by Jill Gregory
“Are you all right?” Lester croaked.
“You damned fools. Look what you’ve done.” Alarm in his eyes, Clint started toward her, but Pete got there first and Lester blocked the sheriff’s path, his gun suddenly in his hand.
“Stay away from her, Barclay,” Lester warned. “Or I’ll plug you here and now.”
“Lester … put that gun away,” Emily gasped. “Right… now. Put it away, I said!”
Emily struggled to rise, but even as her brother tried to help her, the tears fell faster and she pushed Pete away. She was the only one who knew that it wasn’t the pain of the blow that hurt. It was seeing her brother and cousin fight with Clint, a reminder of the chasm between them, that made her heart ache.
“I… I’m ashamed of you, Pete—ashamed of both of you. You had no right—”
“He spent the night with you, Emily! That gives me every right!” Pete argued, throwing Barclay a furious glance as Emily shook her head. “It’s not your fault—don’t think for a minute that I blame you, or that Lester does either—but he’s… he’s compromised you and taken advantage of you and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let some damned lawman hurt my little sister—”
“Hurt me? He found me stranded in the storm and brought me to shelter, that’s all!” Emily burst out. “My ankle was twisted—Nugget had bolted—what was he supposed to do, leave me out by Beaver Rock? He … he was nice to me—”
“I’ll just bet he was!” Lester snarled, and his finger curled on the trigger of his gun as he spun toward Clint, clearly struggling to control his anger.
Emily felt the blood draining from her face. “Lester, you put that gun away right now.” As he glanced over at her doubtfully, she limped toward him, despite the pain, and wrenched the gun from his hand.
Trembling, she turned and threw it as far as she could across the weeds and grama grass.
When she turned back, she finally looked at Clint, and her heart sank. He stood a few feet away, straight and tall, though his shirt was muddied and torn, his face bruised and streaked with dirt. He was breathing hard, as were Pete and Lester, but his eyes were centered on her and they were cold and shuttered and utterly unreadable.
“Nothing happened,” she said stiffly. Her gaze was locked on Clint’s, but her words were for her brother and cousin. “Nothing at all. We were just waiting out the storm.” A quaver entered her voice as she stood there with her hair streaming in thick tangled locks, the sun gilding her pale skin. “And now it’s over, so … please. I just want to go home.”
Clint’s stomach clenched. For some reason that quaver and the quiet tears sliding down her cheeks moved him far more than dramatic sobs might have done, had done in the past with other women, other times. It took all of his self-control not to go straight to Emily and … and what? he asked himself scornfully. Put his arms around her? Offer words of comfort?
That would be the worst thing you could do, he reminded himself. Keep your distance. Emily Spoon is not your concern, and she’s got three men in her family to look after her.
There was dismay on Pete’s face, and Lester’s as well, as they both stared at her and then exchanged guilty glances with each other. Clint steeled himself to stay out of it as Pete came forward and slipped an arm around Emily’s shoulders.
“Anything you say, Sis. Take it easy.” He swallowed. “Come on, let’s get you off that ankle. I’ll carry you to my horse.”
Gritting his teeth, Clint watched in silence as Pete swept her up in his arms. His eyes were on Emily’s pale face, and he scarcely noticed as Lester threw him one more angry glance before following after them.
And so it was that a short time later Clint Barclay sat alone at the shack’s wobbly pine table, eating the rabbit he’d shot, that he’d planned to roast for Emily Spoon, drinking the coffee they’d shared the night before and wishing that things were different.
He wasn’t sure what exactly he wished was different, he only knew that the shack looked a hell of a lot more dreary and empty and cheerless without her.
And he felt a whole lot more dreary and empty and cheerless without her.
And he knew that he’d never forget the moment when she had sprung to his defense against her brother and cousin.
Nothing happened, she’d said.
It wasn’t strictly true. And it wasn’t because he hadn’t tried.
But he knew what the Spoon boys thought—and they were wrong.
And if they believed their threats were enough to make him stay away from her, he thought, draining the last of his coffee as a lark chirped outside the open shack door, then they were doubly wrong.
He intended to stay away from her, all right—but for his own reasons, not theirs.
Clint drained the last of his coffee, rinsed his cup, and threw one baleful glance at the cot where Emily Spoon had slept curled up all night.
He gathered his bedroll, packed up his saddlebags, and in his mind he heard again her frantic words.
Nothing happened.
Clint scowled at the empty air of the line shack. Emily had lied for him. Lied to her brother and cousin, maybe even to herself.
Just as he’d been doing—lying to himself. He’d been doing it right up until the moment when he saw her get hurt. Until he heard that quaver in her voice.
Because something had happened between them. Something he didn’t understand. But it was just plain useless to deny it any longer. Because whether he liked it or not, it wasn’t over.
Not by a long shot.
When Emily returned home, she hugged Joey and Uncle Jake, and allowed herself to be helped into bed, waited on, fussed over. She listened to Uncle Jake explain about the cave where he’d spent the night, and she’d sat Joey down on her bed and looked into his eyes, and explained to him thoroughly about John Armstrong passing through town, then leaving, without any clue that Joey was there.
She nursed her ankle, and later began taking stock of her needles and thread and ribbons and fabric, trying to ascertain what she would need should the women of Lonesome come calling at her door in search of fashionable new gowns with which to win the heart of Lonesome’s sheriff.
And to all appearances, she was calm. Quiet, perhaps, after the turmoil of the previous day and night, but calm—and perfectly herself.
Inwardly, however, she was a raging mass of emotions—the most prominent of which was confusion.
First there was Uncle Jake. He claimed to have been at Beaver Rock when the storm descended in its full fury and to have taken cover in a cave. But she’d been at Beaver Rock when the storm had lashed down full force, and she hadn’t seen any sign of him all the time that she’d been searching for both him and Joey. If he’d really been there, why hadn’t he tried to get to the line shack? She and Clint had made it, despite the rain and the wind.
So why hadn’t he even tried?
Uneasiness filled her as she mulled this question. Because if her uncle were lying, if he really hadn’t been at Beaver Rock in the first place, then where had he been?
And what, she wondered, her stomach beginning to churn, was he doing?
But while her worries about Uncle Jake’s whereabouts were disturbing, they weren’t nearly as tumultuous as her thoughts about Clint Barclay. And her doubts about herself. Why had she allowed all that had gone on between them in the line shack to happen? Why had she kissed him and responded to him the way she had, why had she nearly made love with the lawman she’d sworn to hate?
She didn’t understand anything of what she felt toward Clint Barclay. Yes, he had helped her search for Joey, and he’d rescued her from the storm—but he’d also fought with her brother and cousin—and he would toss them in jail without a second thought if they gave him half a reason, she told herself.
Loyalty to her family, as well as wisdom and plain common sense, should keep her away from him, should stop her from even thinking about him. But sense had nothing to do with how she felt, and sense had nothing to do with the way her heart lifted at
the sight of him, at the somersaults it did when he smiled, or the way her body melted when he kissed her.
She’d always been sensible, always been smart—even when she lost her temper, Emily never lost sight of where her loyalties or her values lay. Until now. Now everything she’d ever believed about herself seemed to have been washed away by that storm, washed away by the onslaught of hot, tender kisses and Clint Barclay’s strong, reassuring arms.
All this was brought home to her even more forcefully that evening, when she was sitting up in bed brushing her hair and Pete and Lester knocked at her door.
“Come in,” she said quietly, and as they stepped inside, the single candle burning in a sconce beside the bed cast pale streams of amber light upon their bruised faces.
Clint Barclay had certainly gotten in his share of punches, she thought. Her heart sank like a rock in her chest.
“Don’t mean to bother you, but we want to say one thing, Em.” Pete’s gaze was worried. “It’s about Clint Barclay. I know you weren’t trying to take his side today against us, but the fact is, that’s how it looked. You shouldn’t have interfered—we were just trying to teach him a lesson and—”
“Pete, you attacked him—both you and Lester, when all he did was save me from getting drenched all night long on Beaver Rock.”
“He didn’t do any more than that, Em?” Lester stepped forward, his moon-shaped face flushed with embarrassment. Despite Emily’s frown, he plunged ahead. “Sorry to be so blunt, but damn it, Em, this is too important to beat around the bush. Are you saying he didn’t try to take advantage of you when the two of you were stuck alone in that shack all night?”
“Of… course not. Don’t… be ridiculous!” But even as she spoke, she felt her cheeks burning.
“I told you before, I’ve seen how he looks at you,” Lester went on, glowering. “And the truth is, Em, men like Barclay want only one thing from a girl like you. Not that you’re not every bit as good as anyone else,” he said hastily, “that’s not what I mean—you’re the best, Em, the prettiest, the finest girl in the world … but…”
“Well, it’s us—we’re the problem.” Misery and guilt shone in Pete’s eyes. “Face it, Em. You’re related to us… and that means a man like Barclay won’t ever respect you, not the way he should. He’d only use you. The same goes for lots of men. But especially someone like him—”
“You don’t have to warn me about Clint Barclay. I’m not stupid. Don’t you think I know how the world works?”
“Sure, but—”
“You’re trying to protect me, both of you, and I… I appreciate it, but it isn’t necessary. Clint Barclay isn’t interested in me, not in any way.” Somehow she managed to sound airy and unconcerned, despite the fact that her throat was dry as dust and her heart aching. “And I’m certainly not interested in him!”
“That’s good, Em.” Pete shifted from one foot to the other. “Because we know you haven’t had much experience with men and—”
“I’ve had enough to know that I’d never let myself become a … a kind of toy or … casual amusement for any man—and that includes Clint Barclay,” she said forcefully. She set the brush down on the bedside table, hoping they didn’t notice that her hands were trembling. “Now please, I’m worn out and I’d like to go to sleep.”
There was silence for a moment. Pete and Lester looked at each other. “Well, so long as you’re sure.” Lester still sounded doubtful.
Pete studied her in the flickering candlelight. “We just want to take care of you, Em. You had everything on your shoulders for too long—the farm, Aunt Ida and all. We’re here now. If Barclay or anyone else bothers you, you can just let us know and we’ll take care of it.”
“I know you will.” She swallowed. She’d never even told them how Slim Jenks had “bothered” her, because she knew it would only lead to disaster. But she’d rather eat a lizard every day for breakfast then tell them anything at all about her and Clint.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” she assured them with a false smile. “Good night.”
The moment they shut the door, she blew out the candle and cast the room into darkness, the same kind of darkness that smothered her heart. It was a relief to slip into bed, to lie there upon cool sheets and not have to pretend that what Pete and Lester had said hadn’t cut straight through her soul. For she knew the truth of what they’d said, and she’d been telling herself the same thing: Clint Barclay might be more handsome, honorable, and kind than Slim Jenks, he might use persuasion and charm and sweet talk, instead of coarse insults and force, but what he wanted from her was the same. He didn’t want her for a wife or even a sweetheart, he didn’t want to squire her here or there or court her or treat her with respect. He was only interested in her because she was the one woman in town who wouldn’t try to lure him into marriage. Because she was the one woman in town who wasn’t respectable enough to be considered a possible bride. He could dally with her in secret and not have to worry about her or anyone else getting the wrong idea.
Just as Hobart Wainscott had cornered her in the hallways of his mother’s house when she’d been dusting or sweeping, Clint had cornered her in the shack.
It hadn’t meant anything to him. He didn’t care about her.
No matter that his kisses were deep and hot and drove everything else right out of her mind. No matter that he touched her with a gentleness that made her wild. No matter that she had been sorry to see Pete and Lester at the shack’s door this morning, because—fool that she was—she’d wanted a little more time alone with Clint Barclay.
They were as different as night and day. He’d grown up on Cloud Ranch, a cattle ranch known all over the West as one of the grandest and most profitable spreads in the country. As Lonesome’s sheriff, he was a pillar of the community, devoting his life to upholding the law.
And she was Emily Spoon of the notorious Spoons—dirt poor, a nobody, niece to a man who had served time in prison for stagecoach robbery, and sister and cousin to two others who’d eluded the law only because no one had ever been able to prove they were thieves.
With his big family home in Wyoming, his brothers, and his fancy new sister-in-law, an elegant woman like Caitlin Barclay, did she really for a moment believe that he would ever think of her as anything other than an amusing distraction from all the women in town trying to become his bride?
She’d almost been caught up in the pull of that devastating smile, in the urgent heat of his embrace. She’d almost forgotten who she was while she lay warm and close in the circle of those strong arms.
But now she was home in the cabin, and the storm was over, and the night was quiet and still, and she could hear the voice of truth in her head.
Last night was a mistake, but it was over. Over and done with. She’d keep her distance from Clint from this point on.
Even when she ran into him again, as she no doubt would somewhere, sometime in town, she wouldn’t let him make a fool out of her.
And with any luck he’d be married soon, she realized. Surely one of the women in town who’d set her cap for him would reel him in like a big flopping fish.
And the sooner that happened, the better, Emily told herself, dropping her head down on the pillow.
Misery descended on her as she tried to drift into sleep. She kept thinking of last night, when his hands had stroked her as they lay upon the cot, of the way his mouth ignited hers, and the deep, even tenor of his voice. She was wondering how it would feel to sleep in Clint Barclay’s arms, to be held and kissed by him all through the night, to see his face in the morning when she awoke.
And she wondered at the emotions he stirred in her, at the yearning that quivered through her when he was near.
Just forget him, she told herself in frustration as night marched on toward dawn and still sleep eluded her.
Forget about the shack, the cot, the kisses that drowned out the storm.
But Emily knew as she tossed and turned alone in her bed that she
could just as soon forget about breathing.
HE NEXT FEW DAYS FLEW BY IN A rush of visitors and activity, as the women of Lonesome descended upon the Teacup Ranch. In buggies and wagons and on horseback they arrived some bearing fabric they’d purchased themselves, one or two with older gowns they wanted let out, taken in, and gussied up to match the current style, some with no notion of what kind of gown they wanted but eager to hear Miss Emily Spoon’s suggestions.
“I’d love a gown in the style of the one you wore to the town dance,” Carla Mangley told her eagerly, as the other women waiting their turn murmured agreement.
“And Carla will also need another gown,” Agnes Mangley put in sharply. “Something even more elegant, fit for a ball. It’s to be worn at the dinner in honor of her late father, my dear Richard. It’s being held in Denver, you know. The governor will be there.”
“Yes, I know,” Emily murmured measuring Carla’s slender waist. Everyone in town knew all about the Mangleys: they’d become the wealthiest and most socially prominent folks in town a few years back when Carla’s father and his brother had discovered the richest silver mine in Leadville. Agnes and Carla had inherited his half of it when Richard Mangley died, and—in case anyone ever forgot how wealthy the Mangley women were—despite their furnishings from Paris and New York, their jewels and gowns and painted carriage, their frequent trips abroad—Agnes Mangley never missed an opportunity to remind them.
“Will you get to meet the governor, Carla?” Tammy Sue asked.
“Of course she will,” Agnes answered before Carla could say a word. “Her uncle Frank is on excellent terms with the governor, and naturally will introduce both Carla and me.”
The women were all suitably impressed and offered suggestions for Carla’s new gown, while Emily listened and measured and planned. So while Uncle Jake and Pete and Lester were doing the spring branding, and Joey tended to his chores and worked on the simple lessons Emily had set out for him, she offered the ladies of Forlorn Valley coffee and pie, pored over sample books, laid out various fabrics, and measured and pinned.