when a meaty finger tapped her shoulder.
A group of ragged men, faces worse for wear, stood abashed, the Emerson brothers fierce behind them.
“Excuse me, Miss Elliot, but me and my boys here would like to apologize,” the eldest of the group lisped, his bloodied lip and backwoods accent butchering the words. “You see, Miss, we didn’t mean to run you off the road. It was an accident. But, uhhh,” the older man swallowed and clearly didn’t want to finish the statement, “we’ll pay to fix your car.”
Charlie was not amused. “That’s very gentlemanly of you, Mr.?”
“Grimes, ma’am.”
“Mr. Grimes.” She stood from her chair and offered a hand. When the man took it in his dirty paw, she wrapped her fingers around his and began to squeeze. “I have the distinct impression that if Nathaniel and Matthew here hadn’t kindly informed you of my situation, you would never have taken the time to find out just who you nearly killed last night.” Her grip tightened, grinding bone, the man trying to jerk his hand away.
Charlie’s voice grew deadly. “Damn straight you’ll pay to fix my car.” Pumping their fists in the mockery of a handshake, she dropped his greasy palm. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”
“All right. Now git,” Matthew ordered, waving towards the door with his hat.
The old man complained. “But we ain’t got our truck.”
Arms flexing, Matthew crossed them over his chest. “You can walk just like the lady did.”
Not looking for another beating, the four men got the hell out. But when that screen shut, Charlie flat out guffawed, slapping her thigh and looking to the heavens. “Was that your idea of Monroe justice?”
“Yeah,” Matthew confirmed deadpan, only to see her laugh even harder.
“And y’all wonder why I like it here so much.” Hobbling towards the bar, Charlie grabbed a towel and got it wet. Facing Matthew, she wiped a bit of blood spatter from his forehead. “I’m not really sure if I should be honored you two did what you did, or angry that you took it upon yourselves to fight my battles for me. But my gut tells me to say thank you. So, thank you.”
The man kept his eyes closed and brow furrowed as she cleaned him up, disappointed when the touch on his face ended. But then she took his hands and dabbed at dirty knuckles, mindful that they might be sore from cracking skulls.
When it was Nathaniel’s turn, the man backed away from her towel. “Ain’t no way you’re coming after me with that.”
Charlie cocked a brow. “It would do you some good. How long’s it been since you took a bath?”
Nathaniel defended himself. “We went swimming two weeks back.”
The look Matthew gave his brother would have sent a smaller man running.
Making a face, Nathaniel groused, “We wasn’t naked, Matthew.”
Charlie turned her back and limped towards the washroom so she might clean the soiled linen.
* * *
Once her skirt disappeared behind the corner, Matthew raised his finger, ready to lay into Nathaniel.
Before he could begin his reprimand, the screen whined.
Matthew was already fuming, but taking one look at what slithered into his home unannounced, darkened his eyes considerably.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Emerson.” Jacky Brindle, a slimeball straight out of Chicago, crossed the threshold.
Nathaniel, far more obvious in his anger, stood tall at his brother’s shoulder, unsmiling and silent.
It was Eli who thought to calm the tension. He offered a hand. “What brings you out here, Mr. Brindle?”
“Just passing through.”
“That right?” Matthew stepped nearer, looking over the polished gangster and the four men who’d made the hours-long drive at Brindle’s back. “Well, we ain’t open.”
Jacky was older, leaner, but unlike the Emersons, he was armed. “Since I’m here, Mr. Radcliffe thought I might make sure things are running right. You sure have been bringing in a lot of product; wouldn’t want you to get in over your heads...”
“I’m gonna warn you once. Tell your boss if he’s thinking of moving on in, he’s gonna be disappointed.”
As if he hadn’t heard a word of the threat, Jacky continued, “He’s offering further partnership—our expertise in oversight.”
No flashy three-piece suit could hide what those men were: killers. Killers sent by a Chicago Kingpin who thrived on greed and violence. Radcliffe thought to take a greater piece of the pie—to intimidate, steal his stills, probably end his life too, if Matthew let the villain get even a toe in the door.
Matthew, towering over the lanky gangster, threatened, “You tell Beaumont Radcliffe I don’t fuck around. If he sends his lapdogs out to sniff around again, the deal’s off. There are plenty of other buyers waiting in Chicago with better manners, I hear.”
“I’ll pass that message forward. In the meantime, we’ll just, ah, take a rest.” Jacky took a drag off his cigarette. “Won’t we boys?”
* * *
Charlie came back in the room.
All eyes went to her, Jacky taking the moment’s distraction to cock his head towards the nearest table so his goons might take a seat.
Acting as if she’d seen nothing, Charlie went to her suitcase. That room, Matthew’s business, was no place for her, and it was clear as day he wanted her to disappear.
“Eli, give Miss Charlotte your keys.”
Obeying, the boy stepped forward and swept up her suitcase, setting off for the door to put it in the car instead of offering an arm to help her manage her ankle.
Knowing neither Matthew nor Nathaniel could budge from where they stood, Charlie gave a nod goodbye, shuffling towards the door.
It all would have been fine, everything dandy, except one of Jacky’s goons r
eached out and swatted her on the rump as she passed.
Her snarl, the feral bark, cut through male tittering before it was overshadowed by the crack of her hand landing hard on the offender’s cheek.
The Chicago outfit burst out laughing, but the goon she’d struck thought to stand from his chair. Before he might lay another hand on her, Charlie’s forearm flew. She struck him right in the throat. When he buckled over, gasping, up went her knee straight into his groin.
His compatriots shuffled back, chairs squeaking as they stood. All eyes were on the blonde who’d tackled a grown man, raining blow after blow on his face.
Snarling, he reached for his gun. Charlie snatched it right out of his grip, the barrel glancing the top of her head. As she cocked the piece and prepared to kill, an arm came around her middle.
Yanked back against a hard body, snarling, kicking like mad, Charlie went wild.
A voice at her ear came to pacify. “Calm down, spitfire.” Matthew hushed her even as he yanked the gun from Charlie’s fingers and pointed it straight at Jacky Brindle’s skull.
Jacky was stricken, nervously adjusting his tie, looking between a man poised to kill him and the older brother shouldering a shotgun he’d grabbed from behind the bar. Even Eli had been wise enough to take the pistol from his Ford, pointing it at the goons’ backs when he’d run back at the first sign of trouble.
“Mr. Emerson—”
Matthew tightened his grip on the female tornado, ignored her efforts to get free, and spoke so calmly it was chilling. “I think it’s time y’all packed up and took that sorry sack of shit with ya.”
Unsure what to do, the men began to back away, Jacky nodding.
Charlie called, “Jacky B.” Her voice drawled sharp and dangerous, her accent lilting and nasal in mimic of his. “Since that man there ain’t gonna be able to speak for a while, you go tell Beaumont Radcliffe to see me personally and ask forgiveness real sweet like. If he’s got a problem with that, tell him I said, caw.”
