Her mind swirled. The sensations of that kiss couldn’t possibly have been one-sided. Jack wasn’t capable of feigning such tenderness and feeling and…
Was he?
She cleared her throat and closed her eyes. She didn’t want to believe Jack was capable of stealing kisses like Charles Brooks. “I told you once that if you ever tried to kiss me, I’d pop you square in the nose.”
“You did say as much.”
She lifted the edges of her skirt and moved to the door. “Don’t think I won’t.”
Jack’s boots thumped against the floor, and he moved in front of her. “I reckon if you’re to pop me once, might as well be twice.”
“Excuse me?” Delilah asked, trying to scoot past him.
He lifted a hand to her chin. “If you’ll give me permission.”
His touch was enough to heighten her pulse. Her chest spasmed, and her breathlessness turned into something much worse. She gasped and tugged at the back of her dress. The corset seemed to close in on her. “Jack, I can’t…”
His eyes snapped shut. “I understand. I won’t bother you—”
“No, Jack. I can’t…I can’t.” Her eyes fluttered, and she leaned against his arm. “I can’t breathe.”
Jack couldn’t believe his eyes. Terrance Wilkins had bathed.
Maggie had demanded he bathe before setting foot in the boardinghouse. He had agreed, however reluctantly, but Jack suspected Terrance had little practice at hygiene—the man had missed several patches of dirt, most notably by his nose and ears.
“Let me get this straight. You want to pay me to spread word around about your wife’s jewels and fortune?” Terrance hiccupped. “I ain’t never heard something so strange.”
Jack pushed his hands into his trousers and shifted his weight in the chair. Maggie’s office was small, and his chair was made for a dainty woman; the legs wobbled beneath Jack’s weight. “Terrance, I don’t expect you’ll understand. That necklace was mighty important to Mrs. Davis—an heirloom of sorts. I don’t mind drawing the scoundrels in, if I have a chance at retrieving it. Now, make sure you let people know we are to set up house near the school. Milton’s allowed us to use the place. The abandoned homestead. You hear?”
Terrance shook his head, hiccupping once more. “I don’t s’pose I do, but I’ve never been one to turn down a dollar. That’s more than I make in a month.”
Jack’s plan hinged on Terrance’s ability to spread word to Brooks. “I figured. Now, can I count on you?”
“On me?” Terrance chuckled, and his bony frame shook in response. “Ain’t nothing I do better than spread word, Mr. Davis.”
“Good,” Jack said, releasing a breath.
“Just one thing…” Terrance licked his chapped lips and rubbed his fingers together. “When can I expect payment?”
Jack had expected as much. He shook a pile of coins in his hands, dropping them into his front pocket. “When I get the man that stole my wife’s necklace.” He stood, stooping in order to avoid hitting his head against the low hanging ceiling. “If you’ll excuse me. My wife might be wondering where I am. We’ll meet you in the wagon.”
A confidence settled in Jack’s steps. Terrance would not disappoint. In all of the cases that Jack had been a part of, often the most valuable player had been the Terrance Wilkins’s of the world. The desperate and unprincipled, however harmless, could be counted upon to follow through if money was involved and as long as Jack got to them first.
He paused at the bottom of the stairs, and a lump formed in his throat. Since his kiss with Delilah the previous night, and subsequent rejection, Jack’s confidence had been replaced by confusion. He hadn’t much experience with women, but Delilah’s excuse of her corset seemed strange.
Was Jack that poor of a kisser? Or had she only complied with his attempt to persuade the peeping landlady of their cover?
Delilah’s confrontation after returning to the hotel from Brooks’s camp had stirred his already complicated emotions. He didn’t know how to explain his efforts in protecting her. She assumed the treatment had to do with her age, abilities, or even gender. Explaining why those might trigger a need to protect her would have been easier than telling her the truth.
His silent contemplation on their walk home had hinted at the truth. Jack didn’t much care that Delilah was a woman—not when it came to detective work. She had already proven herself handy with a gun and quick on her feet. Her age, at first troublesome, had proven just as irrelevant; smart didn’t have an age.
But the truth…Somehow, between the bickering and planning and getting to know one another, Jack had developed an attachment to her—and not the familial, friendly type.
A spark had ignited at their first meeting, when she had admirably shot his hat from the roof. Her skill had astonished him, her spirited nature even more so. Despite his internal attempts at resisting his attraction, Jack had been struck by her beauty from the beginning.
A few days on the job, and that attraction had multiplied at an alarming rate.
Why did she have to pester him about his orders and why did he feel the urge to protect her? He had tried to brush her questions under the rug, but Delilah had persisted—demanding answers. The answer of his affection had come as a result of her questions; he hadn’t been ready to confront the reality of his affections, but seeing Delilah’s composure crumble had resulted in his own.
Never mind about Maggie. Her presence peeping through the hole in the door had been an excuse, an easy way to explain away his actions if Delilah were to be repulsed.
Delilah emerged at the top of the stairs. She clutched one of her trunks in her hands. “This is the last of it.”
Jack scrambled up the steps to take the trunk from her delicate hands. They hadn’t spoken, not truly, since the previous night. The morning and afternoon had been full of discussion, but only about the case and plan of action.
He preferred speaking of plots and stings to his dreadful attempt, but he knew they needed to address the kiss sooner or later. “Mr. Wilkins is waiting in the wagon.”
She descended the steps at his side. Her hair was pinned to one side, and her red ringlets bounced up and down with each movement. “You spoke to the sheriff then?”
Jack nodded. They’d decided to lull Brooks and his men to the abandoned house at the edge of town, all the while sending the sheriff and a group of men to ambush the rest of the gang. “Yes. He hesitated to agree to help us, but when I informed him of our client—Colorado’s governor—he had a change of heart.”
“Right then,” Delilah said, pausing at the bottom of the stairs.
“About last night…”
A patch of pink appeared across Delilah’s porcelain cheeks. She shook her head. “I’d rather not speak of it here or now.”
“We will have to eventually.” Jack felt much smaller than his six-and-a-half-foot frame. “We’re partners.”
Delilah’s lips lifted slightly. “You’re right. Perhaps tonight—once we are settling and sure of our plan?”
Jack swallowed. “If that’s what you’d prefer.”
Chapter 8
Terrance Wilkins had a way with the wagon; he seemed bent upon hitting the deepest divots and sharpest turns. If she didn’t know better, Delilah would have thought he was trying to induce nausea.
“Well, this is it,” he said, pulling the wagon to a stop in front of an abandoned house.
The sight was worse than she had imagined, even for a home that had been vacant for some time. The roof sagged, and there were visible cracks in the outer walls.
Jack jumped down the side of the wagon first. “Thank you, Terrance.”
“Don’t worry about the trunks, Mr. Davis,” Terrance said, hopping down. His scrawny legs hobbled to a sprint to the back of the wagon. “I don’t mind. You and your misses should set up soon. Looks like rain overhead.”
The skies were covered in gray clouds, and the autumn breeze left a line of moisture against her cheek. Del
ilah breathed a sigh of relief when her feet hit solid ground, despite the gloomy prospect before them. “You say the house has been abandoned for how long?”
Terrance sucked in a breath and pulled out the largest trunk. “I’d say ten years. Ever since Milton’s ma died.”
Delilah’s brows lifted. Jack hadn’t told her they were spending the night in the saloon owner’s childhood home. She took her first step into the overgrown grass. Maggie had spoken about the shortage of homes in Crooked Creek; Milton’s mother’s house must have been in ill-repair to be left empty.
Jack caught up to her, with a trunk at his side. “Can you manage well enough?” he asked, holding out his free hand.
“I haven’t fallen yet,” she said smiling. “But thank you still the same.”
His brows scrunched together. “I hadn’t meant…”
Delilah halted when she reached the front steps. The wood was cracked and nearly rotten. Dried leaves were blown into the cracks, and a few long blades of grass grew between the boards. Delilah pushed off her back foot, skipping the entirety of the steps. Her landing was wobbly and clumsy, and she caught her heel on a nail. She tugged on her boot, but the nail had wedged in tightly.
“Here,” Jack said, hurrying to her side.
A gust of wind pushed through the space between them, and the front door blew open. A field mouse, apparently in need of warmth, darted across the porch, nearly running directly over Jack’s fingers.
He squeaked, jumping backward.
Delilah burst into laughter. “Was that a squeal, Jack?”
His face turned an adorable shade of red. He straightened to his full height, folding his arms across his chest. “The mouse startled me is all.”
She bit back another smile and freed her boot at last.
“I don’t like the creatures,” he said, shaking his head.
Delilah had never supposed grown men to be scared by mice—certainly not a man like Jack. He seemed the very pillar of strength and courage. “Anything else you don’t like that I should know about?”
“Mice and spiders.”
“You mean to tell me that you can wrangle a fellow like Gunner Brooks without the least hesitation, but a little animal or a spider unnerves you?” Delilah put her hands to her hips. The idea was laughable. “How do you handle trails?”
Jack’s jaw tightened. “I said I don’t like them. I didn’t say I couldn’t deal with them. There’s a difference.”
“I see.”
Terrance pushed past them, struggling to maintain the weight of the trunks in his arms. He set them inside the house and dusted off his hands. “The rain won’t wait long. One more trunk and I better head in for the night.”
“Thank you,” Delilah said, scooting back when he bolted back to the wagon.
“You’ll understand when it comes. Rain don’t just drizzle in Crooked Creek. The downpour is enough to cause floods in these parts, maybe even mudslides along the mountainsides,” Terrance yelled, pulling the last from the wagon bed. “I delivered the supplies you requested from the mercantile this morning, Mr. Davis.”
“Supplies?” Delilah asked, turning to Jack.
He shrugged. “Some things to set up house—blankets, kitchen staples, and the like.”
Terrance placed the final box inside the house. He rummaged through it, emerging on the porch with a candle and match. “I thought you might like to do the honors, Mrs. Davis, seeing how this will be your home and all. Your husband had me sweep the place out when I delivered the supplies. Good as new.”
Honors? She doubted Terrance’s efforts reached that of Maggie’s at the boardinghouse. She gritted her teeth and smiled. “Thank you.”
She struck the match and lit the candle.
“Best of luck to you,” Terrance said, scurrying back to the wagon.
Delilah stepped past the threshold, just as another biting wind blew against the back of her neck. She shivered. The room was fifteen feet by twenty, with a small loft near the ceiling. A stove sat in the back corner, beside a table with a slanted top. She sighed. “Well, Milton’s mama didn’t want for space. The house is large enough for a family.”
Jack closed the door behind her. “Large and untouched.”
She cringed. Terrance’s attempts with the broom were evident in the streaks against the dirty floorboards. Wind hissed against the windows, and a soft plinking sounded against the roof. At least Mr. Wilkins had the good sense to place a pile of wood beside the stove.
“I imagine we’ll want to sleep beneath the loft, where the least amount of rain will seep through.” Delilah pushed a stack of trunks beneath the small canopy, imagining the saloon owner as a child sleeping on the slatted boards above. “If I sleep at all…”
Jack knelt in front of the stove to start a fire. “We best get some rest. Brooks and his men might come at any moment, after Terrance spreads word tomorrow.”
Delilah watched as he placed the logs in the stove. His hands were large and calloused, but he worked the fire with such careful movements. His hands were like the rest of him—large, strong, and weathered but equally capable and gentle.
Her cheeks burned at the recollection of their kiss. Their deliriously perfect kiss. Delilah’s corset had stolen more than her breath—the tortuous device had stolen her opportunity to kiss Jack for a second time and maybe something more. He had been on the verge of solidifying something between them.
However, after she collapsed in his arms, the moment had fled, and instead of kisses, Delilah was left with a gaping hole in her chest; Jack believed she had rejected him.
Worse, Delilah wondered if she should have rejected him. Jack was her trainer and friend. What if something went awry between them? Could they navigate such difficulties as a partnership?
One magical kiss meant nothing when compared to her stubbornness and fear. Delilah had only known Jack for only a week; as time went on, he might come to see her weaknesses with greater clarity. He might regret initiating anything romantic.
“Are you willing to discuss what happened last night now?” Jack asked, interrupting her thoughts.
She staggered forward, wondering if the memory of their kiss plagued him as much as her. She wiped her suddenly sweaty palms against her skirt. “I’m sorry I said what I did about popping you; I understand why you kissed me, and I’m not mad. Maggie needed to believe we were truly—”
“Married?” Jack rocked backward, closing the door of the stove.
“Right, well romantically married.” Delilah’s mouth went dry. Why wouldn’t he face her? She needed to see his expression and hear more than one word at a time. “That corset almost did me in. I hope I didn’t offend you when I…after I—I did feel very faint, Jack. I hope you’ll believe me.”
His hands balled at his sides. “Why wouldn’t I believe you?”
“Jack.” Delilah shook her head. He had become unresponsive again, and she desperately needed direction. Her feelings toward him were so new, and Delilah was inexperienced when it came to men—alarmingly so. What if she did confess her feelings—would he reject her? Doubt overwhelmed her. “I wonder if you might ask me again?”
He turned at her words. “What did you say?”
She shook head, retreating to the other side of the room. Taking down one of her two-hundred-pound brothers would have been easier than attempting romance. At least Delilah had learned specific moves and pressure points in wrestling. But love? There weren’t any rote steps to succeed.
So much of love had to do with saying the right things and looking the right way. Delilah’s shoulders slumped; she wasn’t great at either. Her red hair was already so different, and she butchered her words.
She rolled out a blanket on the floor. “Did Terrance bring enough supplies for dinner, or should we walk to town?”
Jack’s brows pulled together. “Dinner?”
He had been waiting for her to repeat her previous question, but Delilah wasn’t about to comply. Hinting that she wished to kiss him a
gain had been enough to turn her china doll skin to scarlet. Red cheeks and red hair were a disastrous combination—or so her father had said on more than a few occasions.
She rolled up the cuffs of her sleeves. “Yes. The evening is as good as here, and my stomach already aches.”
Light flashed across the room, filing through the windows and cracked walls. Thunder followed, shaking the ground beneath her. Rain splattered against the roof with increasing frequency, until the sound rolled into one continuous lullaby. Delilah closed her eyes for a moment and smiled. She loved the sound of substantial rainfall.
“We won’t be leaving for town in this weather,” Jack said, bending down to one of the boxes. His shoulders tensed as he sorted through Terrance’s overpacked items. “We’ve beans and rice, flour, sugar, and a few apples. Nothing overly appetizing.”
She crouched beside him, taking an apple in her hand. “Then pie will have to suffice.”
Delilah placed the steaming apple pie atop the stove. Her hair, tied in a ribbon at the back of her head, cascaded down in long, beautiful curls. She turned, wiping a floured hand against her forehead. “Perfect.”
Jack took in a deep breath, relishing the pleasant aroma and sight. He almost stepped forward to clear the smudge of flour on her cheek—and now forehead—but her light eyes kept him at bay. She was something fierce. Beautiful, but fierce. He desperately wished to discuss their kiss from the previous night. He’d made an attempt already, but her embarrassment had been apparent.
Delilah was like an exotic animal—strong, hauntingly beautiful, majestic, but unpredictable. Each time she felt the slightest bit threatened, she transformed into a cornered animal, ready to do whatever was necessary to preserve her pride.
Her embarrassment often seemed to turn into anger, as if the emotion were a set of claws that would protect her—but what from? Jack had teased her at first, particularly when she had challenged his authority or skill, but after Les had stolen the necklace and forced a kiss, Jack had thought reality had cleared; Jack and Delilah were a team. They needed each other.
An Agent for Delilah Page 7