by Jill Gregory
He stood on the porch, tension gripping every muscle in his body as he watched Jenks stomp away down the street to where his horse was tethered. In the light of the half-moon he waited until the WW wrangler had ridden past the edge of town.
Then he lit up a cigarillo and leaned against the porch post, smoking and letting the chilly night air help cool his anger.
He couldn’t help wondering why Slim Jenks had it in so bad for the Spoons. It now seemed likely that what Pete Spoon had said about him stepping in between Jenks and Florry in the saloon was true. But even if Jenks did have a grudge against Pete, why should he pick on Emily?
His eyes narrowed in the darkness, and he took a drag on the cigarillo. Nothing should surprise him anymore, he reflected. He’d seen more than his share of ugliness, brutality, and petty cruelty in his travels across the West—had come up against men who were evil, some who were just greedy, and others plain vindictive and mean-spirited. Jenks seemed to fall into the latter category. Clint doubted that the man would let go of his grudge, and for some reason he didn’t understand, the thought of Emily Spoon being the target made his gut clench.
He shouldn’t have to worry about her, he told himself—she had her damned uncle and her brother and her cousin to look after her. But he was remembering the half-scared, half-defiant expression on her beautiful face when Jenks had come toward her tonight.
And he was remembering something else. The way she’d looked in that dress. Like a dark gorgeous rose, elegant and soft, Clint thought, a muscle tightening in his jaw as he saw her in his mind’s eye. She might have been an heiress, a pampered cultured little flower fresh from the drawing rooms of New York—and not a girl from an outlaw family who tried to pick off strangers with a shotgun.
The others can’t hold a candle to her. The thought flashed into his head suddenly. Carla, Berty, Tammy Sue—and all the rest of the women who for some reason he couldn’t understand were throwing themselves at him as if he were the last man on earth—none of them could hold a candle to that black-haired spitfire who’d ducked out of the dance after he’d hit Jenks and knocked him to the floor.
He wondered where the hell she’d disappeared to.
The sounds of a scuffle around the corner made him stamp out his cigarillo and sprint toward the fray. In the alley he found two old-timers fighting over a bottle of red-eye. He hauled them apart.
“Break it up!”
“I had it first, Sheriff.”
“He’s lying—it’s mine. Gimme that bottle!”
Clint stepped between them, pushing the two men farther apart. “Get a move on. Both of you.”
He really didn’t want to lock up any drunks tonight, at least not yet. The night was too young. There were too many strangers in town. Between the poker tournament and the dance, the town was overflowing with gamblers, miners, high-spirited cowboys, drifters, men of all ages and stripe from near and far.
Both of Lonesome’s jail cells could be full up by morning.
He sent the drunks off with no more than a stern look and a warning, and headed back toward the hotel. And that’s when he saw a slender woman in a rose gown standing in the shadows of the hotel porch. She was leaning against one of the porch columns, gazing up at the moon, while from within the hotel came the raucous sounds of laughter and foot-stomping and fiddle music.
She whirled at the sound of his footsteps and looked as startled as a fawn caught in the open by a wolf.
“Don’t look so scared. I’m not going to eat you.” For one moment, Clint thought she was going to dash back inside the hotel, but then he saw her square her shoulders, stand up straighter, and hold her ground, just as she’d done with Jenks.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Sheriff,” she said with admirable cool. “I don’t scare that easily.”
“Reckon I noticed.”
“What does that mean?”
He came up the porch steps and paused only a foot from her. Close enough to see the rise and fall of her breasts beneath that pretty rose gown. Close enough to see the moonlight reflected in those fascinating silver eyes.
“You didn’t run from Slim Jenks tonight when he came after you in there. And considering what that lizard did the other day—”
“I’d rather forget about the other day!”
He nodded, suddenly annoyed at himself. “Can’t say I blame you. Sorry, it was thoughtless of me to bring it up.”
She was regarding him warily, suspicious even of his apology. Clint wasn’t used to a woman looking at him like that—like he was the enemy. Most people who looked at him that way were hardened men—criminals, gunfighters, common bullies, and the like. What did she think he was going to do to her?
Well, after the way we met that first night outside the cabin, and those arguments in the jail, what else do you expect? he asked himself reasonably. It was just as well. He had no call to be getting to know her, and when you came right down to it, he had nothing to say to her.
She was Jed Spoon’s niece. And for all he knew, she was privy to whatever the old buzzard might be planning—if he was planning. Clint would’ve laid odds he was.
“If you’ll excuse me …” Emily turned toward the door, but for some reason Clint couldn’t explain, he stepped swiftly into her path and eased her gently back into the shadows.
“One more thing.”
“If you want to know where my brother or my cousin is—”
“I don’t. I want to know about you, Miss Spoon.”
“Me?” Emily stared at him. “I don’t understand.”
The moon played softly over her exquisite skin and fine-boned features. Clint felt a wave of heat surge in his blood. What the hell was he saying to her? Why did he feel the need to make conversation with a woman who obviously wanted nothing to do with him?
“I just want to know—if you’re all right. I never got to ask you the other day—did Jenks hurt you?”
“Not as bad as I hurt him.”
He laughed then—he couldn’t help it.
“You’re right. He wasn’t even in any shape to put up a fight by the time I got there.”
Emily swallowed. That smile. It was devastating to a woman. It transformed that stern, handsome face—made this rugged man even more intensely appealing, if that were possible.
Which is just plain unfair, she thought, her heart thudding wildly in her chest as those storm-blue eyes lingered on hers.
She ought to go in. At once. There was nothing she wished to say to him. Nothing she could think of, anyway, with him looking so tall and large and sinfully handsome in the moonlight, his eyes keen and warm on hers. She felt an absurd urge to grab his string tie and use it to draw him close to her.
When I ought to be considering strangling him with it.
And yet… there was something she knew she should say to him. Not that she wanted to, but her sense of honor demanded it be said.
“I… I suppose I should thank you for stepping in when you did the other day. In the alley with Jenks, I mean. And tonight.” She took a deep breath, speaking each word reluctantly. “I really didn’t want to have a scene at the dance—”
“Just when you’re starting to get to know folks.”
Her eyes flew to his face. He understood. “Yes. I was having a lovely time until then.”
“I reckon you must have a lovely time at every dance,” he muttered, thinking of the parade of men he’d already witnessed lined up to dance with her—outlaw kin or no.
Emily wasn’t about to tell him that she’d been fifteen and a hopeless wallflower at her last dance. Instead she gave a delicate shrug.
He frowned at her. “The fact is, Miss Spoon, there’s no need to thank me. My stepping in wasn’t personal. I was just doing my job.”
“Of course you were.” Her eyes flashed. “The ever-diligent lawman. If you’ll excuse me …”
But as he yanked open the door for her, and she started through it, what she saw in the hallway not more than ten feet away made her stop dead
. Not exactly what she saw, but whom she saw.
John Armstrong, Lissa’s ex-fiancé, was coming through the hall toward the door. His head was turned momentarily toward the dining room where the dancing and refreshments were in full swing, but at the same instant she saw him, his head began to turn back, toward the door…
She spun around, flung herself out onto the porch once again, and stumbled straight into Clint Barclay.
“Ohhh,” she gasped as she fell against a rock-solid chest, and his arms went around her to steady her.
She heard Armstrong’s boots thumping—thumping right up to the door—he would see her—any moment now, he would see her.
There was no time to think, to plan. She threw herself at Clint, driving them both deeper into the shadows. Flinging her arms around his neck, she did the only thing she could think of to do—she began to kiss Clint Barclay with fervent intensity.
IS MOUTH MOVED OVER HERS, warm, strong, sure. In the shadows at the edge of moonlight, Sheriff Clint Barclay encircled her with those iron arms and returned her kiss with every bit as much intensity as she had shown in initiating it.
Sparks burst through Emily along with a dazzling heat as one kiss led to another—and another—each deeper and longer and somehow more intimate than the last. The idea of kissing a lawman should have made her ill, but instead she felt a rush of sensation, heady and hot and sweet.
For a moment, she forgot about everything—even about John Armstrong. She only knew a deep hunger, a yearning that came from her very soul, a pleasure that left her breathless. The soap and leather scent of him enveloped her. Her breasts were crushed against his powerful chest as he drew her closer, closer still.
Her entire body down to the tips of her toes caught fire.
Oh … my…
Her heart had gone crazy, thundering like an out-of-control train, but dimly she heard the footsteps thump past them on the porch, heard heavy boots scrape the boardwalk, then heard more footsteps—this time receding.
He’s gone. Armstrong never saw you … you can stop kissing this lawman now, Emily thought desperately, then panicked at the realization that she didn’t want to stop kissing him. Using all her willpower, she forced herself to tear her trembling mouth from his.
“We can… stop now—he’s… gone,” she whispered and tried haplessly to extricate herself from the sheriff’s arms, but he caught her to him and hauled her up against his chest again.
“What if he comes back?”
“He…” Dazedly, she started to glance after Armstrong, saw his burly figure striding up the street, and then saw nothing more of him as Clint Barclay yanked her in even closer.
“My turn, Miss Spoon.” His low, gentle voice was at odds with his powerful strength, and both sent a shiver racing down her back. Electricity blazed between them as his eyes gleamed into hers.
“Turnabout is fair play,” he said.
Then he was kissing her, his mouth slanting against hers with explosive heat. It was too late to protest, to try to pull back. The kiss imprisoned her in a giddy pleasure, as surely as did those strong arms. The first time, when she’d kissed him, she’d found him all too willing and ready to respond, following her lead with only the briefest flash of surprise, but this time she found him taking control, kissing her, tasting her, drawing out the kiss and deepening it as he tenderly explored the very shape and texture of her lips, as if seeking to know her in a way that was intimate and deliciously new and that defied description.
Blanketed in shadows, they were locked in an embrace that sent dizzying sensations tumbling through her. It was impossible to think with him kissing her like this, and Emily, accustomed to thinking so much and so often about everything in her life, knew an odd exhilaration as Clint Barclay wiped everything but the feel, scent, and taste of him quite out of her head.
Neither of them actually stopped the kiss in the end, it just came to a slow, sweet, shuddering end. They stood like that, their mouths still touching, their breath coming quickly, as the sounds of the dance, the laughter, and the music flooded back.
And so did the dark coolness of the night, the creaking of the porch planks beneath their feet, the sighing of the wind sweeping down from the hills.
And the memory of John Armstrong—here in Lonesome—nearly running smack into her.
“I have to leave.” Emily broke out of the spell and pulled back within the circle of his arms. “L-let me go.”
“Don’t you think you should tell me what that was all about?”
“There’s no time—I have to get back to the ranch—right now!”
“I’ll take you.” His arms were still snug around her. “And on the way you can tell me—”
“No!” Emily wrenched away, panic welling up in her. She had to get to Joey and make certain he was safe. She had to find Pete and Lester, ask them to take her home…
“Usually when I kiss a lady she’s not in such an all-fire hurry to run out on me.” Clint’s eyes were amused and yet searching as they settled on her in the darkness. “Maybe you ought to just slow down and—”
But Emily was already darting past him, back inside the hotel, without even a backward glance.
As Clint watched her disappear into the crowded lobby, he felt a stab of disappointment.
I never even had a chance to ask her to dance.
No sooner had this thought flashed through his brain than he was shaking his head at the absurdity of it.
A lawman dancing with Jake Spoon’s niece? Not a good idea.
Didn’t matter how pretty she was—or, hell, how beautiful—didn’t matter how sweet she kissed or how delicious she tasted. Getting involved with a girl like her was…
Hold on a minute. A girl like her? You’re as bad as Jenks, Clint realized suddenly.
He wondered what was wrong with him. Not only didn’t he know why Emily Spoon had kissed him with such ardor, why she was afraid of that stranger who’d come out of the hotel, or why she kept disappearing on him, he didn’t know why in hell he’d kissed her back.
“Sheeeriiff! Sheriff Barclay!”
The singsong tones of Agnes Mangley broke through his thoughts and galvanized him to action. He vaulted over the porch rail and strode down the street in the same direction that the man Emily Spoon had wanted to avoid had walked not more than ten minutes earlier.
It was almost midnight and the boy was fast asleep.
Jake Spoon crossed the bedroom floor and gazed down at Joey’s peacefully closed eyes, at his small form curled up into a ball on the mattress. He stood a moment, listening to the child’s soft, even breathing.
Sleep tight, kid, he thought. From the looks of it, that’s exactly what the boy was doing. Jake figured a norther could blast the hills and the cabin, and Joey wouldn’t hear a thing.
Jake turned quickly on his heel. For a big man, he moved soundlessly across the floor, his boots making the barest scuffing noise as he let himself out of the room, then strode through the cabin and out into the night.
When he pushed open the barn door, heavy darkness greeted him. Then he heard a match strike; a flame sputtered and caught. The man standing in the shadows of the horse stalls regarded him with cold, shining eyes.
“’Bout time you got here, Spoon.”
Even without seeing Ben Ratlin, he’d have recognized that heavy, dour voice. A voice he’d heard every day for seven years in prison.
“You’re early, Ratlin.”
“Damn right I am. We have a lot to talk about. Close that damned door.”
As Jake complied, Ratlin turned up the oil lamp that hung from a hook on the barn wall and Jake noted that somehow the huge, bearlike man looked even more dangerous than he had in prison.
There was both ferocity and cruelty in those hooded deep-set eyes—and a kind of hunger Jake recognized and had seen in many men. The hunger for gold, silver, for precious gems. For long-dreamed-of wealth, riches attained by any means.
It was a hunger that afflicted many—and its name
was greed.
Now that the time had come for Ratlin to finally pull off that big job he’d been talking about in prison the past year, to get his hands on the huge payoff he’d been promised for its successful completion, Jake could smell the blood lust on him, the excitement of the hunt and the kill.
Jake understood it. The kind of payoff Ratlin had promised him for doing his part represented more money than Jake had ever hoped to haul in during all the holdup jobs he’d ever pulled.
And Ratlin’s share was even bigger than that.
“We’d better talk fast,” Jake said. “My niece could be back from town soon. There’s not much time.”
“Whose fault is that?” Ratlin sneered. He was as big as Lester, and built like a boar. There were strands of gray in his shaggy black hair and beard, and his oily, swarthy complexion shone in the dimness of the barn. “Don’t see why you couldn’t meet me at Cougar Pass, like I wanted,” he growled. “It’s damned risky for me to come here. And all because of some snot-nosed kid?”
“I told you, Ratlin, if you wanted to meet tonight, it had to be here.” Jake spoke curtly, his gaze nailing the other man’s. “I promised my niece I’d keep an eye on the boy while she was gone. If I’d said I couldn’t do it, she’d have asked questions. Now quit wasting time and fill me in. When’s the job—and who do we have to kill?”
Ratlin shook his head. “You’ll find out—all in good time, Spoon.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means the boss hasn’t told me I can let you in on the details yet. He’s calling the shots, not you, not me. Now what about your son and your nephew? You ask them yet if they want in on the job?”
“Not yet. But they will.”
“Just make sure they keep their mouths shut. They won’t be squeamish about the killing part of it, will they? Seems to me your old gang never did shoot no one, from what I heard.”
“Pete and Lester will do whatever I tell them to do.” Jake Spoon met Ratlin’s glittering eyes, his own as hard as rocks. “The killing won’t be a problem.”
“Good. That’s real good.” Ratlin nodded approvingly and relaxed enough to offer a tight-lipped smile. “Just make sure you and your gang are ready whenever I give the word.”