by Jo Goodman
“You sound like a lawyer.”
“Do I? Well, I’ve been studying.”
“And I thought I couldn’t dislike you more.”
Cobb just smiled. “So do you think one or two of these men might have been Gideon or Jack?”
“Didn’t you ask them?” The thinly veiled sarcasm in Morgan’s voice earned him the steely edge of the marshal’s icy blue eyes. Morgan did not flinch. He’d done it to see whether or not Bridger could be riled. It was good to know the man had blood, not ice water, in his veins.
Cobb held up his fingers again and ticked off the names. “Joe Pepper. Edward Ravenwood. Jud Wilcox. Any of those sound familiar?”
“No.”
“They didn’t to me either. Not at the time, but I was telling my wife about them, explaining how Jem got to be here, and she recognized their names.”
Morgan tasted acid again. He let it sit at the back of his throat rather than swallow.
“Characters in a Nat Church novel. One of the recent ones, that’s why she remembered. Nat Church and the Runaway Bride. She says Jud Wilcox is actually Judge Wilcox, but you get the idea.”
Morgan did. “Could be a coincidence.”
Cobb appeared to think about that for a moment. He said, “Yep. That’s about the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth.”
“You haven’t known me long.”
“Right. So what about it? You think it could be the Welling gang?”
“What makes you so sure there’s still a gang? Maybe they were reformed by their prison experience. I was.”
“No. Mrs. Sterling says differently. She says your ways were different before you ever saw prison. That’s what her husband knew about you and why he vouched for you going in.”
“Benton Sterling was a good man, but that doesn’t mean he was always right.”
Cobb finished his coffee, set his cup down on the desk. His lips vibrated as he blew out a breath. “Have it your way, but we both know they’ll be coming for you. It might be better if you have someone watching your back. It can’t be the Davis boys or Max Salter. I know from what Jem’s said that he doesn’t have a good sense about what might be going on at your place. I’d guess that’s true for all of them. You think about that, Longstreet, on your ride home, and keep looking over your shoulder. It won’t surprise me at all to learn those men jumped the train somewhere between here and Cheyenne since that’s the direction they came from. It’ll have been somewhere close to where they left their horses and guns and gear.”
Morgan’s features remained impassive as Cobb paused to let his words settle. He said nothing.
“I’ll ask some questions, find out what happened to them after they boarded, and I’ll let you know because that’s my job, not because I think I owe you for coming to me in the first place.”
Morgan put down his cup and reached for his gloves. He stood slowly. “Don’t ride out alone with your information, Bridger. In fact, it’d be better if you don’t ride out at all. If it’s the Wellings, now that they know what you look like, they won’t pass on an opportunity to kill you. The best thing you can do until this sorts itself out is to look over your own shoulder.”
• • •
Jane sat with Max and Jake at the kitchen table. She had made a pot of coffee for them. She was drinking tea. At her elbow was a battered green tin half-full of gingersnaps. More gingersnaps were in a pile equidistant from the three of them. In addition to the pile in the middle, they were each guarding short stacks of gingersnaps with their forearms.
Jane was learning to play poker. Max and Jake were trying to eat each other’s chips.
“Now,” said Jane, “if I have five cards almost in sequence and not in the same suit, is that worth anything?”
“It’s worth folding,” Jake said. He tried to lean in toward Jane to get a glimpse of her cards, but she pulled them close to her chest. He feigned a wounded, innocent look. “I was trying to see if I could advise you.”
“Uh-huh.” Jane stole a glance at her cards again. She waved Jake’s hand away as his fingers walked slowly toward her winnings and addressed Max. “I will have one card, please.” She placed her discard on the table.
“Are you sure, ma’am? Just one?”
“Yes.”
Max peeled a card off the top of the deck and slid it toward her. “I don’t think you’re gettin’ the hang of this, if you don’t mind me sayin’.”
“If that’s true, then why do I have more cookies in front of me than either of you?”
“Well, we’re eatin’ each other’s, for one thing, and you’re sneakin’ them out of the tin when you think we’re not lookin’.”
Laughter tickled Jane’s lips as she tried to hold it back. She picked up the card Max gave her, looked at it long and carefully, and then closed her hand. She picked up a stack of four cookies and added them to the middle. “I call.”
“Three snaps is a call,” said Jake. “Four is a call and raise.”
“All right. That is what I will do.”
Max folded, but Jake stayed in. “Let’s see what you have, ma’am.”
Jane was halfway to revealing her hand when her head snapped up. She tossed her cards on the table and jumped to her feet. “I hear something. They’re back.”
She had not taken a full step from the table when Max put out a restraining arm.
“Let me look first.” He cocked his head as he stepped in front of her. “I think you’re right, but this is one of those times no one should be wrong.”
Behind Jane, Jake Davis was also on his feet. He edged toward the window and tried to see out. Until the lantern light appeared, all he saw was his own reflection in the glass. “It’s them,” he said as Max began to open the door. “That’s Jem holding up the lantern. He’s got the whitest damned teeth. Sorry, ma’am, but it’s God’s honest truth about his teeth.”
Jane was hardly listening. Once she knew it was Morgan returned to her, she squeezed past Max and ran out the door.
Jake jutted his chin toward the yard. “Bet she’s gonna kick my little brother’s ass.”
Chuckling, Max held the door open for Jake and they followed Jane as she sprinted toward the barn.
Morgan was dismounting when Jane caught up with him. She appeared so suddenly that he had no opportunity to hide his grimace or pretend his groan was anything but what it was. She had a sharp look for him, but a sharper one for Jem. It faded quickly enough, replaced by genuine concern as she took in the extent of Jem’s injuries.
With the skill of an old cowhand, she cut the two of them away from the others and herded them up to the house. Jake, Jessop, and Max were left to take care of the horses.
Jem was obliged to sit at the kitchen table and suffer Jane’s ministrations. He protested a few times, but every one of those was for form’s sake. He was quick to turn the other cheek, even when she was applying astringent. Every once in a while, she would put some pressure on a particularly tender spot, and Jem would wince mightily. That’s when she would give him a gingersnap.
When Jane was done, she sat back and examined Jem’s face with the critical and objective eye of an artist. She studied her work, not the battered and bruised features of her subject, and concluded she had done her best by him. She gave him another cookie and sent him on his way.
Morgan, who had been standing with his back to the warm stove, took a seat at the table when Jem was gone. “You are diabolical.”
Jane continued to gather up the detritus of her medical attention. She did not look at him. “How is that?” She returned the soap to the sink, emptied the basin of water, and washed and dried her hands.
Morgan waited until she was done and held up a gingersnap. “These. The last man tortured by so much kindness was me. I know your methods.” He broke the cookie in half, grinning when it snapped rather loudly. “I was watching him. It hurt him like hell to chew on one of these, and you gave him three. Four, if you count the one he left with. He’s probably
sucking on that one like a lozenge since he’s got nothing to prove to an audience.”
“I’m not saying I did it on purpose, you understand, but if I had, it would serve him right.”
“Uh-huh.” Morgan put both halves of the cookie in his mouth and savored the flavor before he chewed. He waved a hand over the table as Jane began to return gingersnaps to the tin. “What’s all this anyway?”
“Chips. Max and Jessop were teaching me to play poker to pass the time.”
Morgan picked up the five cards scattered in front of him and looked them over. “Who was sitting here?”
“I was.”
“Did you know you had straight flush?”
She nodded. “I discarded an eight of clubs and Max gave me a six of diamonds. I told them I had five cards almost in sequence but not in the same suit. They advised me to fold.”
Morgan chuckled. “Diabolical and lucky. They didn’t realize you were holding four diamonds and one club. Even so, it wasn’t the wrong thing to tell you. The chances of drawing to a straight flush are awfully small.”
Jane reached across the table and plucked the cards from his hand. She laid them on top of the ones in front of her, squared off the deck, and pushed it aside. She gave Morgan her full attention and frank regard. “Are you going to tell me what happened tonight?”
“You heard Jem.”
“I did. Now I want to hear what Jem did not, could not, or would not say. I am imagining you used the ride home to be very clear with him about that, but because you are a cautious man, and Jem is . . . well, Jem . . . you stood over my shoulder so you could cue him in the event he forgot his lines.”
“There’s nothing to tell—” He stopped because Jane was already getting to her feet. “Where are you going?”
“To bed. I don’t want to hear that ‘there’s nothing.’ It is the beginning of an evasion. You do not seem to understand that you make me vulnerable when you try to protect me from the truth.” Jane stepped behind her chair and pushed it under the table. She set her hands firmly on the top rail. “The only time you offend me, Morgan, is when you doubt my strength.”
Morgan’s eyes followed her, but he did not. He sat where he was, listening to her words as they echoed in his mind. Was she right? Clearly it was her opinion, but was she right?
Still stiff from his ride after so long an absence from the saddle, and feeling every thread of tension between his shoulder blades, Morgan stood slowly. He rubbed the back of his neck, rolled his shoulders, and then went to the sink to begin washing up all over again. This time there was no interruption, and when he was done, he picked up the lamp and headed to his room.
On the point of entering, he hesitated. He held up the lamp. The bed was still neatly made. He always threw the covers over it, and sometime during the day, Jane would go into his room and smooth and tuck and plump. At first it amused him that she would give so much attention to a bed that was going to be slept in again that night, but later he came to appreciate it, even found it oddly comforting.
But not tonight. Tonight there was nothing about the sight of that perfectly made bed that Morgan found either comforting or inviting. Just the opposite. Morgan did not want to disturb it. He wanted to move on. Lamplight flickered as he inhaled deeply. By the time he slowly released that breath, his decision was made.
Jane had not closed her door. Morgan wondered if it was an oversight or a hopeful sign. Lamp in hand, he stepped into the room. Jane did not look so very different from the last time he had seen her in bed. She was sitting up with the headboard behind her to support her back. The bedcovers were pulled across her lap. Her robe lay at the foot of the bed, folded as neatly as before, but the room was colder than it had been earlier, and now Jane had drawn a quilt around her shoulders and tucked it under her arms. She did not glance up from the book that was open in her lap, although Morgan believed she was aware of his presence. If nothing else, the addition of more lamplight gave him away.
“I’ve been thinking about something,” he said.
Jane’s eyes remained on her book. “Oh?”
“I remember what you said about taking your opinion into account.”
Jane closed the book, but she marked her place with her finger. She looked up. “I am listening.”
“I want to sleep here. With you. Tonight.”
“I see. And what about what I said in the kitchen? Have you taken any of that into account?”
“Still trying,” he said. “I’m not sure I’ll ever come around to your way of thinking, Jane. It could be that the best we’re going to make of it is to agree to disagree.”
“There is a part of me that wishes you would tell me what I want to hear, but I appreciate that you are being honest about the struggle. It will do,” she said. “For now.” Her eyes fell to the lamp in his hand. “Put that down before you drop it.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Morgan saw that amusement made her lips quiver. He used his heel to kick the door closed before he crossed the room and set the lamp on the dresser. He turned back the wick to extinguish the flame. That left Jane bathed in the golden glow from the lamp on her bedside table. When he looked at it, he noticed the book she had been reading was now beside it.
“Which side?” asked Jane.
Morgan barely heard her. He was staring at her mouth, the way her lips remained parted after she spoke. She had a lovely mouth, wide and sensual, plump and provocative. As he watched, Jane raised one hand. She did not try to cover her mouth. Instead, her fingers went to her throat, to the last place his mouth had been.
He saw the mark he had left on her pale skin. His brand. His mouth went dry; his eyelids drooped. Beneath his lashes, his eyes were darkening.
“Move over,” he said. There was a rasp in his throat that he did not try to clear. “You’re on my side.”
Chapter Nine
Jane lifted the covers and inched sideways. The quilt around her shoulders bunched uncomfortably. Morgan was suddenly there to take it away. He tossed it toward the foot of the bed. Jane let him because she realized she was no longer cold. Every inch of her skin was flushed with that peculiar sort of heat that had its source inside her. Her toes curled. She slid down until she was lying on her back. She barely noticed that in this new spot the sheet under her was cool. She set her arms on either side of her but outside the blankets. She wriggled once to get comfortable and then she was still. Actually she was stiff.
She stared at the ceiling, waiting for Morgan to do something. When he didn’t, she looked at him askance. He was sitting hipshot on the edge of the bed, turned slightly in her direction. His fingers hovered over the fourth button on his shirt. The three above it were already unfastened. Watching her appeared to have arrested his movements. She had no idea why.
He said, “You have to breathe, Jane.”
Her chest fell as she released the one she had been holding. “I hadn’t realized,” she said. “I expect it won’t be the last time you will have to remind me.”
“You’re anxious.”
It wasn’t a question, but she confirmed it nonetheless. “Yes. I cannot precisely pretend I have experience when I so clearly do not. Quieting my nerves is out of the question.”
“Then stop trying. Your heart will not explode no matter that it feels as if it might. Breathe.”
She sunk her teeth into her bottom lip, nodded. This time her nostrils pinched slightly as she took a deep breath through her nose.
One corner of Morgan’s mouth curled upward. “Perhaps a drink.” He started to rise, but Jane struck out with an arm and stopped him.
“No. It is always possible that I will regret it, but I prefer to be clearheaded.”
“Are you going to take notes?”
“You are not amusing.” But her primly set mouth and the fact that she was breathing easier hinted that she thought differently. Jane turned on her side and folded the pillow so her head was angled upward. She watched him finish unbuttoning his shirt. “When did you sit for the photogr
aph you sent me?”
“About three months before my personal notice was published. Why? Do you think I’ve changed since then?”
“No. Your appearance is the same. Very fine, I would say.”
Morgan turned his head as he shrugged out of his shirt.
“Did I embarrass you? I did, didn’t I? It is no good denying it. Your coloring gives you away. Did you curse your red hair growing up? I’ll wager you did, but it’s quite beautiful, you know. It is—”
Morgan tossed his shirt over Jane’s head and leaned forward to yank off his boots. Behind him, he heard her sputtering as if he had pitched a bucket of water at her. He also could hear her laughter bubbling under it. That decided him. He dropped his boots so they landed one at a time with a recognizable thud. All the sputtering and bubbling stopped. He stood, dropped his trousers, and slipped between the covers beside Jane before she was properly out from under his shirt. He lifted it away with a magician’s flourish, but he did not dwell on his accomplishment.
What he did was take advantage of her perfect astonishment and cover her open mouth with his own. And that was when he lost his mind. Gone was his intention to tease a response from her. He forgot about coaxing her lips to move under his and quieting her fears. He forgot his intention was to care for her anticipation, not crush it.
Instead, he went to a darker place. He had thoughts of devouring her, of not merely stealing her breath, but suffocating her, of making his claim so complete that her eyes would betray her desire every time she looked at him. And then, just when he thought he could not come back from that black hole, he remembered what it was like to be on the surrendering, helpless end of selfish passion, and he jerked his head away.
Jane whimpered. The sound lodged at the back of her throat. Her eyes were closed. She was senseless to everything but his mouth on hers. He held her head in his hands, held her still. His mouth plundered hers. Heat flared. At first she thought the damp edge of his tongue was meant to cool it, but he licked her lips with the ferocity of a flame. He sucked her lower lip into his mouth and bit down. She had sunk her teeth into her bottom lip earlier, but this was nothing like that. When he sawed and tugged, he set some thread of tension in motion that vibrated all the way to her womb. A ribbon of heat curled and twisted, rose and fell and crackled. He had built a fire in the pit of her belly.