by Jill Gregory
“Doc!” Agnes Mangley elbowed Doc Calvin. “Bid on Carla’s box. She can’t share her lunch with that… that criminal!”
“Seven dollars and fifty cents,” the elderly doctor called out reluctantly.
“I have seven dollars and fifty—”
“Ten dollars,” Lester shouted.
A hush fell over the crowd. Everyone was staring at Lester, and at Carla Mangley. Emily held her breath.
“Sold.” The mayor choked out the words. “To … to Mr. Lester, uh … Spoon.”
Carla and her mother sat as still as if they’d been frozen into blocks of ice. Lester, his jaw clenched, strode up to retrieve the box, tucked it under his arm, and walked toward Carla’s chair.
“M-Miz M-Mangley?”
“Mama,” she gulped, and threw her mother a helpless glance.
“Eat fast, honey,” Emily heard Mrs. Mangley moan.
Lester’s flush deepened, but he stood stolidly, offering his arm.
As Emily watched, torn between concern for her cousin’s sensibilities and amazement at his seeking out this most unlikely of young women, Carla rose, trembling, and took the offered arm. She marched off with Lester toward a sloping hillside beyond the creek bank as if he were escorting her to a guillotine.
The auction continued, the mayor going quickly through the remaining boxes. Margaret’s box was bought by Parnell, and she slipped out of her seat with a smile. Rufus Doily bought Nettie’s box, and they too departed.
Emily barely noticed, for she was lost in thought, pondering the strangeness of Lester’s actions. Poor Lester, she thought in dismay, if he’s developed a fondness for Carla Mangley, he’s doomed for disappointment.
But at least he’ll have today, she told herself, and then inexplicably her mind flashed back for a moment to the night of the storm, to Clint Barclay’s kisses.
Suddenly she realized that the mayor was auctioning off the very last box—and it was hers.
“Last but not least, we have this pretty box here—and let me tell you, what’s inside looks every bit as good as what’s outside,” he promised. “What am I offered for this box, gentlemen?”
“Two dollars,” one of the cowboys she’d danced with at the hotel offered, throwing her a hopeful glance, but the words were scarcely out of his mouth before Slim Jenks’s voice rang out.
“Five dollars.”
He was smirking at her, and Emily’s stomach tightened. With an effort she sat perfectly still, her hands gripped in her lap.
The very thing she’d feared was happening, only now Pete and Lester were both off on their own private picnics—and Uncle Jake, she saw as she glanced toward the creek, was seated under a willow tree, most likely whittling, while Joey and Bobby and several other children chased each other across the hillside. His back was to her and the auction, and she realized with a chill that there would be no one to counter Jenks’s bids no matter the cost.
She’d probably made a mistake by not telling anyone about Jenks accosting her in town, but it was too late now …
“Seven dollars,” another cowboy offered, but Jenks immediately raised his bid to ten dollars and shot Emily a triumphant smile.
Her heart began to race. Whatever unpleasantness Jenks had in mind, she’d have to deal with him alone. She had her derringer—she could shoot him in the leg or the arm or the shoulder if necessary. Still, she had to fight a flutter of panic as it became clear no one was raising Jenks’s latest bid. There would be no way out.
“Do I hear seven dollars and fifty cents?” The mayor scanned the spattering of people left to witness the auction. “Well, then, this lovely box is sold to Slim Jenks for—”
“Twenty-five dollars.”
There was a stunned gasp from the onlookers, and Emily, along with everyone else, twisted around in her seat. There was Clint Barclay standing behind the scattered chairs, his arms folded across his chest.
Another collective gasp went up. Clint’s eyes met Emily’s and held hers for a long moment as a flood of whispering broke out and the mayor gave a last chance for other bids. There were none.
“Sold! To our fine sheriff—for twenty-five dollars. Ladies and gentleman, I do believe we’ve raised a good sum for our new schoolhouse today. Thank you one and all, and please enjoy yourselves on this fine spring day…”
Emily heard no more. Clint strode forward, took her box from the mayor, then turned and walked with long steady strides back toward her.
Several townsfolk who had chosen to eat their lunches within earshot of the auction watched agog as the sheriff approached Miss Emily Spoon.
So did Slim Jenks.
Emily could see him beyond Clint’s broad shoulder, and the anger on his face sent a chill through her.
His enmity toward her—and Clint—had no doubt deepened today. But she forgot about even this as Clint halted before her.
“Miss Spoon.” There was nothing but cool politeness in his face, in his tone. They might have been two strangers.
We are strangers, practically, she told herself, her heart lurching. Except for the kissing part… and the touching part…
“Sheriff Barclay.” She offered a regal nod.
He tucked her arm in his, but not before Emily caught the steely glint in his eyes. Without another word, he escorted her away from the chairs and the staring townsfolk, across the waving spring grass, and toward a knot of trees.
NCLE JED AND THE BOYS WILL BE LIVID when they find out who bought my box lunch, she thought fleetingly, but inexplicably, at that moment, she didn’t care. Even the realization of her family’s fury couldn’t dampen the unexpected surge of happiness that swept through her as she walked at Clint’s side.
Neither of them spoke as they passed beneath a shady canopy of trees and he led her toward a gully.
Finally she couldn’t endure the silence any more and she broke it. “The whole town seemed to be looking for you during the course of the bidding,” she burst out, as the sun poured down and twigs crunched beneath their feet. “Where were you?”
“Around,” he said in an offhand tone.
“Hiding.” Her lips twitched in a smile. “Clint Barclay, brave sheriff, running for cover from the women of Lonesome.” A laugh burst from her, and Clint chuckled too.
“Let’s just say I know how to keep my head down when there’s danger. And fighting a townful of marriage-minded women is as dangerous as it gets.”
They reached a pretty clearing far enough from the schoolhouse so that they couldn’t even hear the shouts and laughter of the children. “This suit you all right?” Clint asked.
Emily nodded. It was an ideal spot, a clearing of thick grass, where wild yellow pea grew charmingly among clusters of columbine. There was no one else from town visible, and the silence was delightful. Only the murmur of the wind through the aspens and the cry of a prairie falcon circling overhead broke the stillness.
But there was a saddle blanket folded under the lone cottonwood tree. She stopped short. “I wonder who this belongs to …” she began doubtfully, but Clint stooped and picked it up, then shook it out and spread it over the ground.
“It’s mine. I set it here a while ago to keep anyone else from taking this spot.”
“Do you always plan everything out so carefully, Sheriff?” She tried to keep her tone light.
“When I can—but I’m learning, Miss Spoon, that not everything can be planned.”
“Is that so?”
He set her box down upon the blanket and straightened, then fixed those keen blue eyes on her with an intentness that stole her breath away. “That’s so.”
In the pause that followed Emily wondered if he could hear her heart beating. Being alone with him had too strong an effect on her, and she tried to steel herself against him. She tore her gaze away and busied herself lifting the plates and forks and knives from the box, arranging everything prettily upon the blanket—desperate to do anything but gaze at this coolly handsome man, who could make every rational thought
fly right out of her head.
“Joey seems to have recovered just fine,” Clint commented as she served him a thick sandwich and the corn fritters. “I noticed your uncle keeping an eye on him.”
“Joey’s fine now. Thanks in large part to Uncle Jake.”
“I don’t really see what he has to do with it, Emily. If you ask me, it has a lot more to do with you.”
“You’re wrong—it’s Uncle Jake.” Emily swallowed a bite of sandwich. “Despite what you think you know about him, he’s always been fond of children, and since coming home … from prison …” Her voice faltered a moment. “He seems to have even more patience than before. He’s taught Joey all sorts of things, he plays gin rummy with him, he even whittled him a horse.”
Clint Barclay eyed her skeptically. “Hard to imagine Jake Spoon playing grandpa.”
“You don’t really know him—or anything about him.”
I know he robbed stagecoaches and was damned good at it, Clint thought, but there was no point in mentioning that unless he wanted to get Emily Spoon fired up, like striking a match to dynamite. And he didn’t. He was enjoying this temporary peace between them too much for that. So instead, he helped himself to another corn fritter and said, “Why don’t you tell me then?”
Surprised, Emily’s eyes flew to his face. “Do you really want to know?”
He nodded.
“He’s a good man.” Her voice was quiet. “He … he may have done … some wrong things, some bad things, but he’s still a good man. Do you remember telling me how Reese Summers took you and your brothers in? Well, Uncle Jake and Aunt Ida did that for Pete and me.”
Only the skittering of a rabbit through the brush broke the stillness that followed. Clint’s storm-blue gaze held steady on hers.
“Our parents died when we were young—Pete was nine and I was six. And Uncle Jake and Aunt Ida never hesitated. They took us in and raised us right along with their own son, Lester.” Emily brushed a crumb from the blanket. “Their farm was small and they were barely scraping by before Uncle Jake got mixed up in holding up stages. There wasn’t nearly enough money to go around, but they managed somehow—we managed somehow.” Her fingers clenched around her skirt as the memories flooded back. “They raised us with love, as if we were their own children, and never once did they complain about the extra burden of supporting us.”
She met Clint’s gaze levelly. “It was Aunt Ida who taught me how to sew.” She paused, her eyes misting at the memory of the frail aunt who had taught her so painstakingly how to thread the needle, make neat stitches, how to measure and cut with pride and precision.
“I know about your handiwork,” Clint said dryly. “Just walking up the boardwalk this past week I’ve heard your name mentioned in snatches of conversation everywhere I went. Seems like everyone is talking about how Emily Spoon is a whiz with a needle. They say you sewed a bunch of dresses for women to wear today—and that you made that dress you wore to the dance last week.”
She nodded.
“Mighty nice,” he said softly. “You make this one too?”
“Yes, I—”
She broke off as he reached out, touched the muslin at her shoulder, traced his hand down her sleeve. “Beautiful.”
Her senses whirled at something in his voice, at the gentleness of his touch. Struggling to keep focused on their conversation, Emily forced herself to rush on.
“I owe whatever sewing expertise I have to Aunt Ida, but I owe Uncle Jake much more. He taught me so many things. Right along with Lester and Pete, I learned how to ride, drive a team, shoot a gun. How to fish and the tricks of bluffing at poker. He taught me how to tell if someone was cheating.” Her eyes met his, shimmering pools of silver.
“Not exactly a typical female education,” Clint drawled.
“Oh, I went to school,” Emily assured him. “I won my share of spelling bees and geography contests. But Uncle Jake taught me something even more important. He taught me that families stick together. That they stand up for each other and take care of each other. I’m sure you and your brothers learned that from Reese Summers, didn’t you?”
Her words struck something deep in his core. Yes, he’d learned that from Reese. So had Wade and Nick. He’d never in his life felt alone, even when he was hundreds of miles from his kin—he’d known he had them, would always have them. But it seemed damn odd to be comparing Jake Spoon to a man like Reese.
Clint studied her lovely, passionate face. “It’s true, Reese taught us that,” he said cautiously.
“Uncle Jake taught us the same. And he taught us that if you go through a rough time, you don’t give up. You stay strong, hold onto yourself, ride it out. I suppose that’s how he got through seven years of prison,” she added tightly.
His shoulder muscles clenched. And suddenly he realized that’s how she’d gotten through those seven years too. Dark years, when her uncle was imprisoned, her brother and cousin were on the run, her aunt was sick and dying …
It had taken toughness. Strength. Courage.
Emily Spoon had come through hard times. Ridden them out. Now she was trying to live them down.
“Guess I never thought of Jake that way. The Spoon gang was just a bunch of outlaws to me.” He cleared his throat. “But they were your family.”
“They still are.” Emily met his gaze defiantly. “Don’t think of me as different from them, Clint. I’m not.”
“You ever rob a stagecoach?” He set down his plate, his gaze narrowing on her. “Ever take money that didn’t belong to you?”
“No, but I told you—there’s more to the Spoons than that—just like your family, the one you found with Reese Summers, was more than ranch work and … and trail drives and roundups. A family is more than what you do. It’s where you belong, it’s the people you love and count on—and who love and count on you.”
She gave her head a shake as she saw the skepticism on his face.
“Never mind.” Gathering up the plates and cups, she began setting everything back inside the box.
He didn’t understand. He never would. And why does it matter anyway? she asked herself bitterly.
But it did matter. For some reason, she’d wanted him to understand.
When he reached out and covered her hand with his, she jumped as though he’d shot her.
“Emily—”
She jerked away, her eyes blazing. “Forget it, Clint. I don’t even know why I tried.” She placed the lid on top of the box and scrambled to her feet.
“I want to thank you for buying my box lunch. I hope you enjoyed it,” she said formally. But before she could lift up the box he sprang up and grasped her by the shoulders.
“Don’t you even want to know why I bought your box lunch today?” he asked roughly.
“No. We should go back—”
“I didn’t plan on it—even told myself I wouldn’t. But as soon as I saw Jenks was there, I knew he was going to bid on it.”
“So you did it to stop him,” she said coldly. “I suppose I should thank you—”
“Stop putting words in my mouth, Emily.” He gave her a shake. “I did it because I wanted to do it—I’d be damned if I’d let Jenks or any other man win your lunch.”
“You… would?” Dazed, Emily could only gaze at him in astonishment. “But… why?”
It was difficult to think straight when he was this close to her. Touching her.
Clint’s fingers tightened on her shoulders. He dragged her against him. A palpable heat flew between them as her eyes widened on his. They were only inches apart, and for once, Clint Barclay didn’t look cool and in control. His jaw was taut, every muscle in his powerful body seemed tensed. Heat and tension. It smoldered even from those hot blue eyes. His hand swooped to her hair, twisting in the careful curls, even as he spoke quickly, jerkily, the words seemingly forced from him.
“You know why. You damn well know why. Or do I need to show you?”
She couldn’t breathe, could only stand there in s
hock as Clint Barclay hauled her closer and lowered his head down to hers.
And suddenly he was kissing her. It was not a tender kiss. Not persuasive, gentle, enticing. It was powerful and hungry and raw, scorching her mouth and turning her brain to mush.
Demanding, it drew her in, made her reel, turned the world upside down.
And then he lifted his head, breaking the kiss as abruptly as he’d begun it.
“Now do you understand, Emily?” he asked hoarsely.
“No …” Dizzy, she touched shaking fingers to her mouth. It felt bruised, tender, as vulnerable as her heart. “I don’t understand anything about this … and … it’s Miss Spoon to you.”
“The hell it is. Emily,” he growled, his eyes determined, and then he yanked her close again, his arms clamping around her waist. “And I’m damned if I understand either, but I think it’s time we figured it out. All of it.”
His mouth covered hers before she could argue or protest and then she couldn’t do anything but kiss him back and cling to him. Her heart leapt crazily as his lips devoured hers, and as he tightened his hold on her, so that they were no longer two, but one, her breasts ached, crushed against his chest, and she felt herself melting into him, on fire with a need that left no room for thought or reason.
Then somehow they were lying upon the blanket, his body covering hers, his weight pushing her into the thick grass.
“I don’t know what you’re doing to me, Emily Spoon,” Clint groaned. Those simple words made her heart soar, and as his mouth skimmed along her cheek, explored the delicate curve of her ear, and trailed incendiary kisses down her collarbone, she shivered with pleasure and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her.
“Nothing half as frightening as what you’re doing to me,” she gasped.
But there wasn’t fear in her voice, there was hunger. Hunger for more. Desperation shimmered in those luminous silver eyes as Clint’s tongue awakened hers, as his hands roamed her body.
Seeing the desire in her flushed face, her eyes wide and soft and yearning upon his, Clint’s need drummed through him. Damn, how he wanted her. Knowing she felt the same, the tension in him escalated and he deepened the kiss, taking all he wanted, all she had to give.