“Are you ready?”
Max stood at the doorway to the stateroom. Abby turned from the mirror. She took in his silver-threaded vest and dark jacket and thought she would never tire of looking at him. Even slouched against the door frame, he gave the appearance of a man who defied others to ignore him. She certainly found him impossible to ignore. She came over to stand in front of him, smoothing his lapels just so she could touch him. She would rather have a kiss.
“I thought we decided I would go to the game first,” she said, handing him her wrap and turning her back.
“You will,” he replied. She felt the warmth of his hands lingering on her shoulders.
“But I don’t intend for you to walk to the saloon alone.”
He turned her to face him.
“Don’t forget what I told you. If things get rough, don’t run into the streets. Head up the stairs. The girls in any one of these places will do the same to keep out of the line of fire. No one will notice you’re not one of them. I’ll come find you afterward.”
“Do you think things will get out of hand?”
He gave a small shrug.
“I can’t predict what Dillon will do. And there certainly will be others in the game over whom I have no control.”
“I know you’ll look out for me.”
* * *
Dillon wasn’t at Whitey’s Saloon when Abby arrived, but Max assured her he no doubt would be. It was where Max saw him last night. At any rate, she entered a card game so she wouldn’t be conspicuous. While it might be taboo for a woman to be in a saloon elsewhere, apparently in Golden anyone with money was welcome at a game. Or perhaps they thought she was working for the house. If so, she didn’t correct that impression, but merely smiled and asked to join the game. Of course, no one refused.
Within half an hour, she heard a voice that sent chills through her.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Miss High and Fancy.”
Dillon evicted one of the miners from his chair and sat directly to Abby’s right.
“What are you doing here? You following me?”
Abby smelled whiskey on Dillon’s breath and he swayed when he tried to sit. If he entered the game, it might be very easy to take his money.
“I like a good game of poker, Mr. Dillon, so I go where the games are played. Are you in or out?”
“I’m in, Sugar.”
He threw some money onto the table.
“I intend to get even for the other night, or get you, one way or the other.”
He called over his shoulder for a bottle of whiskey. Abby hoped Max was close at hand. She took a deep breath and smiled across the table at the dealer. Tonight they were playing Draw Poker, where the stakes were higher. It wasn’t Abby’s favorite. All five cards were dealt face down and she wasn’t able to see the playing patterns develop. She held her own through a dozen hands while Dillon continued to drink, one arm draped possessively around the saloon girl who brought him the bottle.
He didn’t look quite as groomed as the last time she’d seen him. He wore no cravat, his shirt collar was open and his coat looked as though he’d slept in it. His eyes were red-rimmed and he didn’t appear to have shaved recently. Abby sat out a hand and took time to observe the woman, who didn’t appear to mind Dillon groping her. She served drinks and provided who-knew-what services upstairs. Abby wondered why. She was far too thin, her pale blonde hair lifeless, and her eyes were the saddest Abby had ever seen. Still, she forced a gaiety into her voice, allowing Dillon to fondle her backside while he played.
“May I join your game?”
The voice came from behind her, and she shivered, too intent on the interplay between the barmaid and Dillon. She reminded herself to put her back against a wall the next time she sat at a card game. She recognized the voice before she saw the man. Her reaction to the slow southern drawl, however, was entirely different than it had been with Dillon.
“Good evening,” she said when Max took a seat across the table.
“Christ! You again?” Dillon cursed. He swung his gaze to her and his eyes narrowed.
“You two in cahoots or is he trying to protect his property? I thought all you girls were fair game.”
Abby glanced at Max and saw the very slight shake of his head. It was all the answer she needed. She continued looking at her cards and ignoring Dillon.
“I’m talking to you, woman.”
Dillon reached over and pinched her arm.
She jerked her arm away and jabbed Dillon in the cheek with her elbow. Max jumped up with his gun in his hand. She thought Dillon meant to backhand her, but the proprietor chose that moment to return from the back room and quickly got the situation under control.
“If you want to fight, do it outside,” stated Mr. White.
Abby had not previously met Mr. White, and only knew his name through Max. She was pleasantly surprised when she heard his cultured accent.
“We may be a mining town, but we don’t have to act like we have no manners.” He nodded at her. “Ma’am.”
He signaled for the dealer to leave and took the man’s place, assuring those at the table he meant to make them behave. Shortly after, Dillon began losing heavily. The more he lost, the more he drank.
Unfortunately, he also became rougher with the girl at his side. At one point, he cursed and pushed her off his lap so abruptly that she landed on her backside on the floor. Several of the men at the table laughed. Apparently, Mr. White had seen enough.
“Perhaps you should call it a night, sir. You can always come back another time.”
“You can’t kick me out. Hell, I’ve got plenty of money and more where that came from.”
He took a swig of whiskey before tossing his bet into the center of the table.
“’Sides, I’ve got investments and merchandise worth thousands,” he slurred. Abby’s heart beat double time. She stole a quick glance at Max, who was watching Dillon intently. Dare she taunt him? Was he too far gone with drink to comprehend if she asked him outright?
“That does put a different light on the matter, Mr. Dillon. You must be quite good at managing your money.”
The man snorted, his whiskey-laden breath enough to make her feel faint.
“More like other people are gullible and don’t keep very good books.”
Dillon was far too drunk to be playing cards, for he held his hand out far enough for her to see there was only a pair of threes. He bet on them anyway, requested three new cards and ended with nothing to improve his hand. She folded, having tried for a flush but getting four hearts and a spade. When the man across the table scooped in the pot, Dillon scraped back his chair and stumbled to his feet, mumbling under his breath.
“Can’t win a friggin’ hand at this rat trap. Might as well head for Central City.”
He turned blurry eyes on Abby. She shifted her gaze away, but not before she saw his leer.
“You’ll get what’s coming to you,” he whispered close to her ear.
“Star, get your skinny ass over here!”
At his shout, the saloon girl hurried over. He wrapped an arm around her thin shoulders and staggered toward the stairs. Abby watched them go, feeling sorry for the girl who felt compelled to sell her body for a living. She wondered if she’d also sold her soul.
“May I escort you back to your lodgings, Miss O’Brien?”
Max was at her side, pulling back her chair. The other men at the table stood awkwardly when she rose to leave. Apparently there were still some manners left in the rough mining town. When they returned to the Pullman car, Abby insisted on taking a bath.
“It’s three in the morning,”
Max protested when she began filling the tub with water.
“I don’t think I can sleep with the stench of liquor and smoke covering me, not to mention where Dillon grabbed me.”
She wasn’t about to give in, and presented her back for him to unbutton her dress. As the thin sleeves slid down her shoulders, Max’s warm hand
s replaced them. She crossed her arms over her breasts to keep the dress in place. Max turned her toward him. Concern etched his brow as he searched her face.
“Are you all right?”
She felt much better by his side. She only wished they were together because of the feelings between them and not because they were searching for a killer. She stepped closer, wrapping her arms around his waist.
“Abby.”
He whispered her name, and she knew she would hear his voice in her dreams. He caressed her back, then all too quickly set her away from him.
“Kiss me?” A kiss would take away the images of Dillon groping the girl named Star. But Max just shook his head, and gave her a gentle smile.
“You have only ten minutes in that tub before I come in after you. If I leave you any longer, you’ll probably fall asleep and drown.”
He touched her check softly with one finger then closed the door quietly behind him.
* * *
Max ordered the Pullman coupled the next morning, and before noon they were heading back through the mountains to Denver. Abby protested. He shook his head, refusing to relent.
“Dillon said he was going to Central City,” e told her.
“He as much as admitted having swindled a bookkeeper, and I would bet my reputation that he’s talking about Jerome Smith. Even if he isn’t, the man deserves to be put in prison. But we need to return to Denver first.”
“Why can’t we go directly to Central City?”
He didn’t miss her use of the word we.
“Abby, you are not going there. The railroad hasn’t been built that far, and I’ll have to get there by horse. The trails aren’t even good enough for a buggy.”
“That’s quite all right. I rode all the time in Boston. I’ll just need to purchase some different clothes.”
Max frowned. He’d come to the conclusion that Abby felt responsible for his safety and thought he needed looking after. Even though he was the one who was supposed to safeguard her. Rather than make him angry that she thought him incompetent, it caused a warm feeling in the vicinity of his heart. He was becoming very used to that feeling. He knew it would be useless to disagree with her. Not only did he realize he would probably lose any argument he posed, but he didn’t want to leave Abby at his aunt’s. He hated the thought of being away from her for any length of time. Max was hooked but good. He frowned.
* * *
If Max thought giving Abby only two days to get ready would make her decide to stay in Denver, he underestimated her. She was ready in one. She stood in the aisle at Joslin’s and sorted through piles of flannel shirts while she listened to him give his order to Mr. Penney. He laughed at something the other man said. A shiver of delight raced through her. She wished he would laugh more often. She knew his job was of a serious nature but that shouldn’t prohibit him from enjoying life.
Her hand paused over a pile of canvas trousers stacked neatly next to the flannel shirts. She owned only one split riding skirt and needed another set of clothes for the trip. Lifting a pair from the pile, she shook them and held them to her waist. She peeked around the shelf to where Max stood at the end of the aisle. Her gaze slid over the slim lines of his buttocks and his long legs, encased in dark trousers. A streak of heat went through her.
Just looking at him caused her heart to do queer things, and when he touched her… She closed her eyes and allowed her imagination to run wild. What would it be like if he made love to her? She just knew there was something beyond where he’d already taken her, but he held steadfast to his control. Perhaps if she told him how she felt about him?
“Are you ready?”
She turned to him, hand over said heart.
“Would you please stop doing that? You are going to give me a faint heart.”
He grinned at her distraction.
“But you’re as cute as a bug’s ear when you get all pink and flustered, Miss O’Brien,”
He spoke low in O’Flagherty’s Irish lilt. The sweet cadence of his voice kept her heart racing.
“You wouldn’t think so if you were to lift me from the floor where I dropped over in a dead faint again,” she returned, even though she tried very hard to keep from smiling. He cocked a brow.
“It’s acceptable to faint when you get shot. You’re pretty tough under the circumstances.”
She was inordinately pleased with the compliment.
“What’s that?” He pointed to the trousers she still clutched in her hands.
She held them up for his inspection. He frowned and opened his mouth, no doubt to protest, but she cut him off.
“These will certainly be more comfortable than a corset and bustle while riding.”
He snorted, and she glared at him before walking to the counter to pay Mr. Penney. He didn’t say another word until they were riding in the buggy back to Garland House.
“You’re not wearing those, so I don’t see why you bought them.”
“Why ever not? You do.”
“I’m a man. Of course I wear trousers.”
“Women should be able to dress as they please and in that which feels comfortable. Ladies should not let men dictate fashion. In fact, I must remember to write that into my rules for independent women.”
Max guffawed. “You will never see that day.”
“If I’m not mistaken, it has already occurred. Amelia Jenks Bloomer even appeared in public with a blousy pant which she wore under a short skirt.”
“And who is this paragon of woman’s fashion?”
She thought for a moment, trying to recall what she had read about Mrs. Bloomer.
“She was a publisher and an advocate of women’s rights in the early 1850s.”
Max groaned beside her. “Is there no end to your list of tyrannical women trying to usurp the rights of men?”
“We are not usurping your rights.”
She emphasized the plural to make sure Max understood that she included herself in the category of suffragists.
“We simply want you to understand that those rights are not sovereign to men. Certain rights should be shared by both men and women.”
She started in surprise when he pulled the horse to a halt in the middle of the thoroughfare. He reached over and caught the back of her neck with his big hand and pulled her to him. His mouth covered hers, and she never even thought to protest. The kiss was, like all Max’s kisses, hot and hard and totally possessive. She leaned into him, silently willing him to give her more. He broke the kiss, giving her a wolfish grin. Regaining the reins, he clucked the horse into motion.
“You are absolutely right, Miss O’Brien. Some things are meant to be shared.”
* * *
“It would be easier to use flint and steel,” Abby commented.
They had only been on the trail for one day and she was already driving him to distraction.
“It would be easier if these damn matches would work.” Max swore when he broke yet another of the flimsy sticks trying to start a fire.
“One of my rules for self-sufficient women is that they should be able to start a fire in the absence of the new phosphorus matches. They don’t tend to be reliable.”
Max ground his teeth, trying to concentrate on the task at hand. It was impossible.
Abby bent over to pick up a stone and the material of her riding skirt clung to her curves and outlined her hips. His mouth went dry and other body parts turned rock hard. There was something about having Abby alone in the wilderness. All his male instincts urged him to protect, to provide and even to propagate. It was as though they were the only two people on earth and… His thoughts were interrupted when she hiked her skirt above her knee.
Her short riding boots covered her ankles and cotton stockings outlined trim legs. His gaze followed the course of her hand above her knee, where a garter held her stocking in place. He was caught totally off guard when she slid a small dagger from a sheath tied beneath that garter. He didn’t move. He doubted he could if a mountain
lion pounced on him at that very moment. Only his gaze tracked her progress.
She knelt opposite him by the pile of kindling, stuffing a handful of dried pine needles and bark in between the sticks. She struck the back of the knife against the rock. Sparks flew, and within moments, a small flame started. She fed smaller sticks into the fire until the flame was big enough to catch a larger limb. Sparks shot into the night air. She rocked back on her fanny and crossed her legs beneath her.
From the first day they’d met, Max thought he knew Abby. After all, she was a female and he had sisters and a stepmother. Yet she continued to surprise him. He sat beside her now and watched the fire. Red-yellow tongues of heat lapped at the dry timber.
“Which of the fearsome four told you to carry around a knife?” he asked.
“Every woman should be able to protect herself.”
“Why not use your derringer? A knife is a very close weapon, and a man could overpower you.”
“It is unfortunate, but usually by the time a woman realizes she’s in danger from a man, she’s already in very close proximity.”
“From a man? Do all your feminists regard men as the only dangers to be avoided and dealt with in such ruthless manner?”
She tilted her head, the fire glittering in her eyes.
“Women use words against other women. Physical danger usually comes from a male, who would rather manhandle a woman than call her a name. You saw how Dillon treated that girl. It’s always easier to understand what a woman will do.”
“Did a man hurt you, Abby?” he asked quietly. She’d sounded like she spoke from experience.
Love in Disguise Page 20