Silver Mist

by Raine Cantrell

  “Rainly,” he continued, distracted a moment by the flash of her teeth sinking into her upper lip, “will never again be as you’ve known it. You can rant and rave, fight it all you want, but the town’s already changing and you will, too. But not now. Now it wouldn’t be fair.”

  Dara had heard enough. She twisted against the tree, brushing his body to turn her back toward him. His unassailable self-esteem unnerved her. Not that she needed to add that fact to the way his heated nearness affected her. She had no experience to draw upon to help her deny the strong attraction she felt toward him while at the same time he frightened her. Clay never challenged her. Clay showed his love by his respectful manner of courting her. And she forced herself to remember Clay, to reaffirm her promise to him to love, to wait, to marry. It was the only talisman she could dredge up for protection.

  Dara refused to cower. She faced him. “I owe you my thanks for bringing Matt home. But that is all that I owe you. Stay away from us. Leave Matt alone. He’s not your kind, and I pray he never will be.”

  “That’s once too often you’ve made that slur against me. My kind!” His voice, though soft, held an ominous note. “And you? What kind of a woman are you?”

  “Not for the likes of you!” Head tilted, she glared at him. “I’m promised to marry—”

  “Only promised? I would think,” he uttered softly, stepping to her side, leaning one shoulder against the tree to brush against her own, “that some man would have stolen the promise of you long before now.”

  “No! That might be your way—to steal and take—but my intended respects me.” Why was she defending herself to him? Every word seemed to be dragging her into deeper involvement with him.

  “So,” he noted silkily, “he respects you. But tell me, little saint, has he ever made love to you?” There was a hushed delicacy to his voice, a gentleness to his fingers cupping her chin before she called upon the Lord to help her and turned her face aside.

  “He won’t help you now, Dara.”

  A shiver tremored her body. “I don’t know how to make you stop saying such things to me. You have no right…” Eyes glazed with confusion, she looked at him. “I don’t know how to fight you.”

  “For the sweet love of God! Do you always challenge a man with such innocent candor regardless of where it may lead you?”

  Baffled by the anger shadowing his voice, Dara sensed she had inadvertently given him a weapon by telling him the truth. She wanted to recall the words and the challenge he found in them. She did nothing.

  “I don’t know why I should frighten you.” A lock of his hair fell across his forehead as he gazed down at her. Dappled in the shadows, he sensed her continued scrutiny. His gut clenched in reaction. More than he wanted to see was revealed in her velvet dark eyes. And he spoke without thought. “It’s not me you’re afraid of, is it? It’s you. Do I,” he asked in a soft, sensual voice, “threaten your narrow, safe little world?”

  “Yes!” Denials came too late. Shaking her head in disbelief of her admission, Dara pressed her body tight against the massive pine tree. He stood poised, like a night-summoned predator, dark, sleek, and far too powerful. Ignoring the stickiness and odor of pungent sap, her cheek rested against the rough-edged bark, tears filling her eyes.

  “Can’t you look at me now?” He was annoyed with her show of tension the moment he spoke, wanting her soft and pliant against him. Instinct warned him to give her a few minutes, and he lit a cigar, inhaling deeply, his features sharply delineated, then shadowed once again.

  Dara fought off the feeling of invitation to all things forbidden in his liquid warm voice. She tried to remember everyone’s warnings, even her own of not being free. But Clay never made her feel this breathless anticipation. She should be running for the safety of her home, but by his mere presence, he teased the locked doors of all her hidden dreams and longings. She couldn’t run … not yet.

  He dragged deep, filling his lungs with the smoke of rich tobacco. His eyes narrowed, becoming predatory. She had turned away from him, but didn’t run. He had his answer and he’d given her time. The lit end of his cigar was visible arching out over the water. With the barest move he turned, his warm breaths feathering the damp wisps of her hair against the fragile curve of her neck.

  A new awareness of male strength swamped her already overburdened senses when his body brushed against hers. Feeling trapped, she cried out for him to stop, closing her eyes as the deep evening shadows enfolded them.

  “I’m not very good,” he whispered huskily, listening to her muffled cry of denial that made him smile, “at obeying warnings. I told you a man’s cravings could be his undoing if he doesn’t try to satisfy them.” He braced himself, palms flat against the tree on either side of her head. “And I admit, I’ve craved a taste of you.”

  She couldn’t speak. Rage simmered inside for the liberty he dared take as if this, too, were his right. But it simmered and swelled against a tide of delicious heat threatening her. Dara wished she weren’t wearing a restrictive corset. Breathing was becoming a difficulty. Her fingers kneaded the bark in reaction. Inside, she felt a fluttering sensation. And the air around them was hot and still, as if it, too, were waiting, waiting like her trapped breaths, rushing in and out of her dry lips as she felt the light ply of his soft, warm mouth trace the edge of her collar.

  “Did you know,” he murmured in gentle query, “that I carried the scent of you away with me yesterday? The scent of a wind-teased summer garden, blazed hot by the sun.” There was absolute stillness to him as he smiled. The delicate shuddering ripple of her body stroked his own. “But now,” he breathed, “now … you’re…” His tongue savored the taste of her skin as he inhaled the sweetly warming feminine scent of her. “Yes … night-bloomed…” Without pressure from his body, slow unhurried tastings of the fragrant warmth of her tremored skin flooded his own easily heightened senses. Senses finely attuned to the night sounds around them.

  He turned his head aside, his jaw brushing against her lemon-scented coiled braids. They tempted his hands to release them as the coiled tension inside him pooled into fierce masculine need that edged him past caution. His long lashes caught on one damp tendril. His desire was not to alarm, so he used one finger to free it, and having touched her, his calloused fingertip continued to lightly stroke the very receptive delicate center of her nape. With his eyes darkened to pewter, he lowered his lashes, gazing at her profile. The glistening sheen of her lips caused the slight pause in his stroking.

  “You’re very, very soft.”

  “No.”

  The word tremored forth in denial, but the unconscious move of her head to follow the path of his touch sent out familiar signals of desire. He thought she would pull away. “So warm, so soft,” he murmured a moment later, hearing the thickening roil of his voice while he did no more than feather his fingertip in this gentle fashion. “I could almost imagine touching the downy breast of a duckling.”

  Dara felt boneless and lost under his caress. Her blood seemed to swell her body. A sigh shivered forth at the picture he called to mind. She could see those powerful hands cradling the fragile form, his voice soothing, warmly whispering, his caress easing the madly beating fright in its breast. Confusion swamped her.

  And the night sounds whispered around them, both soft and predatory.

  “I d-don’t—” She bit back the words. The full sensual shape of his mouth tested the arched length of her neck as lightly as his breaths fanned her sensitized skin. Dara felt languid, blood heating with every tremor flowing deeper and deeper inside her. There was an enticing wickedness to his expert touch and voice, and every one of her nerves were alive to them as her breaths became labored.

  “You are sweet, little saint,” he murmured, watching the glide of her dainty tongue as it moistened her parted lips. “And very beguiling,” he went on, turning her, angling his head to take possession of her tempting mouth, “and such a lush, intriguing bundle of contradic
tions.”

  Her shocked cry and sudden twisting move left his lips tasting the night air. “Too fast, little saint?” he asked without censure, stepping back, giving her complete freedom to run.

  Dara clung to the solidarity of the tree. Her legs shook, as did her body, with every ragged breath she drew.

  With a sparse move of his head, Eden turned toward the house. She hadn’t heard Jake calling her. His smile was rueful. A light appeared to be moving through the downstairs rooms heading toward the kitchen.

  “Go inside, innocent. It seems Jake has come to rescue you.”

  The mocking words barely registered as Dara glanced behind her. Now she heard Jake calling her. But when she turned back, Eden was already stepping out from under the tree’s protective branches.

  Begging her flowering senses to be still, Dara managed to call out, reassuring Jake she would be there in a few minutes. Had she dared to tempt exploring this man’s sinful guile? Looking at him, wanting to deny these last minutes, she could feel shame overcome her. Had she dared to dream with unknown longing of a lover’s coaxing?

  “Go inside, little innocent,” he repeated. “Go now, or I’ll take your continued hesitation to mean that you don’t want to leave. Jake will come out here, and if he does, you won’t like what you’ll hear or see.”

  Dara backed away from him then. Not because of what he said, but for his mocking of her innocence. With every step she took, her resolve strengthened.

  “Don’t worry about my innocence,” she whispered softly but harshly. “It will never be yours to take.”

  “I don’t take. Ever. But I’ll see my desire mirrored in your eyes before I’m done.”

  She ran then, the mocking laughter following her, haunting her, and with a last look behind to see that he was gone, his parting words teased her with their challenge.

  Chapter Four

  The sighing and moaning of the wind from the Gulf of Mexico brought its sultry hot air heavy with storm into the last Saturday morning of August. Dara proudly kept her resolve to stay away from the man called Silver. Honesty compelled her to admit that success was achieved in part by never being alone with him in the store. She could do nothing to stop hearing the gossip about him, since his block of stores were the first to be rented, including Rainly’s first saloon. But not its last, as Mrs. Elvira Dinn just informed her. Another two-story building was near completion next to the bank, directly across the street from the general store, while the large comer lots of William and Charleston streets would boast both a saloon and a gambling hall. Its owner, the town gossip said, was a woman, one Satin Mallory, if Dara believed such an outlandish name, and she had lavishly expensive tastes, if one judged by the furnishings arriving daily.

  But Dara had little time to stand and gossip this morning. The store was crowded with the farm families in to do their monthly buying, and as had been the case for several weeks, men of every description were milling the aisles. Sometimes she resented the harried days that left her exhausted. There was no help for it. The steady influx of men arrived at the alarming rate of two trainloads a day, and that discounted the ones coming by wagon, horseback, and on foot. Some came with money and the knowledge of what they were about, if Dara judged by the supplies they bought, but most, she determined, were ignorant of mining not only phosphate but any mineral. Far too many were merely speculators who looked for a quick way of making money without a conscience as to how they did so.

  Totaling a short column of figures, Dara absently rubbed her forehead. The dull headache was as much a part of her days as the constant sounds of hammering. Buildings seemed to spring up almost overnight. Most were ramshackle affairs that wouldn’t withstand the force of a hurricane. Jesse’s sawmill ran sixteen hours a day, and he mentioned only yesterday to her father that he had been approached to take in a partner and build a second mill. Jesse, like most of the townspeople who embarked on new businesses, hired skilled help in the early arriving men who found tramping through the woods or fields trying to locate a rich deposit of phosphate exhausted their funds and health long before they discovered a pit worth excavating. If they didn’t work in town, they worked for the more successful mining operations numbering almost ten now, for fifty cents a day, or they worked at the new turpentine still at the north end of town in whose shanties murders were committed and remained unsolved.

  Dara completed another transaction for another stranger. Her cool reserve had discouraged the most persistent of them from making any advances. Someone called for help to reach the hanging milk skimmers, and Dara stepped out from behind the counter, glad to let her father transact a lengthy order from Señor Suarez’s men of business. She didn’t like either of the nattily dressed small-statured men who, rumor held, carried secreted weapons. Their manner toward her had always been gentlemanly, so she placed the blame for her feelings on missing the days when she knew everyone who shopped in the store.

  Visits were rare between neighbors now, as rare, thankfully, as the few isolated incidents of fights breaking out when the miners were in town drinking and Jake was called to restore order. The wearing of guns had become too commonplace to remark about anymore, and Rainly would soon boast its own jail on the newly developed Richmond Road.

  Dara left the two farmers a selection of skimmers, knowing they would debate the merits between them before making a choice. Into the moment’s silence came the thrill of a mockingbird’s call, and she glanced toward the front doors as her father finished with his customers. Black-edged clouds could be seen, thick and roiling against a hazy blue sky, building their threat of a storm toward the south.

  “I don’t think this one will blow over, Papa.” Gazing at her father’s beloved craggy features worn by years of war and struggle, Dara smiled. It was rare for them to have a few minutes’ break. With the exception of the gray threading his curled hair, his amber eyes and lanky frame were his legacy to Matt, while Pierce had his warm, gentle voice, even-tempered nature, and resembled, as Dara did, their deceased mother.

  “I hope the rain hurries, honey. It might dampen the tempers of another storm building outside the store. The liars’ bench is full. Did you notice,” he asked, rubbing the swollen knuckles of his left hand, “that Clay is out there?”

  “No, I didn’t see him.” The smile disappeared from her eyes, lips, and voice. Concern for her father took priority. “Are you in pain, Papa? I could manage in here the rest of the afternoon alone, especially if it rains.”

  “Don’t think I don’t realize you’re managing too much as it is. And it’s just the damp stirring my bones a bit. Trying to retire me permanently, are you?”

  Dara’s laugh, a silvery whisper of sound, reflected the merry twinkle in her father’s eyes. “And if I did,” she saucily teased, “would you be thinking to take over the caring of the household from me?”

  An eruption of loud voices distracted both of them. “Maybe I should go outside and hear what they’re up to,” Cyrus said.

  “Papa, don’t. Don’t get involved with them.”

  “What’s this?” He barely hid his wince when he placed both hands on her slender shoulders. “Aren’t you resigned yet to accepting Matt’s decision? Or are you angry that Clay hasn’t come in to see you first?”

  “Neither. There are too many farmers in town today, and I just wish Clay would forget that incident with those two miners. They didn’t know what they were doing.”

  “Dara, this is not like you. Clay had a right to be incensed after finding those men digging up his newly planted citrus trees. If I recall correctly, those specially grafted trees were ordered from California and delayed your wedding plans this spring.”

  Not even to her father would Dara reveal the pain his words caused.

  “Will you be all right for a little while?” Cyrus continued. “Someone needs to keep an eye on hot tempers. Jake isn’t in town. Seems almost daily there’s trouble out at someone’s claim. And I can’t fault Clay or the othe
r farmers for being riled, either. I’m just worried since there’s miners aplenty in town.”

  Dara didn’t caution him as she wanted to, but merely watched him leave as people once again crowded into the store.

  Cyrus remained standing on the wooden porch, tired eyes scanning the men clustered below him. Strawhats, worn overalls, and sun-leathered faces marked them as farmers; whereas, the miners were noted for their thick mud-encrusted, calf-high storm boots, denim pants, bearded faces, and the guns they either carried or wore. He shook his head in commiseration with the farmers’ plight.

  The Florida lands had farmers floundering at first, forcing many of them to experiment with crops, and even now, many barely made ends meet while others, like the tall young man in the center of the group, had succeeded in taming all but the weather. He admired Clay Wescott, was proud of the man his daughter chose to marry, and owed him a debt for his unstinting help offered to Pierce as he realized his dream.

  Cyrus settled himself on a nail keg, leaning against the wall, taking out his hand-carved briar pipe, a last gift from his wife. He filled the bowl and, while he tamped down the tobacco, found himself offered a light. He acknowledged his thanks with a nod toward his new neighbor.

  “Haven’t seen much of you in town this week, Silver.”

  “We’re swinging into full production out at the Devil’s Own,” he answered, lighting a cheroot. His gaze followed Cyrus’s toward the crowd of men. “I wanted to talk to you about opening a company store out at the site, but there’s no hurry. I imagine you’d want to listen to them.”

  “You’re not concerned with the fanners’ growing unrest?”