Loving the Lawmen

by Marie Patrick

  Tamar shook her head. Passion was something that she’d never had. Tamar didn’t realize how much she missed as a woman until her night trapped with Amos. Heck, the only kiss I ever got was fabulous. Was it like this for every woman? Heat rushed through her as she remembered the vivid experience of that night. She felt so alive. Her senses were sharpened; even now in the light of the day and in the middle of this trifling conversation, she could feel the intimate caress of his fingers and mouth against her neck, the push of his body against hers, being sandwiched between the wall and his firm body, the hardness that … Her mind was racing to places she could not go. She still had a business to run and editorials to publish. She directed her attention back to Priscilla’s mouth and caught her in mid-monologue.

  “ … it’s such a shame to never experience intimate and intense passion, Tamar.”

  “It is,” she murmured. “But it is not meant to be. Some women are not built for that.”

  “Don’t you get lonely?”

  “I have my noble work,” Tamar said, patting the press lovingly. “And a cranky press. But I love what I do.”

  “But the paper can’t hold you at night.”

  “I like sleeping alone.”

  “I don’t. There’s nothing like—” Priscilla blushed and beckoned her sister closer. “There is a lot of joy to be had in bed with a man,” she said in a hushed whisper.

  Tamar almost gagged but smiled weakly instead. She tried to bar the images of her sister and her portly, beloved husband doing anything in bed besides sleeping. “You’re a married woman. You should take pleasure in the marital bed.”

  “I had pleasure before marriage. I want the same for you, even if you are beyond prime marriage years. I’m with a baby, and I want the same kind of happiness for you I am feeling,” Priscilla said, trapping her sister’s hand in her own.

  Tamar turned to face the wall. She never felt that bubble of happiness about becoming a mother, and given her age she probably never would. “If there is anything I can do … ”

  “Sister, we would like the house. That old house is too big for you.”

  “It’s my house. Our house. It belongs to the family.”

  “And a family should be inside of it. Just give it a thought, please, sister.” Priscilla dropped her sister’s hand and started to the door. “And stop entertaining outlaws.”

  “Who is older, Priscilla?”

  “You are, but that does mean you are wiser.”

  “Wise and wizened, Prissy. I’m not falling for an outlaw.”

  “You seem enamored.”

  “I am intrigued by the man and his story. He writes eloquently.”

  “He may have stolen those thoughts from someone else. I would not put it past him.”

  “The words he writes are his own. He’s incredibly intelligent and thoughtful. If you met him—”

  “You met him before last night.”

  “And if I have?” Tamar asked.

  “You need to be cautious. He is a criminal.”

  “He is a gentleman.”

  “Gentlemen do not steal or take advantage of bluestockings. I swear you are losing your mind.”

  “Worry about your baby and your husband, Priscilla.”

  “Tell me you won’t see him again. Promise me, sister.” Priscilla extended her pinky finger, the traditional way the sisters made agreements.

  Tamar grasped her sister’s pinkie finger with her own. “I doubt I will see him again. Promise on my printing press.”

  Priscilla nodded, her lips pursed and her eyes narrowed. “I know you crave passion and trouble underneath your political rabble-rousing nonsense. Just not with that man. He will hurt you.”

  Tamar pulled her pinkie finger out of the grip and gave an impatient shrug. “Don’t believe my word. But know that no man can hurt me or make me do anything I don’t want to do.”

  “When you fall in love, you will do things for your man that you never imagined. Just don’t fall for him,” Priscilla said, her voice an octave lower. “Give me your word.”

  “You should go home, Priscilla.” Tamar smiled and inclined her head to the office’s main door. “I can take care of myself.” Once she watched her sister flounce out of the office, Tamar opened the latest stack of mail, certain that she would experience pleasure with him.

  “Are you okay?” Delilah touched her sister’s back. “I think you’re crying.”

  Tamar stuffed down the last sets of tears and whimpers. “My eyes are tired. I think I need a break. Can you handle—”

  Delilah nodded. “Sure, take care of yourself. It’s that outlaw, isn’t it?”

  Tamar shook her head as she fastened a bonnet around her head. “Never trust a bad man, Delilah. It’s not worth it.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Across town in the boardinghouse with thin walls, decrepit furniture, and suspect tenants, Amos laid down and thought about the job he had to do. The men he had to betray.

  “Damn it,” Amos whispered, the curse bouncing off the walls. He was sick of this life. Tired of the conditions. Ready for his double life between outlaws and Pinkertons to be complete. He served his time with valor and now he wanted peace.

  When he’d had the small sliver of peace on his farm and patrolling the Indian Country, he’d wanted more. Craved excitement.

  But now he’d had enough.

  It was enough to drive a man to drink.

  Amos headed to the closest open saloon he could find and once there the darkest corner that the long oak bar led him to.

  A glass of whisky later, he was temporarily warmed and sated. The drink did its job.

  “Another?” The working girl stopped by his table with a friendly smile and offering anything he could want—drink, drugs, two women willing to do whatever you asked them to do.

  He wanted conversation. Amos pulled the seat out and laid a bill on the table. “Sit down.”

  She obeyed, eyeing the bill. “It’s yours,” he said, watching her tuck it into her bosom. “What’s your name?”

  “Kitty.”

  “Your real name.”

  “Lucy Pearl.” A hint of Mississippi slipped out with her real name.

  “You been here long?”

  “A few months. It’s good money.”

  Amos shook his head. “No it’s not. Go home.”

  “Can’t go home. There’s nothing there.”

  “This place will eat you alive. Now, where’s the poker table?”

  She pointed to a room past the bar, and he collected the bottle and his glass. An empty seat waited for him.

  “We’re playing poker, boy.”

  He bristled at the term the man threw at him. No one called him boy, but Amos never showed anger at the poker table. “Deal me in.”

  The cards slid across the table and he waited until the dealer was done to examine his hand. He lifted up the cards and cursed.

  A dead man’s hand, a hand full of three jacks and a pair of tens. An omen.

  He took another drink and played the hand.

  He won. A dead man winning, he thought gathering the pile on the table.

  He left the table after another hand and headed into the larger room.

  The boisterous noise of the saloon dimmed. He looked up and two women were squaring off at the center of the saloon.

  “He’s mine.”

  The sheriff stood up in the back of the room and bellowed. “Ladies, ladies, there’s no need to fight and rabble-rouse like men.” The woman in the red used that disruption to her advantage and struck first, felling the woman in the green.

  Screams erupted. Shots fired. People fled.

  Amos grabbed the bargirl and shoved a wad of bills in her hand. “Go away from here. This is not for you.”

  It took one to know one. He hoped she took his advice. Hell, he wasn’t taking his own advice.

  Soon he would be away from here.

  But right now he was stuck in this city, trapped in this life.

  He
needed healing. He needed an escape.

  He needed Tamar.

  Tonight was perfect. The full moon illuminated the streets that had yet to be given the artificial lights that beamed and shone through downtown. He peered around in the darkness for any other souls wandering the streets. He waited in the night’s shadows across the street from the Advocate’s offices. The boarded-up windows hid the activity from the rest of the world, but he knew she was still in there. Bart kept his promise to her, and the man assigned to watch her business waited at the door until she was ready to leave for the evening.

  More like the morning, he thought. It was minutes past midnight, and sleep was about to overtake the man nodding on his post. A rookie mistake if Amos ever saw one. An agent never sleeps.

  He had no reason to be here tonight. Something about her pulled him back here. He wanted to make sure she was doing well, possibly give her some delight if she was down. She had been attacked, and all he wanted to do was comfort her and make sure she was safe and protected.

  And he wanted to feel her kisses again. “Let me not lie,” he muttered. He wanted to know her in the most carnal way possible. He wanted to lie with her, pull her into the curve of his body and wake up with a sweet smelling woman beside him. Or on top of him. He wanted to spend some real time with her, spoil her.

  But all they could have were these stolen moments in the dark.

  He watched the man walk her home to the two-story, gabled-front residence where she lived. Amos knew she would enter through the front door, secure that entrance, and then head to the back porch that overlooked a riotous wedge of flowers and grass. He waited for the man to disappear before he slid into the darkness and into her backyard. He crept along the shadows of the street and homes. Cautious, even now. His neck to the average man was worth a lot. Bringing him in dead or alive could fetch a man a handsome sum. Sure, it would wreck an undercover operation, but no one knew that. Tonight was a risky proposition, but one he had to take.

  “I see you,” she said, raising her lamp to cut through the darkness. “Good morning.”

  He held a finger to his lips and pointed upward to the window overlooking the garden. “You’ll wake your sister.”

  “Delilah sleeps like a rock. You’re beginning to form a habit of coming to visit me.”

  “I wanted to make sure all was well with you. That’s all.”

  “Is that the only reason you’re here?”

  He shook his head. “No, not at all. I want to tell you my story.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  “If I may be so forward, I want to lie with you and know you, Tamar.” Tonight. Forever. This time, the air was thick with desire, choking both of them with anticipation and expectation. Unlike the last time he did this, there was no mistrust or uncertainty on their parts. They had dropped mythical selves—the thief, the feared journalist—and were just a man and woman who finally fell to the slow, intense throb of attraction.

  “Come with me.” She beckoned for him to follow her up the stairs and into the house. Amos felt as though he knew the interiors of this house, knowing which boards squeaked and the placement of the rooms. If it were daylight and he’d had the audacity to enter through the front, he’d see the large fireplace and her treasured library. She hooked through the maze of hallways and arrived into a study lined with books and heavy furniture.

  “This is my study.” She blew on the lamp in her hand and then extinguished the lamp lighting the room. The only light beaming into the room was the full moon through the slits in the curtains.

  She pressed two fingers to his lips. All this time, aching for his kiss and touch. That single moment almost undid her. A soft moan escaped her lips. He was going to go slow tonight, have a good and innocent moment with her.

  Her moan and the light in her eyes ground his best intentions into dust. He kissed her. A soft touch just to appease the tingling beast of arousal in him. But he wanted more.

  “I brought a gift.”

  She pried the box lid open. “Taste it. Sweets for the sweet.”

  “I’ve never had—What do you call these?” she asked, dropping one on her tongue.

  “Pralines.” He plucked one from the box. “It’s like heaven in your mouth.”

  “Do you ever wonder about the lives of the people you take from?”

  “I don’t. This is business.” He put the box on the table. “You keep those. I know that you enjoyed them.”

  Her fingers traced the embellishment on the box, avoiding his eyes. “Maybe these were meant for someone’s child or beloved.”

  “Or maybe he was a fat man who was going to gorge on them at home.”

  Tamar shook her head. “You should stop this. I’m a publisher.”

  “You’re still a lady. I haven’t been any place where a lady doesn’t like receiving gifts.”

  “And you may charm them with this, but try harder with me.”

  Amos nodded, sucking the sugar off his fingers. “I will study your every wish if you will give me the right to do so.”

  She watched him with smug delight. “I only have one request. I want your story. How did you, a sweet, preacher’s son, become a villain?”

  He leaned back into the chair, his mouth tight and grim. “Until I met you, I wasn’t interested in telling my story to anyone except maybe my children.”

  “You have—” Confusion crossed her face. “A family already?”

  Amos shook his head. “No. When I do, I will tell them all my exploits. Strictly as fiction, not as a to-do manual.”

  “Are you married?”

  “Nothing of the sort. It was never right.”

  Tamar nodded. “I understand. I was engaged once, but he died. This newspaper was one of his favorite causes, and I threw myself into it because of him, to honor his memory.”

  He kissed her forehead. “My sweet lady. You’ve done a wonderful job. I ended up here because I needed the money. I didn’t need a lot but when it started coming, I couldn’t stop.”

  “What will make you stop? The law or the commandments haven’t worked.” Maybe the love of a good woman.

  He shifted uncomfortably. ”When it’s time, I will quit.”

  “And is it time? I’m sorry but I’m curious. I have a thousand questions for everyone.”

  “Ask them. I am willing to tell you what you want to know.” He punctuated his statement with a kiss.

  “I lose my words when I am around you.”

  “Close your eyes. Pretend that I am not here.”

  “What do you want from me? I’m not a rich woman. I’m not—”

  “You’re beautiful. You’re desirable. You are more than I could ever have in this life.” Amos stopped, looking out of the window.

  She gulped, avoiding his thoughtful, absorbing gaze. He took everything in about his environment, reading the room and trusting his intuition. Her eyes, he thought, would tell him everything. Her body told him the entire story. “I don’t like you being here. I’ve had thoughts about you. Impure, untoward thoughts that an old maid should not have.”

  “You are hardly old.”

  “But I am a maiden. I’ve never been with a man.”

  “Does that terrify you? The idea of lying with a man?”

  “Never. I just never wanted to do that before I met you. You make me covet things I don’t have. And I feel funny like you’ve lit a match to a sparkler inside of me. It feels like gas but different.”

  Amos laughed a full-bodied chuckle that prompted her to smother his mouth with her hand. “That was the most romantic thing you’ve probably ever said. But that’s what desire feels like, except the gas part.”

  “I do not wish to desire you. There must be a tonic I can take to cleanse myself of this.”

  “Nothing can cure you of that. You can’t get rid of it quickly.”

  “You’re saying that because you want me to succumb to your charms.”

  “I cannot seduce a woman who doesn’t want to be.”

/>   “Men here aren’t like you. You say these words as if they are true.”

  “I wouldn’t say them if they weren’t true.”

  “To me? Kansas City men think I’m Medusa. Have I turned you into stone?” She raised his large right hand against her own, and he was absorbed in the contrasts: hard and calloused, soft and smooth, large to small. She clutched his hand and raised the palm to her mouth, planting a kiss. Her gaze matched his. “I want the story of your scars. Show them all to me, please.”

  “You just want my stories.” He withdrew his hand and stepped away from her and toward the study’s door. “Sleep on it. It may go away later. I have to leave.”

  “I want you, Amos. All of you, stories, scars, and stone, now. Please let me at least see them.”

  • • •

  He pulled off his coat and the outer layers until all she saw was his chest. His tall, lean frame betrayed the solid muscles that rippled with his movements. Fine black hair covered his forearms and swirls of that same black hair covered his—Tamar swallowed for the correct words. “Pectoral muscles,” she blurted, remembering the words her sister Delilah used when studying anatomy from a used, battered medical book.

  “Excuse me,” he said, stopping to face her. She stepped backward, and the corner of the roll top desk jabbed her in the back. She mewled in pain, and he moved toward her. His hand connected with her hip and lower back before she could say anything. Excitement and anticipation threaded through her body. She felt warm and dizzy, excited and animated, restless and on edge. It was as if fire had shot through her bones and was melting her from the inside out.

  It was him. His touch. His presence. Just the masculine energy that was bouncing in this space that normally had none. His hand slipped lower right above her bottom and massaged the spot she hit. “That must have hurt,” he muttered, concentrating on his slight massage and not her face. If she could blush, she would be as crimson as a rose. If she was a loose woman she—Tamar sighed. She had no idea what she would have done. Men never came to her with the ease her sister Priscilla had.

  Until tonight. At least she had felt a man’s touch beyond a gentle hand to help her out of carriage and a slight brush of hands when passing the beans at a dinner table. Those polite gestures never consumed her or provoked her lust. Only Amos did that to her.