by Loree Lough
Bess pressed a hand to her chest, hoping to still the furious beating of her heart. She opened her mouth to ask how he’d know it would be her, but no sound issued forth.
“It’s good you’re home.”
She cleared her throat. “It’s good to be home.”
The silence that followed their exchange fell slowly, heavily, the way darkness drifts in and spreads over the earth at day’s end. Bess heard a cricket, chanting merrily in the corner stall, its song harmonizing with the hungry mews of newborn barn cats. Outside, birds competed with locusts. Horses whinnied, as though this were any ordinary afternoon, as though she hadn’t come here to slap him with that awful question….
She should have stayed in her room, come up with a sensible way to broach the subject. But she’d gone off half-cocked, as usual. Jumped into the pot without testing the water. It would serve her right if she was scalded in the process.
“Your pa showed me the telegram,” he said, gazing down at her.
If anything burned her, she realized, it would be his smoldering gaze. “What telegram?”
“Did you send more than one while you were gone?”
The teasing sarcasm of his tone stunned her out of her daze. “As a matter of fact, I wired Pa twice.”
Chance chuckled. “Then I’m referring to the one about your meeting with Shelby.” He hunkered down into a squat and grinned. “Micah says you cut a better deal with that farmer than he could’ve on his best day.”
Though it was cool in the semi-darkened barn, she felt warm from her toes to her scalp. Bess unbuttoned her top collar button. “If I did well, it’s because I learned at the feet of a master.”
He shook his head. “I do declare…I’ve never met anyone like you.”
The heat in her cheeks increased, and she undid the buttons of her shirtsleeves and rolled them up. “I’m getting a crick in my neck standing here looking up at you.”
“So stop standing there.”
Bess hoped Chance couldn’t see that the heat of his challenge, together with his intense scrutiny, had reddened her cheeks. “If you don’t come down here and talk to me, I’ll have no choice but to come up there.”
He didn’t move, save the slight narrowing of his eyes. “If that’s supposed to be a threat,” he said, his grating drawl deepening, “you’d better try again.”
That does it! Bess thought, setting her jaw. Hitching up her skirts, she marched toward the ladder. She paused a moment to tuck the hem of her dress into her belt, then started up, rung by rough-hewn rung.
He stepped closer when she reached the top. “Took you long enough,” he said, leaning his pitchfork against the loft’s back wall.
She only had to swing her foot over the rail to be on solid ground again. But she made the move a bit too quickly. If he hadn’t grabbed biceps, Bess would have tumbled right back down again.
He waited until she’d steadied herself to say, “You ought to be more careful.”
“I’d like to see how careful you’d be, climbing a rickety old ladder…in a skirt! Why, I’ve a mind to…ouch!” Wincing, Bess stuck her fingertip into her mouth.
The mocking grin disappeared from his face, immediately replaced by an expression of concern. “Bess, darlin’,” he said, helping her climb over the top rung, “are you all right?”
“Ith only a thmall thplinter. I think I’ll thurvive.”
Ignoring the lisp, Chance grabbed her wrist and examined her injury. “The way you downplay everything, you might have a log in there, but you’d never admit it,” he said, frowning.
“I don’t downplay things. I just don’t believe in making mountains out of molehills.”
Bess tried to retrieve her wounded hand, but Chance held tight. “More like molehills out of mountains. Now hold still. We’ve got to get that sliver out of there.”
Giggling nervously, she tried again to free herself. “Why, you behave as though I’m about to swoon from this little injury, the way you go on.”
Her lighthearted attitude was not infectious, she realized as his left brow lifted. Well, she had reasons of her own to behave like a stern parent! She’d come here to shove that wanted poster under his nose.
Bess was about to insist that he turn her loose when she saw him slip a small knife from the leather sheath strapped to his belt. Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped when sunlight sparked from its well honed blade. Suddenly, it seemed sword like in length and width. “Wh-what do you think you’re going to do with that!”
Calm as you please, Chance raised both brows. “I’m going to cut out that splinter, that’s what.”
And before she could protest, he’d removed the offending chip.
“There.” Chance examined the flake that now rested on his own fingertip. “That’s got it,” he said, re-sheathing the knife.
A tiny blood droplet formed where the splinter had been. Instinct made her move to stuff the fingertip into her mouth.
But Chance was quicker. In an eyeblink, he’d slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her near. One tender touch of his lips to her fingertip, and the puncture was forgotten. They stood so close that she could feel his warm breath against her cheeks, so close that the wanted poster crinkled in her apron pocket.
“Oh, how I’ve missed you,” he said, his lips nearly touching hers.
She’d been embraced before, dancing at church socials, while enduring the gentlemanly end-of-evening farewells of young beaus. Pleasant enough experiences, she’d thought at the time, but not like this. Not even close. Bess searched for the courage to do what she’d come here to do, but couldn’t find it. Couldn’t find her voice, either.
“Seemed you were gone forever,” he said, voice thick with emotion. Gently, he pressed his palms to her cheeks. “Did you miss me, too?”
Blinking with surprise at the primal gleam in his eyes, she licked her lips. She could see in the glittering blue orbs that he wanted her to admit she’d missed him, wanted her to admit that their time apart had seemed like years instead of days. So in a hoarse whisper, she admitted it: “Yes….”
Her quiet confession became the key that unlocked sentiments he’d hidden away all those years on the road. But Chance needed to be sure. His thumbs drew tiny circles on her jaw as he probed for the lies he’d read in every other woman’s face. He studied the lovely, angelic features, convinced that upon closer examination, he’d find deceit hiding somewhere, somewhere behind the finely-pored skin, or on her full, pink lips, or in her dreamy, dusky eyes. Soon, it became clear that he could spend a lifetime inspecting every inch of her face without finding a trace of dishonesty. Chance’s pulse quickened when he realized that for the first time in his life, he was looking straight into the honest eyes of love.
It pleased him that Bess didn’t bristle under his examination. Instead, she smiled, and gently traced the backs of her fingers across his jaw, letting the fingertip he’d repaired linger on his lower lip. “Yes,” she said again, brown eyes blazing with trust and love, and with that simple word, loosed the floodgates of his lonely soul.
But he didn’t deserve the devotion of one so fine, so pure, so innocent. Didn’t deserve the loyalty of a woman so good that even the animals in the forest sensed they were safe with her.
Even the animals in the forest….
He’d been like an animal these ten years, like a mole, always seeking shadows as he moved from place to place in search of another place to hide for days, a month, another year…. Survival of the fittest, he’d heard, was the law of the land. Well, he’d survived, but to what end? To find solace in Bess’s arms, only to leave it? Yearning, he understood now, was an emotion borne of having experienced perfection; yearning, he understood, would be his friend, his traveling companion, his bunkmate for the rest of his days.
He wished he’d never begun this dangerous game, this flirtation-turned-fondness-turned-love. Suddenly, that despair made him wrap both arms around her, holding tight this fragile flower who had sowed love deep in his hear
t, just as the wild rose vine plants its seed in the craggiest outcropping of a snow-covered mountaintop. He would hold tight to perfection for as long as he could, so that he’d have this moment to remember when the powers that be ordered him to let her go.
A sob ached in his throat, and he buried his face in the crook of her neck. Chance couldn’t bear to have her remember him this way when he was gone…and all too soon, he would be long gone.
But, like the angel she was, Bess read his heart. Placing one tiny hand on either side of his face, she brought him out of hiding. Tears shimmered in her eyes and glistened on her long, lush lashes when she said, for the last time, “Yes, Chance. Yes.”
She pressed her lips to his, combing delicate fingers through his hair. Oh, how he wanted this woman. Wanted her with every echo of his solitary soul, with every beat of his lonely heart.
But he dared not want….
He’d been in southern Illinois years ago when a levy collapsed and the muddy Mississippi threatened to devour every building and barn, every mortal and mammal for miles. The awesome power of the surging river humbled him as it sluiced through the streets, hissing like a giant turbid snake. What emanated from Bess, who felt so small and helpless in his arms, was far more powerful than the river’s rage. And though she couldn’t have known it—and certainly wouldn’t have intended it—she stirred more fear and apprehension in him than the roiling waterway had.
Chance had survived numerous near-fatal experiences, but with nothing to live for or look forward to, death had no authority over him. Even the hangman’s noose didn’t terrify him as much as this tiny woman he held in his arms, waiting to hear his truth.
For the thousandth time, he vowed never to subject her to a lifetime of waiting and wanting, of yearning for what could never be. His life belonged to those who hunted him. The only way to loose those ties that bound him was to prove himself innocent of the murder in Lubbock. Impossible!
If he told her everything, right now, and asked her to run off with him, she’d do it.
But he wouldn’t ask. Bess deserved a normal, complete life. A home. Children. And a husband who loved her more than life itself. Oh, loved her that much and more! So Chance looked inside himself for the strength to turn away, right now. He wrapped his hands around her waist, intent upon gently pushing her away, forever.
They were strong hands. Hands that had hammered nail and tightened barbed wire, hands that had turned almost as tough and leathery as the rawhide tethers he’d used to rein in the snorting thunder of many a wild appaloosa. Those hands had not wavered, no matter how strenuous the task. And yet, when he put those work-hardened hands on this tiny woman to put time and space between them, they trembled, as a crisp autumn leaf shivers at winter’s first icy blast. He knew he must let her go, must make her go, for his sake as well as hers.
He looked into her eyes then, and read the love there.
All right….he’d let her go. Soon. But not yet. Not just yet….
Hesitantly, he ran his hand down her back, and when he did, a rough callous caught on the finely woven fabric of her housedress. He stopped, pulling abruptly away, embarrassed that his big clumsy hand had damaged the pretty frock.
Yet again, Bess read his heart. “It’s all right,” she whispered.
But it wasn’t all right. Nothing would ever be all right about his miserable life.
Because he loved her like he’d never loved anyone, like he’d never known it was possible to love, and the moment he admitted it, Chance knew he was doomed.
Before Bess, he could easily outrun and outwit every lawman bent on capturing him. Now, memory of her, of loving her and knowing that she loved him, would haunt him all the days of his life. The memories of what was, of what might have been, would distract him, and—
She pressed the offending hand to her throat. “See? I’m afraid, too.”
Chance felt the wild thrum of her pulse, felt it vibrate through his palm, past his wrist and elbow, straight to the core of him. They were connected, for the moment, by hard-beating hearts, by love that coursed from her into him and back again.
In a move that stunned and surprised him, she boldly reached out and grabbed the bandanna wrapped round his neck, drawing him near as surely as his artfully-tossed lasso had drawn runaway calves back to the herd, her soft yet insistent kisses imprinting on his heart as surely as his branding iron had seared ranchers’ seals to cattle hide.
His knees buckled and his mind whirled as a sweet, soft moan sang from deep within her, its music moving over him like wind ripples on a still pond. “You’re beautiful, so beautiful,” he breathed.
“Didn’t your mother teach you it’s not polite to stare?”
There wasn’t another like her, not anywhere on earth. He considered himself lucky to have been given these precious few months with her, and knew he’d cherish them ‘til he drew his last breath.
Chapter Fifteen
It was almost midnight when Chance strolled from the bunkhouse, hands in his pockets. He’d tried to sleep, but images of that afternoon wouldn’t allow it.
Mamie pawed the dirt and whinnied, commanding his attention. Smiling, he sauntered toward the corral and absentmindedly slung a coil of barbed wire over his shoulder. “What’s the matter, girl?” he said softly, leaning over the gate. “Jealous?” The horse bobbed her head, as if to answer in the affirmative. Thoughtfully, Chance stroked her nose. “Don’t you worry. You’ll always be my best girl….”
But Bess…Bess would always be his woman, he thought, looking deep into the starry sky, where Orion and Perseus winked at him from the inky darkness. Silver in velvet, like Bess’s eyes.
Mamie nudged his chest, and when Chance turned, his nose brushed his shirtsleeve…the same shirtsleeve where Bess had rested her head mere hours ago. The clean, sweet scent of her still clung to the fabric, and he closed his eyes, filling his nostrils with it. “Yes,” she’d whispered, long lashes fluttering as she bracketed his face with her palms.
Sudden and intense pain pierced his chest, penetrating his reverie and abruptly snapping him back to the here and now. Chance looked down, puzzled at first by the dark circular stains rapidly spreading over the tight weave of his blue cotton work shirt. Instinctively, he drew his palm across the bloodstained garment, only to discover that his palm, too, had been punctured by the razor-like barbs he’d flung over his shoulder.
He jolted when a warm hand rested on his shoulder.
“What in tarnation happened? You’re bloodier’n a newborned calf.”
Before Bess, the old farm hand couldn’t have come within thirty yards without being detected; ten years as a fugitive will do that for a man. “Guess I got a little careless with the barbed wire,” he explained, grinning sheepishly.
The grizzled fellow shook his head, muttering over his shoulder as he headed for the bunkhouse. “Better wash up them there cuts, ‘fore infection sets in.”
Chance hated to admit it, but the old codger was right. From the cock’s first crow, it had been a difficult day….
His shin still smarted from the sharp kick of the unbroken horse he’d carelessly approached from behind, and his left thumb still throbbed from a misplaced hammer blow. He’d sliced through his trousers with the baling hook, nearly impaling himself instead of the hay bale in the process, and pulled a muscle in his shoulder while heaving a hundred pound sack of oats.
Woodenly, Chance walked toward the watering trough, stripped from the waist up and hung his shirt on top of the pump. Soaking his neckerchief with cold water, he daubed gingerly at numerous, stinging punctures crisscrossing his chest. Beneath them, his heart pounded with love and regret. His pa had drummed an old saying into his head, one Chance memorized long before his father died: “When you give a gift with no expectation of getting one in return, you get back far more than you give.” It hadn’t been a difficult piece of advice to understand, even as a boy, but he’d never experienced the impact of its meaning quite as he had with Bess in the loft. H
er tears had cut him deeper than the barbed wire. When he’d asked what caused them, she’d grinned and said, “A woman is entitled to a bit of…a bit of dampness at a moment like that.”
A moment like that….
Chance bowed his head and, taking a deep breath, grabbed his shirt and headed for the bunkhouse. It took every ounce of willpower to keep from looking toward the second floor of the farmhouse, because if he saw Bess there in her window seat, smiling at him, nothing would keep him from breaking down Micah’s front door, taking the stairs two at a time, and barging into her room. To hold her one last time as her love wrapped round him like a mother’s hug would be his only request.
It would become the dream that would keep him company all the days of his life.
***
Lubbock, Texas….
“I tell you, it was him!” The burly Texan jabbed his meaty finger into the seated man’s chest.
Sheriff Chuck Carter examined the tip of his toothpick, then stuck it back into his mouth. Crossing one booted ankle over the other on the corner of the battered desk, he folded his arms across his chest. “You saw W.C. Atwood, all the way out east?” Carter shook his head and snickered. “You don’t really expect me to believe that, do you?”
“Iffin y’don’t, you’re a blamed fool,” Yonker bellowed, pacing like a caged tiger. He threw both hands into the air. “Here’s your chance to be a hero and make some easy money in the bargain.”
Carter didn’t move, save to flick his toothpick into the trash barrel across the way. Through narrowed eyes, he glowered at the bigger man. “When I hunt a man down, I go it alone.”
Yonker stopped. “Well, you can’t go this one alone. Without me,” he challenged, bending until he was nose to nose with Carter, “you’ll never find him.”
Grimacing and leaning as far back as the chair would allow, Carter waved a hand in front of his face. “When was the last time you washed out your pie hole, Forrest? Smells like somethin’ crawled down your throat an’ died.”
In response to the reference to his rotten breath, Yonker’s back straightened. “You want Atwood or not?”