One-Click Buy: March 2009 Harlequin Blaze

by Alison Kent

  “So?”

  She looked over at him.

  He lowered himself to the floor and sat with one long leg bent at the knee, bracing an arm. “What do you reckon you’ll do?”

  “I don’t know. Try to sneak into the Golden Slipper.”

  His face darkened and he jabbed the poker into the logs with too much force.

  “It’s not like I want to go anywhere near the place, but the house is the only link I have to home.” She switched her attention to the fire and stared at the hypnotic flames. “Don’t worry, I won’t ask for any more help from you.”

  “I’m not complaining.”

  “I know.” She realized with sudden clarity that she couldn’t get him involved. Not with the threat of a noose in his future. It amazed her that she could be so self-absorbed that she sometimes forgot what Sam was about to face.

  She had to warn him. Now that he finally believed she lived in another time, she could explain about the book, about seeing his picture. Caution him to stay away from Goliath and his owner. The man would leave with his horse soon enough. The danger would pass. History would be rewritten.

  Gathering her skirt so she wouldn’t trip, she scooted the stool closer to Sam.

  He narrowed his eyes in suspicion when she reached for his free hand. As soon as she touched him, he tensed, holding himself so absurdly rigid it might have been funny under any other circumstances. She splayed her much smaller hand over the back of his, squeezing gently.

  Maybe the contact hadn’t been a good idea. She’d only meant to help cushion her words, but oddly, the innocent touch sent a shaft of heat all the way to her belly. Pulling away now, though, would make everything worse. “Sam, I have something else to tell you. It won’t be easy to hear.”

  He didn’t say anything, didn’t move, didn’t even blink.

  “First of all, I know you’re a good, honorable man.”

  He jerked back, and with a harsh laugh said, “Don’t make that mistake.”

  “Sam, please.”

  He rose. “I have chores to do.”

  “Just give me a moment.”

  “The horses can’t wait.”

  “I’ll help.” She struggled to her feet, tugging at the folds of the skirt when they tangled around her legs.

  “You.” He didn’t offer assistance, but spun toward her with a finger jabbing the air. “Stay out of sight.”

  “I can’t very well do that for the rest of my life, can I?” She heard his sharp intake of breath, and then watched him stalk toward the steps to the loft, his pounding footfalls sending dust and grit into the air.

  She had a good mind to follow him up to the loft. At least there she could corner him. Make him listen. What the hell was wrong with him? He acted as if she’d insulted him, which clearly wasn’t the case. Did it somehow show weakness to be considered a good man?

  He grabbed the pitchfork and quickly ascended the steps. As soon as he disappeared from sight, hay came flying down toward the stalls with a vengeance.

  “Fine,” she said, not really prepared to carry out her bluff, but he’d annoyed her. “I can talk from here. All you have to do is listen.”

  Silence fell.

  Then the pitchfork came spearing through the air, fortunately landing nowhere near her this time. He climbed down, and her pulse quickened, watching the play of worn denim across his perfect ass.

  “You’re trouble, lady,” he muttered, sending her a scornful look as he walked past her toward the first stall. “Too damn much trouble.”

  The distinctive saddle he picked up from the railing she recognized as the one from last night. He took it into Diablo’s stall, and the gelding tossed his head in anticipation as Sam started to saddle him.

  She growled with frustration when she understood he was leaving. “Where are you going?”

  Mutely, he finished fastening the straps and then swung into the saddle.

  “Doc is bringing back dinner,” he muttered.

  At the click of Sam’s tongue, Diablo surged forward. “Stay out of sight,” he warned again, and then trotted out of the livery, angling left, away from town.

  DINNER HAD BEEN a simple meal of roast beef, fried potatoes and canned corn. Not the kind of food Reese normally ate, but she cleaned her plate and still had room for apple cobbler. Sam’s plate remained untouched, sitting by the stove, covered with a white cloth napkin. Doc stayed sober, sipping coffee and asking her dozens of questions about CPR, the Heimlich maneuver, methods for sterilization and treatments for common ailments.

  She enjoyed appeasing his unwavering curiosity, knowing that he vacillated between outright disbelief and cautious astonishment. For hours no emergencies interrupted them. Not even Sam. She’d been anxious, wondering what he could possibly be doing away from town in the dark, and voiced her concern several times. But Doc seemed frustratingly unperturbed, and she had to satisfy herself that he considered Sam’s behavior normal.

  At nine, barely able to keep her eyes open, she stifled a yawn. Doc promptly excused himself, first making certain she was safe behind the door to the back room, and reassuring her that Sam would return soon. She left her clothes on and lay back on the cot, staring into the dark.

  Ten minutes ago she’d been so tired she’d feared falling asleep on Doc. Restless now, she thought about lighting a lantern and reading one of Sam’s books, but decided that keeping the place dark might precipitate his return. She hoped that would happen soon. Every little sound made her edgy in the unfamiliar blackness. Sam had been here the last two nights, and even though he was still basically a stranger to her, she felt oddly safe when he was around.

  Perhaps her complacency was foolish. After all, history described him as a criminal, and she’d seen that harsh side to him twice now. But neither mattered. Instinctively, she trusted him, and he hadn’t let her down yet. He’d even found out that the Golden Slipper belonged to a Winslow.

  The idea still boggled her mind. She didn’t know of anyone in her family who’d explored the Winslow genealogy. Or if they had, they’d kept the information about Margaret quiet. Reese smiled. Wouldn’t sharing that tidbit at cocktail parties be a hoot?

  That is, if she could find her way back. Her amusement faded. Would there be any more cocktail parties to attend? Any more invitations to sit on televised panels? Spa treatments? Leisurely laps in her pool? She shifted on the narrow cot, lifting herself up on her elbows because it was suddenly difficult to breathe.

  With the smell of hay and horses heavy in the air, her Beverly Hills life suddenly seemed so faraway it was almost nonexistent. What if she wasn’t meant to return? What if this was it for the rest of her life? No, she couldn’t allow those thoughts. She’d only been here three days, barely enough time to find the key that would take her back home. She closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe deeply and evenly.

  But what if this was it?

  She shivered, trying with all her might to shove away the persistent question. Staying here wasn’t an option. She had important work to do. Modern medicine was on the verge of so many previously elusive cures, and she desperately wanted to be a part of it all. She’d worked hard to be included, to help make a difference. Yes, the hands-on work of the past two nights had been enormously satisfying, but meant little in the scheme of her life’s plans.

  A noise outside made her bolt upright. The steady rhythm of trotting hooves came from beyond the warped door, the sound somewhat distant, as if the horse and rider were still on the street. She held her breath, listening to the whinny of the horses, apparently alert to the newcomer.

  The fall of the hooves grew louder and she knew the rider had entered the livery. It had to be Sam. Right? But it didn’t, of course. The person could be a customer. Or the sheriff. She stayed totally still, clenching her teeth and listening.

  She thought she heard the rasp of saddle leather, then a soft light entered the room past the ill-fitting door. A dozen possible threats flitted through her mind before she was calmed by
Sam’s low, rumbling voice as he talked to the horses.

  Unclenching her teeth, she breathed with relief. Only briefly did she consider opening the door, and then she lowered herself back down, adjusted the makeshift pillow under her head and closed her eyes. She was so tired and now she could sleep. She felt safe. Sam was back.

  HE TRIED NOT TO MAKE too much noise. The last thing he needed was her yappin’ at him. But the horses had gotten excited, Diablo had hurt his left hind leg and it took Sam a few minutes to get everyone settled down. He eyed the door, hoping like hell she was on the other side. The notion that Doc could’ve gotten drunk instead of bringing back her dinner had bothered Sam some. Left on her own, the hardheaded woman was likely to have gone poking around the Golden Slipper and jeopardized herself.

  Sam cursed under his breath. She was something, all right. But he wasn’t obliged to keep her out of jail or away from a whore’s life. He appreciated what she did to help Doc, but there was a limit to how much a man could take. And Sam couldn’t bear her thinking he was something he wasn’t.

  Since sunset the air had cooled down more than usual. He stirred the ashes in the stove and threw on another log before laying out his bedroll. His belly growled when he saw the covered plate of food. Three hours had passed since he’d eaten a piece of dried beef.

  The warmth from the stove had kept the meat and potatoes from getting too cold, and he sat with the plate on his lap and ate steadily until only the corn remained. That was something he didn’t much care for, but it wasn’t his habit to waste food, so he forced down most of the yellow kernels before washing his plate and fork.

  She thought he was a good man. Damn crazy woman. Where the hell had she gotten such a faulty notion? She didn’t know him. Didn’t know the evil he’d done. Against his will, his mind kept going back to the earnestness in her shining green eyes before he’d left. Hell. Her wanting him to be good didn’t make it so. Never would. He’d killed and maimed, and nothing could change the past.

  Over the years the images and sounds had dimmed a touch. Some days, especially when he was busy helping Doc, Sam could almost forget about the kind of animal he was. The wails in the night lessened, as did the image of blood and guts exploding across the forever changed landscape. The fading of memories had been his only saving grace. He didn’t need her forcing him to relive what he couldn’t undo.

  Feeling guilty about riding Diablo so hard, Sam checked on him before pulling off his boots and putting out the lantern. Then he hunkered down in his bedroll and did something he never did, even though God didn’t want to hear from the likes of him. He prayed. For all he was worth, Sam prayed for numbing sleep.

  BLACK SMOKE ROSE ABOVE the collapsed buildings and the burned and mangled corpses littering the street. The air was so thick Sam couldn’t catch his breath. With all the smothering smoke he couldn’t see Jake. Where was his friend? He’d been standing beside him a moment ago. Was he dead?

  Sam’s hand closed tightly around the butt of his rifle as fear choked the last of the air from his lungs. He tried to call out for Jake, but then gagged and sputtered until the sickness rolling in his belly forced its way up to his throat. He bent over and retched. After he’d emptied his belly, he retched again.

  Behind him someone pleaded for mercy. Sam spun around. An older, portly man, bloodied and broken, lay in the street with an outstretched hand. Spittle caked the corners of his mouth, and his thinning hair was plastered to his forehead by the same blood and sweat that stained his nightshirt.

  No one knew the gang was riding in. They’d surprised the town in the middle of the night. The townsmen hadn’t had time to arm themselves. The women peeked out from behind pretty curtains, their eyes wide with shock. By now the screaming and wailing and gunfire had mostly died down, but the ugly sounds still echoed in his head.

  Sam’s vision blurred and he blinked, swiping at his eyes. His face was wet. His gaze flew to his hands, checking for blood. He stared down at his damp, colorless fingers. And then furiously wiped at the tears on his cheeks before the other men witnessed the humiliation.

  “Please,” the man on the ground whispered, his voice reedy as he stared up with defeat in his eyes. “If you have any decency left—”

  Angry, Sam glared at him and raised his rifle, aiming the barrel at the man’s head. He’d seen Sam’s tears. The bastard thought him weak. But who had the gun? Who had the power in his hands?

  The man sighed, his bleak eyes drifting closed as he drew in his arm, a small, grateful smile quivering at the corners of his bloody mouth.

  Sam’s gut tightened. He lowered the rifle, staring feverishly, his whole body beginning to tremble. The man wasn’t asking to be saved. He knew he wouldn’t survive, and wanted to be spared a long painful death.

  He wanted Sam to kill him.

  Sam couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Could scarcely look at the man’s twisted body. The putrid smell of death burned his nostrils, took the starch out of his knees. Desperate panic gripped his insides until he thought he’d retch again.

  Goddamn it. Where was Jake? They had to get out of here. Run as far as their legs would carry them. Before Captain Quantrill and the rest of the men knew they’d gone. This wasn’t about the war anymore….

  “Son?”

  Sam looked back down at the man, the pallor of death already having staked its claim.

  “Please, son,” the man begged. “Show mercy.”

  Sam blinked back the threat of new tears, and slowly raised his rifle. He aimed at the spot right between the man’s eyes. And pulled the trigger.

  12

  REESE AWOKE with a start. She sat up and stared into the darkness. It was still night. No early morning sunlight seeped into the room. So what had awakened her? Had there been a noise?

  As the fuzziness of sleep started to clear from her brain, she thought she heard something. She stayed still and quiet, her ears straining toward the door. An anguished groan had her throwing off the handmade quilt and finding the hard floor. Without the help of a lantern, she fumbled for the knob and then used all her strength to pull the stubborn door open.

  The livery was dark but for a soft orange glow coming from the stove. She took a tentative step, and seeing movement, froze. The large heap near the fire moved again. She breathed with relief when she realized it was Sam. Was that where he slept since he’d given her his cot? Had he made that awful noise?

  Her answer came in a strangled cry that made her skin crawl. He must have woken himself, for he abruptly sat up, his head turning in her direction.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I heard a noise…You must have been having a nightmare.”

  He hung his head and exhaled loudly.

  “Are you all right?” She moved closer.

  “Go back to bed,” he said without looking up.

  “What’s wrong, Sam?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Was it a nightmare?”

  “Leave.” He ground out the single word in a harsh voice that should have sent her scurrying back to the room.

  Instead, she crouched beside him and put a soothing hand on his forearm. His skin was hot and clammy, and he snatched his arm away.

  She got back up and went to the room for a washrag, which she dipped into the bowl of water sitting on the three-legged stool. When she returned, he looked up at her and muttered a curse. Ignoring him, she lowered herself and sat back on her haunches. With the cool damp cloth, she stroked the back of his feverish neck.

  He jerked at her touch and grabbed her wrist, his hand tightening painfully. The dying fire cast ominous shadows across his face, distorting his features. “I don’t want you here.”

  She swallowed around the lump that had lodged in her throat. “Tough.”

  He glared at her for nearly a minute before abruptly releasing her.

  Reese resisted the urge to rub the skin around her wrist. It smarted from his punishing grip, and she wouldn’t be surprised
if she found bruises later. Tentatively, she returned the cloth to the back of his neck, mentally prepared for another outburst. But he only heaved a sigh of disgust and shook his head.

  She let the silence stretch and then asked, “Is this where you’ve been sleeping the past two nights?”

  He gave a curt nod.

  She winced at her own selfishness, having given no thought to whether he’d had another bed. “I’m sorry for taking your cot. I’ll sleep out here from now on.”

  He didn’t quite smile, but cocked an amused eyebrow at her.

  “What? You don’t think I’m capable of roughing it?” Taking advantage of his softening mood, she moved the cloth to his forehead.

  Scowling, he ducked his head. “Enough.”

  She glared. “Who’s the doctor here?”

  “I’m not sick.”

  “Please, Sam, don’t push me away. I still don’t know what I did earlier that made you mad.”

  He kicked away the bedroll. “You want coffee?”

  “I want us to talk.”

  He got to his feet with a show of temper. “Christ almighty, woman, don’t you know when to keep your mouth shut?”

  “No.” She scrambled up after him.

  He stood facing her, but the tension radiating from his body warned her of his simmering fury. She should have been frightened, and she was a little, although if she kept backing down he’d keep pushing her away.

  He took a step toward her. “I know one method to shut you up.”

  She lifted her chin. “Really?”

  He made a sound of exasperation before grabbing her upper arms and roughly pulling her to him. He hesitated, as if giving her a chance to ward him off, and when she ignored it, he lowered his head and claimed her mouth.