Only My Love

by Jo Goodman

  Ethan hesitated. Michael was already leaving the stage, following the other girls down the ramp and being swallowed up by the miners eager to get a few words with her. He saw she was managing to make her way to the bar. Raising his glass, he caught her eye. She ignored him.

  Houston had seen the exchange. When Ethan sat down again he said, "Looks like there'll be hell to pay."

  Ethan's small grunt was all the acknowledgment he offered. "You heard anything official about the other night?" he asked, referring to the robbery.

  "News was telegraphed here this morning. Rich Hardy reported it to me right away. I suspect everyone in Madison knows about the robbery by now. Seems it was one of the biggest train heists to date."

  "That a fact?" He grinned because it was expected.

  "That's what they're saying over the wire."

  They continued to talk about the robbery as if they had not been part of it, as if they knew no more about it than what the telegrapher had reported to the sheriff. But between the lines there was another communication, one of success, of congratulation. Ethan participated because he had to, not because he wanted to. It was something of a relief to be troubled by the conversation. It meant he still knew which side he was on.

  Detra joined them at the table. She kissed Houston on the cheek but her dark blue eyes were more interested in Ethan Stone. There was too much cunning in her smile for it to be a sincere greeting. "You men enjoy the show as much as my other customers?" she asked.

  "You deliberately ignored my orders," Ethan said, making no effort to hide his anger from Dee or any of the customers who might look in their direction.

  "You don't have the right to order me," Detra said. The look she gave Houston was equally significant. "No man does. I manage this place and I'll manage it as I see fit."

  "And I own it," Houston said. "Don't push too hard, Dee. I can push back. You should have honored Ethan's wishes. He had his reasons for not wanting Michael down here, not the least of which is that one word from her can ruin everything."

  "You should have thought of that before you brought her here." Detra fiddled with a black curl at her temple, twirling it around her finger before tucking it neatly behind her ear. "Instead of risking everything-"

  "Lower your voice," Houston snapped. "Or it won't be Michael that sees us ruined." He took Dee's wrist in a firm grip and stood up, taking her with him. "I think you need a little more attention." He pulled her hard against him and lowered his mouth. One of the miners started pounding on his table and the drumbeat was soon picked up by others. It lasted until Houston scooped Dee up in his arms and carried her through the crowd back to her office.

  Ethan decided Houston had probably saved Dee's life by getting her away from the table. Ethan had come as close to hurting Detra, really hurting her, as he ever had anyone. If the woman questioned again why they hadn't killed Michael at the robbery, he wasn't going to hold himself back. It didn't occur to him to question his anger at Dee and what it said about his feelings toward Michael. Ethan had gotten used to not examining some things too closely, or feeling things too deeply.

  "Refill?" Michael asked, lifting a pitcher of beer above Ethan's glass.

  He nodded. "Join me?"

  "I can't. Dee will-"

  "Dee's busy," he said, pointing the office. "Houston's seeing to her." Ethan thought it would have been impossible to see Michael blush beneath her painted face. It wasn't. "Sit down." He took the pitcher from her and poured his own drink while Michael sat. His eyes glanced briefly in her direction and took in the neckline of her gown and everything that was rising above it. "Not what you're used to wearing."

  "No, it's not."

  "Pink's not your color. Not with your hair."

  Her hands rose self-consciously to her hair. She felt a few loose pins and attempted to stick them back in place. She stopped because Ethan was shaking his head as he watched her.

  "The problem's not your hair," he said. Her hair was so fine it made the rest of her look tawdry. He took a long swallow of beer. "Let's go upstairs. You don't belong down here."

  "I'm not sure—"

  Ethan was about to ignore her objection when they were interrupted. Ralph Hooper was standing next to Michael's chair, shuffling his weight nervously from one foot to the other. "Like to know if I could get a dance with you, ma'am, that is if Ethan here don't take no offense. She's been tellin' everyone she's spoken for and I saw you carry her in here yesterday, so I know the truth of it, but I was just wonderin' about a dance."

  Though Michael hardly understood it herself, she looked to Ethan for permission. The action so appalled her that without waiting for any indication from him, she stood up and offered her hand to the ruddy, broad-shouldered miner. "I'd be pleased to." And when his wide, open face split with a happy grin she suddenly realized she meant it. She turned to Ethan. "I won't be long."

  Watching her go, Ethan raised his glass and took another long swallow. He had time, he thought, and she had left the pitcher behind. He might as well work on it. There was little chance she'd return to the table any time soon. One dance would lead to another... and another. The glass was pressed to Ethan's lips so it was difficult to see that he was smiling. Damn. Didn't she just look like she was enjoying herself.

  Ralph Hooper eventually had to let her go and another miner took his place. Lottie continued accompanying on the piano, playing the tunes that were called out. There were rousing jigs, country dances, polkas, and lilting waltzes. Men claimed the other girls and the partners moved from the main floor of the saloon where they had to negotiate the maze of tables and chairs, to the stage where they had the freedom to rollick in any direction.

  Ethan saw that she was graceful. Even during the lively jigs and highstepping country flings, Michael's movements were lithe and light. She swayed and turned and jumped as if buoyed by the air rather than being restrained by it. Her partners were not nearly as adept as they were enthusiastic, but when she waltzed with them her command of the dance made their form look almost elegant. The laughter and clapping and spirited singing all but drowned out the music. It didn't seem to matter to Michael. She never once lost the rhythm of the dance, never once faltered on her feet.

  Never once... until Ethan became her partner.

  His hand on her waist tightened, supporting her. He turned her lightly in the three-quarter time of the waltz. "Don't stop smiling now," he said. "The others will think you don't want to dance with me."

  "I don't."

  "Pretend," he ordered succinctly. "Because when this dance is over, you're finished down here. I'm taking you to our room and let everyone here think what they like."

  "You mean think what you want them to think."

  "Look around you, Michael. Either they think you're my personal property or you'll be doing a far more intimate dance with most of them before the night's out. Is that what you want?"

  She smiled sweetly and replied through her teeth. "You know I don't."

  His hand slid a little further up her back. "Then stop suffering this. I'm not the worst partner you've had tonight."

  It wasn't his dancing she found fault with. It was the way his long fingers seemed to burn the skin at her back and the way his other hand engulfed hers. He seemed closer to her than any of the other men yet he held her at a respectful distance. He seemed to be aware of every part of her although his eyes never left her face.

  The tempo of the dance changed as Lottie played a few connecting bars from waltz to something more lively. "This is it," Ethan said, placing both hands on her waist. With virtually no effort he lifted her over his shoulder. The immediate reaction of the miners was loud and prolonged booing. When they saw Ethan wasn't swayed by their objections and they remembered he had blasted open two new tunnels for them only that day, when they saw he hadn't checked his gun at the door, and when they recalled Nathaniel Houston was Ethan's friend, they let him pass.

  Outside the door to his room Ethan set Michael down. She was furious. "Did yo
u have to do that? I can walk, you know. I'm not one of your damn saddlebags."

  His eyes dropped to her mouth as she swore. He opened the door and gestured with his hand, ushering her in. "Go on," he said. "Inside. Before they change their minds downstairs and decide to come after you. You keep swearing at me and I might just let them."

  "Oh, go to hell," she said. But she hurried inside nonetheless.

  "Wash off that war paint."

  "It's your fault that I have it on in the first place."

  "It's not," he said, closing the door. He noticed the latch had been fixed and hooked it. "But it doesn't matter. Wash it off anyway."

  Reaching the washstand, Michael turned on him. "I let you order me around downstairs because it was for my protection. I'll be damned if I'm going to let you—" She stopped as he approached her, flinty purpose in his eyes. She pressed herself against the washstand and felt the pitcher and basin behind her wobble. "What are you... what do you wa—" He reached around her—to steady the washstand, she thought—but when he pulled away he was holding a slim bar of soap. Somehow he made the gesture appear threatening and Michael felt some of her bravado fade.

  She tried to snatch the soap from his hand but he held it up and out of her reach. "I can wash my own face," she said impatiently.

  "It's not your face I'm thinking about."

  She saw his eyes drop pointedly to her mouth. "You wouldn't."

  "Is that a challenge or are you asking for clarification? Either way, know this: one more cuss word and you'll be tasting soap for a week." Michael didn't say a word in reply. One corner of Ethan's mouth lifted in a sardonic smile. "I'm of a mind to wash your mouth out for the words you're thinking."

  She glared harder and gave him a push with the flat of her hands. He dropped the soap and Michael managed to get it first. Hoping he choked on his laughter, she turned back to the washstand and poured water in the basin. She scrubbed her face hard, first with just the soap, then with a lathered cloth.

  "Here," Ethan said, tapping her shoulder. He slipped a towel into her hands and took the wet cloth. "Before you sand away your skin."

  Michael patted her face dry. "There's no satisfying you." She realized too late the meaning he could give her words. He was already looking at her oddly, his eyes moving from feature to feature, studying her face as if he didn't quite know what to make of it. "I didn't mean... that is, I didn't—"

  "I know what you meant." He turned away, taking off his gun belt and hanging it up. "More's the pity," he said softly.

  Michael was quite sure she hadn't heard him correctly. More to the point, if he had said it, she didn't want to hear him correctly. Ethan Stone frightened her and not entirely in the way he meant to. He threatened her life, he threatened to wash her mouth out, he threatened her with other men, yet what filled her with dread was her reaction to him when he wasn't threatening at all.

  Taking Ethan's nightshirt out of the bureau, Michael slipped it over her head and over her clothes. Once she was covered she began removing her gown, petticoats, and tights. Ethan, she noticed was sitting in the wing chair, his legs stretched out, his eyes closed, not paying her the least attention.

  Ethan thought if she didn't finish soon he would strip the clothes off her back himself. She didn't mean to be provocative. That's what bothered him: she hardly seemed to be aware of the way he was fighting her attraction now. "I'm going to get the tub," he said gruffly. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

  Michael shrugged indifferently. When he was gone she permitted herself a small smile. He had left his gun belt behind. She wondered if he was trusting her not to use his Colt on him or if he simply believed she didn't know how. Michael didn't dwell on Ethan's reasoning. Instead she used the time he was gone to wash herself at the basin and set the fire in the stove. By the time he returned with the tub and buckets she was getting comfortable in bed.

  Ethan paid her little attention while he was filling the tub. He warned her when he was going to undress and grinned as she dove under the covers. He was still grinning when she began to emerge cautiously at the sound of his splashing. "Thanks for stoking the fire," he said. "I appreciate it."

  "I did it for me."

  "I still appreciate it." He raised a leg, propping his heel on the edge of the tub and began scrubbing.

  Michael watched him because there was nothing else to do with her eyes. She had nothing to read, no picture that might entertain her interest, and she was too wary to sleep.

  "I've been wondering about that Drew fellow," Ethan said without looking at her. "Was he really your fiancé?"

  In spite of the fact there was no one else in the room, it took Michael a moment to realize he was talking to her. "No," she said. "I wasn't engaged to him or anyone else from the paper."

  "But you were traveling with all those men."

  "Do you have a point, Mr. Stone?"

  "Are you pregnant?"

  Michael blinked widely at the question, not quite believing she'd heard him correctly.

  Ethan spared her a small glance. "Do you have an answer, Miss Dennehy?" he asked sarcastically.

  Michael sat up. "I am not pregnant."

  "Why are you so offended? It seems a fair enough question. You lived in close quarters with the other reporters. Did you share a bed?"

  "You would think that."

  "Let me ask it another way, Michael. Could you be pregnant?"

  Michael's knuckles were white where she clutched the comforter. She spoke after she had reined in the first rush of anger and even then it was in carefully measured tones. "It's none of your damn business, you simple jackass."

  Ethan paused in his scrubbing and looked thoughtfully at the soap in his open palm. He also gave Michael the first steady look since he'd begun bathing. The threat was clear. "I'm not interrupting my bath to clean out your mouth. Neither am I going to forget."

  "Oh, go to hell," she said tiredly, lying down again. "I don't care what you do."

  Ethan surprised himself by laughing at her last pathetic show of defiance. He certainly couldn't interpret it as a challenge. "I'll take this all to mean that you couldn't be pregnant," he said.

  "Suit yourself."

  "I always do." He began scrubbing his chest and took pleasure in the passing of several silent minutes. "Lottie found your notebook and pencils when she washed your clothes," he said casually.

  It was difficult for Michael to temper her excitement or her interest. "She did?" she asked with more eagerness than was her desire.

  "I'm not sure why, but she gave the book to Houston. He asked me about it." He ran the bar of soap up and down the length of his right arm then took his time rinsing it.

  "Well?" she demanded impatiently.

  "Oh," he said as if he'd forgotten they were discussing anything. "I told him that you've always kept a diary."

  "Did he believe you?"

  "You're still alive, aren't you? I hate to say it, Michael, but that's the only measure we have of what Houston believes." He saw her face pale. She turned on her side, drawing her knees protectively toward her chest. Her eyes were accusing.

  "You enjoy frightening me. You never miss an opportunity."

  "You're wrong. I just figure fear will make you a little more cautious. Your book's in the pocket of my coat. It's yours if you want it back."

  "The pencils?"

  "I'll return them only if I get to read everything you write. No surprises, Michael. In the unlikely event you leave Madison, you're not going to write something you can use against any of us. Houston's also going to be interested in what's in that book of yours."

  What choice did she have? "All right," she said reluctantly.

  "The pencils are with the book. Lower left hand pocket. Your spectacles are in the upper right." Ethan had a glimpse of long legs and fair skin as she threw back the covers. The nightshirt fell quickly as she stood.

  Michael sat cross-legged on top of the covers as she skimmed the contents of her notebook. Her spectacles rested n
ear the tip of her nose and there was a faint line between her brows as she read. Frustrated with her hair which kept falling over her shoulders and getting in her way, she finally pulled it back and held it in place with one hand. Both pencils had been nested neatly behind her right ear.

  "Oh, Lord," Ethan said softly when he looked up and saw her. Her mouth had flattened in a way that was becoming familiar to him; the frown was not disapproving, merely thoughtful. He had a sudden urge to do something about that serious mouth of hers. Like kiss it.

  The notion was enough to make Ethan attend to his back.

  Michael glanced up when she heard Ethan wince. "What's wrong?"

  He dropped the washcloth as his hand went to his shoulder. His fingers searched gently around a tender spot on his back. "It's just a bruise," he said, trying to tilt his head at an impossible angle to see it.

  Michael closed her book and placed it on the bedside table. She scooted off the bed and padded softly over to the tub. "Let me see."

  "It's nothing."

  "Be quiet, and move your hand." Michael knelt behind him. There was a bruise the size of her fist near his shoulder blade. There were also inflamed abrasions and scratches. "Hand me the cloth," she said in no nonsense tones. "This needs to be thoroughly cleaned. The soap, too. Do you have any alcohol in here? A touch of that wouldn't hurt."

  "For you or for me?"

  "I'm not that squeamish, Mr. Stone."

  "Ethan," he said. "I'm naked. I'm in a tub. You're wearing my nightshirt. You've already slept in my bed. I think you should call me Ethan."

  "Where's the alcohol, Ethan?"

  "Bottom of the wardrobe."

  "Thank you." She found it quickly and returned to his side.

  Michael washed the cuts carefully, gauging the pressure of her fingers by the sudden tensing of muscles in Ethan's back. She gave him the bottle of whiskey.

  He took a long swallow. "God, what are you doing back there?"

  "You have bits of thread from your shirt in the cuts. I have to get them out if you don't want an infection." She waited until he finished taking another drink.

  "Save some of that for these cuts. I plan to wash them out with it."