A Western Romance: Matthew Yancey: Taking the High Road (Book 2) (Taking the High Road series)

by Morris Fenris

  “Before he traveled to this area and met my mother,” Star explained, “my father did some mining in southern California. He found this. The piece is rather spectacular, isn’t it?”

  “It is, Star. Wondrously so. But surely you don’t mean to give it to me.”

  “I certainly do. Well—to you and the sheriff jointly, I suppose. Miss Goddard.” Star gathered her thoughts and then explained, straightforwardly as always. “You’ve always been so kind to me. You’ve watched over me, here in town, when my own parents haven’t been able to. I would like to repay that kindness a little, if I could. And this seemed to be something you might like.”

  On an impulse, Frances bent down to pull the girl into her embrace for a sentimental and affectionate hug. It was returned full force. “Thank you, Star. Although it isn’t ever necessary for you to think about repayment. But I love this chunk of molten rock you’ve given me. I shall treasure it, always, knowing it came from you.”

  “And it’s the exact color of her eyes,” said Sarah brightly.

  The meal was served in the expansive alcove next to the kitchen used as a dining room. Framed pictures of California scenery—the rugged mountains, a brilliant blaze of poppies, someone fishing off a pier—decorated the walls, which had been papered in soft soothing cream and gold; and a brass chandelier had been lighted to cast warmth and radiance over all.

  Looking back from far into the future, Star would forever remember this time, this place and these generous friends who had welcomed her into their lives. It was a happy, convivial evening, with plenty of spritely conversation and spontaneous bubbles of laughter. The beef roast, prepared so ably by Frances, had been cooked to perfection: tender, juicy, and spiced with just the right combination of condiments. The accompanying vegetables and flaky rolls disappeared within minutes. The gooey chocolate cake was—well, what can anyone say about chocolate cake, other than it tasting like the fare of angels?

  There were a few minor mishaps.

  At one point, excitable Rob accidentally tipped over his glass of milk. “No harm done,” Frances, well accustomed to children’s antics, insisted as she reached for a towel.

  At another, a serving bowl of cooked turnips missed its mark in being passed and skittered across the table top to plop itself, upside down, on the floor. “We need a dog,” observed Frances, watching William bend over to clean up the mess.

  “A dog wouldn’t eat this,” scoffed her brother. “I’m glad they went. I hate cooked turnips.”

  At a third, the sheriff made casual reference to the war currently raging across the eastern half of the United States, and its consequences, which ignited a spirited pro and con discussion. Eventually Frances, having had enough as hostess, shut the whole thing down by mention of the ladies’ earlier shopping expedition, and their successful hunt for a becoming new hat.

  “Oh, ’zat what you called that thing you had on your head,” commented William comfortably,

  “—becomin’.”

  Frances threw the damp dish towel at him.

  All in all, a successful get-together; and at the end, as plates were being scraped clean of frosting and crumbs, Star looked around at this group of folks she was beginning to consider her in-town family with a great sense of satisfaction and well-being. Smiling, she sighed.

  Matthew, across the table, caught the small sound and, immediately understanding, returned the smile. “Nice, huh?”

  Her amber eyes met his straight on, with what a scholar might call joie de vivre. “Very nice. The best. Please tell me, Mr. Yancey, how your brother and his new wife are faring. They’ve taken up residence in town?”

  The question was simple enough. The problem was his own distraction.

  Because the overhead lamplight was shining down on the glossy black hair, coiled now into a thick knot at the back of her neck, that simply begged to be released into a fall around her shoulders. Whose rounded smoothness, with just a hint of muscle, had been bared by the offset short sleeves.

  As for the cleavage given to view, with ripe fullness and umber shadows galore…Matt’s mouth suddenly went dry in a spark of pure lust. When had that last happened? Too long ago to remember.

  “Mr. Yancey?”

  His glass of water, hastily sipped, lubricated tongue and loosened tight-set jaw. “Uh—yes, Miss Mendoza. My apologies…just thinkin’—” Of things you had no right to be thinking, numbskull. You’re no better than that libertine, Franklin Bower. “Well, uh, my new sister-in-law is a teacher, just like Frannie here. A private academy for girls. So, nothin’ bein’ in session for a while, the two of ’em headed back east by clipper.”

  “Oh, really?” Frances followed up. “A honeymoon trip?”

  “Yes, ma’am. And they’ll be closin’ up John’s Pinkerton business in Boston, and gettin’ all his personal stuff packed away for travel. They plan to stay on here, build their lives in San Francisco.”

  “They got their roots started, all right,” agreed William. “They’re a grand pair. So’s the other newlywed couple, that Bridget and her man, Maximilian Shaw. Wonderful additions to the city. And Miss Cecelia’s mentor, Gabe Finnegan, is a damn fine lawyer. I do like that man’s style.”

  Frances handed over the tray of rolls and a small bowl of butter to anyone who wanted more. “Gabe is stepping out with someone, isn’t he? I’ve forgotten just who…”

  An affectionate glance from her brother, with a dash of teasing thrown in. “Why, land’s sake, Frannie, you old matchmaker. And here it was you brought ’em together. Pensacola Rush, her name is—that lady from Philadelphia.”

  “Well.” Bridling like an offended adolescent, she sniffed. “I can’t be expected to remember everyone I’ve gotten together. There are simply too many unattached men and women in this city. Which reminds me.” A shift toward her friend, and a beguiling smile. “Sarah. We have to talk. I want to find out if you would be interested in—?”

  Afterward, the males adjourned to their favorite haunt on the front porch. The youngest, yawning by now, went back to his checkerboard; the two adults settled down, content with one cheroot each, a small tumbler of bourbon, and further discussion about the war, unhampered by the more tender reactions from inside the house.

  Where cleanup and organization were proceeding efficiently, with dispatch, directed by Frances. Her kitchen, after all; her rules.

  “And what are your plans for the next few days, Star?” Frances, setting a stack of hot freshly dried plates on the cupboard shelf, asked curiously.

  Unself-consciously, the girl stretched in a luxurious span of tissue and sinew that lifted both breasts high and full, as enchanting as a mermaid’s pose in the role of ship’s figurehead. Frances frowned. Now, why couldn’t she have presented that image while Matt was still in the room?

  No, probably not comfortable enough to do so in his presence. Over the years, Star had had to deal with her share of problems concerning male attention—wanted or not. Why would she think the darkly attractive Texas Ranger might be any different from the others?

  “Well, I do need to go visit my parents,” she considered, after a minute. “It’s been several weeks since I’ve seen them.”

  “And you need to replenish your store of merchandise?”

  “That and I want to make sure everything is all right. They live in such an isolated area, and I have no way of communication.”

  Sarah had finished clearing off the table and washing down counters. “Pony Express, perhaps?” she suggested.

  “Perhaps. If I could persuade them to establish a route north, instead of south and east.” Chuckling, Star rose and began to gather her things together. “Miss Goddard—Frances…thank you for a lovely evening, but I’m afraid I must bring my part of it to an end.”

  “Of course, I quite understand. It is getting late. Let me just walk you to the door. Sarah?”

  “Yes, Frannie. Time for me to leave, too. That little boy must be about asleep in his chair, by now, and we need to get him into h
is own bed.”

  Inside every quiet, unassuming teacher resides a bit of the military general. Within jig time, Frances had surveyed the terrain, marshaled her troops, and handed down orders.

  “Will, please hitch up the buggy and take Sarah and Rob back to their home. No, we’re not about to let them roam around unescorted at this hour of the night. Matthew, be so kind as to escort Miss Mendoza to her home. The same holds true. Oh, stop shilly-shallying, William. You can finish your liquor once you return.”

  There. Everyone was clearing out, paired up exactly as she had planned, without too much argument...although Star was wearing an uncertain, somewhat mutinous expression. No matter. Frances felt like rubbing her hands together with glee. Except that would be neither ladylike nor professorial.

  IV

  “May I assist you with your wrap?” Matt asked attentively, as he paused with Star at the front gate.

  “I am certainly able to—I mean…uh…yes, of course, Mr. Yancey. That would be very—” Forward? Self-serving? Appreciated? “—uh…helpful.”

  In the friendly darkness, Matt smiled. Opening the shawl to its full width, he swathed its folds around her, allowing his hands to slip down over her upper arms to smooth every fold in place. “Not much to it, is there?” he observed whimsically. “Sorta like puttin’ on a piece of fishnet.”

  Unconsciously wielding the full effect of her amber eyes as she looked back over her shoulder, she reminded him that the piece was worn more for decorative purpose than for any need to keep warm.

  “Ah. I can understand that reasonin’. Otherwise, I think you’d be better off coverin’ up with a blanket.” Or with me. Snuggled up close and tight, I’d keep you warm. Maybe even make you warmer.

  Looking down from all his rangy height, past the back of her head into the temptation of her bare cleavage, within easy reach and just begging to be caressed, had about driven him around the bend. What the hell was going on here? He was acting like a moonstruck kid, half-crazed for a quick roll in the hay.

  Not that he would, for God’s sake. He would neither discredit his wife’s memory nor disgrace this girl he was honor-bound to treat with dignity and respect, seeing her safely home to her own quarters. What kind of devil would he be, anyway, if the danger he meant to protect her from was himself?

  His jaw set tight again, against blurting out things he shouldn’t even be thinking; a mental gate slammed shut, against the rising of emotion and of parts stirred up, taking notice, demanding service. Awkward moving, in such a situation, especially during an evening jaunt, but he’d manage somehow.

  “Well, we’d best be headin’ along,” Matt informed his companion stiffly. “At this rate it’ll be midnight b’fore you get back.”

  “All right,” she agreed equably. “This way, please.”

  Frances had provided them with a lantern, which he was swinging loose on his left side. His right arm had been crooked at the elbow, giving Star the support she might need for striding over any rough, uneven spots in the walkway. He must admit, though, he was enjoying the feel of her hand curled around his bicep.

  Damn. There he was, again, despite all his resolutions!

  “How’dja come to be called Star?” he asked on a surge of desperation. Talk, talk, talk; anything to get his mind up on the level it should be, instead of hovering low, around physical need.

  “Goldenstar, actually.” She peered up at him with a smile. “It’s a shrub that grows here in the state. A ground cover. My mother was quite taken with both the color and the name. So. Here I am.”

  “Pretty. Any kinda smell to that flower?”

  Under the lacy shawl she shrugged. “Smell? Green, I suppose. Like any plant. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, it’s just—I like whatever perfume you’re wearin’. Light. Sweet. Thought maybe that was related to the goldenstar.”

  Another pedestrian out for his evening constitutional approached, tipped his hat, swerved around to the other side, and kept briskly on. The heavy tread stirred up an entire performing musicale of crickets and a light brigade of fireflies.

  “We turn here at the corner,” Star reported. “And how did you come to be called Matthew?”

  “Matthew? Guess it was just my ma’s choice for—oh. Nothin’ outa the way, like yours. So you’re joshin’ me.”

  Her eyes crinkled with amusement. “I am, indeed, Mr. Yancey. Just a little.”

  “Huh.”

  Into the next block, and then another, one short, one long. Celebratory noise drifted up the famous hills toward them, with laughter and the shouts of children and even a gunshot or two. “Somebody must be havin’ a birthday party,” Matt observed, pausing to listen. And to avoid any stray bullets.

  “Don’t you just love this time of the day?” Star murmured, sniffing deeply of the night air and all its interesting odors. Some quite pleasant, some not so much. “The work is done, the trouble is past, and it’s time just to sit and rock a spell.”

  “Well, yeah, if all that is true. Here, careful, there’s a tree root stickin’ right outa the ground.” Distracted, he guided her past the obstacle, then resumed, “I useta feel that way on the plantation. Belle Clare, near Charleston. Nice quiet evenin’, maybe some friends over to do some visitin’, maybe just sittin’ down somewhere by yourself.”

  “You grew up there.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Then after Paw died, we boys got together and sold the homestead, years before the war started. Figured it was the most prudent thing t’do. None of us wanted to get caught up in the storm clouds we saw comin’.”

  “And you miss it?”

  He looked off into the distance, where bay water reflected the yellow glow of ship lights, and even from here a ruckus at various saloons could be seen and heard. “On bad days, I miss it,” he admitted in a low voice. “What we used to have. Luxury. Comfort. Security. Not so much of that, once you move out into the world. As you prob’ly know, Miss Mendoza. And maybe some of what I miss is just plain nostalgia. But life is a challenge. You meet it and win, or you die.”

  Star shivered a little. “That sounds terribly gloomy.”

  “After my wife died, and then my father, and then we sold the home place, I was chock full of gloom and doom for a good long while. But that eased up a bit, once the boy started needin’ my attention.”

  “You’re a lucky man there, Matthew Yancey,” she pointed out. As if any reminder was really necessary! “Rob is a wonderful child, and the two of you seem to be very close.”

  “He brought me through the worst,” said Matt frankly. “And not even aware he was keepin’ me goin’. But that’s kids, ain’t it? Most of ’em are happy-go-lucky little devils.”

  She laughed. “I do see that in him. Here, Mr. Yancey. This is my house.”

  Lifting his lantern high as they approached, Matt surveyed the small cabin with approval. A wide front porch, two handmade twig chairs made comfortable by cushions, planter boxes stuffed full of native plants—several types of sage, bright orange poppy, mint, and her own goldenstar—offered welcome. As did a colorful rag rug and equally colorful curtains at the double windows.

  “Snug,” was his reaction. “And cozy.”

  “If cozy means small, then certainly cozy. But it suits me.” Pulling a key from her reticule, Star unlocked her door and paused, feeling suddenly uncertain and a little shy. “Thank you for walking me home, Mr. Yancey. I appreciate your consideration.”

  He set his lantern down on the railing, carefully balanced, to tuck one shoulder against the door jamb. “Well, I didn’t see that I had much choice in the matter,” he chuckled. “Given Frannie’s insistence on how she was arrangin’ things. But, Miss Mendoza—Star—” The tone of his voice softened slightly, as he studied her lovely face in the lamplight, “I’d’a done it anyway, Frannie or no Frannie. I—uh—I enjoyed your company.”

  Earlier, an array of butterflies had taken flight in Star’s middle; now the whole flock of them fluttered northward, halting her breath and ca
using serious seizures with speech. “Oh. Well. Thank you. I—I—it’s been a—a very nice evening, Mr.Yancey. Matt.”

  A lazy lopsided smile sent imps dancing in his dark eyes, and his big body leaned slightly toward her, like a towering ponderosa, standing near. Very near. Too near. She was feeling suffocated by his nearness.

  “Star,” he whispered. Gray sombrero doffed, his thick black hair tumbled anyhow over his brow, outlining the fine shape of his skull and the intricate curve of his ears.

  He raised his right hand to slant along the side of her jaw, holding her in place, while his thumb slipped slowly, carefully, back and forth across the fullness of her lower lip. An incredibly erotic bit of play that roused all the senses and begged for more.

  In one convulsive movement she managed to swallow. Trembling, she tried to shift position but was trapped by the wall behind her. “I think you—I think this—you—”

  “Sssshhh.”

  With that, he bent forward and covered her quivering mouth with his own. Gently at first, then, as desire rose, more urgently, with all the power and force of a passionate man.

  For a few delightful minutes Star succumbed. She even raised up, midway through that life-taking kiss, to mesh her fingers into his hair, to tug him closer into the embrace.

  Matt was lost. His hat got thrown aside, somewhere along the way; his hand plunged downward over her throat and around her breast with rough need; his knee came up slightly, entangled in the volume of her skirts in tandem with anything else seeking entrance. A smothered sound, almost a growl, escaped him.

  That was when she suddenly came to herself.

  “No.” She had pulled free enough to gasp a protest. “No. Let me go!”

  “Star—” Deaf and blind to all but his own intent, Matt was snatching hungry little kisses from her cheek, her earlobe, the thundering pulse at her collar bone.

  “Stop it!” Furious, she kicked out at him in a whirl of raspberry chintz. “How dare you treat me this way?”

  Finally, through a flood of rampaging testosterone and blood-red mist, that reached him. Stunned, he released his grip and took a slow step backward.