“You objecting to my company?” Landry asked, half feigning innocence.
“I never could abide a skunk standing too close to me.”
Landry’s head snapped around. His grin faded as he stiffened at the insult. “You’re meanin’ me, I take it?”
“You’re a helluva lot smarter than I thought you were if you figured that out already,” Pierce drawled slowly, taking a long, slow drink from his glass.
Landry’s chin went out in an aggressive thrust. Something dark flickered in his eyes as he glanced past Pierce to the man who had put a bullet through his shoulder two years ago.
“I suppose you think I’m going to move just because you want me to?” Landry asked Pierce, a nasty smirk curling his lips.
“Just that,” Pierce informed the man in a cool, even voice.
The men closest to them had gone still now. Those becoming aware of the confrontation were watching to see where it was leading.
“Why, I could knock you straight to hell before you could even blink,” Landry said.
“There’s nothing to stop you from trying,” Pierce taunted.
“Why, you . . . ” Landry’s voice broke in a snarl while he drew his fist back. Patience was not one of his virtues. If he had any.
Pierce acted swiftly and his fist crashed against Landry’s jaw with a force that sent him staggering back to one of the gambling tables behind him. Landry went for Pierce again, but because Landry was so drunk, Pierce easily evaded his fist and gave the man another blow to the face.
In a blind rage Landry drew his gun from the holster at his hip. In an instant, it seemed, Jesse’s hand was around Landry’s wrist, forcing his gun hand down with a grip like iron.
“Put the gun away,” Jesse said, an edge of steel lowering his voice.
Furious but impotent, Landry realized, even through the whiskey haze, that he didn’t stand a chance. Not with his fists or his gun. Like all bullies and men who beat on women, deep down he was a coward at heart.
“Gentlemen, we don’t want to spoil tonight’s festivities with a drunken brawl.” It was Brent Marsten speaking. “I’m sure everyone wants to avoid gunplay,” he went on smoothly, stepping forward. “Let me buy you all another drink and we can forget our differences and go on celebrating.”
The scene held for several moments longer. Landry, eyes narrowed on Jesse with a hatred that was plain to anyone watching, gave a last malignant look at Pierce before he finally put his gun away. Brent Marsten nodded to the bartender while Landry grabbed up his half empty bottle of whiskey and left the saloon.
The cold look in Pierce’s eyes didn’t change as he continued to regard Marsten. “Reckon I’m through drinking here,” he said to Jesse as he, too, left the saloon.
Chapter 17
After the incident in the saloon, Jesse decided it would be a good idea to ride back to the Circle I with Pierce and the other men. Pierce’s run-in with Rafe Landry wasn’t the only thing on his mind. In those brief moments when Pierce and Marsten had looked at each other, something had passed between the two men, something that had been unmistakably hostile.
Pierce knew something about Marsten. Jesse had also seen something else in Marsten’s narrowed eyes as he watched Pierce leave the saloon, something that made Jesse feel better about riding along tonight.
All of the Circle I men were very drunk. One of them was singing a song to his horse. As they neared the ranch and were crossing the creek, Pierce leaned forward, clutched at the saddle horn but missed it and pitched headlong into the water.
There were shouts of laughter as Pierce came up sputtering. One of the men asked Pierce if he was trying to wash his sins away or if he just decided he needed a bath.
“Reckon I need ‘em both,” Pierce laughed as he dragged himself up the creek bank and stood there reeling. “Lord, but it was a long way t’ th’ ground,” he declared. “When did th’t danged horse g’t so tall? An’ where’n hell did he go?” he wanted to know as he squinted into the darkness.
“I’ll take care of your horse, Pierce,” Jesse said, grinning. To the other men he said, “Somebody better escort him to the bunkhouse so he can get some sleep.”
Jesse unsaddled Pierce’s horse and turned it into the pasture. He glanced up at the house. He frowned and shook his head. He was not exactly presenting to the world the image of a dangerous outlaw by sharing pie and molasses cookies with Hetty. Or petting kittens with her. Or dancing with her.
He sighed aloud. There were some things a man could anticipate. But this was not one of them.
Hetty swallowed the whiskey down so quickly that her throat burned like hot coals. How did men drink this stuff? she wondered. She steeled herself, however, and managed another two swallows. Her Uncle Zeb took a drink now and then when he needed to unwind. And she definitely needed to unwind.
She finished the whiskey and set the glass down on the table. Hard. Defiantly. She would drink whenever she wished. And she would dance with whomever she chose to. Brent had no right to confront her about drinking champagne or dancing with Jesse or anything else for that matter. She hadn’t even had a taste of champagne. A cowboy had bumped into her and spilled the entire contents of her glass down another man’s shirt.
She returned the whisky bottle to the shelf on the back porch, opened the door and stepped down into the darkness. It was quiet now, but earlier she had heard the cowboys coming back from town, obviously full of whiskey themselves.
Well, there. Cowboys could drink. Amiline and Lieta could drink. Brent had not been without a drink in his hand all night. Why should she be expected to behave any differently? If Brent were standing before her right now, she would raise a glass of whiskey in a toast for women’s liberation, just as Amiline had done earlier, and defiantly drink it down right in front of him. Every drop.
Restless, she walked across the yard, stopped at the corral and leaned against the top board of the fence. It was a beautiful night. Too beautiful to stay inside. She tilted her head back and looked up at the sky. It was full of stars. Millions of them glittered above the trees. The moon was out, too, adding its magic to the night.
She listened to the crickets and the frogs, watched the dark shapes of the horses moving about in the corral and, turning, gave a startled gasp. She recognized the man immediately. Jesse had just stepped out of the deep shadows of the barn.
He had stopped short as if she had surprised him as well. After a few moments of silence, he explained to her that he had ridden back with the others and was seeing to Pierce’s horse.
“I could hear them from the house,” she said. “I’m surprised they found their way back.”
“Yeah,” he breathed. “They were in a pretty festive mood.”
The moon was lighting his face, the shadows accentuating the bold, masculine lines of his chin and jaw.
“You’re up late,” he said.
“Yes, I- ” she hesitated a moment, just now starting to feel the effects of the whiskey. “I couldn’t sleep and it’s a good night for star gazing.”
“There seem to be a lot of them out tonight,” he agreed, sending his gaze up to the star-strewn sky.
“Yes,” she said, pointing. “There’s Polaris, the north star. And Cassiopeia.”
But while she was identifying constellations, he was looking at the soft contour of her lips and the way her hair caught the moonlight.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed.
He agreed and with an effort tore his gaze away from her. He had a job to do, he reminded himself. And star gazing with Hetty was not part of the plan.
A horse nickered in the corral. The moon retreated behind the clouds, throwing them into sudden darkness.
Hetty was aware of the impropriety of being out here alone with Jesse. The hour was late. She knew she should go back to the house, but she couldn’t seem to summon the will to do so.
Jesse was standing close to her in the darkness. A strange sensitivity, a heightened awareness of his presence ran along her skin, brought
all her senses to life.
“Did your guests enjoy themselves tonight?” she heard him ask.
“They did,” she replied. “In spite of all the gossip.”
He looked at her. “I suspect we were the subject of some of that gossip.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” she said, closing her eyes for a moment as the warmth of the whiskey flowed through her veins. She wondered what the gossips would say if they could see her standing here alone in the dark with a man whose reputation was questionable at best.
I suppose if Evalia can stand it, I can, too, she said to herself. She dared a sidelong glance up at him. “Men don’t have to worry as much about reputations,” she said.
“Men acquire bad reputations, too,” he reminded her.
“But men are allowed much more freedom in acquiring them,” she pointed out, wondering if the whiskey was making her talk outright about such things. “A woman doesn’t have half the freedom a man has.”
“You’re probably right there,” he conceded.
Society placed a good many restraints on women, Hetty thought. Let a woman dare to take one step beyond those restraints and other women were perfectly willing to tear her to shreds. Evalia was a perfect example. And there were plenty of men, too, who were just as intolerant. Brent had been furious because she had danced with Jesse. She wondered what Brent would say if he could see her now.
“The truth is that most men are applauded for being a little- wild,” she said, watching his face as he turned and leaned his back against the fence. “A man can drink to his heart’s content,” she went on. “A man can frequent saloons, smoke cigars, fight, gamble and never have to answer to anyone for his actions. He can come and go as he pleases while a woman can’t go anywhere in this world without a chaperone. Even being here alone with you would be looked upon as being very- improper,” she said, frowning as she tried, for a moment, to clear her head.
“We have been alone before,” he reminded her quietly.
“I can assure you I have been lectured on my behavior on more than one occasion,” she said. “Well-bred ladies are not supposed to be in the least bit impulsive,” she mocked, repeating the words she’d heard over and over again at the school in Boston.
A sudden wind moved through the leaves around them, stirring her unbound curls.
Jesse nodded slowly. “I have been impulsive myself.” He looked at her and added, “With you.”
He knew their conversation was taking a dangerous path. But as he looked down into her face so exquisitely defined by moonlight and shadow, as he stared at the full, sensuous mouth that he had once tasted, he realized now that one taste hadn’t been nearly enough.
“It was- “ There was a slight catch in her voice. “A long time ago.”
“Not so long ago that I don’t remember.”
It was a damned foolish thing to say. But he couldn’t seem to help himself.
Hetty’s hand closed around the wooden fence rail before her as she recalled the moment of passion they had shared. Passion? Oh, yes. It had definitely been passionate. There was no other word to describe what they had shared. Could anyone blame her for remembering?
She was searching for something to say when his hand lifted to rest on the rail beside hers. Close. So close that at that moment, whatever it was that she might have said flew right out of her head, got lost somewhere among the stars.
“Not time enough to forget,” he said and there was a husky quality in his voice now. He reached to touch one long curl that fell over her shoulder. “I’m still remembering.”
His hand went still. He shook his head, trying to summon up some semblance of reason. But reason, it seemed, was as far away as the stars.
He released the tendril of hair and trailed his fingers lightly down her cheek. As he gently lifted her chin, she looked up into eyes that reflected the moonlight and the stars and the depths of the sky.
He leaned closer. “But in case you don’t . . . ” His voice was soft, drawing her irresistibly.
Hetty’s lips parted in breathless anticipation. Instinctively. She could not have moved if her life depended upon it. She waited.
As the other one had, the kiss began gently. But the kiss quickly deepened. Hetty was barely aware of Jesse’s hand fitting itself to the curve of her waist. Or her own hands finding their way to his chest. But those things happened. And then, as she had done once before, she slid her arms around his neck. Jesse drew back from the kiss, almost as if he were struggling for a moment. But as she leaned against his hard-muscled body, his mouth raked across hers, briefly, before it claimed her eager lips once again.
This kiss was far more devastating than the other had been. It went on and on and seemed to sear a path straight down to her soul. Hetty returned the kiss, never wanting it to end.
But it did end. Suddenly. Abruptly. Hetty stood dazed as Jesse stepped away from her.
She slowly opened her eyes. Her heart was still pounding wildly. Just beyond the haze that enveloped her senses, she heard her uncle’s voice.
“Hetty, there you are.”
She didn’t reply, didn’t trust her voice at that moment. She didn’t know if it was Jesse or the whiskey that made her knees feel so weak that she wasn’t sure she could stand on her own let alone speak words and have them make any kind of logical sense.
Jesse spoke for them both. Apparently he wasn’t as affected as she was. He was able to converse easily with her uncle on subjects that Hetty would later find impossible to recall. But there was a moment, during a pause in the conversation, when their eyes met and she saw, for a moment in the moonlight, the raw, barely-concealed hunger still simmering in Jesse’s eyes. For her.
The man people called Brent Marsten lifted his glass to his lips and drained the amber-colored liquid in one swallow. His arm shot out and he captured the bottle on the desk. He poured another generous portion of whiskey.
His jacket was off. His tie was undone. He leaned deliberately back in the big leather chair, frowning as he nursed his thoughts along with the whiskey in his hand.
For a long time now he had been sitting before the big bay window watching the wide main street of Eminence. He had seen the buggy that had taken Hetty and the other women back to the Circle I.
The curtains of his office were open but there were no lights lit. Only the moonlight cast its reflection on the glass in his hand. There was a tension in him that the whiskey had not been able to release. His scowl deepened and he turned his head as the door opened.
Amiline stepped into the room. Her hair was down. The dark mass of it was hanging in disorderly curls over her shoulders. Her eyes skitted over him for a moment before she shifted her gaze to look beyond the window.
“Come,” he ordered. “Sit.”
Amiline seated herself in a chair beside the desk and waited. Brent grabbed the bottle beside him, poured whiskey into another glass and slid it across the desk. Amiline picked the glass up and, with a practiced motion, tilted her head back and drained the liquid before she set the glass back down again.
He refilled both their glasses, then settled back in his chair. Swirling the whiskey in his glass, he frowned again, preoccupied with his thoughts.
Amiline glanced warily back at him. Drinking never improved Brent’s mood. He was never more dangerous than when he was full of whiskey. She tossed her hair back with a display of nonchalance, feeling anything but that emotion. She was nervous and it was all due to the man sitting so silently beside her in the dark room.
There was no need here for the mask of sleek smoothness behind which Brent concealed his true self. She had not failed to notice the hard, bitter line of his lips and the savage glow in his eyes earlier. She knew the inner man. She knew his secrets. She had recognized the fire of jealousy burning in his eyes when he had watched Hetty dancing with Jesse McLaren. She had seen Brent with Hetty later. He had barely been able to keep his anger under control. She knew the emotions that drove the man. She knew what he was capa
ble of.
She had once found Brent’s aggressive personality magnetic. His boldness had appealed to her. But she did not admire him now. She knew him too well. She knew him more than she wanted to know him.
Behind the suave, self-possessed exterior that he showed the world, he was a man obsessed with power, a man driven to having his way in all things. Once he made up his mind that he wanted something, nothing could change it. He allowed nothing to stand in his way. He never gave up. He never gave in. The further something was from his grasp, the more he sought to attain it.
Vengeance often motivated him. And a deeply-rooted selfishness. In all things Brent’s own wishes were considered first. In business dealings, as well as personal affairs, he was ruthless and driven. He answered to no man. He recognized no law. Except the law of his own desires.
And tonight? His black mood was no doubt brought on by the fact that he had realized that Hetty Parrish was not going to be the easy conquest he had anticipated. Amiline was not looking at him now, but she knew when he fixed his gaze upon her.
“What do you know about Pierce Champlin from the Circle I?” he asked abruptly.
Her head came up. She shot him a quick glance and then quickly masked the alarm she felt. “Only what I told you before. That he has worked for the Circle I for a very long time.”
She watched covertly as he lit a cigar. Even with the heat of the whiskey flowing through her veins, she was frightened. She never feared him more than when he was slow and deliberate this way.
His question had startled her, but what worried her more was what he had not asked. She had also expected him to take her to task for drinking so much tonight. She had a certain role to play and drinking was not part of the script. But watching the happy couple celebrating tonight had settled a coldness deep inside her. She couldn’t help it. She felt cheated in life. She always had.
She knew that Brent wanted something from her. She also knew that whatever Brent wanted, she wouldn’t be able to refuse him. She had given up that choice a long time ago.
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