“Dara.” Her name was a mere breath, rolling softly, slowly from his lips. His head angled down, whisper-soft scents of tobacco playing havoc with her senses. “Did your parents take your name from the Bible—meaning wisdom and compassion? How compassionate are you, little saint?”
With unhurried grace, he bent toward her. One of his knees flexed, and his forearms closed to cradle her head. “Will you show me, Dara?”
Heat spread inside her. She couldn’t deny the strength of his physical presence, or the very gentle movement of his hand as his thumb followed the curve of her hairline, disturbing a few damp tendrils. He overwhelmed her … his smile, the warm fresh scent of him drifting through the fibers of his shirt, his eyes, too bright, too hot.
“Why do”—she licked her dry lips, trying again—“Why do you ask such things of me?” She could not look into his eyes. It seemed wiser to look down at his shirt tucked tight into denim pants. They were secured with a worn belt which closed with an intricately carved buckle that boasted a silver nugget as its ornament. For a single shocking moment she toyed with the idea of being brave and asking if the item had some connection with his name. But instead Dara found a yellow streak running down her back, along with a shivery sensation of warmth.
“I asked, because charity and compassion are the scope of the Lord’s commands. And charity,” he teased, smile at full tilt, “covers a multitude of sins. So are you very charitable, Dara?” His voice was unhurried, so even, and so much at odds with the desire inside him.
It had been a daring game to her and now ceased abruptly. She pressed against the wall, trying to escape the coaxing pressure of his thigh rubbing against her leg. There was an unexpected hardness to his body when weighed against the softness of his voice, the slow gentle moves. She didn’t want to admit to the excitement that was building. It was all too unfamiliar, too warm, and desire bloomed within her.
“You didn’t answer me, Dara.” Breathing in the scent and sweet fragrance of her, he slowly withdrew his body. She was drawing erratic breaths, a captive once more of his arms on either side of her.
“Everything you said sounded like a preacher’s words.” Her eyes narrowed behind her spectacles, suspicions forming that the words, when whispered from his lips, meant nothing she learned in church.
“They are, little saint.”
“You don’t look or behave like any preacher I know.”
“Would you feel safer with me if I said I was one?”
“Safer? Oh, no,” she answered with innate honesty.
“Well, ease your mind, darlin’, I’m not.”
The only safety Dara found was to look down again. Well, it was a thought until she stared at his faded pants. They had certainly been scrubbed enough. Hadn’t Lara bragged of the generous tips he’d given her for doing his laundry? Perhaps that wasn’t all he’d tipped her for, Dara thought, and pursed her lips. But the touch of those pants would be cottony soft … Mentally jerking back from where her thoughts had strayed, Dara excused herself, having washed for her father and brothers enough years to know how pants wore. His narrow hips weren’t a safe place to rest her gaze, either. He was most definitely graduating to a state most indecent for any lady’s peace of mind. Turning her head aside, the tip of her nose brushed his forearm.
“Don’t you have another name besides Silver?”
“So you can be curious, Dara? Sure, I do.” His head angled a bit closer. Repeated lickings of her lips had left them glistening, and while he was tempted to close the hair’s breadth distance, he answered her instead. “My daddy was a preacher and named each one of us from the Good Book. My name is Eden.”
Mesmerized by the even rise and fall of his chest, and at the same time wanting to duck under his arm and escape Dara found she didn’t have the will to move. “I have heard Reverend Speck refer to Eden as another name for paradise, and that is considered a place of delightful pleasure we all shall strive to attain. But you, sir, are being neither delightful nor a pleasure right now.”
“I could make atonement for the omission, little one,” he noted softly.
Dara found herself nose to nose with him. “Your father must be horrified to know how you mock his teachings!”
“Such nasty little slips of temper,” he mocked, shifting one hand closer to her shoulder. “You won’t attain heaven without showing some charity to those of us less fortunate than yourself, darlin’.” Panic flared in her eyes, and he longed to remove those glasses to see how deep and velvet the darkness could get. “My daddy,” he drawled, “knows exactly how I feel. I see him often. He was just a mite too fond of talking about the devil’s temptations leading all of us astray, so I left home to find out for myself what they were.”
“And did you find out?”
“Some.”
“Some?” Dara couldn’t help herself. She knew it was wrong to encourage him, but somehow she enjoyed this sparring with him. “Well, that wasn’t much of an answer.”
“I didn’t think you’d want the details. ’Sides, I was just figuring, standing so close and watching you, that my daddy didn’t know that much about temptation after all.”
And Dara found she wasn’t immune to the blistering heat of his smile. “You can’t imply that I—”
“Are you afraid I might find out how right I am?”
“I am not afraid.” She needed to draw one breath without the scent of him filling her. As if he sensed it, he backed off. The sight of his gun suddenly made the foolishness of the last few minutes flee. “If you are finished toying with me, make your decision about which rifle you wish to purchase. And when you do,” she stressed, angry now, “bring it to the counter.”
“Why the anger, Dara? I was only teasing you. And no, you won’t get by without giving me an answer.”
“It’s that.”
“That?” he repeated doubtfully. She made a vague gesture toward his left hip. “Ah, that,” he said again, but softly and very coolly. “Why?” His hand slid along her slender-boned shoulder, moving up the expanse of her neck to gently cup her chin. “Tell me.”
Her knees suddenly had the consistency of melted butter. Without pressure, each of his fingertips sent a message that her body, to her mortification, was willing to receive. Warnings came along with the quivering sensations his touch evoked. And when he leaned close, softly repeating his demand, she sagged against the wall, closing her eyes.
“I despise guns.” Dry, throaty words conveyed a chill that took his heat and dissolved its effect upon her. “I have,” she stated, opening her eyes and looking directly into his, “no respect for men who need to use them. Guns don’t solve anything. They just create trouble.”
Sensing more behind her explanation, and moved by a surge of emotions he wasn’t about to take the time to untangle, he softly cajoled her to tell him why.
“Ten years ago Ziba King sent his men from Fort Ogden after cattle thieves. They found them camped outside of Rainly and shot them. My … my mother was there,” she whispered against his shirt as he drew her within the warm circle of his arms. Feeling the softness of the cloth, the hardness of his chest beneath, Dara felt eased and inhaled his male scent, clean, spice-tanged, and with it his heat. Talking about her mother weakened already battered defenses when his murmurings coaxed her to continue.
“They didn’t kill her. She was shot in the back by a stray bullet on her way home from collecting eggs…” Her voice faltered, tears threatened, and his comfort-laden words were meaningless sounds. “She had so much pain … lingering for months, and no one could help her.”
“Dara, listen to me. Not all men are careless when they—”
“No!” She jerked herself free. “Men who wear guns, who use them, are looking for trouble. Jake has changed. Even his wife isn’t sure who he is anymore.”
Eden’s cool, impersonal gaze assessed her. “Some of us, like Jake, wear a gun as a necessary part of themselves to stay alive, Dara.”
&nbs
p; “It’s all part and parcel of men like you coming here, tearing apart the town, raping the land, stealing from the poor farmers! I hear about people offered half of what their land is worth, and when their money is gone, you mine owners hire them for fifty cents a day while you make five hundred dollars from their sweat.” Backing away from him, Dara realized where her encouragement of this man had led her. “Clay is right. You and your kind will destroy Rainly if you’re not stopped.”
Eden “Silver” McQuade had had enough. He went after her, lithe, hard, dangerous, stalking, and backing her down one aisle, fighting for control against the caustic words that so outraged him. Her move to turn and flee was a bare flicker in her eyes when he grabbed her upper arm and hauled her up against him.
“You,” he gritted, a deadly derision simmering in the eyes he targeted upon her, “don’t know a damn thing about me. I warned you once not to judge me, Dara. I’ve worked mining pits in North Carolina and in Tennessee. I’ve hacked and picked my way in ore mines from Mexico up to Nevada, and I’ve owned my land here, right here in Marion County, for seven years. My town land was bought two years ago. I’ve been mining phosphate down at Peace River for three years, and all I destroyed was a rail line that was poor at best. But I paid my workers fair wages and gave them a better railway. A railway that takes farmers’ stock and produce to give them a fighting chance to be better than dirt poor.”
His grip tightened even though he could feel the blood pulsing in her arm, saw her throat working, her eyes wide with fear. “And I don’t,” he said slowly, hard mockery lacing every word, “rape. I’ve never had to take anything I wanted by force … not land … and never, ever a woman.”
His abrupt release stunned her almost as much as his impassioned defense did. And Dara found herself looking up at him, really looking at him for what seemed to be the first time. When had she unconsciously stored away the fact that he was always clean shaven? Why, too, was the urge so strong to reach up and touch him? It shook her, this feeling, coming as it did with the sureness that he wasn’t lying, and that none of his life had been easy. Why? Why should she care? Immobile, his face was hers to scrutinize for long moments, until she reluctantly turned her head aside, but didn’t, just couldn’t move away from him.
“Finished?” he queried without emotion.
“Quite.”
“Dare I ask the ungentlemanly question of whether or not you found anything to your liking?”
She couldn’t help but unbend a little, hearing his lighter, teasing tone. “N o.”
“Was that an unequivocal no, I can’t ask, or a no, you didn’t see anything about me that you liked?” His lazy smile showed his willingness to ease the tension between them.
“A woman,” Dara informed him, “wouldn’t answer such a question and still consider herself a lady.”
“But, darlin’, I’m not questioning your being a lady. From here”—amused gray eyes lingered on her neatly pinned hair, darkening under a feathering of lashes before his caressing look stroked the length of her—“to the pointed tips of your proper little shoes, you are very much the lady. What I object to is your calling yourself a woman,” he teased with indolent humor. “You’re not.” Satisfied to see the blush on her cheeks, he added softly, “At least, not yet.”
“Don’t say such improper things.” Her hands cradled her flushed cheeks.
“Ah, little saint—”
“And don’t call me those names, nor use my first. We are not friends!”
“Friends, huh?” He leaned against the nearest shelf, one hand cupping the back of her neck, dragging her close. “I never wanted to be friends with you, Dara. So, then,” he asked, his voice suddenly sensually soft, “what should a lover call you?” He removed her glasses before she could stop him.
“A—” Dara got no further, for his lips came tasting, brushing back and forth against the soft bowed fullness of her mouth. In the sudden blood-thrumming silence, shivering fear and thrilling longing melted inside her. His mouth’s feasting was gentle, but she sensed the leased tension inside him a moment before his lips firmly made a claiming demand upon her own. Her toes curled tight. Her hands clenched her skirt, and she gave herself over to the curious longing to know what his kiss would be like. The shifting move of his hand and mouth rotated her head for his pleasure. Dara leaned closer, wanting more, but as quickly as he’d begun, he stopped, and lifted his head.
“I’ll respect your very delicate sensibilities if you don’t continue to provoke me.”
“Don’t … you … dare … mock … me.” Her jaw ached from suddenly clenching it. She was shaken by his kiss, and he—he seemed unmoved! “I do not provoke you. I don’t want to. And you, you don’t know me at all.”
“Don’t I? Just hush,” he murmured, placing one fingertip against the parted bow of her mouth. “I’ll wait and you’ll run. You’ll run until you’re tied in knots with wanting me. But Dara, don’t be afraid. I won’t rush you.”
He could no more resist brushing his fingertip over the lush wet satin of her bottom lip than Dara, enthralled by the hunger of his eyes, could stop herself from sliding the tip of her tongue to taste his skin.
Stunned by her action, she pulled back, staring up at him with a dazed bewilderment that begged his denial for her brazen action.
Eden McQuade denied her solace with a slow shake of his head. “You see and feel how it will be with us.”
“Dear Lord! What are you trying to do to me?” Dara shook her head, realizing where they were. Anyone could have walked into the store and seen them! She was desperate to deny him, his words, and the hot promise burning in his gaze, as well as the imprint of his mouth and taste burned upon her lips. Dara spun around, needing to run from him as well as herself. She didn’t want what the heat of him promised! He was wicked to tempt her like this. Clay was the one she loved—had loved all these years she had patiently waited, the years she didn’t dare count, the years she set aside her dreams and longings. No! Silver was the devil’s own temptation to make her think she had needs too!
Dara ran down the aisle, heard Matt call out to her, warn her. She stopped short when she saw his warning came too late.
Matt stopped, too, when he saw Silver McQuade standing with his back toward him, and beyond him Dara stood sheltered protectively in Clay’s arms.
“I’m already here, Matt,” Clay said, hugging Dara against him, but turning an iced blue gaze on the man in front of him. “If you hurt her…” he began.
“Ask her,” McQuade returned, his voice unconcerned, his gaze direct.
Clay hesitated, then tipped Dara’s chin upward. “Did he hurt you?”
“Answer him,” McQuade demanded.
Chapter Five
Dara glanced from one to the other. She silently begged the Lord’s forgiveness for her lie, but she refused to be the cause of violence between these two men. Reassuring Clay in a soft, shaken voice, she told him it was her memories of her mother’s death that upset her, triggered by showing Mr. McQuade the rifle. Eden McQuade’s irony mocked her attempt to smooth over the matter.
“She faced a few truths about guns and the men who use them, Wescott, and I, too, learned a few undeniable truths from Miss Owens’s lips.” Without turning around, he added, “Matt, put aside the rifle next to the case for me. I’ll be back later to claim what’s mine.” To Dara, he said, “Here, put these back on. They might help you see things more clearly.” Eden let her snatch the glasses from his hands, then turned to leave. He brushed by Clay, seething inside for the way Dara clung to him.
Dara’s relief at his leaving without trouble was shortlived.
“This is your fault, Matt,” Clay lashed out. “You’re old enough to realize what kind of a man he is. Your sister is a lady and should never have been left alone here, exposed to his sort.”
“Clay! You can’t mean to blame my brother. I told—”
“Stop protecting me, Dara,” Matt interrupted.
“I don’t need you to speak up for me. Don’t you see it’s his own guilt that makes Clay blame me or whoever else he can? Why wasn’t he here with you? Why don’t you marry her, Clay? Why don’t you admit that it’s your own fault that she—”
“Why, you little—”
“Stop this!” Dara blocked Clay’s forward move toward Matt. “It’s not his fault, Clay. You’re wrong to blame him, more because I told you nothing happened. As for you,” she scolded, turning to face her brother, “I can’t believe you’d forget yourself and dare mention what is a personal matter between Clay and myself. I’m ashamed of you, Matt.”
Looking at the angry tearful sheen of Dara’s eyes, Matt felt his anger fade. He’d not only hurt her, but he had embarrassed her as well. Mumbling an apology to both of them, he returned to the counter.
“He isn’t too big to have a strop taken to him.”
“Let him be, Clay,” Dara pleaded, desperate to have this incident behind them. “Don’t you think there’s enough tension without the two of you fighting?”
With his large hand cupping her chin, Clay urged her around to look at him. “Matt hurt you and—”
“No more, please.” Her fingertips against his lips silenced his protest, but Dara couldn’t meet his penetrating gaze. “Have you been to see Anne?” she asked in an effort to change the subject.
“I was on my way there and thought you’d be free to join me, but I see,” he said with a quick look at the front of the store, “that you’ll be busy for a while yet. I’ll make it a short visit and be back in time to have supper with you.” Reluctantly he eased his hand away, accepted her nod and halfhearted smile, but stood there watching her walk away. Why had she lied to him? And more, why did he have the feeling that beneath Matt’s anger there had been a warning for him?
Dara hurried to tidy the kitchen after supper. The small platter of leftover fried chicken went into their new Michigan double-door icebox, the half loaf of corn bread into the stove’s warming oven above the burners, relish and watermelon pickles back onto their shelf in the pantry. Setting a fresh kettle of water on the stove to heat, she glanced at the kitchen-shelf clock, impatient to get to her room and have a few minutes to herself. With her brother Pierce showing up at the last minute for supper, she hadn’t had a moment for a spare thought.
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