by Jo Goodman
He shrugged and turned his head away so she couldn't see his smile. Whistling tunelessly under his breath, Ethan finished his bath. He grabbed the towel Kitty had left for him and wrapped it around his waist as he rose from the water. Michael turned her head away. "You can look now. I'm decent."
They had different definitions of that word, she thought, facing him again. He had used the towel to cover, not to dry. As a result, fat droplets of water fell from the curling ends of his dark hair to his shoulders. Water glistened on his arms and chest and the towel clung wetly to his narrow hips. He turned, going toward the bureau and Michael traced the length of his spine with her eyes. The towel contoured the shape of his buttocks and the hardness of his upper thighs. She thought of Kitty's parting words. Ethan Stone was a beautiful man.
In the mirror above the bureau Ethan watched Michael watching him. Seeing the brilliance of her dark green eyes, fascination warring with a reluctance to look, Ethan had difficulty bringing to mind the woman in the Chronicle newsroom, the woman who looked as starched as the blouse she wore, as severe as the lines of her skirt, and as forbidding as the set of her mouth. In fact, watching Michael now brought a response to Ethan's flesh that the towel couldn't hide.
He opened the top drawer of the bureau roughly, intent on taking his mind from a condition he could not relieve with Mary Michael Dennehy. "You can take your bath now. I'm getting dressed and going downstairs for a drink." Several of them, he thought. He found a pair of cotton drawers and stepped into them, pulling them up hastily under the towel. He tossed the towel at Michael on the bed. "If you lay it by the stove while you're in the tub it should be dry enough to use." Still keeping his back to Michael he rifled the rest of the bureau and came up with a clean pair of jeans, a navy blue flannel shirt, and some thick woolen socks. He didn't sit down until he needed to pull on his boots and even then it was quickly accomplished. He ran a comb through his hair twice, did the rest with his fingers, and left the room as if the entire Sioux nation were on his tail.
Michael wasted little time taking advantage of his absence. Locking the door with the flimsy hook and latch, she eagerly shed Ethan's nightshirt and sank into the water. It was merely lukewarm but Michael had no complaint. It felt entirely refreshing.
She washed her hair, using the half-filled bucket that Kitty left behind to rinse. When the water became too cold to soak she stepped out and wrapped herself in the warm towel. The comb Ethan had used was lying on top of his bureau. She sat on the edge of the bed, her heels hooked on the frame, and worked out the tangles in her hair an inch at a time. When she was satisfied with the result she knelt on the carpet near the stove and began drying her hair as best she could. She was still kneeling, wrapped in the towel and running the comb through her hair in an absent motion as she thought of other things, when the door to her room flew open, smashed by Ethan's booted foot.
"Don't you ever lock me out again!"
Chapter 4
Michael almost burned herself on the hot door of the stove as she moved back and out of the way of Ethan's fury. "You could have knocked. I would have opened it." Ethan spared a glance at the window. His cold eyes wandered so briefly that Michael could have believed it was imagined on her part. She understood the nature of the glance, the thought that guided it toward the window. "I didn't lock the door to mislead you and escape by the window," she told him. She tightened her clasp on the knot in the towel above her breast. "I told you I wouldn't leave in your nightshirt. I surely wouldn't leave dressed like this."
She was immediately sorry for drawing attention to her covering, or lack of it. Ethan's coldly furious eyes grazed over her. She felt them on her wildly curling damp hair, her naked shoulders, the curve of her hip that was turned toward him. His glance did not rest on any particular feature longer than any other; equal attention was given to the length of her legs, the water droplet in the hollow of her throat, the outline of her breasts.
"Don't lock me out." His voice was sharp and cold and clear.
Michael felt gooseflesh rise on her arms and legs. He commanded her complete attention. In spite of her wish to do otherwise, she couldn't look away.
"Ever," he said lowly. He waited for some reply and when he saw her brief, reluctant nod, he freed her from the force of his gaze. "You may want to get dressed. We have company."
Houston chose that moment to step into the room from the hallway. "From where I was looking," he said, "Michael seems most suitably clothed." His black eyes traced the curve of her body from head to toe and he was more than a little intrigued by the soft flush that followed in the wake of his gaze. His small polite smile did not quite match the interest in his eyes.
"Give her a minute," Ethan said, stepping to one side to block Houston's view.
From the hallway a feminine voice drawled sweetly. "Oh, Ethan, you act as if she's modest beyond words." Detra Kelly took one look at Michael huddled near the stove, protectively guarding herself with arms folded across her chest, and revised her opinion. "Well, perhaps she is."
Michael wondered if she looked even a tenth as mortified as she felt. Gathering the shreds of her composure, she said quietly, "I have all my teeth."
Ethan and Houston grinned simultaneously. Detra was unamused. "You're going to have to get used to men looking at you a lot more closely than these two."
Michael thought it best to remain silent. She merely stared at Detra, knowing now there would never be any help from that quarter.
Dee Kelly was a bit more than two inches shorter than Michael, coming just below Ethan's shoulder. Both her slenderness and her bearing gave the impression of height. She carried herself with confidence; her small chin raised just the slightest degree necessary to keep others at a comfortable distance. Her hair, smoothly knotted in a chignon, seemed darker and more lustrous than ebony in comparison to the pale alabaster quality of her skin. Her eyes were deep blue, remarkable in their ability to rivet attention to her features. The mouth was generous, pouting in a sly way even when she was smiling. Her jaw gently rounded out the classic oval of her face. Gold and ebony earrings dangled from her lobes and brushed the slender line of her neck.
Houston put one arm around Dee's shoulders. His hand curved around her upper arm and gave her a gentle squeeze. "I don't think it's possible for any men to look more closely then we are, Dee."
Dee's smile did not reach her eyes; she was plainly unamused. She felt Houston's squeeze become a warning. Reining in temper and jealousy she said, "Perhaps you're right. But it's still no reason for her to act the simpering virgin. She's Ethan's wife, for God's sake." There, she thought, that's my warning. "You did tell me she's supposed to work for me, didn't you? Ethan says she can dance."
"I haven't decided if I'm going to allow her," Ethan said. He remembered Michael's earlier refusal to dance in the saloon, but he insisted on her realizing it was his decision.
For once Michael didn't mind people talking about her as if she weren't in the same room. As Ethan, Houston, and Dee engaged in conversation their attention wandered away. Michael reached for the nightshirt she had placed over the back of a ladder-back chair, pulled it down, and slipped it on over her head and over the towel. When she poked her head through the open collar she was unhappily aware of recapturing their notice. "Please, don't stop on my account," she said briskly, holding up her hands innocently. "You just go on deciding my fate. Since I met Ethan on the train I haven't had a say in—"
"You say too damn much," Ethan said.
"You haven't changed in four years," she said sweetly, offering him a quick, insincere smile. "I could have managed the rest of my life quite nicely believing you were dead." Michael got to her feet and padded softly over to the bed. She sat on the edge, pulling the comforter over her lap to hide her bare ankles and feet. With a little maneuvering she was able to rid herself of the damp towel. "In fact, I'd rather come to enjoy the thought of you being dead."
Dee's soft drawl filled the room after the long tense silence. "My God," she said. "What wer
e you thinking when you married her, Ethan?"
It was Houston who replied. "I should have thought that'd be obvious to even you, Dee."
Ethan grinned. His mouth curved in a intimate insult guaranteed to set Michael on edge with the memory of his earlier kiss. "Exactly."
Michael's chin came up, and her eyes narrowed briefly with the depth of her hatred. With effort, she bit back her anger.
Detra slipped out from under Houston's arm. "I don't know if I have anything in my wardrobe that will fit her," she said slyly. "Kitty might have a few things we can alter."
"She's more your size, than Kitty's," Houston said. "You might have to let out a hem."
"I won't have to let out anything," Dee said, barely holding onto her temper. "If she wants something more to wear, then she can alter it."
"Sheath those claws, Dee," Houston ordered. "I don't know exactly what's got your back up, but you'll just have to work it out. Ethan didn't want his wife here. His wife doesn't want to be here. No one's happy about it, but it's the way things are."
Dee's sharp murmur protested the way she was being talked to in front of others. With a last icy glance at Michael, she turned on her heel and left the room. Her skirts swayed, taffeta and silk rustled, and then, except for the faint pinging of the piano below stairs, everything was quiet.
Houston shook his head, considering Dee's behavior. "I guess I've been away too long," he said finally. "She needs a little attention. So does your woman."
Michael bristled. Her head snapped up. "I am not his woman any more."
Ethan smiled grimly. "Looks like I've been away too long, too," he said.
"Appears so." Houston gave Michael a jaunty two-fingered salute as if he was tipping his hat to her and tapped Ethan lightly on the back. On his way out the door he examined the lock. "I'll see about getting this fixed tomorrow. Don't worry about interruptions tonight. Even Happy's found himself a woman till morning." He closed the door softly behind him.
Michael waited until the sound of Houston's footfalls faded. "I don't know which I despise more," she said. "You or that smug smile of yours." She mimicked Houston's tone. "'Your woman could use some attention.'" She shot Ethan a disgusted glance. "And you reply in the same patronizing vein. Do all men think the way you do or is it only my bad luck to keep meeting them? Honestly, for a moment there you both sounded like my—" She stopped abruptly, the drift of her thoughts pulling her up short.
"Like your..." Ethan prompted.
"Never mind." Michael scooted back on the bed to get away from Ethan's towering presence. "It's enough you know that I don't appreciate comments like that."
Ethan unhooked his gun belt and hung it up on a nail just inside the door. He fiddled with the latch just to see if he could secure it again and gave up when he saw the cause as hopeless. He sat down in the maroon and gold wing chair and stretched out his long legs, hooking his feet at the ankles. "Since we're speaking of appreciation," he said with credible calm, "I'm going to tell you what I not only don't appreciate, but won't put up with. I think we've already established that you're not to lock me out of this or any other room again. If the room's secured, it's because I've decided I wanted it that way. I don't want to hear your sass in front of other people. It looks like I can't control you, and if the others think I can't, you're as good as dead. You're alive because I've managed to convince them I can hold onto you.
"As far as Houston goes, stop trying to throw yourself at him. Dee will scratch out your eyes. She may do it anyway, so watch yourself around her."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Ethan's expression was skeptical. His dark lashes lowered a fraction as he studied Michael to gauge her sincerity. "Didn't you hear the things Dee was saying to you?"
"I heard her. Of course I heard her. I also felt her animosity the moment she came in here. What I don't understand is why."
His voice was harsh, impatient whisper. "How can you be a reporter and be so naive? I thought that was beat out of you right away."
"I'm not naive."
"I see it a little differently. Dee was angry because she recognized your interest in Houston."
"There," she said rather triumphantly. "That's what I don't understand. What do you mean I was throwing myself at him? I find him as repulsive as I do you."
Ethan's eyes dropped to her mouth, stayed there long enough to remind her of the kiss they shared, then rose to meet her guilty gaze. "I assume I've made my point. Stay away from him."
It was more than a warning. It was a command. Michael gave no indication one way or the other if she intended to follow it. "I was the one at a disadvantage," she reminded him. "If you had knocked I would have had time to dress."
"I did knock. Several times."
Michael frowned, trying to remember back to what she had been doing just before the door was kicked open. She had been brushing her hair, deep in thought. "I didn't hear you." She bit her lower lip. "And I wasn't throwing myself at Houston."
Ethan knew Michael was telling the truth. He had seen as clearly as Detra that the interest was primarily, perhaps completely, on Houston's side. There was likely to be trouble. If Michael encouraged him, there was sure to be trouble.
"May I have that comb, please?" Michael asked, pointing to the floor near Ethan's feet. He scooped it up and tossed it across the room. Michael caught it deftly and began running it through her hair. "How long are you going to keep me with you?"
"As long as I have to," he said. Watching her fingers sift through the damp strands of her hair, Ethan was tempted to reply with the truth: "As long as I want to."
"How long is that?"
"I don't know."
"Days? Weeks?"
He shook his head and said carelessly, "Months... years... forever. It depends."
"Depends? On what?"
"On whether you live that long." He leaned forward in his chair and rested his forearms on knees. "On whether you convince us that you don't mean to turn us in."
There was a pause in the steady motion of Michael's hand through her dark chestnut hair. How would she ever convince any of them of that, she wondered. No one was that good an actress. Her thoughts took a tangential leap suddenly. The only actress she knew was Katy Dakota, Logan Marshall's wife. That in turn reminded Michael of the publisher himself and then of the Chronicle. For a reason she could not immediately fathom she found herself staring hard at Ethan Stone again, trying to place his face.
Although Ethan was unaware of the route her thoughts had taken to lead to this direct and steady stare, he knew what she was trying to do. He found himself absently rubbing his upper lip with his forefinger in a way he had done when he had a mustache. As soon as he was aware of the gesture he stopped, afraid it would give her a clue.
He shifted in the chair, throwing one leg over the arm.
"I suppose Detra will have some clothes for you in the morning," he said. "You'll have to alter them. You heard her. She won't do it."
"Then I'll have to wear them as they are. I don't sew."
"Now there's a surprise," Ethan said sarcastically. "Didn't your mother teach you anything?"
"Lots of things. I chose not to learn needlework."
"Were you born ornery?"
The realization that she was biting back a smile distressed her. She did not want him to make her laugh. "It's a family characteristic," she said coolly.
"Along with sass and brass."
She avoided his eyes, turned away from the frank assessment that seemed to know what she was thinking and was gently mocking her for it. "The sass and brass may be my own." She caught the glimmer of a smile on his face, a smile that was as a lazy as his walk, as faint as his drawl. Careful to keep her attention elsewhere, Michael pretended great interest in her surroundings.
She had not appreciated earlier what a comfortable room it was. The furnishings were all dark wood, walnut or cherry, rather plain and solid, lacking the intricate finishing detail of a master carpenter, but w
arm and serviceable just the same. Besides the bed, bureau, and side table, there was the wide-armed wing chair in which Ethan was sitting, the table beside him, an upholstered footstool, two straw seat ladder-back chairs near the stove, a wardrobe, and washstand. A large sponge ware basin and pitcher sat on the stand's marble top. The room's single window was framed with blue and white checked curtains. The walls were papered: deep violet flowers curving gracefully on a cream background. Except for the mirror above the bureau and Ethan's gun belt near the door, nothing hung on them. The parts of the floor that weren't covered by the carpet had been swept clean and mopped recently. The entire room, in fact, was neatly kept. Recalling that someone did laundry for him, she wondered if Ethan was responsible for the room or paid one of Dee's girls to provide the service.
Ethan watched Michael's eyes wander about the room and tried to fathom the nature of her thoughts. "Not quite what you're used to, I expect."
Michael didn't answer immediately. "Not what I grew up with," she said softly. "But what I'm used to." She turned to him again, waiting to see if he would pry. He didn't. Perhaps he didn't want to know what she meant. Certainly he had no reason to care. "There's bound to be a search for me," she told him. "The paper. My family. Have you thought of that?"
"I've thought of it. I thought of it when I realized I was going to have to bring you with me."
"What do you mean? What have you done?"
"I made sure the people who saw you run out of the train think I killed you. I don't know what they could see from that distance but they heard the extra shots."
"But they'll never find a body... they'll know—"
"They'll know I dropped it over the cliff along with your friend's. They're only going to think they can't find it. After what Happy and Obie did to the Chronicle's cars and the caboose, do you really believe anyone will think I was capable of showing mercy?"
"No."
Ethan hardly knew whether to be relieved or insulted by the quickness of her response. "Exactly." As far as he was concerned the subject was closed.