Only My Love

by Jo Goodman

  "Don't I?"

  Michael broke eye contact then because she couldn't bear looking at him any longer. His stare was so penetrating that she felt violated. "Why are you saying these things to me?"

  He didn't answer her directly. "I wonder sometimes just what you would do to secure your escape from Madison."

  "Please, I want to go now." Michael crossed her arms in front of her. Even inside Houston's leather gloves her hands were cold.

  "It would surprise me if you didn't," he said pleasantly. He looked around, his gaze resting briefly on the lighted entrance, then the dark tunnel branches, and finally on Michael's shadowed features. "This isn't the sort of place where one wants to spend much time. It's possible to get lost in these tunnels and die without ever reaching light again." He paused, watching his words seep in. "There, I've given you something to think about, haven't I?"

  Michael remained mute and refused to look at him.

  "Now, let's see what you do with it." He cupped her chin and turned her face toward him, then tilted it upward. "Give me your mouth."

  Her lips parted on a dry sob. Behind her closed lids, Michael's eyes burned. Her throat ached with suppressed tears. Houston's mouth was firm, his touch probing. She felt his fingers on the fasteners of her coat and then his hands were inside, running down the length of her, cupping her breasts, molding her waist and hips, pressing against her thighs. He forced her back flush with the wall. His mouth slid to the cord of her neck when she turned her head to avoid his kisses.

  Houston straightened. "Look at me." His breathing was harsh. "Dammit, look at me."

  Michael raised her eyes slowly and let him see the full force of her anger and hatred.

  "You won't say anything to Ethan."

  It didn't matter if she did, she thought. Ethan warned her he wouldn't kill a man because of her. Houston didn't know that he wouldn't at least try. "I won't say anything."

  "Very wise." His mouth lowered over hers again. "I meant it when I said I like Ethan. I wouldn't want to kill a friend over you." He kissed her full on the mouth. Hard. "I suppose I'd have to kill you."

  Michael pushed at his chest and ducked under his arms when Houston rocked back on his heels. She made it a few yards toward the light when she was jerked back by a hand on her wrist and drawn up against him. She struggled briefly, realized the futility of it, and chose to save her strength. The ease with which Houston was able to subdue her humiliated Michael.

  "That's better," he said softly. "I've never told you why I have no liking for reporters, have I?"

  She was very still, listening, watchful. It was difficult to speak. "No, you've never said."

  "When I was ten my father killed my mother, then himself. He held the gun but it was a reporter who pulled the trigger."

  All the questions that occurred to Michael were left unasked. Houston spun her around and started toward the entrance. A few feet before they reached it Obie Long appeared. Michael forced herself not to touch her hair or hurriedly button her coat and give Obie cause to think anything had been happening. It was more of an effort not to reveal her relief at his interruption.

  "What is it, Obie?" Houston asked pleasantly.

  Michael realized Houston had heard Obie's approach before the younger man was visible. The immediate tension she'd felt in him when he had spun her toward the entrance had vanished. He had been preparing himself for another confrontation. Had he thought it could have been Ethan?

  "Jake sent me out to get you. There's been a message over the wire for you. Suppose Jake thinks it's important."

  Houston nodded. "And it probably is. I was showing Michael here a little bit of the mines. Why don't you finish the tour for me and I'll take your horse back into town?"

  "Sure. I don't mind."

  "Michael?"

  "Umm..." She felt Houston's fingers tighten on her elbow. "That's fine. I'd enjoy Obie's company."

  "Good," Houston said. "Then it's settled. Don't keep her long, Obie." Houston released Michael's arm and started to go.

  "Wait!" Michael called after him. "Your gloves."

  "You'll need them on the drive back."

  "No. You take them. I insist." She pulled them off and thrust them at his chest, forcing him to catch them or let them drop to the ground.

  "Thank you."

  Michael watched him go, knowing his parting smile was intended for Obie's benefit, not for hers. She took Obie's arm. "Houston couldn't show me very much," she said. "He forgot to get a lantern. Perhaps we could find one and—"

  "Sure," Obie interrupted eagerly. "I'll show you where I've been working since you've already seen part of what Ethan's doing."

  Obie's tour lasted another hour. If Michael hadn't had to cope with the memory of her encounter with Houston, she would have found Obie's company enjoyable, even entertaining. He was knowledgeable about the mines, understood the equipment that was used to reach the deepest veins. Michael had observed that although he was shy around most of the women in the saloon, in this environment at least he was talkative and open. She wished she dared ask him questions that had nothing to do with the operation of the Madison mines.

  She thanked him when they reached the front of the saloon. "No, don't bother seeing me inside. If it will make you feel better, you can just sit here and watch me go in. I know you have to take the buggy back to the livery." Without waiting for a protest or assistance, Michael leapt lightly from the carriage and went directly into the saloon. She spoke to Carmen and Susan in passing, promising them she'd help with the new dance number before dinner was served. She waved at Kitty who was still serving behind the bar and spoke casually to two customers. Passing Dee's office, Michael was careful not to look as if she were avoiding Detra or mounting the stairs too hurriedly.

  Michael pushed open the door to her room with more force than she thought. It rebounded off the wall. She closed it more gingerly, aware of Ethan's eyes on her. He was standing at the bureau, the water basin on top of it, mixing up lather in a shaving cup. Naked to the waist, he had a rolled towel around his neck. He wiped a little lather from his fingers on the edge of the towel and watched Michael's movements in the mirror.

  She took off her coat and hung it in the wardrobe.

  Turning, she formed a steeple with her fingers and blew on them gently, warming them. After a moment she crossed the room, got down on her hands and knees and started searching under the bed, making long sweeping motions with her arm.

  "Anything in particular you're looking for?" he asked.

  She didn't answer. Her fingers came in contact with the cigarette she'd pushed under the bed earlier and grasped it lightly. Rising, she went to the window and shot Ethan a derisive glance as she opened it a crack. "It never was painted shut."

  He continued stirring up a lather. "Imagine that."

  Reaching under the frame with her fingers, Michael found the matches and striking paper she kept hidden there. She didn't care that Ethan was watching her. Raising defiant eyes to him, Michael put the tip of the cigarette between her lips, struck the match, and lighted it. She inhaled deeply, realizing only when she saw the cigarette flutter at the end of her fingers how much her hand was trembling. She pulled one of the ladder-back chairs closer to the window and sat down, blowing the smoke toward the crack.

  Ethan began to lather his face and the underside of his jaw. "I'm surprised you know how to sit in that chair like a lady. I half-expected you to straddle it."

  She ignored him, turning more toward the window and away from him, and drew deeply again on the cigarette. Tears welled in her eyes. She stared out the window, past the false fronts and sloping roofs across the street, to the jagged mountain crests that lifted the horizon and supported the sky. A tear fell from the center of one eye and slid smoothly down her cheek. She wiped it away impatiently. It was followed immediately by another.

  "Are you crying, Michael?" Ethan put down his brush and the shaving mug. He took a step back from the bureau to see her profile better. "Mich
ael? What's wrong?"

  The dark green eyes she slowly raised to him were wet with tears. "I just realized how hopeless it is," she said, the slightest quaver in her soft voice. "I'm never going to leave Madison, am I?"

  Chapter 9

  Ethan sat down slowly on the edge of the bed. He was frowning. "Did Houston say something to you this afternoon?"

  Michael shook her head. "No," she said, glancing out the window again. "Nothing like that."

  He let the lie pass, certain that's what it was. "So what did happen?"

  She shrugged. "We rode out to the mines. He showed me around until Obie came with a message for him from Jake. Then Houston left and Obie completed the tour."

  Ethan was damn well sure Obie wasn't at the root of whatever was troubling Michael. He began wiping lather off his jaw. "Michael, I think it would be best if you would tell—"

  Her laughter was a trifle bitter. "Trust you, you mean. But when I tried that before you made sure you set me straight. No, Ethan, I don't think so. I'm not going to tru—" She looked at him then and what she saw made her stop. Ethan had finished wiping lather from his cheeks and along his jaw. His neck was clear. But he'd left a thick mustache of lather above his upper lip. The sense of familiarity that she hadn't experienced in a while returned. She stared at him hard, reaching for the elusive memory and knowing she was closer to grasping it than ever before.

  Ethan didn't know what had triggered her attempt at recollection, but knew the precise moment she remembered. Her lips parted a fraction as her jaw went slightly slack. The struggle that had played out in her expressive green eyes came to a halt. It was replaced for a moment by blankness, then denial, then a sudden start, an almost imperceptible widening of her pupils, as complete recognition filled them.

  Michael stubbed out what remained of her cigarette and laid it on the sill. She pulled the window shut. "I know you," she said.

  Ethan said nothing, waiting. He wiped away the lather mustache, realized then what had helped her remember, and sighed. "I don't think you know me," he said. "You may have seen me before, but you don't know me." He got up and latched the door to make sure there were no interruptions.

  "You're wrong. I know you. You're a Marshall."

  "Keep your voice down." He stopped at the bureau on his way back to the bed and washed the last vestiges of lather from his face. Hanging onto the ends of the towel around his neck, he sat down and pulled alternately with each hand, trying to massage out the sudden tension. He was about to point out that Houston was a sheriff, so being a marshal didn't necessarily make him honorable, when Michael continued recounting her memory.

  "I was trying to get in to see Logan that day," she said slowly, drawing on the past. "God, it must have been six months ago at least. I was still answering letters then, writing occasional columns for the society pages. There was a special assignment I wanted to work on, a murder trial. I'd been giving a lot of thought to an aspect of the story no one else had used. But I needed Logan's permission to proceed with it.

  "I'd been screwing up the courage all day to see him. I finally thought I could do it only to discover that he was busy with some people. I caught a glimpse of you just as you walked into his office. I must have made some comment about it to Logan's secretary. That's when he told me you were a Marshall."

  Faint color touched her cheeks as she recalled the more embarrassing moments of that afternoon. "I barged in to see him hours later, never suspecting he was still in a meeting. He gave me quite a dressing down then pointed out that he had company." She smiled ruefully. "I would have been happy if the floor had opened up and swallowed me. I remember turning around and seeing there were three men in the room. It's odd what goes through one's mind at times like that. I thought: tall, dark, and handsome." She glanced at Ethan's face and saw the ruddy color appearing just beneath his skin. "Before you flatter yourself too much, you were only the dark one. The older gentleman was tall, the younger one handsome."

  Ethan's flinty stare widened slightly. He had been flattering himself. "As you say, it's odd what goes through one's mind. I remember thinking the pencils in your hair looked ridiculous."

  Without a thought to what she was doing, Michael patted down her hair.

  "I've become accustomed to them since then," Ethan said.

  Her hands dropped to her lap again. For a moment she couldn't quite meet his eyes. "How are you related to Logan? I know he has a brother Christian, but others in his immediate family are dead. At least that's what I always understood."

  Related to Logan? Ethan wondered. What was she talking about? Why would she think he was related to Logan Marshall? It wasn't until he heard himself complete the thought that he understood the problem. Marshall. Marshal. She'd made a natural assumption six months ago when she was told he was a marshal.

  She had no reason to change it unless he gave her one. Ethan wasn't certain he was going to do that yet. Caution was still his best defense.

  "A distant cousin," he said.

  Michael nodded. "I thought it might be something like that. You have a little of their look. Black sheep strain, I'll bet."

  "Mm-hmm."

  "Is your first name really Ethan?"

  "It's Ethan. Ethan Stone. I'm a Marshall on my mother's side."

  "Does Logan know what his black sheep cousin does to put money in his pockets?"

  Ethan's drawl became more pronounced. "What do you think?"

  "I doubt it."

  Some day, Ethan thought, Mary Michael Dennehy would not be so easily led into jumping to conclusions. At the moment he was glad it was still possible. He played to her suspicions. "You're right. He doesn't know."

  "So what were you doing at his office that day I saw you?"

  "Trying to negotiate a business deal."

  "Who were those other men?"

  "Just some people interested in the same deal."

  "You make it sound like a poker game. Deal this and deal that."

  He chuckled. "It was rather like a poker game."

  "Did you win?"

  "I'm still playing out my hand."

  There were still tear tracks on Michael's cheeks. She took a cloth from the washstand and bathed her face quickly at the basin. Looking at Ethan over the wet cloth she held up to her cheeks, she asked, "Does that mean what you're doing now has something to do with the meeting that afternoon?"

  "That's one way of interpreting it."

  Michael wondered how many others there could possibly be. She didn't ask because she knew better than to expect a straight answer from Ethan. "Houston and the others don't know about your connection to the Chronicle, do they?"

  "It's not much of a connection. I'm the black sheep, remember? As for the meeting, no, they don't know about it or that I was in New York then. But I'd have less problem explaining it than you would. They'd want to know how you came to be in the Chronicle's offices. I don't think you'd care for them to know, would you?"

  "I think Houston already suspects."

  Ethan slowly pulled the towel from around his neck. His narrowed, hooded eyes followed Michael back to her chair. "He suspects what?" he asked slowly.

  "That I'm a reporter, or at least my connection to the Chronicle is more than simply being Drew Beaumont's traveling companion."

  "Traveling companion? You were supposed to be his fiancée."

  "Houston asked me about my engagement ring the other day. I had to say something. I told him the engagement wasn't official."

  Ethan swore softly. "What exactly did he say to you this afternoon? And don't say it was nothing."

  "Just things," she said. At his sharp, angry look Michael recounted Houston's rather one-sided conversation with her. She told Ethan nothing about the physical confrontation that had taken place, only the verbal one. "It was all very veiled," she said. "Threatening without being specific. I don't even know why I'm telling you. You've threatened me with as much yourself. You probably told him what works best with me. I share one terrifying dream with y
ou about falling into blackness and the next thing I know, I'm being threatened with eternity in a mine shaft."

  Ethan had forgotten all about the dream until now, but he saw that she hadn't and the threat that Houston used, for all that it had been coincidental, clearly terrified Michael. He got up, opened the first drawer of his bureau and found a handkerchief. He gave it to Michael. "Here, you're crying again."

  "Thank you." She hadn't even been aware of it.

  He wondered what had happened between last night when Houston berated him for not caring well enough for Michael, and this afternoon, when Houston's own behavior had taken a dramatic turn. Had Houston discovered something, had Dee filled his ears with some lie about Michael, or was it just his manner of keeping her under his thumb?

  Standing over her, Ethan placed one hand on the top rail of her chair. The tips of his fingers laid gently against her shoulder. "We've come to a crossroads, you and I, where one of us has to trust the other, even if it's on blind faith. As much as I might like to tell you certain things, I can't. My obligation to protect you conflicts with allowing you to know more. Therefore-"

  "Therefore it has to be me who trusts you," she finished for him. "And when I did that you threw it back in my face. When I tried to find something good to believe in, you belittled me as if I were a schoolgirl in the throes of her first infatuation."

  It was an apt description. Michael was reaching to him to steady her tilting world. It was natural, perhaps inevitable, that she felt something for him. In other circumstances, he reminded himself, she wouldn't have given him more notice than she'd ever given any man who didn't belong in her world.

  "Well, I don't think so." She went on. "I'm not prepared to accept anything you have to say on blind faith. You'll have to give me something more to believe in." She raised her face to him, waiting.

  "I didn't kill Drew Beaumont."

  Michael sighed and shook her head. "That doesn't serve your case. The time to admit that has already passed." She stood and took a step away, intending to go around him. He blocked her path. "Yes?"