by Various
“Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Trent?” Keep it formal. She was the proprietor of this establishment and he nothing more than a paying guest. “Is the room not to your liking? You are more than welcome to leave if you find the accommodations lacking.”
Morgan looked over her head to the window beyond and raised one golden eyebrow. “Don’t think that’d be advisable.”
“It wasn’t advice. It was a suggestion.” She smiled sweetly. At least she hoped that’s what she was doing. Her head buzzed standing so near to him after all this time. The feeling was about as welcome as a rattlesnake.
Morgan leaned against the doorframe, his hands loosely pushed into the front pockets of his denims, a study in lean masculinity that surrounded her from every direction. Much to her dismay, time had not diminished the effect he had on her. Standing here, separated by mere inches, her disobedient heart trembled at his nearness. How she hated her weakness where he was concerned. Shouldn’t the years have dulled that at least a little?
“The room is fine,” Morgan said, in that slow, hypnotic drawl of his that always reminded her of slipping into a warm bath. “Just thought I oughta give you this.”
He pulled one hand out of his pocket and drew out several bills, folded in half. He held them out to her.
She crossed her arms over her chest. “What’s this?”
“Room and board.” He shot her a half smile and her hands fisted, pressing her knuckles against her ribs. The effect of that smile sped through her like a lightning strike, down into places she hadn’t given much thought for several years. “Didn’t figure you’d let me stay out of the kindness of your heart.”
He had that much right. She unfolded one arm and reached for the money, but Morgan didn’t release it, forcing her fingertips to rest against his. They were rough on the edges—a working man’s hands. Not like Clancy’s. He’d never done a hard day’s work in his life. Morgan’s touch invaded the blood in her veins and burned through her like venom.
He tugged at the money and pulled her attention back to his handsome face. “How about we call a truce, Red?”
“A truce? I wasn’t aware we were at war.” She dropped her gaze and it landed on their hands. Warmth spread up her arm and threatened to invade her heart. She needed to let go, but she couldn’t seem to get the message from her head to her hand.
“You know what I mean. We didn’t part on the best of terms.”
She glanced up at him sharply. “Then you remember it differently than I do, because I distinctly remember us parting with a kiss and you promising to return.”
Anger blazed in his eyes. That was ridiculous. What did he have to be angry about? “And I remember you promising to wait for me.”
“I did wait!”
“Is that a fact, Mrs. Barstow?”
His insinuation knocked the wind out of her. His letters had stopped months before her father had forced her to marry Clancy. She’d balked at the idea, even going so far as to flat-out refuse to do the great Lyle Stanford’s bidding, but her father would not countenance such behavior. He’d threatened to disown her, to toss her out onto the street with nothing but the clothes on her back unless she did his bidding. What other choice had she had?
“You made your interest in marrying me clear by your continued absence. An absence that was your decision, Mr. Trent, not mine. But if it gives you any solace, marriage to Clancy proved a miserable experience and I’ve learned my lesson in that regard. I make my own way in this world now. I don’t spend time fretting about you or the past.” The lie tripped off her tongue and left a sour aftertaste.
Truth of the matter was, she thought of Morgan all the time. When she saw happy couples like the Becketts or the Donovans, when she heard children running about laughing and playing and when Morgan’s uncle, whose twinkling blue eyes were so much like his nephew’s, came to dine at her establishment. Her memories lived just below the surface and made their presence known on a regular basis.
Morgan’s finger brushed against hers. The simple touch sent an onslaught of longing and hurt through her veins until her blood sizzled and burned. Her heart whispered its need to know what had happened to him—why he hadn’t come back for her, why he’d stopped writing. She ignored it. It wasn’t fair the way his presence, his touch, still spoke to her heart in that secret language they’d once shared.
“I don’t want to fight, Red.”
“Fine.”
He shifted his feet, but did not break the connection where their fingers touched.
“Thank you for sending up the bath last night. It was kind of you.”
She still didn’t know what had possessed her. He didn’t deserve it, but he’d looked so cold and weary and her heart had overridden her common sense. Then she’d spent the rest of the night tormented by images of him soaking in the big tin tub, the ends of his hair curling and rivulets of water winding down his neck onto his chest before beating a path to—
Willa jerked her hand away, pulling the money with her. Mercy, this storm could not wear itself out soon enough for her liking! It had been difficult enough dealing with all these urges for him when she was nothing more than an innocent girl, but she was a widow now, and while Clancy had definitely failed to elicit any excitement in that particular area, she knew instinctively with Morgan, it would be different. He had a knowing about him, an ability to make her quiver with the smallest of touches and the way he looked at her now, with that sad, lopsided grin that made his clear blue eyes sparkle like newly fallen snow kissed by sunlight...well, it did not bode well for one’s state of mind, is all.
“Breakfast is being served downstairs if you’re hungry. Good day, Mr. Trent.”
Willa stepped out, pulling her door closed with more force than she intended. With her jaw locked, she brushed past him and made her way to the stairs. She needed distance. She needed to break this crazy connection that crackled between them like dry wood near a hot flame.
Frustration filled her. Was this how she would spend the holiday, with the specter of Christmas Past haunting her every move?
Before she could answer that question, the hum of voices from the dining hall rose in volume, sharp and angry. Her heart sank.
“Oh, not again!” She picked up her skirts and rushed down the stairs and into the dining hall, Morgan Trent temporarily forgotten.
* * *
Morgan had been in enough rooming houses and saloons to recognize the telltale signs of a brouhaha kicking up. It was clear that was exactly what was occurring on the other side of the archway Willa had just run through as if her skirts were on fire. What the blazes did she think she was doing charging into the middle of that? When a bunch of yahoos got to throwing punches, they weren’t about to stop and reassess their behavior because a woman told them to do so. No matter how beautiful that woman was.
He rushed down the steps after her. It hadn’t taken long for the ruckus to turn into a full-blown melee. Inside the dining area, the boy Huck cowered in the corner behind an overturned table, cringing as a plate crashed against it. In the middle of the room, standing on top of a table, was a large beefy man with coal-black hair and arms thick as tree trunks. He had one man in a headlock and brandished what appeared to be a ladle in his other hand.
The situation would have been comical if Red hadn’t suddenly lost her mind and run straight into the fracas. The girl he had once known would have run in the opposite direction and found a safe place to hide until it was over. She sure as heck would not have thrown herself into the middle of it. The fool woman was going to get herself killed!
Morgan fought his way through, pushing and punching in an effort to reach her and pull her to safety. Someone slammed into his back and he staggered sideways, regaining his footing. Where was she? He turned around, looking for Red and ducked just in time to keep from getting coldcocked in the jaw but
as he straightened, something hard and unforgiving crashed against his skull, rattling his teeth. Stars exploded inside his head then everything faded to black.
A cold cloth pressed against his forehead but it offered little relief from the pounding in the back of his skull. What in blue blazes had happened? A hand tapped his cheek, gentle at first then with a bit more force.
“Morgan?”
Red. What was she doing here? Where was he? His memories had scattered and he struggled to piece them back together. He was in Salvation Falls. Red was here. She’d run into the middle of a dustup like a mad woman and he’d gone after her. The memories stopped there.
He opened his eyes and stared up at her, waiting for his vision to focus. She didn’t have a hair out of place. Well, at least no more than usual. Oh, but she was a pretty thing. The years had definitely been kind in that regard, though her personality was far more acerbic than he recalled. Had marriage to Clancy Barstow made her that way?
“You okay? Are you hurt?”
She raised an eyebrow. “I’m not the one lying on the floor.”
He swept his gaze around to survey the damage but he couldn’t see much past the other two bodies crouching on either side of him. One was the beefy bear of a man who still held his ladle. Strange thing to bring to a fight, Morgan thought. The other man, with brown hair, a felt hat and a couple of days’ worth of stubble shadowing his jaw appeared untouched by the melee. Unlike him, apparently.
“What happened?”
The man in the hat spoke. “You got hit by a chair.”
“A chair?” Taken out by a piece of furniture. How valiant.
The man nodded, then held out his hand. “Caleb Beckett. You new in town?”
Morgan hesitated, then reciprocated because he didn’t seem to have much of a choice unless he wanted to be rude. “Yeah. Morgan Trent.”
Beckett tilted his head to one side, studying him. “Bertram’s kin?”
“Nephew.”
“Hmm.”
The man clearly didn’t waste breath on excessive words.
The man Morgan compared to a slab of beef crouched to his left, chucked him in the shoulder with a meaty paw. “Ya think ya can stand, then, boyo?”
“Yes. I’m sure I can stand.” He’d been hit on the head, he wasn’t an invalid and his pride didn’t particularly take to the suggestion he was, especially in front of Red.
“Well, up ta your feet, then.”
The man grabbed his arm and hauled him up in one fluid motion like he weighed nothing, but as soon as Morgan’s feet were under him the room started tipping one way then the other. He blindly reached out in an effort to steady himself.
“Whoa, there,” Beckett said, disappearing, then something scraped against the floor behind him. The ladle-carrying bear of a man put a heavy hand on Morgan’s shoulder and pushed him down. He dropped like a stone into an awaiting chair.
Red sighed. And not out of relief that he was okay, given the frustrated twist of her lips. “Just sit tight for a minute. Fritz, give me a hand up.”
A hand up?
Before Morgan could make sense of what she’d said, Red climbed on top of one of the few tables that remained upright and shouted out to the men in the room. While he’d been out cold, the ruckus had quieted down and the rowdies were littered about the dining hall licking their wounds.
“Excuse me, gentlemen. May I have your attention, please?”
The murmur in the room faded away. Morgan sat mute. When had the quiet, proper girl he’d proposed to become this woman who jumped on top of tables and commanded the attention of everyone within earshot using a tone of voice that brooked no disobedience?
Willa cleared her throat and glared at the men like a stern schoolmarm. “Seeing as the lot of you have just destroyed my dining hall, no further meals will be coming from the kitchen until you have rectified the matter and put this room back to rights. Anything busted must be repaired, and funds collected should be given to Fritz to replace any broken dishes. I want the floor swept up and this room looking the way it did before you all decided to misbehave like spoiled children. Do I make myself clear?”
Silence reigned across the room.
Morgan blinked. What had happened in the ensuing years to transform her from a rich man’s daughter to this? That strange feeling from yesterday—a bitter mixture of guilt and hope—resurfaced and poked at him. He shook it off. He didn’t have anything to feel guilty about. And he sure as shootin’ didn’t have anything to hope for, not where Red was concerned.
Willa put her hands on her hips accentuating those sweet curves. Morgan swallowed. Lord help him. Despite everything, he wanted to haul her off that table and carry her back upstairs to discover all the changes he’d missed out on, inside and out.
Her sharp voice quickly cut off that recalcitrant thought. “If any of you are unwilling to fix this place back up, you can pack your bag and leave. Immediately.”
“But it’s stormin’ out there, Mrs. B,” one rowdy whined.
Willa shrugged, unmoved. “Then you best dress warmly, Ted.”
The room filled with sighs of contrition and a few grumbles, but soon, everyone who could stand did, and the sound of wood scraping against the floor made it clear no one questioned the seriousness behind their proprietress’s threat.
Morgan looked at Willa with newfound respect. It took a lot of guts to stand up to a roomful of men who had torn up her dining hall and demand recompense. But she hadn’t flinched and the men had hung their heads like sulky children.
What would have happened had she shown that spark of confidence when he’d told her he was leaving? If she’d demanded he take her with him, would he have? Damn! Think of all the heartbreak and misery they could have avoided if she’d only shown this side to him sooner.
Or if he’d only taken the time to look beyond who she was in the moment to see who she had the ability to become. He scowled at his conscience, wishing it’d keep its own counsel.
When Willa turned to step down from the table, Morgan pushed himself to his feet and reached for her. She hesitated for the briefest second before placing a hand on his shoulder. He grabbed her waist and helped her down, her body sliding against his, creating a riot of sensation that made his head spin. At this rate, he’d find himself flat on the floor all over again. Though if she landed on top of him, he wouldn’t complain.
It felt good to hold her in his arms. He hadn’t thought he’d ever experience that again. He closed his eyes and savored the moment.
“Let me go,” she whispered, pushing against his chest.
He didn’t acquiesce right away. He couldn’t. Letting her go, well, that seemed about as wrong as a thing could get.
Willa, unfortunately, disagreed and gave him another shove. Reluctantly, Morgan relinquished his hold, his hands sliding away from her narrow waist. She ducked her head, but not before he saw her cheeks were thoroughly flushed. He smiled. Perhaps she wasn’t as immune to him as she pretended to be. What that meant exactly, he couldn’t figure out. Fact was, he was having trouble making sense of anything at the moment. Between the riot her closeness caused and the way the room insisted on spinning, he was having trouble thinking lucidly.
She cleared her throat and avoided his gaze. “Are you certain you’re feeling okay, Mr. Trent?”
He smiled down at her. “Parts of me are feeling just fine.”
Granted, those parts were all south of his belt buckle and strongly hinting that he needed to kiss that lovely mouth of hers. Perhaps the blow to the head had left him more addled than originally thought.
“Morgan?”
She said his given name. Hell, but that sounded sweet. He was getting a bit tired of the whole Mr. Trent business. He just couldn’t understand why she sounded so far away, like she was drifting away from him. “I
feel a little funny.”
“Morgan!”
His view of the room shifted, tilting somehow and then he was falling once again as black dots rushed his vision. He tried to reach for Red, but the darkness claimed him before he could find her.
Chapter Three
Willa sat next to Morgan’s bed where he lay propped up against a bevy of plump pillows. She’d doctored the cut on the back of his head as best she could. Once the storm eased she’d send Huck to fetch Doc Whyte, but until then she feared leaving him alone. Mick Fontana had taken a blow to the head not three months past, he’d gone to bed that night and never woken up again. She wasn’t taking any chances Morgan would suffer the same fate.
She didn’t bother examining why. She’d do the same for anyone. It didn’t make him special. But the worry in her heart refuted this claim. She rubbed at her chest to make the feeling go away but it proved as stubborn as the other parts of her that were convinced that Morgan showing up in Salvation Falls meant something.
“He didn’t come here for you,” she reminded her foolish heart, letting out a frustrated huff as she sat back in the chair next to Morgan’s bed. He hadn’t come back for her six years ago like he’d promised, so the notion that he’d traveled West to find her now bordered on ludicrous. Still, when she’d entered the ruckus, she’d heard him behind her, calling out her name. His voice had been filled with urgency. No, not urgency. Fear. Pure, unadulterated fear. For her. Did he still care, maybe even a little? And what if he did? What did that mean exactly?
She wished she could say she felt nothing for him—that time had healed the wounds and faded the memories, but it hadn’t. When his eyes had rolled up into his head and his legs had given out beneath him, the same fear she’d heard in his voice rocked her. In an instant she’d realized he might die. That, this time, she would lose him forever.
She pinched the bridge of her nose. This would not do. At all. She needed to wash her hands of him. Send him on his way and pretend he’d never arrived at all. That nothing unusual had happened.