Christine Dorsey

by The Rebel's Kiss

  Atwood straightened, coming up on the porch with a lurch, and Samantha backed up, her fingers tightening on the revolver. “I’m warning you, Bundy.” Samantha tried to keep her voice calm, but knew she’d failed. Sweat broke out on her upper lip, and she resisted the urge to swipe at it with her palm.

  “Hell, Samantha.” Atwood made an impatient motion with his hand. “The war’s over. Can’t we just let bygones be bygones? We used to get along pretty good.” He gave her a grin that to Samantha’s shame she had once thought beguiling.

  She raised her chin, and stared him straight in the eyes. “I’m not interested in forgetting about the past. And the war’s got nothing to do with it. Now get on your horse and ride away while you still can.”

  “You always was a little spitfire, Samantha. And a real looker when you was riled.”

  He moved so unexpectedly and quickly that Samantha had no chance to yank out the gun. His arms enveloped her, forcing hers down to her side. She could feel his hot breath on her cheek as his grip whooshed the air from her lungs.

  “What do you have to say for yourself now, Samantha? What, no threats?” His hold tightened. “I think it’s about time we took up where we left off before the war. Seems to me I had you on the ground and we was getting real chummy before old Luke stuck his nose in where it didn’t belong.”

  “You make me sick.”

  His dark eyes narrowed till they were not more than fierce slits of glittering mica. “Any more talk like that and you might have more problems than a few drunken soldiers shooting up your place.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  His grin was evil. “Just thinking what a shame it would be if something happened to that cornfield you’ve worked so hard on.” His face began descending toward hers. “Now you be nice to me and I can see that things like that don’t happen here.” His hand closed painfully over her breast as his mouth slammed into hers.

  “Get your hands off my sister!”

  Bundy’s lips stilled and he lifted his eyes, but kept them and his sneer trained on Samantha. “Shit, Will, ain’t nothing wrong with a little kissing.”

  “There is if the lady doesn’t want it.”

  That voice most certainly did not belong to a thirteen-year-old boy. It was deep and resonant, and more than a little gruff. Samantha shut her eyes and let the sound roll over her. Bundy loosened his arms, and while Samantha took a deep breath, she glanced around toward the man who’d spoken.

  Jake stood beside Will, a restraining hand on her brother’s shoulder. They’d been on their way from the cornfield to the creek when they heard the commotion. He looked hot. His striped shirt was open at the neck and sweat molded to his body. Standing, legs slightly apart and eyes straight ahead, he appeared strong and dangerous. Despite the lack of a sidearm.

  Bundy’s fingers tightened for a split second on Samantha’s arm—a promise of things to come—and then he stepped away from her. His hand dropped in a seemingly casual motion toward the revolver strapped to his hip. But Samantha knew there was nothing unintentional about the move. He stroked the gun lovingly, but he didn’t draw it. Instead he leaned against the porch post.

  “Who says the lady doesn’t want it?” His smile was cool and confident. “Samantha and I have been... friends for a long time. Isn’t that right, honey?” With those words his hand snaked out and grabbed Samantha’s wrist, yanking her toward him.

  The movement was so quick and unexpected that Samantha was plastered against Bundy’s side before she knew what had happened. She squirmed, fighting him, grasping for the gun in her pocket. Her mouth opened to tell him what she thought of his vile manhandling and even worse crimes, but then clamped shut.

  From the corner of her eye she saw Will and the rebel moving toward her. And they both looked more than willing to protect her honor.

  And they’d both get shot if they did. Samantha could feel the tension in Bundy’s body as his hand tightened on the gun.

  Samantha stopped struggling. “He’s right,” she said, her eyes on Jake Morgan. “We are old friends.”

  “Sam!”

  Samantha ignored her brother’s outburst. Of course he knew better. Will had seen Bundy that day years ago, and even though only eight, Samantha knew he remembered.

  Samantha straightened. “Bundy’s right,” she repeated, her eyes on Jake. “We are old friends. But I’ve had a change of heart.” Her gaze shifted to Bundy. “Would you please just leave?”

  “Well now, I’m not real inclined to do that.”

  “You heard the lady.” Jake took another step toward the porch. He wished he knew exactly what was going on here. Will seemed ready to bust a gut, and Jake purposely moved in front of him. As for Samantha, she didn’t seem overly enthusiastic about the newcomer’s attentions, but then she wasn’t exactly resisting him either. The last thing he needed, Jake decided, was to get involved in some lovers’ quarrel. Hell, he wasn’t interested in getting involved with anything.

  But this man didn’t want to let it go. Turning on Jake, giving Samantha a little shove to the side, he stepped off the porch. “I don’t believe I got your name.”

  “Morgan. Jake Morgan.”

  Bundy swept his eyes down Jake, while his hand rested on the gun cocked out from his hip. Finally he pushed back his hat and shook his head. “Well, Jake Morgan, I’m not sure I like you hanging around here.”

  “He’s just passing through,” Samantha injected. Jake stood perfectly still through Bundy’s inspection, but now his gaze flew to Samantha. He clearly didn’t like her answering for him.

  “That right, Morgan? You passing through?”

  Ignoring the man, whom he took at the very least for a bully, Jake looked skyward. While he watched a hawk circle lazily overhead, he tried to decide what to do. Nothing came readily to mind. The man was armed, angry, and apparently enough of a fool to mix the two. Jake had seen enough of his kind during the war to last a lifetime. They were the ones who usually got themselves along with anyone dumb enough to tangle with them killed.

  Damn, he hated putting himself in that category. Taking a deep breath, Jake leveled his gaze on Will. “Help your sister fix some coffee.”

  “What for?” Will looked at Jake as if he’d suggested he attempt flying.

  “Do it.” Jake motioned toward the porch where Samantha stood, her expression as disbelieving as her brother’s.

  “Now wait a minute. I’m not fixing coffee for—” But her last words were cut off when Will reached her side. He grabbed her arm and turned her toward the door.

  “Come on, Sam,” he said, quieting her sputtered refusals. Will pulled the door shut behind him, and gave a glaring Samantha a shamefaced shrug.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Samantha asked, her hands balled into fists at her hips.

  “What Jake said.” Will yanked on the window covering, letting the cotton flap down to block out the scene in the yard. It also had the effect of hiding what went on in the cabin. Quickly, Will went to the mantle and reached for the musket.

  “What Jake said,” Samantha mimicked. “Since when do we do what Jake says around here?”

  “Aw, sis.” Will checked the charge. “I didn’t mean nothing. I just think Jake knows how to handle Atwood.”

  “Then why are you priming that musket?”

  “Just in case.” Will looked up to see Samantha reaching for the door. “Hey, what are you doing?”

  Samantha shifted, revealing the revolver she’d scooped from her pocket. “I’m going to get rid of Bundy Atwood.”

  “Jake can handle it,” Will insisted again.

  “He should. They’re both cut from the same cloth.” Samantha stopped and bit her lip. She didn’t really think that was true. “Look, Jake has no gun, and we both know how Bundy can be.”

  “I know how Jake can be, too. And he wanted us out of the way.”

  “Well, that’s ridiculous. I’m going out th—”

  But before Samantha could finish her
sentence, the door opened, forcing her to step back, and Jacob Morgan entered. Alone.

  Horse’s hooves sounded through the opening, and Samantha stood on tiptoe to look past Jake. Bundy Atwood rode away toward town. Puffs of dust spewed into the air as he urged his mount to a gallop.

  Samantha slanted Jake a look. His expression was angry but calm. Not like someone who’d just faced an armed man. But then maybe he knew there was nothing to worry about.

  Bundy rode with Landis Moore. If Jake did too... Samantha didn’t have time to fully consider this before she noticed Jake’s gaze lower to her hand. She still clutched the pistol—his pistol—and she watched as his dark brows rose. Without a word he held out his hand.

  “When you leave.” Samantha didn’t like feeling totally helpless around him, regardless of the fact he’d done nothing to hurt her or Will. But he didn’t seem to care how she felt about it.

  “I want it now. I’ll be leaving at first light.”

  Samantha met his stare, her own steady. With an exasperated sigh, Samantha laid the gun across his palm.

  “How’d you get rid of him, Jake?” Will asked eagerly. “What did you say to him?”

  “Yes,” Samantha agreed. “Do tell us what you said to have him riding off so quickly.”

  “Not much.” Jake leaned back against the door jamb. It was obvious the Lowery woman was annoyed with him, but he wasn’t sure why. She didn’t like giving up the gun, but she should have been resolved to that. Maybe she didn’t like Will and him interrupting her little meeting with Bundy Atwood. That was Atwood’s story. He implied Samantha was embarrassed by her brother showing up. Jake just wasn’t sure.

  “But what?” Will had pulled up a chair and now straddled it, his chin perched on the curved back.

  Jake glanced toward Samantha. “I just suggested this wasn’t the best time to go courting.”

  “Courting?” Samantha’s hands flew to her hips. “He wasn’t here to do any courting, and you know it.”

  “I don’t know.” Jake folded his arms and pushed away from the door. “That’s what he said. Gave me quite a tale of woe about you giving him the heave because he fought for the South.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” Samantha grabbed a skillet off its hook and slammed it on the stove. The Rebel just raised his brows.

  “Sam’s right,” Will piped in. “It didn’t have nothing to do with the war. Luke and me, we caught him hurting Sam real bad one time. He—”

  “That’s enough, Will. I’m certain Captain Morgan isn’t interested in our affairs.”

  But damnit, he was interested. Jake felt his gut tighten at the idea of Atwood hurting Samantha. But he forced himself not to ask. Instead he stuck the revolver in the waistband of his pants, then started for the door. “I don’t think Atwood will be back,” is all he said before leaving the cabin.

  ~ ~ ~

  “He’s not coming in for supper.” Will stared at his own plate piled high with fried steak and boiled potatoes, then at Jake’s empty seat.

  “Maybe he left already.” Samantha used her knife to slice off a small bite of meat.

  “Naw, his horse is still in the paddock.”

  “Then perhaps he doesn’t know it’s time to eat. Maybe you should run down and tell him.”

  “He always come before without no reminding.”

  Samantha bit her tongue to keep from correcting Will’s grammar. There was no need to amend what he said though. Jacob Morgan seemed to have a sixth sense about when she was putting food on the table. “Well, maybe he simply isn’t hungry.”

  Samantha met Will’s incredulous gaze. All right, they both knew the Rebel was always hungry. And this evening’s meal was good... real good. Without admitting it to herself, Samantha had made it special for him. As a kind of thank-you. For getting rid of Bundy today. For being kind to Will.

  Samantha sighed and threw up her hands in an impatient gesture. “Why don’t you take his plate to him. Maybe he’s busy getting ready to go.” A ridiculous assumption, Samantha admitted. All he had to do was saddle his horse and ride away.

  Wood scraped wood as Will pushed back his chair. He grabbed up the cutlery and steaming pewter cup with one hand, the plate of meat, potatoes, and squash with the other. Halfway to the door he paused. “You know he might still stay if you asked him.”

  “Oh, Will.” Samantha pushed her plate aside, her appetite suddenly gone.

  “Well, he got rid of Atwood for you. He’s handy to have around.”

  “Take him his dinner, Will.”

  Samantha sat staring out the door into the twilight long after Will had disappeared into the barn. His own dinner sat cooling on the table, but she didn’t think her brother cared.

  He wanted Jacob Morgan to stay. And there was nothing she could do to grant him his wish. Even if she wanted to.

  Picking up a fork, Samantha pushed a potato around her plate. She hated to admit it but it was kind of nice having him around. Oh, he could be an aggravation, but he had fixed the roof, and more importantly, he’d got rid of Bundy Atwood.

  Grabbing up her plate, Samantha emptied it into Charity’s bowl, then tossed it in the dry sink. The pewter clattered against the tin lining. She hadn’t told Will about Bundy’s warning, but that didn’t mean she forgot about it. He threatened to ruin their corn crop. She was certain he had Landis Moore’s backing for that. But he also let her know she had one way to stop it.

  Be nice to him.

  Samantha cringed to think what that meant. She grasped the edge of the dry sink, her head bent back, and she smothered a sob. She wouldn’t let anything happen. She wouldn’t!

  But how was she going to stop it?

  “He’s finished eating. Said to tell you it was real good.”

  Samantha straightened. She was so overcome by her worries she hadn’t noticed Will coming into the cabin. Quickly she brushed away a tear that had seeped between her closed lids, and poured water into the sink. Charity came scurrying over to her bowl, obviously pleased by her windfall of steak. She gulped noisily.

  “Bring your plate over and I’ll warm up your dinner,” Samantha said as she shaved lye soap into the pan. She wanted to ask what reason the Rebel gave for not coming to the house for supper, but didn’t. Will seemed upset, and Samantha didn’t want to talk about the reason. She knew.

  After he finished with his warmed-over meal, doing little justice to it, Will climbed the ladder to his loft. She knew he blamed her for the Rebel leaving, but it wasn’t her fault. He wasn’t interested in sticking around here. Was he? Will seemed to think all she had to do was ask him, but Samantha didn’t think that would work. Besides, she didn’t want to.

  Samantha reached into her sewing bag and started the task of hemming Peggy Keane’s gown. The lantern cast iridescent shadows on the purple silk as she worked, trying to keep her mind from returning to her problems.

  But the harder she tried not to think of them, the more they pushed to the forefront of her thoughts. Without the corn crop, there wouldn’t be enough to eat or feed the animals over the winter. She and Will would be doomed. But she couldn’t give in to Landis Moore, or Bundy Atwood.

  Samantha paused to rub her sore eyes and realized how late it was. She should go to bed, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep. There was only one thing for her to do.

  Resigned, Samantha stood. She might as well get it over with.

  Chapter Eight

  Carefully lifting the glass globe, she lit the lantern, watching the wick burst into flame. The moon was out tonight, round and bright, slanting a silvery glow through her bedroom window. She noticed it when she hurried in to find her shawl.

  It wasn’t chilly tonight, but then she didn’t really need the lantern either. But having the tightly woven shawl wrapped round her shoulders and the black metal lantern made her feel better... stronger.

  She didn’t like going to the barn to confront Jacob Morgan.

  Perhaps confront wasn’t the right word. As he was quick to poin
t out several times, the war was over.

  But her personal war wasn’t. And asking the rebel to stay was only one battle... skirmish, really.

  Samantha opened the door, poking the drawstring through the hole so she could reenter without waking Will. Charity stretched, opening one, then both bleary eyes. She seemed relieved when Samantha told her to stay put.

  The night was beautiful, clear-skied and balmy for the first days of October. Samantha was eleven when her family left Massachusetts, twelve when they reached Kansas. Her memories of those times before the journey seemed surreal, almost magical. Samantha realized she built up the past in her mind, transformed the everyday to epic proportions. She hadn’t really lived in a mansion, just a nice two-story frame house, with a parlor and dining room, and lacy curtains at the window. The church where her father preached didn’t really have a steeple that reached the heavens. But it was neat and tidy, full of straight wooden pews and the smell of beeswax and flowers.

  Samantha shook her head. It did no good to dwell on the past. Her family had lived a quiet, comfortable existence until her father, with his wife’s wholehearted support, decided he could best serve God by moving to Kansas and fighting the evils of slavery.

  Glancing back at the cabin, Samantha felt a pang of regret. This was her life now. Without her mother. Without her father. Or Luke. Just she and Will, and a poor excuse for a farm in Kansas.

  Squaring her shoulders, Samantha walked across the yard to the barn. One lonely whippoorwill sang in the cottonwood tree, and Samantha almost expected to hear Jake’s harmonica join it in a duet.

  But the rebel wasn’t playing tonight. He was probably asleep; Samantha couldn’t see any light coming from the barn. She almost turned around right then and there and marched back to the cabin. Who needed him anyway? She and Will had gotten along fine without him. Maybe not fine, but they had survived. They could do it again.

  She could ride into Hager’s Flats tomorrow and see if Jim Farley would come out for a week or so till they finished the harvesting. Suddenly Bundy’s threat flashed into her mind. She’d stand watch with the musket if she had to. Besides, what did she think Jacob Morgan could do if Landis Moore and Bundy Atwood really wanted to hurt them? Nothing, that’s what.