A Kiss in the Shadows

by Marie Patrick

  She swallowed over the lump in her throat and swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry, Brock.”

  He grunted, but said nothing more, going back to the silent man she’d come to know, perhaps embarrassed he’d shared as much as he had. He didn’t look at her as he put his pipe away, then stretched out on his side, his face turned toward the darkness of the woods beyond the firelight.

  Stevie Rae released a long breath and stared at his back. She wasn’t sure if she liked the talkative man or the silent one better, but she was glad he had shared a little bit about himself and shed some light onto what drove him. She’d had the impression he wasn’t interested in the bounty Zeb Logan’s capture would bring in and she was right. His mission—vengeance, plain and simple—was the same as her own. Almost.

  It wasn’t the money and never had been.

  It was the fulfillment of the promise.

  She finished brushing her hair, pulled the heavy mass into a ponytail at the back of her head, and rose to her feet. She tucked her brush into her saddlebag, but her eyes never left him. After a moment or two of indecision, she dragged her bedroll to the other side of the fire and dropped it next to his. He didn’t stir as she lay down beside him and, without saying a word, held him close, offering him the same solace he had given her.

  • • •

  Stevie Rae took a deep breath and stared at the scenery as Taos Pueblos, just north of Taos proper, came into view. The sun dipped toward the horizon, casting everything in beautiful, blazing golden tones that reflected on the ancient buildings erected long before Spanish settlers arrived. A prettier town she had never seen, and despite Brock’s silence, she had enjoyed the ride as they left the coolness of the mountain pines for the sun-drenched open plains.

  She smiled to herself as she watched his broad back, the second smile to grace her lips in a long time. It didn’t surprise her that Brock didn’t mention all he had confessed the night before, nor did he acknowledge the fact that they’d slept side by side. At some point during the night, he had turned and held her. That’s how they’d awoken earlier, their arms around each other, his thigh nestled between hers, her head tucked beneath his chin. She thought it amusing how he’d scrambled out of the twisted blankets of their bedrolls, his face rosy with embarrassment beneath the growth of whiskers. After a stammered apology, he hadn’t said another word.

  And he remained silent for the duration of their ride until they came to a hotel in the heart of the plaza. He slid from his saddle, tiny puffs of dust rising upward from the road to coat his already dusty boots. After wrapping Resolute’s reins around the post in front of the building, he reached up to help her. “Grab your saddlebags. We’ll stay here.”

  The sign above the etched glass double doors read “The Hacienda” in flowing script. A small bell tinkled as he opened the door, then ushered her through.

  The woman behind the registration desk looked up from the ledger in front of her and smiled, her dark brown eyes glistening with undisguised pleasure.

  “Señor Brock! So nice to see you again. Manuel will be pleased, as will Mama.” She put down her pen, came around the desk, and walked toward him, her delicate hands outstretched to clasp his. She wore a lovely multicolored skirt and white blouse that showed off her dusky skin to perfection. Strands of gray threaded through her sleek black hair, which was simply pulled away from her face with silver combs to hang down her back in a silken fall—all of which had the power to make Stevie Rae feel dowdy and dirty in comparison.

  “And you, Elicia? Are you pleased I’m here?”

  She laughed as she rose on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Of course. I am always happy to see an old friend.”

  Stevie Rae watched the exchange and couldn’t help noticing the warm, easy way in which Brock had greeted the woman. Fondness colored his tone, and again, he flashed that wonderful smile that made her insides flutter.

  The woman stepped away from him and smiled in Stevie Rae’s direction. “You have brought a friend.”

  Brock grabbed Stevie Rae’s hand and brought her forward. “Elicia de la Cruz, please meet Stevie Rae Buchanan.”

  “A pleasure,” Elicia said, as welcoming as she was beautiful. “You must join us for dinner in our private apartment.”

  “Thank you.” Stevie Rae let go of her hand and resisted the urge to sweep the dust from her dirty attire. “We would be honored.”

  “I’m going to take care of the horses, then check in with the sheriff.” Brock nodded in her direction. “I’ll be back. Elicia will take good care of you.”

  “Of course. Come, we will get you settled. I have a lovely room with a view of the courtyard for you.” The petite woman gestured toward the stairs leading up to the second floor before she scooted behind the desk and grabbed keys from the slotted cubby. She handed one to Brock, but kept the other. “Come.”

  Stevie Rae followed her up the stairs. She turned once to look at Brock, but he was already gone, the door slowly closing behind his passage.

  Elicia hadn’t lied. The room was lovely. A big four-poster bed, covered in a beautiful, multicolored quilt with plump, inviting pillows leaning against the headboard, took up most of the room, but French doors leading outside to a small balcony made the space appear larger. In the corner, set at an angle, sat a small bureau with the customary pitcher and basin on its surface. A looking glass took up space beside the bureau. She noticed the rim of a brass tub peeking from behind an ornate screen in another corner and sighed. A hot bath would be heaven right about now, but there were other matters to attend to, such as her appearance. She glanced at her dirty clothes and dusty boots. “Is there a place I can purchase some clothes close by?”

  “Oh yes,” Elicia answered in her accented English, “the Emporium isn’t far. You can get anything you like there. Tell Rosa I sent you.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be back shortly.”

  “And I will have a hot bath waiting for you.” The woman grinned, handed her the key, and slipped out the door.

  Stevie Rae tossed her saddlebags on the floor next to the bed, tucked the key into her pocket, then left the room. In no time at all, she was strolling down the street, peering into the windows of the small shops lining both sides. Seeing how lovely Elicia de la Cruz looked in her simple skirt and blouse, she regretted not stopping at Mrs. Manville’s before she left Little River and buying that dress. It was too late now, but still, she’d like to look presentable when she joined Elicia and her family for dinner.

  A dress in the window caught her eye immediately. Prettier than the one that had been on display in Mrs. Manville’s, the midnight blue velvet seemed almost black in the light of the fading sun. She pressed her nose to the glass for a better look, admiring the intricate lace around the low collar and cuffs, the row of tiny buttons along the bodice, the flaring sweep of the skirt.

  Peeling herself away from the window, she glanced up to see “The Emporium” written on the sign above.

  She opened the door and stepped into the shop. The delicate scent of roses mixed with the masculine aroma of tobacco invited her in.

  The Emporium had everything a person could desire—from frilly ribbons and bolts of fabric and little bins filled with buttons to beautiful dishes on display for the ladies. On the other side of the big room, men’s suits and boots and small wooden boxes labeled with different blends of tobacco were neatly arranged. There was also a fine assortment of pipes and cigars.

  “May I help you?”

  Stevie Rae looked to the left and noticed a woman coming through a curtained doorway. She wore a tape measure around her neck and a pincushion tied around her wrist. Sleek black hair was pulled back on the sides of her head and held in place with ivory combs…and she wore the same exact dress in the window, except hers was hunter green, the lace trim black. When she smiled, she resembled Elicia. In fact, they looked enough alike they could be sisters. She held out her hand as she approached. To her credit, she accepted Stevie Rae’s dusty, trail
-worn clothes without expression. “I am Rosa. What can I do for you today?”

  Stevie Rae stepped away from the door. “Elicia sent me. I’m looking for—”

  “A dress. The blue one in the window.” Rosa nodded with a knowing smile.

  She laughed, surprising herself. Yes, she had admired the dress, but practicality was second nature and a dress such as the one in the window had no place in the task she’d set for herself. And yet, curiously, she now wanted that dress more than anything. “Yes, how did you know?”

  The woman shrugged. “I just knew. The coloring would be perfect for you. It will bring out your beautiful eyes. Make them sparkle.”

  Stevie Rae laughed again and it felt so good. She hadn’t really laughed in a long time. Nor had she ever owned anything that made her eyes sparkle. “I’ll take it.”

  “Very good.” The woman strolled to the window and made short work of removing the garment from the metal dress stand. “Try it on.” She pointed to the doorway she’d come through a few minutes ago.

  Stevie Rae took the dress, careful not to let it touch her clothes, and slipped through the curtains covering the door. She found herself in a small workroom filled with more bolts of fabric, frilly lace, colorful ribbons, and several dressmakers’ dummies. A sewing machine, one of the newest models, sat upon a specially made cabinet, the chair before it strewn with more fabric and ribbons. In the corner were another chair and a large, standing mirror.

  Quickly, Stevie Rae removed her clothes and tried on the dress. She studied herself in the mirror, admiring the fit and color, which did do something for her eyes. Rosa had been right. Her eyes seemed bluer and twinkled with just a touch of mischief. She removed the dress, donned her dirty trousers and threadbare shirt, and entered the main room of the shop.

  Rosa looked up from a book of patterns on the counter and smiled. “Yes?”

  Stevie Rae nodded as she approached the woman, the dress slung over her arms, but away from her body. “Yes.”

  “Good.” She took the velvet creation and moved to the long counter toward the back of the room where a roll of brown paper resided on a brass rod. “I’ll just wrap this up.”

  While Rosa packaged the dress, Stevie Rae wandered over to the men’s fashions and unfolded a pair of black trousers from the shelf. She shook them out and held them against her legs. “I’ll take these as well.”

  “And ruin my reputation?” Rosa stopped in the process of tying a bow in the strings holding the paper around the dress together and shook her head. “I will not sell you men’s clothes. You are muy bonita, señorita, and should not dress like a man.” She took the trousers from Stevie Rae’s hands and moved away from the counter, stopping before several items hanging from a metal rack. She turned once, studied Stevie Rae with a critical eye, and pulled a split skirt of butter-colored soft suede from the hanger. “Here, try these. They are comfortable as well as practical, and you will still look like a lady.” Rosa pulled a pristine white blouse from the same rack and handed both items to her.

  A blush rose to heat her face before she disappeared into the workroom once more to try on the offered clothing.

  Fifteen minutes later, she handed the garments to Rosa, pleased with the fit and feel of the split skirt and simple blouse. “Thank you. I will take these.” As Rosa pulled a length of brown paper from the spool, Stevie Rae glanced at the garments beneath the glass counter and spotted several pairs of lace- and ribbon-trimmed drawers. “I’ll take a couple of pairs of those as well.”

  The woman smiled as she pulled the frilly undergarments from the pile beneath the counter, quickly wrapped the clothing in plain brown paper, then rang up the charges. Stevie Rae dug several folded bills from her pocket, paid for her purchases, and left the shop with a definite bounce in her step. She strolled down the street toward the square, peeking in windows, then breezed through the etched glass doors of the Hacienda.

  Elicia looked up from the ledger as the little bell over the door chimed, and came around the desk to greet her. “Rosa was able to help you, yes?”

  “Yes.” Stevie Rae held up the paper-wrapped packages and grinned. “She was most helpful.”

  “Excellent! I knew she would be.” She ushered Stevie Rae up the stairs but remained on the landing. “Your bath has been prepared, and when you are ready, I will have your clothes laundered. Dinner will be at seven.”

  “Thank you.”

  Once in her room, Stevie Rae stuffed the paper-wrapped dress in her saddlebag to save for a special occasion, and opened the package with the new blouse, split skirt, and several pairs of frilly drawers. She folded them neatly on the bed, intending to wear her new clothes to dinner. The ornate screen hiding the brass tub had been moved, and as promised, the tub had been filled with hot water. Steam rose up from the surface to dissipate in the air. Stevie Rae dug a small sliver of honeysuckle-scented soap out of her saddlebag, unwrapped the paper protecting it, and dropped it into the steaming water. She inhaled as the hot water released the fragrance then quickly removed her clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor, and climbed into the bath for a long, leisurely soak.

  Chapter 8

  After Brock put the horses up at the livery down the street, and sent several telegrams, he stepped into the dim confines of Sheriff Heriot’s office. The room was empty. No sheriff, no deputies, no one occupying the jail cells, waiting for their time before the circuit judge who passed through Taos once a month or so.

  Brock’s glance immediately went to the Wanted posters tacked to one wall, and there he was front and center—Logan—surrounded by others who were not quite as dangerous or deadly. Black eyes stared back at him. Though he himself still searched, it was disappointing that no one else had managed to bring that vile criminal to justice.

  Yet.

  “Thought that was you, MacDermott.” Sheriff Heriot entered the office through the same door Brock came through a moment before, flinging his hat toward the hat stand in the corner of the room. The hat, a fancy thing with a silver and turquoise band around the base of the crown, twirled on a hook then settled into place.

  “Saw you from across the street. Lena still makes the best chicken and biscuits I ever had.” He patted his full stomach, then extended his hand.

  “Tim,” Brock returned the greeting, shook the man’s hand, then gestured toward the empty cells. “I see business is bad.”

  The older man grinned. “It’s been nice and quiet around here since Brody Pierce got put away. I still got drunkenness on Saturday night when the cowhands come in from the ranches to spend their hard-earned money, but every other day of the week, Taos seems like a little bit of heaven.” He gestured to a chair beside the desk. “Sit. Sit.”

  Brock removed his hat and tossed it across the room, aiming for the hat rack where Tim’s hat already nestled. As the sheriff’s hat had done, it twirled on the hook and came to rest. He grinned as he took his seat.

  “Where ya stayin’?”

  “The Hacienda.”

  The man nodded in approval. “You tell Manuel to treat you right.”

  “He always does.”

  “Drink? You look a might parched. Imagine you been riding hard since I last saw you.”

  At his nod, Tim pulled a bottle and two glasses from the drawer, then poured the single malt whiskey. He slid a glass across the desktop toward Brock, then raised his own and gestured to the posters on the wall. “To getting that bastard.”

  The whiskey burned his throat as Brock swallowed.

  “Saw you ride in a little while ago. Who’re you riding with?”

  Brock took a deep breath, not surprised by the question, and finished the liquor in his glass. Nothing much happened in this town without Tim Heriot knowing about it. He relaxed back in his chair and studied the man he’d met a little over three years ago when Heriot had chased Black Jack Callahan all the way to Pueblo just to arrest him. They’d become friends almost immediately, recognizing in each other the drive and perseverance it took to
keep their respective towns peaceful. Aside from a few more gray hairs in his impressive handlebar mustache, and fewer hairs on his head, Heriot hadn’t changed much.

  “Her name is Stevie Rae Buchanan,” he replied but didn’t elaborate.

  The sheriff nodded, as if the simple statement answered all his questions. “Not like you to ride with someone.” He poured more whiskey into their empty glasses, then leaned back in his chair and rested his feet on the desktop, crossing his legs at the ankle. “So what brings you to my little piece of paradise, as if I didn’t know?”

  Brock glanced toward the Wanted posters, his gaze resting on the face of the man who haunted his nightmares. “You seen him? I heard he was heading this way.”

  “Nah.” The sheriff shook his head. “He’s a smart man. He don’t wanna come here.”

  “You’d shoot first.” Brock grinned, knowing the man’s penchant for letting his pistol do his talking. “And ask questions later, right?”

  “Damn right. Ain’t got the time nor the patience for that son of a bitch, knowing what he’s done.” He rubbed his head, threading his fingers through the few strands of hair left there, and squinted his eyes, as if both actions could help him remember. “I did hear of a murder not too long ago up in Raton and another over to Little River. Can’t be certain it was him, but sure sounded like his handiwork.” A long sigh ruffled through the heavy mustache on his upper lip, and sadness filled his dark brown eyes. “He didn’t leave no one to tell.”

  “That’s not true.” Brock cleared his throat and finished off the whiskey in his glass. “The girl I’m riding with saw the whole thing. It was her father who was murdered up in Little River. From what she told me, her father removed bullets from Logan’s leg and shoulder and got killed for his trouble.”

  A dubious expression flickered over the man’s face for a moment before he scrubbed his big hand over his features, effectively erasing whatever he felt. Brock never wanted to face the man over a card table—he’d lose for certain. “That don’t sound like Logan. He don’t usually leave witnesses. At least, not as far as I know.”