She took another step back, her gaze intent on his before she finally shook her head. There was an apology in her eyes—but not in the sudden grin she flashed at him. “I wouldn’t have missed you with my shotgun.”
Brock grunted instead of letting loose the relieved laugh that bubbled up from his chest, his anger disappearing in the impishness of her smile. Despite the fact she shot him, Stevie Rae Buchanan amazed him in so many ways. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Hell, MacDermott, you tryin’ to kill me?”
Brock stepped away from Stevie Rae and studied the man who had been following them as he approached, leading his horse by the reins. A wide grin spread the thick mustache on the man’s upper lip, letting Brock know there were no hard feelings. There never was with Sam Whitaker.
“Wasn’t me,” he said as he held out his hand to shake and nodded in Stevie Rae’s direction. “She’s a little nervous.” He patted the pistol tucked into his waistband, assuring himself there would be no more random shots taken. At least for tonight. “Taking your life in your hands sneaking up on a man like that, Sam. What were you thinking?”
Sam shrugged as his gaze fell to the hole in Brock’s trousers then back up to his face, amusement dancing in his light brown eyes, the mustache on his lip twitching. “Wasn’t thinkin’. Saw you leave Taos. Thought I’d ride along with you for a while, if you don’t mind.”
“Don’t mind at all. We’re heading to Española.”
“Española? Why Española?”
“There’s been a murder. Could be Zeb Logan’s handiwork.”
The man nodded, well acquainted with the Logan family, the acts of horror they committed either together or alone, and Brock’s determination to see their reign of terror ended. “Who’s your shooter?”
Brock chuckled, but Stevie Rae bristled and blushed as he pulled her from behind the boulder. “Stevie Rae, this is my good friend, Sam Whitaker. Sam, Stevie Rae Buchanan.”
Sam grinned at her, then held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you…I think.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered as she shook his hand, her mortification complete as the blush staining her cheeks deepened. “But you shouldn’t have been following us.”
“You’re right, ma’am. My own damn fault if’n you’d a shot me.” His merry brown eyes darted to the hole in Brock’s trousers once again then back to her face. “Like you did him.” He laughed then, finding humor at Brock’s expense, and perhaps a bit relieved he wasn’t the one with a bullet hole somewhere on his person.
Brock didn’t take offense—he’d known Sam too long to take the man’s laughter seriously. Instead, he took a deep breath and studied Stevie Rae’s face. The blush on her cheeks seemed to have taken up permanent residence and she looked…absolutely stunning.
“We’ll camp right here and begin shooting lessons as soon as possible.” He took another breath, his gaze riveted to her face. “I don’t want to end up dead because you can’t hit the broad side of a barn.”
Stevie Rae said nothing, although her eyes darted to the bullet hole. She nodded slightly before she moved away to see to the horses, then grabbed the coffeepot and headed toward the river.
Camp was set up in no time at all and a fire blazed in the hastily made fire pit although the sun had yet to sink into the horizon. As Sam headed down to the river to catch some fish, Brock stepped behind one of the boulders sheltering their camp to change out of his ruined trousers. He tied his pants around the trunk of a tree several yards away then approached Stevie Rae as she crouched down beside the fire and placed a coffeepot on the metal rack above the flames.
He held her gun in his hands. “Are you ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.” She rose to her feet, body stiff, hand trembling as she reached for the pistol and wrapped her long, slim fingers around the handle. She didn’t say a word, but doubt and uncertainty danced in her eyes before she walked away and positioned herself about twenty yards away from the target. Brock followed and stood slightly behind her and to the right. “Aim for the pants. That shouldn’t be too difficult seeing as how you’ve already put one hole in them.”
She harrumphed, then raised her arm, extending the pistol, and squeezed the trigger. The echo of the first shot had barely died before a second and third followed. She missed. All three shots, by several yards. He wondered if she took aim or if she closed her eyes every time she pulled the trigger.
“This isn’t working. I can’t do this.” Her voice became tight.
“Try to relax, Stevie. This isn’t a race. Or a game.”
“I know it’s not a game, MacDermott.”
He ignored her sharp words and simply grinned. She had gone back to calling him MacDermott, letting him know not only by the use of his last name, but by her tenor, she was frustrated. He understood. “Let me help you.”
He stepped up behind her, removed her battered hat, and placed it on the boulder they’d hidden behind earlier, then wrapped his arms around her, pulling her body against his. She stiffened within his embrace but only for a moment.
Too late, he realized it was a mistake to hold her this close.
Actually, it wasn’t a mistake.
It was torture…sweet agony of the most pleasurable kind, as the memory of their kiss flared in his head. She was soft in all the places a woman should be soft, especially her rounded bottom, which he had been admiring for quite some time. He suppressed a groan as he pulled her closer still, that delectable behind pressing more firmly against his most vulnerable parts, the parts he’d come close to losing earlier in the day. The heat from her body warmed him, making it difficult to concentrate on the task at hand—teaching her to shoot, without killing him in the process.
He expelled a long sigh, ruffling the strands of honey blond hair next to her ear. That was torture, too, as the scent of honeysuckle rose to his nose. “Relax, Stevie. Let the pistol become an extension of your arm.” With his arms around her, he helped her aim at the ruined trousers. “Pull back on the trigger gently.”
She did…and again missed entirely, the bullet flying past the target to lodge in another tree several yards away. Her entire body slumped with disappointment. “I can’t do this.”
“Yes, you can. It takes practice. No one is born knowing how to shoot although some seem to take to it easier than others. Let’s try again. Take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Line up the sight on the pistol with your target. When you’re ready, squeeze the trigger. Gently.”
Again, Stevie Rae did as instructed. The bullet whistled past the tree, nowhere near the intended target. Standing so close to her, feeling the tension in her body, Brock felt her disappointment as keenly as she did.
“Sam?” Brock turned slightly to see Sam approaching from the left, several gutted fish lined up on a hastily made spear. “You wanna try?”
The man shook his head though his perpetual grin remained in place. “Oh no, not me. I ain’t getting near that girl. She’s dangerous!” He squatted down beside the fire and carefully perched the makeshift spear on two rocks high above the flames.
“It’s useless, Brock. I’ll never hit the target.” Defeat colored her voice and she tried to move away from him.
He tightened his arms around her, unwilling to let her go. Not yet at least. He enjoyed holding her and feeling her softness, smelling her delightful scent of honeysuckle. “Yes, you will. Where’s your grit and gumption? The stubbornness you take such pride in? Where’s your ‘don’t help me, I can do it myself’ attitude?”
She turned her head slightly to look at him. He saw it then—in her face, in the tightness of her utterly kissable lips—the fortitude that had carried her this far, the tenacity that held her upright when most others would fall. Her eyes glittered, the blueness of them touching him deep in his soul. Her gaze held him captive for the longest time before she turned away and raised the gun.
“That’s my girl,” he whispered in her ear. As a reward, she shivered ever so slightly and sucked in her breath, her back moving
against his stomach.
“I’m not your girl,” she hissed.
He grinned. He’d made her angry again and wondered which words made her so. His questions about her determination? Or the fact that he’d called her his girl? In the long run, it didn’t matter, as long as she learned to shoot, for his own safety if nothing else. “Concentrate. Imagine yourself as the bullet. Imagine me still wearing those trousers. Close your eyes and breathe deeply. When you open your eyes, squeeze the trigger gently, like you’re caressing a baby’s cheek.”
Stevie Rae grew very still within his arms. She inhaled as instructed, then pulled the trigger as she exhaled. The bullet sank into solid wood with a thunk, leaving another hole in Brock’s trousers, right beside the original. She released her breath in a sigh. “I did it!”
“Good. Now reload and do it again.”
With the ease of someone who had practiced loading and unloading a six-shooter, Stevie Rae did as she was told. When she was done, she spun the cylinder.
“Where’d you learn to do that?”
She grinned at him. “Papa taught me. He thought I should know how to protect myself.”
“He taught you how to load and unload, but didn’t teach you to shoot?”
“He tried.” She gave him a grin that told him the lessons hadn’t gone well, then presented her back to him. Brock stepped closer and wrapped his arms around her again, though it had nothing to do with helping her aim and more to do with just liking the feel of her in his arms.
“Remember to breathe.”
After five shots hit the target, two off to the right, the other three dead center in the crotch—she only missed once—she holstered the firearm, then turned in his arms, her eyes glistening with excitement and accomplishment, her mouth parted…and oh so inviting.
Brock did the only thing he could do under the circumstances. He tilted her head back and kissed her, his mouth taking possession of her soft, pliable lips. The scent of honeysuckle filled his senses as much as her taste, intoxicating him. He wanted more. Much more. He pulled her tighter against him, feeling the soft lushness of her body against his entire length. A shiver rippled through her as her arms wrapped around him, her fingers sliding through the hair at the back of his neck. Blood surged through his veins—hot. Insistent. Arousing.
Sam cleared his throat from the other side of the camp. “If yer done playin’ kissy-face, the fish is ready.”
He didn’t want to let her go, but he had no choice. Stevie Rae stiffened in his embrace, then pulled away, her face flushed with embarrassment but her eyes darkened and glittered with excitement and, perhaps, passion. She opened her mouth, then closed it without saying a word before she gave a slight nod and hightailed it down to the river.
• • •
Hours later, the campfire burned brightly, the flames dancing along logs. Dinner, which consisted solely of the fish Sam had managed to catch, had been consumed, the tin plates and forks cleaned and put away. Stars twinkled in the heavens and anticipation curled in Brock’s belly. He leaned against his saddle, filled his pipe…and waited. He wasn’t disappointed as Stevie Rae pulled a horsehair brush from her saddlebag.
She settled on her bedroll, her legs crossed, and started brushing through her long hair, a nightly ritual he’d come to enjoy, though he’d never admit it.
Sam poured himself another cup of coffee and settled on his own bedroll on the other side of the fire, his eyes on Stevie Rae, admiration twinkling in their depths as she pulled the brush through her long, shimmering tresses.
Jealousy, an emotion new and unfamiliar to him, made Brock’s stomach clench. As much as he liked Sam, he didn’t like the way he watched Stevie brush her hair. That was his pleasure and his alone. He was about to say something to draw the man’s attention away when the man grinned at him and spoke, but not to him. He directed his question to her.
“What’s a nice girl like you doing with a bas—uh—hard head like MacDermott?” he asked, his grin stretching his impressive handlebar mustache. “Gotta tell you, I ain’t never seen MacDermott ride with anyone for more than two days at the most. He prefers his own company.” He chuckled, the sound grating in Brock’s ears. “Sure as shit, never seen him try to teach anyone to shoot, neither. You done pretty good, girl, once you got the hang of it.”
She stopped pulling the bristles through her hair and rested the brush in her lap. Her eyes glimmered in the firelight. “He’s the only one I trust to help me find Zeb Logan.”
Sam cut off a plug of chewing tobacco from the supply he kept in a small pouch and shoved it between his cheek and gum. “Why do you want to find Logan?”
“He killed my father.”
“I am sorry about that. Logan ain’t a nice man.”
“No, he’s not.” A long sigh escaped her as she plied the stiff bristles of the brush to her long, thick hair once more. “My father was a very kind, gentle man, Sam. There was no reason for what Logan did to him, especially after he removed the bullets from Logan’s leg and shoulder.”
“Your father was a doctor?”
“Yes…before he…gave it up.”
“Why’d he give it up?”
Brock stilled and waited for her answer, hoping to catch a glimpse of her life before tragedy drove her on the course she was on now. He’d known Steven Buchanan was a man of medicine, but he didn’t know why he’d given up practicing.
Stevie Rae shrugged and for a moment, she looked so sad, he wanted nothing more than to enfold her in his arms and kiss her again. Repeatedly. Until she forgot the pain in her heart, until she was breathless and hungering for his touch as much as he yearned for hers. He restrained himself and remained on his side of the fire, though his heart pounded fiercely in his chest.
He had already broken too many rules for her. He couldn’t afford to break more.
“I wasn’t there, but I was told he lost three patients, one right after another. It broke him. He lost his faith. That’s when he sold the house and closed his practice and borrowed money from the bank to buy that little cabin and Poor Man’s Dream.” Tears shimmered in her eyes, reflecting the flames of the fire. “He couldn’t save those people and he blamed himself. Oh, he blamed God, too, but he blamed himself so much more. I took care of him more than he took care of me, but that was all right. I didn’t mind.”
“What will you do when you find him? Logan, I mean.”
“Take his life like he took my father’s,” she responded in her matter-of-fact manner, her voice strong and commitment-filled as she rose to her feet and put the brush away. Brock winced. He thought he’d made her understand his purpose in finding Logan and it wasn’t to kill him. He needed to be brought to trial and let the law decide his fate. It wasn’t up to Brock, though he longed to see the man swing from a rope. He wasn’t judge and jury. Neither was she. He’d have to remind her once again, make his intentions clear, but now wasn’t the time. He doubted she would listen. Or even hear him. Too much hatred filled her heart.
Brock held a match to the bowl of his pipe and puffed it alight, but his eyes were on her as she removed her boots and slid between the blankets. She nodded once in his direction and said good night, her voice tight with suppressed emotion.
Firelight reflected on the top of her head, shimmering in her honey gold locks as she turned on her side, her back to them.
“Did I tell you I brought in Slim Garner? Found him in San Antonio, of all places,” Sam said, drawing his attention. “Sumbitch nearly killed me, but I got the drop on him.”
Brock gave a noncommittal grunt and let the man talk, but he wasn’t listening. He watched the rise and fall of Stevie Rae’s even breathing and wondered how he’d be able to keep her from killing a man who deserved to die.
Chapter 11
Stevie Rae wiggled the fingers of her right hand, trying to relieve the numbness. She’d been gripping Willow’s reins so tight, she’d lost feeling in both hands. Pins and needles flared beneath her skin as the numbness began to disappear
. She repeated the process with her left hand before she glanced over at Brock riding beside her. He sat tall in the saddle, his body stiff. He hadn’t spoken much since they packed up their camp earlier this morning. She supposed he was all talked out, having stayed up with Sam after she had turned in the night before.
Sam, though, hadn’t stopped talking since he’d woken up that morning and she wondered if he spoke when no one was around to hear him except himself. She glanced in his direction. He grinned and kept up his recitation of criminals he’d brought to justice. The list never seemed to end and for a moment, she wished he’d be quiet—which struck her as odd considering it wasn’t too long ago she’d hungered for the sound of another person’s voice.
They’d been following the railroad tracks that led straight into Española almost as soon as they started riding earlier, passing small farms and ranches along the way. The Denver and Rio Grande Western Railroad had done some good here in town. The streets bustled with pedestrians. A sign hung over the window of a store, announcing the grand opening. New buildings constructed of lumber were interspersed between old buildings made of adobe. Several people waved in greeting as they strolled, and yet, she took no pleasure from the friendly gesture. In truth, apprehension filled her, growing steadily from the moment Brock had told her about the murder in this town. She had no way of knowing if Logan had committed the crime, but she was almost afraid to find out.
A wooden placard with the simple word “Sheriff” painted in bold black letters hung from metal hooks screwed into the roof of the covered walkway. A slight breeze pushed the sign, producing a squealing sound as metal rubbed against metal. The sound went right through her, ratcheting up her anxiety. She took several deep breaths in an effort to will the unease away but it didn’t help.
With Brock in the lead, they rode up to the sheriff’s office.
“I’ll just wait here,” Sam said as he peered through the window, still in the saddle. He made no move to dismount. “No sense all of us crowding into that office.”
A Kiss in the Shadows Page 12