In the Arms of a Cowboy

by Pam Crooks

  “None?” Stricken, the young man stared. A low, moaning sound slipped from his throat, and his chin dropped to his chest, his head rolling back and forth in obvious despair.

  “Now that don't mean they aren't doing just fine somewheres,” George hastened to reassure him. “We just haven't found them yet.” He hesitated. “Have you checked the jail?”

  “I have checked everywhere. And I will not give up until I find her.” Proud determination seemed to inject a new energy into him. He lifted the glass to his lips and finished off the remaining beer in one gulp. He stepped away from the bar.

  “They headed north, if that's any help to you,” George said softly.

  Gratitude flittered across his features before the Gypsy banked it with a veil of haughtiness. “My sister is very strong. With a horse beneath her, Liza will save herself. I know I will find her.”

  “Good luck to you, son.”

  With a curt nod, he headed toward the saloon door, then disappeared into the street.

  His visit did little to salve George's troubled mood. With another heavy sigh, he dropped the beer glass into a pan of soapy water and wiped the beer spill until the bar reflected its usual shine. That done, he picked up his pencil and forced his attention back to the liquor supply list.

  “What's a man gotta do to get a drink around here?”

  George jumped at Bram Kaldwell's gruff greeting. He set the pencil down again.

  “Sorry, Bram. Didn't hear you come in. Reckon I got too much on my mind.” Dismayed at his carelessness, he scrambled to serve his old friend. “What'll it be? The usual?”

  Bram nodded, and George reached for a bottle of Old Town gin and splashed an exact amount in a small glass.

  “Found Reese and the Gypsy girl today,” Bram grunted with a frown.

  Gin jerked over the edge of the glass and onto George's hand. “What?”

  “Just this morning. They've been staying at Jack Hadley's place all this time. Both of them fit as a fiddle.”

  “Lord Almighty.” George set the glass down with a sloppy thud and scuttled around the end of the bar. With as much speed as his arthritic knees would allow, he hurried to the saloon's door and thrust it open wide.

  He found no sign of the young Gypsy. Stepping onto the boardwalk, he scrutinized both sides of the street, his gaze darting right and left and all around the townspeople, horses, and rigs for a glimpse of him.

  But the dark-skinned youth had already disappeared. George cursed himself for not taking better note of the direction he'd gone. If only Bram would have arrived five minutes sooner. . ..

  Saddened by the poor timing, he returned to the bar.

  “What was that all about?” Bram asked and propped one boot heel over the brass rail.

  George refilled the glass with the proper amount of gin and reached for the tonic water. “That Gypsy girl you found with Mr. Carrison. Her name Liza?”

  “I believe that's what he called her. Why?”

  “Her brother was just in looking for her. The kid was pretty worried.”

  Bram scowled and downed the drink. “Rotten luck he couldn't have found her sooner and taken her back with him. The girl is going to be nothing but trouble.”

  “That so?”

  “Yes.” His features sullen, Bram handed him the empty glass in mute invitation for another. George obliged him. “Worst of it is, I think Reese has taken a fancy to her. And where the hell does that leave my Rebecca Ann?” He tipped his hat onto the back of his head and wearily rubbed a hand over his face. “The Gypsy is no good for him. Why can't he see that?”

  “Maybe he will, Bram. In time. Going through a twister together like they did is bound to make friends out of ‘em. Reckon it's harmless.” Tending bar at the Empty Saddle Saloon had taught him a skill for lending an ear to a man's troubles and offering advice. Words of comfort came easily. “Rebecca Ann's a mighty pretty woman. They'll be married one day. She'll make him a fine wife. You'll see.”

  His features doubtful, Bram fell silent. George wiped his hands on his apron and left him to his drink. He picked up the pencil.

  Mr. Carrison was safe. George delighted in the news and admitted to a burning curiosity about this Gypsy girl named Liza. If she'd managed to catch Mr. Carrison's eye, she must be one hell of a woman.

  Chapter 10

  Reese slid the wooden bar across the barn doors, straightened, and rubbed a hand along the back of his neck. God, he was tired. It’d been a hard day.

  Dusk had long since settled over the prairie. He should’ve been home hours ago. But there’d been endless chores to do at Jack and Maudeen’s, and he’d lent a hand organizing neighbors to help clear their place of the storm’s wreckage. Afterward, it’d been slow going hauling the stallion home in his wagon. He’d been careful not to jar the lame leg while driving over the muddied roads.

  Now, with the horse bedded down for the night, Reese looked forward to calling it a day. He headed for the house and halted in mid-stride. A light shone in his kitchen. The golden glow reached out to him with welcoming arms and touched a corner of his soul.

  His fatigue fell away like an unwanted cloak. It was a strange thing, having someone waiting for him when he came home. He couldn’t recall having the pleasure before. He’d lived alone too long.

  Liza. Knowing she was inside warmed him. He’d been half-afraid she’d be gone when he returned. She’d been on his mind all day.

  His step quickened as much as his throbbing knee allowed, and he took the back stairs in a couple of awkward leaps. He pushed the door wide open. The scent of cinnamon and raisins assailed him. The kitchen blazed with brightly lit kerosene lamps and a homey warmth from the cast-iron stove. A pair of delicately browned loaves of bread sat cooling, and next to them, a cake.

  Liza stood at the table, her arm curled around a mixing bowl as she briskly stirred the contents. Barefoot, she wore only his white cotton shirt, the hem hanging down past her thighs and nearly reaching her knees, the sleeves rolled well past her wrists. She had slim, finely muscled legs, legs she would never reveal in public, but which were now his alone to see. Her hair tumbled and bounced about her back and shoulders in a red-gold profusion, and a heat that had nothing to do with her baking curled deep in his loins.

  She glanced up at him in surprise. He shut the door without a word and moved toward her, drawn like a bee to honey.

  She cried out in dismay. He froze.

  “Do not walk on my clean floor with those muddy boots, Reese Carrison,” she said, shaking her spoon at him in dire warning. “Or I shall have you scrub it all over again.”

  His mouth softened. “Yes, ma’am.”

  He retreated. Leaning against a door for support, he wriggled one boot off, then the other.

  “Put them on the back step. I left a rug there for you to use.”

  “Okay, okay.” Recalling the many hours he’d spent varnishing the wooden slats, he did as she bade without complaint.

  Apparently satisfied, she resumed her stirring. Holding back a smile, he padded to her in his stocking feet, and leaning toward her, gripping the table’s edge with both hands, he held her pinned between him and the table.

  “You nag me like a wife, y’know that?” he taunted softly, his breath stirring the wisps of baby-fine hair along her temple.

  She stood very still within the circle of his arms and glanced at him uncertainly. “I did not mean to offend you.”

  “You didn’t.” She smelled clean, fresh, like a field of rain-washed wildflowers. Unable to help himself, he dipped his head lower and nuzzled the shining tresses with the tip of his nose. Her scent filled him. “Enjoy your bath?”

  “Very much.” Her voice was hardly above a whisper.

  “You make a fetching sight in my shirt.”

  Her cheeks pinkened; she clutched the bowl tighter. “I had nothing to wear.”

  “It’s okay.” Over the top of her head, he noticed the laundered skirts, her blouse and chemise hanging on a rope near the s
tove’s heat. He vowed to string her a line outside tomorrow.

  “I hope you did not mind me going through your things.”

  “Not at all.”

  She bit her lip and glanced away. “You will not think I will steal something, then?”

  Rebecca Ann’s rash accusations tumbled back into his memory. And Jack Hadley’s. No wonder she worried. “Help yourself to anything I have, Liza. I trust you.”

  Her dark eyes widened. “Do you?”

  “Of course.”

  Relief floated over her features. And raw pride. It pleased Reese she believed him.

  “You are late,” she said, relaxing a bit and tilting her face closer to his. “I expected you home sooner.”

  “You’re nagging me again.” Her eyelashes were black as coal, thick and lustrous. From his close proximity, he could almost count every one.

  She drew back. “I am not!”

  She seemed so appalled, he regretted teasing her. He grinned. “I got delayed at the Hadleys. I hadn’t intended on staying so long. Sorry.”

  “You must not be sorry. Your friends needed your help.” Her full mouth pursed. “And Zor? He is doing well?”

  “Very well. Made the trip back without a problem.”

  “That is good.” She nodded her approval and resumed stirring in slow, thoughtful strokes. “I waited supper for you.”

  He could stand here like this all day long, keeping her close with his arms bracketed on either side of her, her sweet scent and innocent femininity surrounding him, warming him, filling him.

  “What’re you making?” he asked, angling his head and moving his jaw in a lazy sweep against her hair. He closed his eyes and savored the satin texture against his three-day-old beard.

  “Icing. Do you like raisin cake? It is a Gypsy favorite.”

  “Smells delicious.” Slowly, his eyes opened. He struggled to say with the conversation.

  “It is.” She dipped a finger into the white frosting and opened her mouth to sample the confection, but Reese snared her wrist, bringing her finger into his mouth instead.

  Her breath caught. His hand covered hers. With a slight sucking motion, he drew her finger deeper into his mouth and swirled his tongue along the tip. The icing melted quickly, but still he tasted, laving his tongue round her fingernail, one knuckle and then another, and back around again.

  She breathed his name on a sigh and swayed subtly toward him, his lips forming a kiss across his moist knuckle.

  He thought of taking the bowl from her and sliding it onto the table. He thought of undoing the shirt she wore, button by button, parting it wide and dragging the white cotton of her smooth shoulders. He thought of her standing before him, a masterpiece of womanhood, with breasts rounded and high and perfectly fitted into his palms.

  He had only to lower his head mere inches and touch his lips to hers. He could do it so easily. Already, he knew their softness, their warmth, the way they felt eager and rolling beneath his. He could thrust his tongue inside and know hers would be ready to meet him, to lead him in a timeless mating, to share with him the hot pleasure.

  He thought of all those things. Lusted and craved. He thought of taking her right now, right here in the middle of the kitchen floor.

  But he did not.

  He clung to his dwindling rationality and realized he played a dangerous game with a beautiful woman who could never be his, who lived in a different world, but who wore next to nothing and whose lush curves and feminine softness invited his passion and weakened his control. How long could he resist her?

  How long would he want to?

  “I’ll wash up,” he said roughly and let her go.

  She drew a breath, then resumed stirring with a vengeance. “I have water heated on the stove.”

  He needed some time to cool his blood. Hefting the heavy pot of water, he left the kitchen.

  In the main room, a brisk fire snapped in the block and lighted his way toward the loft, which contained his bedroom. A tidiness not often seen from his own housekeeping graced the quarters. The usual stack of newspapers near the stairs had disappeared. There was no laundry basket of dirty clothes. Even the sorry-looking fern with its brown, shriveling leaves was nowhere to be seen.

  Liza. Just thinking her name stirred his manhood anew.

  She'd invaded his home and made it sparkle. She gave the house he'd labored to build a new life and meaning.

  Had she done the same with his heart?

  By the time Reese returned to the kitchen, Liza had iced the cake and prepared heaping portions of spicy rice and beef. Knowing he had worked up an appetite at the Hadleys, she filled his plate to near overflowing, then served herself a smaller amount. After pouring two cups of black coffee, she sat across from him at the table and tugged his shirt as far over her bare knees as she could.

  “You spoil me, woman.” His tawny eyes lifted from the steaming fare and smoldered in appreciation.

  “A man needs to be spoiled once in a while,” she said and treasured his words. An unexpected contentment wrapped around her just hearing them.

  He picked up his fork and scooped up a mouthful of rice. Liza's glance lingered on him, watching him eat, captivated with the way the little muscles in his jaw worked every time he chewed.

  He had shaved. His smooth cheeks lent an air of sophistication about him, a worldliness that only added to his sensuality. She had thought him ruggedly handsome with his shadowy beard these past days, but this look reminded her of his success with his people, his town, his railroad. He inspired her awe.

  A trill of arousal wound through her belly. His powerful presence filled the kitchen. The table. Her. She had learned of his preference for going shirtless in the time they had spent at the Hadleys’ cabin, and he wore none now, having doffed his rumpled suit for a clean pair of denim jeans and nothing more.

  She swallowed and picked up her fork. He might as well be naked. Deeply tanned and thewed with muscle, his chest filled her range of vision, dominated her thoughts. She imagined him at his train, laboring beneath the hot sun, sweat glistening over the bands of sinew, rendering his body hard and lean and a perfect match for her womanly softness.

  Her fist curled against her belly as she tried to still the wild fluttering raging within. How could she eat when he excited her so?

  “We managed to repair the Hadleys' cabin enough to make it livable,” he commented, reaching for the cup of coffee. “Maudeen refused to spend the night anywhere but in her own home.”

  Lamplight gleamed off the onyx glints in his hair, casually swept back from his temples and forehead, as if he had run a comb through it quickly. Liza dragged her gaze away.

  “Thank goodness the rain has stopped,” she said and toyed with a mound of rice at the edge of her plate.

  Nodding his agreement, he sipped the hot brew and set the cup back down. “Their place is a real mess. I don't know how they'll afford rebuilding. Their crops took a beating.”

  Drawn into the Hadleys' plight, Liza clucked her tongue in sympathy. “They are fortunate to have a friend like you to help them.”

  He shrugged. “I can offer Jack a job with the N & D. He can make some good money until winter sets in. I'll mention it to Bram.”

  Bram. The Gajo with the pipe and the kind eyes she had noticed at the train depot. The same Gajo who had intruded upon their kiss at the Hadleys' that morning and openly frowned his contempt.

  “He does not approve of me, does he?” she asked quietly.

  Reese's chewing slowed. He regarded her steadily.

  “No,” he said.

  She had expected nothing less than honesty from him. Even so, the bluntness of his reply hurt. Deeply.

  “You are shamed in his eyes because he found you with me. You will be shamed even more when he learns I am staying with you now. In your home.” Dismay dulled her appetite further. She set her fork down.

  “I’ll take care of Bram, Liza. You're my responsibility. Not his. Don't worry your pretty Gypsy head a
bout him.”

  “How can I not? He is your friend. You respect him.”

  Reese's brow furrowed. Silently, he finished off the last of the beef, washed it down with coffee, and pushed his empty plate aside. He leaned toward her and rested his elbows on the tabletop.

  “Bram Kaldwell took me in when I was just a runny-nosed kid with nowhere else to go. My mother had died a couple of weeks earlier, my father long gone. I refused to be sent to an orphanage, and he found me hiding in a boxcar outside Chicago. Cold and half-starved.”

  “Oh, Reese,” she breathed, aching for the little lost boy he must have been all those years ago.

  His features turned pensive. “He got me a job with the Chicago-Northern Railroad. Twelve years old, and I was doing man's work.” He grunted, as if amazed he had survived it. “I grew up real fast that year.”

  “Yes,” she murmured.

  “Bram paid me fair,” he went on. “I saved what I could and spent the rest of my childhood in rail yards all over the country. Not a life I'd wish on any kid, but I learned the rail industry inside and out. I never wanted to do anything else. Reckon I owe Bram for that.”

  He nudged her plate closer to her. “Eat. Your supper's going to get cold.” Obediently, she picked up her fork again, and he continued. “Railroads were moving west. When I came out here, I fell in love with the land. I was tired of riding the rails all the time. I was ready to settle down and decided Niobrara City would be the perfect place to build my own railroad. Bram agreed.”

  “You make it sound easy,” she said softly, knowing it wasn't.

  A corner of his handsome mouth lifted. “It costs a small fortune to form a railroad, even one as small as the Nebraska-Dakota. I had amassed some savings, but it wasn't nearly enough. Even Bram, with all his wealth, couldn't afford it.”

  “And?”

  “Knowing how much having my own railroad meant to me, Bram used his influence and formed a cartel of investors. He's the N & D's top financier. Reckon I owe him for that, too.”

  He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his hair-dusted chest. Their eyes met.