She glowered at Barry Thompson with all the energy she could muster. “What if I don’t?”
“Then you’ll just have to tolerate my intrusion,” he replied with a good-natured shrug. He filled the doorway, he was so tall, and after glancing around at the mementos crowded onto every table top and stacked in the room’s corners, he smiled kindly at Idaho. “I bet you’ve got some errands to run, after watching over Emily for so long. I’d be happy to look after her while you go.”
The old colored man’s eyes widened. “Well, I appreciate that, but I don’t know—”
“Please, Idaho. Buy whatever she likes best, and fix it for her supper,” the marshal insisted. “You know I’d never hurt Emily, or do anything indecent—”
“Oh, no sir. That was the furthest thing from my mind.”
“Fine.” Barry smiled again and approached Emily’s bedside. “I bet a trip into town would be a nice break for you. Silas says you’ve been here for her night and day.”
“We are getting low on some things…” Idaho’s forehead creased with doubt. “I was ready to bring Emily her dinner—”
“I’ll be happy to help her with it. It smelled awfully good from the parlor.”
The cook smiled. “Chicken soup—her favorite. And there’s plenty for you, too, Mr. Barry.”
“Thanks, Idaho,” he replied with a dimpled grin. “You run along now, and don’t worry a thing about Emily here. We’ve got lots to talk about.”
Emily hadn’t enjoyed watching the men discuss her as though she weren’t in the room, and the moment Idaho was shuffling down the stairs, she turned her back to the marshal’s imposing form. She felt him watching her for a moment, then heard him walk slowly around the room, lifting the various vases and gifts to see who they were from. What right did he think he had, barging in on her this way? Only an insensitive cad would presume to—
“You’ve made a lot of friends here in Cripple,” Thompson commented as he picked up a heart-shaped gold locket to examine it. “And a good number of them seem to be wealthy, eligible men.”
Hearing his implication, Emily burrowed her head in her pillow.
“I take it you’ve given them about as much encouragement and thanks as you’ve given me. You haven’t even looked at this locket I sent, have you?”
She closed her eyes tighter. Why would she care about some dumb locket she’d never wear?
“Actually, I had it delivered as a last favor to Matt,” he continued in a wistful voice. “He told me it was to be your wedding present—had Mr. Mackin, the finest goldsmith in town, create it for you, with little windows inside for your wedding photographs. Mackin can’t very well sell it to anyone else, with these initials engraved on the front of it.”
Emily held her breath, outraged that the marshal would bait her with such useless sentiment. Why was her heart beating as though it believed him?
“Emily, he loved you very much,” Barry said pointedly. “He asked me to look after you if something happened to him, and in the same breath he said you wouldn’t need it—that you were as strong and independent as any man. And Doc Geary says your injuries are healed. Personally, I think this binge of self-pity is beneath you, Emily—a thoughtless imposition on poor old Idaho, and an insult to McClanahan’s memory.”
“So leave,” she mumbled. “I didn’t invite you here.”
“And that’s exactly why I came.” Without warning, Barry stepped to the bedside and lifted her shoulders from her nest of blankets. “Look at you,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Just a month ago the men of Cripple were going to the Golden Rose as much to flirt with you as to see the other ladies—I entertained a few such notions myself. And even before I knew you were E.R.’s daughter, I thought Matt was damn lucky to have a young lady like you crazy for him. But now?”
Emily stared up into Barry’s weather-bronzed face, still appalled that he’d dared to touch her. “Now what?” she muttered. “Now it’s over. Clancy Donahue’s a free man, while Matt lost his life because I was too stupid to listen to him—or to marry him in time.”
Barry studied her for a long while before he lowered her to the mattress. “I’m going to get your clothes out,” he said quietly. “And if you’re not dressed in five minutes, so we can go downstairs and eat the dinner Idaho fixed especially for you, I’ll put them on you myself.”
“Like hell you will.”
The faintest smile played on his face as he walked to the dresser. “There’s hope yet, since that tongue of yours still has its point. McClanahan used to say you had the frilliest little underthings he’d ever—”
“He told you what?” Emily raised up to glare at him, her heart beating with the first stirrings of temper. “He had no business—”
“Men talk, honey. And women are the most fascinating subjects most of us can come up with.” Barry lifted a delicate yellow camisole from a drawer, and then pulled out matching pantaloons with a low whistle. “This may be more of a trick than I thought. I’m not used to putting a lady’s clothes on her.”
“So leave, with your dignity and decency intact,” she replied brusquely.
“Nope. I came here to keep you company for a while, and I intend to accomplish that. Put these on while I find you a dress.” He tossed the lingerie onto her coverlet, and opened her closet door with a playful grin. “You looked awfully pretty in this pink gown at Victoria’s party. Thin as you are, it may not do you as much justice now, but it’ll put some color in your cheeks.”
Emily was still watching him, a slow burn working up her neck. “Put it away, Barry. No gentleman would—”
“Oh, I never claimed to be a gentleman,” he interrupted with a chuckle. “And I suspect that’s why Silas and Idaho didn’t try this days ago—too polite. Now you swing your legs over the edge of the bed, with your back to me, and put those underthings on. Everything’ll stay nice and proper unless you don’t do as I say.”
With a soft, caustic laugh, she slid back under the covers. He wouldn’t dare carry through on his threats; it was only a matter of wearing him down so he’d leave her in peace.
But suddenly the blankets were yanked away from the bed and Barry towered above her as she huddled in a knot on the mattress. He was smiling, yet his eyes looked unwaveringly into hers. “McClanahan used to say you were a testy little gal at times, and I’m pleased to see you’re living up to that. It means you’re no sicker than I am. Last chance—are you going to dress yourself?”
Emily stared at him, still hugging her nightgown around her knees.
“All right, have it your way. I hope you don’t embarrass easy, little lady.” With one swift scooping movement, Barry Thompson picked her up and then sat down on the bed, dropping her unceremoniously onto his lap. “First the pantaloons—I’ll be as polite as I can, by slipping them under your nightie. But come time for the camisole, the nightgown has to go,” he said lightly.
Struggling and kicking against the huge hand that was guiding her lacy yellow underwear up her legs, Emily realized how her days in bed had sapped her strength. For the first time she was aware of how thin she’d become—how bony her ankles and knees looked as the marshal bared them. But embarrassment was the furthest thing from her mind. When Barry pulled the pantaloons to her waist and set her down with a smug grunt, she slapped him.
Thompson laughed until he shook. “Do that again—but hit me this time, Emily. Then I’ll know you can put your clothes on yourself.”
“I’m not going to—”
“Fine. Get ready to feel a draft.”
Her efforts to slap him again were foiled by his quick lifting of her flannelette gown. Barry hiked it up over her head easily enough, but he had to tug against her struggling arms to remove the sleeves. “You’re the biggest, most—”
“I know, sweetheart. All the ladies tell me so,” he teased. “And if I weren’t such a good friend of McClanahan’s, I’d use my other method for convincing a woman to see things my way. Now hold still, dammit. I don’t
want to hurt you.”
She gasped at the speed with which the marshal slipped her camisole over her head and arms. “Ouch! That side’s still sore.”
“I’m sorry, Emily. Now let’s just sit quiet for a minute and take stock.” He wrapped an arm gently around her
middle as he lifted her hair out from under her camisole. Then he leaned her back against his broad chest. “This isn’t getting any easier for either of us,” he murmured. “So why don’t you just cooperate? Stand up and slip into that dress, and we’ll eat a nice dinner like good friends. I’m not leaving till we do. Not going to have it on my conscience that a pretty young woman pined herself away instead of living out the good life her father left her.”
Emily wanted to rebel against his grip and his words, but she didn’t have the strength. Barry Thompson was as big and burly as Donahue, yet he was treating her with utmost care, as though he did indeed feel her welfare was his personal responsibility. Maybe if she gave in just a little—got dressed, but couldn’t eat much—he’d think he’d won. And the sooner they got to the table, the sooner the marshal would leave her alone.
She slid off his lap slowly, and when she’d put. her full weight on her legs she was shocked at how wobbly she felt. Barry stood to help her with her dress before she could ask him to. His hands were gentle as he buttoned her up the back and smoothed the folds of her soft pink skirts. Then he went to the vanity, and found a hairbrush amid the clutter of presents and flowers on it.
“You probably think I’m as disagreeable as Donahue for bossing you this way,” he said as he handed her the brush. His eyes were a deep emerald green, looking her up and down with obvious concern. “I’m not doing this to be mean, Emily. Someday you’ll realize how much you have to live for, and maybe you’ll consider my rudeness a favor.”
As she stroked her hair with the brush, Emily wondered what he was hinting at. Barry Thompson was around Matt’s age; a likable fellow—among the favorite guests at the Golden Rose—yet he hadn’t found a wife. Was he considering her as a prospect, hoping to be by her side when her grief had run its course? She walked ahead of him to the door, hesitated at the top of the stairs, and didn’t protest when the marshal cradled her against his chest as though she were a small child.
But she wasn’t giving in—she would never stop mourning McClanahan. Barry set her gently on one of the dining room chairs, then talked about the same local happenings Silas had tried to interest her in while he carried hot soup and fresh bread to the table. Emily wavered…the noodles and chicken chunks swam in Idaho’s rich broth, giving off an aroma that made her stomach quiver with anticipation. But she didn’t lift her spoon.
“Terrific bread! Here, let me butter you a slice,” Barry said as he chewed enthusiastically. “You’ll make old Idaho’s day, when he sees you’ve put on the feed bag again. Maybe I should come around this same time tomorrow—you think?”
Emily smiled feebly, her hands folded in her lap.
Barry looked up from his soup, the sparkle fading from his eyes. “Am I going to have to feed you?” he asked in a low voice. “I will, you know.”
She shifted slightly. “I—my stomach must’ve shriveled up. It looks good, but I’m just not hungry.”
“Bullshit.” Barry scooted his chair around beside hers and dipped up a spoonful of soup. “Don’t make me force you, Emily. Silas says you at least pick at your dinner—probably so he’ll leave you alone. That trick won’t work with me.”
Emily gazed at the large mouthful of noodles in front of her, but she didn’t budge.
With a disgusted sigh, Thompson clamped his hand around the nape of her neck, tipping her head back until she had no choice but to open her mouth, and then he slipped the spoon into it. “Now chew ‘em up,” he muttered. “If you spit them out, by God I’ll pour this stuff down your throat. Someday you’ll thank me for it, Emily.”
She doubted it with every nerve in her body, but she knew better than to push Barry Thompson any further. After another forced bite splattered down the front of her dress, Emily decided to humor him. When she’d devoured the bowl of soup and a slice of bread, not daring to admit to herself how heavenly they tasted, the marshal offered her a damp rag.
“Guess you were hungrier than you thought, huh?” he asked with a gentle smile.
Emily let out a snort as she dabbed at the wet spots on her bodice. “If you think I’ll fall all over myself thanking you, you’re out of luck.”
“I expected as much. At least this first time.”
She rolled her eyes, and as Barry chatted about the clean-up progress at the Angel Claire, and Miss Victoria’s efforts to find a new bartender, Emily could barely keep from fidgeting. Why didn’t this man take a hint and leave, now that he’d proven he was stronger than she was?
Barry looked at her as though he’d read her thoughts. “Emily, I’m only trying to keep you abreast of your father’s—your—affairs,” he said earnestly. “Plenty of men here in Cripple follow every detail Silas tells them about you, just waiting for the Burnham businesses in Colorado Springs and Denver to go on the market. They figure you’ll sell out cheap, due to your failing health—and maybe because they assume you never knew what your holdings were worth anyway. Is that what you want?”
Emily scowled. “Vultures. All of them.”
“Because they have no reason to behave any other way.” Barry hesitated, and then he took her hand. “Sweetheart, you’ve got to rally—to show them what Emily Burnham’s made of. If your investors lose confidence—”
“I agree completely, Barry. And by God, it looks like she might finally be on her way.” Silas was striding across the dining room, his eyes alight as he stopped beside her chair. “I’d all but given up seeing you at the table again. You look wonderful, dear.”
“I look horrid, and you know it,” she snapped.
The mine manager let out an indulgent chuckle. “I tried my damndest to get you out of that bed, but if it takes having Barry here to work such a miracle, we should ask him to stop by whenever he has a chance.”
“We should ask him why he’s pestering me, instead of tracking Donahue,” she countered. “He should’ve killed that beast the moment he knew Clancy shot Papa.”
Silas raised an eyebrow and sat down. “Sharper than a serpent’s tooth, eh, Barry? Something tells me your afternoon hasn’t been entirely pleasant.”
The marshal cleared his throat and looked at Emily. “You’re right about Donahue, and I apologize,” he began quietly. “Even before McClanahan proved the bullets came from Clancy’s gun, I had a string of out-of-state charges we could’ve arrested him for. But Matt wanted to handle it, and out of respect for his expertise, I let him.”
Barry slid his chair back and stood slowly, gazing down at her with intense green eyes. “My best deputies are combing the mountains for Clancy, but he’s sharper than he looks. So now, also out of respect for Matt, I consider it my top priority to keep his woman from wasting away.” The marshal lifted her chin with a gentle finger. “It would’ve torn him apart to see you acting so hopeless, Emily. And I intend to keep right on pestering you, every day, until you pester me back “
Chapter Thirty-One
The next few mornings, Emily dressed herself and allowed Barry Thompson to help her downstairs for dinner, mainly to spare Idaho and Silas the shock of the marshal’s unorthodox behavior. She had no doubts about how Barry would react if he found her still wearing her nightgown, so she valiantly pretended she wanted to eat with him. Idaho loved to watch Marshal Thompson tuck away chicken-fried steaks with mountains of mashed potatoes and wedges of fresh pie, and Barry’s sense of humor perked Silas up, too, so Emily made the effort to appear sociable, as penance for the weeks of worry she’d caused the two men who’d cared for her.
But as they chatted with Barry in the parlor after dinner, Emily couldn’t help comparing the marshal to Matt and coming up short. He was politely flirtatious—always trying to make her laugh, while being kind enough not t
o call McClanahan’s memory up too often. And he helped with the stretching exercises Dr. Geary had ordered for her right arm; he was careful not to hurt her, yet determined she’d do the full number. It was becoming obvious that Barry was fond of her, and Emily felt terribly guilty about seeing him when she had no intentions of ever loving anyone but Matt. She spent her resting hours fingering the heart-shaped gold locket, gazing at the ornate M engraved between the E and the R…Emily Rose McClanahan. And then she’d sigh, wondering how to tell the marshal her soul was sealed off forever.
On his fourth visit, Barry came upstairs with a huge bouquet of yellow roses. He set them on her night stand, where their sweet perfume would drift over her bed. “Roses for a rose,” he said softly. “And with your hair swept up and that bloom in your cheeks, you’re as pretty as any rosebud, Emily.”
She’d been ready to thank him, but McClanahan’s special endearment left her speechless. With a weak smile, she preceded Barry to the door and took the stairs at an agonizingly slow pace, determined not to let him carry her anymore. Silas joined them for the noon meal, with news that nearly half of the Angel Claire’s shafts had been cleared of wreckage and reopened, but she hardly heard him. How could she explain to Barry that his gestures were appreciated, but futile?
He was on the loveseat with her, ready to begin her exercises, when a pounding on the door saved Emily from refusing his help. Silas looked thoughtfully over the top of his newspaper, and when they heard Idaho’s happy greeting they all turned to see who was coming through the vestibule.
“Richard! Richard Crabtree!” In her excitement, Emily forgot how unsteady she was, until she stood up too fast and fell sprawling over the marshal’s lap.
The ranch manager watched her closely as she composed herself, then he shook hands when she introduced him to Barry and Silas. “It’s good to see you up and around, Emily. I thought I’d stop by to check on you…to pass along my condolences about Matt.”
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