by Jodi Thomas
Walker searched for something to say in a brain filled to the rim with the vision before him. "I thought you'd run by now."
She looked at him with frightened, determined eyes. "I'm not leaving until I'm your real wife. I promise I'll not bother you again, but I'll not step foot on that stage until this marriage, no matter how it started, is consummated."
A hundred reasons should have come to mind about why he could not do this, but not one seemed to matter. Into his world filled with war and death and pain, something perfect had fallen. Even if she were a mirage, he had to hold her this once.
Walker crossed the room, unbuttoning his uniform. He stood above her and ran his hand down the length of her body, marveling at the softness. He wanted to tell her how perfect she was, or how there had been no women in his life for years, but there was no time now. The stage would be leaving in a few minutes.
His jacket fell atop her coat as he leaned down, letting his chest press against her. The pure pleasure of her beneath him shot through him unlike anything he'd ever dreamed of experiencing. He thought of himself as a man of action whose emotions were buried years ago. Only this woman, who called herself his wife, brought them all back, an avalanche of sensation.
She didn't move. She only waited.
When he tried to kiss her, she turned her head away, and he realized what he'd been about to do was not a necessary part to this mating she wanted. Anger and relief blended, for he knew he'd never wanted to waste time kissing on the few brief encounters he'd had with women of the night. For some reason, she felt the same.
"Are you sure?" He had to know that this was what she wanted. "You'll leave as soon as I do this?"
She nodded.
He unbuttoned his trousers, reminding himself she was his wife. Though he'd never asked for the part, it was his duty to see her safe. He gripped her thigh and pulled her legs apart. Maybe this was his duty, too. She'd asked for no love. No forever. No pretense. Only this.
Walker pushed into her hard and swift, angry that he'd allowed her to call his bluff, that he hadn't been able to stop after he saw her waiting. He had no idea what game she played, but he'd do his part and be done with her.
With his second thrust, all thought vanished as her body took him in, wrapping around him. A passion strong and wild jolted through him. His senses shot in rapid fire. The fragrance of her washed over him, the feel of her, the soft sound her breathing made, the perfection of her nearness, the taste of her skin as he opened his mouth against her throat.
He wasn't prepared when his very soul shattered. He pushed into her and let out a long breath that he felt he'd held in for years. They became one, two strangers married now on paper and by action.
When he was able to form a thought, he rose a few inches off her and looked down at this woman who insisted she was his wife. Her warm brown eyes were tightly closed, her teeth biting into her fist, holding back any sound as tears streamed from the corners of her eyes into her hair.
It took a few moments to realize that the unexpected ocean of pleasure that had washed over him like a tidal wave had held only pain for her.
Peterson pounded on the door. 'Two minutes!" he yelled. "The driver threatened to shoot me if I asked him to wait any longer."
"She'll be there!" Walker shouted back as he climbed from his bed and buttoned his trousers, realizing he hadn't bothered to remove even his boots.
"I've done what you asked," he said, irritated that she seemed to be suffering through some great tragedy when she'd been the one who insisted on the mating. He glanced at her body one last time as she pushed back tears. The buckle from his uniform belt had scratched across her abdomen. "Now, you have to go, Lacy Larson. We've no more time."
Walker grabbed his jacket and turned his back, hating himself more than he had since the night he'd left Cedar Point. He thought of saying something kind to her, but there were no words. What they'd done was as far from making love as heaven from hell. He wasn't fool enough to tell himself that it was all her doing. She might be his wife. She might have insisted. She might have had a body made for love. But he'd been the one who accepted her challenge when he should have turned away.
He waited, his back to her, telling himself he would allow her a margin of privacy while she dressed. Telling himself he wasn't afraid to face her.
Walker straightened his jacket and checked to make sure all was in place in the mirror over his washstand. The reflection was the same as always. A young, professional soldier on his way up in rank, but somehow, inside, something had changed. He didn't turn around until he heard her walk to the door. He wanted to speak but could think of nothing to say. She'd gotten what she wanted; he had taken her.
He heard the latch move and the door opened, then closed behind her.
Without a word, she was gone, leaving him fuming at how he'd been manipulated by a woman not out of her teens. Maybe she'd manipulated his father also, or the old sheriff in Cedar Point.
He was back in full control, not only of his men, but of himself. He didn't need anyone. He didn't want anyone in his life. No matter what her game was, he would not play it again.
Walker had all emotion drained from his mind as he glanced around his quarters, making sure she hadn't left something that might give her reason to return. A single hairpin rested on the table, forgotten in her haste. He slipped it into his pocket and looked toward the bed.
The lantern's light caught the few drops of blood staining the white sheets where she'd lain.
The sight knocked him to his knees.
CHAPTER 1
Cedar Point November 1888
Lacy folded a few dollar bills into the last pay envelope and stuffed it in the bottom drawer of her desk. She leaned back, breathing in the familiar smells of the print shop: ink, sawdust, paper, poverty. Home.
In the three years since she had taken over the shop, she managed to make the payroll every month but one. Once she'd taken all the money from the cashbox and traveled halfway across Texas to meet her husband. She shrugged. Once she'd been eighteen and a fool.
As the wind howled outside, Lacy closed her eyes, remembering how excited she'd been when she learned that Frank Walker Larson was stationed little more than a day's ride by train and then stage from her. Finally, her husband would be more than just a name on the marriage license and a few letters he'd written his father the first year he'd gone into the army.
She'd dreamed of how it would be when they met. He would be young and handsome in his uniform. She'd run into his arms, and he would tell her everything was going to be all right. After the long year of taking care of his father and keeping the shop running, Lacy would cuddle into her husband's embrace and forget all her worries.
She opened her eyes to the shadowy world of her small print shop. The real world. Her husband had been handsome, she admitted. So tall and important he took her breath away. But he hadn't welcomed her. His arms had folded around her in duty, nothing more. The Frank Larson she ran to was only a cold captain who preferred to be called Walker. And their time together had chilled her heart.
Lacy pushed away a tear as she remembered riding back on the dusty stagecoach that day. Now twenty, she was old enough to realize what a fool she had made of herself with Larson. The ride home had only prolonged her agony. Her body hurt from being used, but the dreams he killed scarred. The coach had been crowded with women wearing too much perfume and men smoking cheap cigars. When Lacy threw up in her handkerchief, the passengers decided that she would benefit from more air.
At the first stop, she was encouraged to take the seat on top of the stage. She'd pulled on her bonnet and gladly crawled into the chair tied among the luggage. As she watched the sunset that day, Lacy took the letters from her bag that Walker had written to his father years ago. She fell in love with her husband through reading his letters of adventure, memorizing every line as if it were written to her.
One by one, she watched them blow out of her hands, drifting in the wind behind the s
tage like dead leaves. That day she put away childhood. That day she'd given up on dreams.
Lacy stood in the dimly lit shop and pulled her shawl around her as if the wool could hug her frame. She stretched tired muscles. It was late, and tomorrow would be a busy day. Every Saturday after all the papers were sold and the flyers nailed, Lacy rode out to her friends' farm. There, she could relax for a few hours. She'd play with Bailee and Carter's children and remember how years ago when Sarah, Bailee, and she had been kicked off of a wagon train, they'd talked about what life would be like in Texas. Bailee had sworn she'd never marry, and Sarah had thought she wouldn't live to see another winter. But Lacy, then fifteen, had boasted that she would marry and have so many children she would have to start numbering them because she'd run out of names.
"Five years ago," Lacy whispered to herself as she climbed the stairs. Five years since they came to Texas half-starved, out of money, and out of luck. Bailee found her man and had three sons with another baby on the way. Sarah wrote often about her twins.
"And then there is me." Lacy walked into her small apartment above the shop. "I had a husband for fifteen minutes, once."
Her rooms welcomed her with colorful quilts she'd made and tattered books she'd collected. When she first moved in and began to learn the newspaper business, she could barely read, but Lacy studied hard. Her father-in-law never tired of helping her learn those first few years. He'd treated her like a treasure, even though she'd been little more than a ragamuffin when he'd paid her bail and married her to his son by proxy. From the first, he talked of what a grand jewel she'd be to his son when the boy finally came home from serving in the army.
On evenings like this, she missed the old man dearly. She longed for the way he always talked about Walker as if his son were still a boy, and the way he could quote every article he'd ever written as though it were only yesterday and not material from twenty years in the business. He loved telling stories of newspapermen who'd stood their ground in Western towns from Kansas City to California and had to fight, sometimes even die, for what they wrote. She missed his company.
Before Lacy could heat water for tea, someone tapped on the back door.
She lifted the old Navy Colt from the pie safe drawer and went to answer. No one ever climbed the stairs to her back door except Bailee, and she wouldn't be calling so late.
The minute she saw Sheriff Riley's stooped outline through the glass, she relaxed and set the gun aside. He'd taken a few bullets in a gun battle several years ago, and the limp made it hard for him to stand straight.
"Evening." She opened the door to a cold blast of air that almost took her breath away. "Want to come in for a cup of coffee, Sheriff? It's cold enough to snow." The little porch area at the top of a narrow flight of stairs held no protection from the night, and lately, the sheriff looked little more than bone.
Riley shook his head. "Now you know I can't do that. What would folks say, a lady like yourself having a male guest after dark?"
She grinned, knowing no one would think a thing about the old man coming in from the winter night to sit a spell, but she wouldn't spoil his fun. "You know you're the only gentleman I ask inside. I'd shoot any other man who came knocking after dark, but I know you wouldn't be here if you didn't have a reason."
Riley nodded. "I'd hope so. You being a respectable lady and all. I wouldn't even bother with a trial if I found a body on this porch." Though he'd listened to their confessions of killing a robber on the road to Cedar Point five years ago, Riley had always treated Lacy, Sarah, and Bailee more like daughters than outlaws.
The sheriff, like everyone else in town, regarded her as if her husband had simply left for the day and would be back anytime. Here, she was Mrs. Larson, and there was a solid- ness about it, even if there was no substance to the man she married.
Riley shifted into his coat like an aging turtle. "I just came to tell you that I got a telegram a few minutes ago saying Zeb Whitaker will be getting out of jail next week. I promised you I'd let you know the minute I heard."
Lacy fought to keep from reaching for the Colt. Big Zeb Whitaker was an old nightmare she laid aside years ago when he'd finally gone to prison. She could still feel his hands on her when he'd grabbed her and ripped the front of her dress open to see if she were woman enough to kidnap. She thought she killed him once. She would kill him for real if she had to. He was the first man Bailee, Sarah, and she met when they came to Texas, and if Zeb had his way, he would have taken their wagon and left them for dead.
"Lacy?" Riley said as though he didn't think she listened.
"Yes." She balled her fist to keep her hands from trembling.
"Rumor is he still thinks one of you three women has his stash of gold. I wouldn't be surprised if he showed up around here. I'm not too worried about Bailee way out on the farm with Carter watching after her, and Sarah tucked away where Zeb will never find her." Riley's face wrinkled. "But you ... with your man gone and all."
He didn't need to say more. She knew she was alone. Her man wasn't gone; Walker had never been here. Except for the one brief meeting, he was no more than a name on a piece of paper.
"I think you should leave town, Lacy." When Riley met her stare, he added quickly, "Just for a few weeks. Go see Sarah. Or maybe you have family back East you could visit. Maybe if you weren't here, he'd forget about looking you up."
Lacy wanted to scream, Leave town with what? There were times over the past few years when she didn't have enough money left to buy food. Once she survived on a basket of apples Bailee brought in from their farm. The two friends never discussed how Lacy was doing, but Bailee always brought apples and eggs and more from the farm, claiming she wanted to trade them for a newspaper. More often then not, Lacy swapped a ten cent paper for a week's worth of food.
Lacy didn't want the sheriff, or anyone else in town, to know how little she had. They all seemed to think her invisible husband sent her money regularly. "I'll be fine here, Sheriff, don't worry about me."
Riley shook his head. I don't know, Lacy. I'm not as spry as I used to be. I'm not sure I can face a man like Zeb Whitaker."
"He's aged, too, you know. He's probably barely getting around. Who knows, he might come back to say he's sorry for causing us so much trouble five years ago."
"Mean don't age well." The sheriff frowned. "I'd feel a lot better if your man were here."
"Walker's down on the border fighting cattle rustlers," Lacy lied. She'd been using that excuse for months now; it was time she made up another reason. "I'll be all right. I have the gun you gave me."
Mumbling to himself, Riley turned and headed down the steep stairs. Lacy knew he wasn't happy about her staying, but this was her home, her only home, and she needed to run the shop. None of the three men who worked for her could take over her job.
Duncan was almost deaf. Folks coming in to place an ad had to stand next to his good ear and yell their order. Eli's bones bothered him so much in winter that he stayed on his feet most of the day. If he sat for more than a few minutes, he seemed to rust. And, of course, Jay Boy was just a kid Lacy paid a man's wages because he supported his mother and little sister. He might be learning the business between errands, but he couldn't take over.
Lacy closed the back door and locked it. She had to stay. If Whitaker came, she'd fight, maybe even die, but she wouldn't run.
She almost wanted to laugh at the way the legend of
Whitaker's gold had spread over the years. The night he'd tried to steal their wagon, they'd left him in the mud, his saddlebags heavy beside him, but with each year folks came up with theories of what might have happened to the gold. Some thought the women had it and were waiting until Whitaker died to spend it. Some decided Whitaker buried it because if he'd been caught with it, he'd serve more jail time. Even a few believed there had been no gold that rainy sunrise.
Lacy had decided a few years ago to stop trying to tell the story and just let people believe what they wanted to. They would anyway
.
For the next few days she carefully locked every door and made sure the old Colt was not far from her hand. She caught herself jumping at the jingle of the front bell and waking each night when the wind rapped at her upstairs windows. As the days passed, she calmed, telling herself she was in the middle of town and had nothing to fear from an old buffalo hunter like Zeb Whitaker.
If he did come to town, he would need but one look at her shop to see that she couldn't have stolen the gold he said weighed down his saddlebags that morning. Lacy remembered seeing coins spilling out of the bags after she'd clubbed him, but she hadn't taken a single one.
One week went by, then another. Winter settled in, turning the usual mud holes in the streets to ice and frosting the air. Lacy worked in the shop by day and quilted by candlelight late into the night. She hated winter, for she never felt warm. Even standing in front of her small fire, only one side warmed, the other chilled. She tried to use the stove upstairs only when needed and conserve her wood to heat the downstairs. But winter settled in for a long stay, and the nights seemed endless as she made herself work long after dark.
Around midnight, she gave up trying to quilt. While she dressed for bed, thin bricks heated by the fire. In her gown,
Lacy carefully wrapped each brick and stuffed it beneath the covers near the bottom of her bed. Then she jumped in bed, laughing at her own attempts to keep warm.
The wind rattled the windows along the back of the apartment even more than usual, with a promise of snow.
Lacy poked her head out from beneath the quilts. She listened. The alley behind her shop sometimes sounded like a wind tunnel, dragging a howling winter into the shadows. The wooden frame of the shop below groaned. Somewhere boards popped as they shifted.
She slipped back under the blankets, hoping her breath would warm the space between the sheets.