“Can I get you something, sweetheart?” he asked.
The endearment grated on her nerves. She found it quite presumptuous that he would use such an affectionate term, but before she could speak up, the crowd around them parted, pushing Reverend Gilman toward the front. He offered a blessing on the food, then spent a good ten minutes praying for the salvation of the entire new state of Colorado.
Next came Jake Walker. The owner of the Red Mule entered the social hall with a triumphant look. Above his head he held the latest issue of The Sunset Gazette. Broad black headlines shouted from the front page. A hush fell over the crowd.
“It’s a done deal. All official, folks,” Walker announced.
The deal had actually been done a few days earlier, on Tuesday, August 1, but nobody meant to let a little thing like that stand in the way of having a good time on Saturday night.
A roar of approval and excitement rose up.
“Colorado is at last a state, both in name and in reality.” Jake Walker read the words directly from the pages of the newspaper. “The president, Tuesday, issued his proclamation in accordance with the provisions of the enabling act…”
Lucille closed her eyes. The battle for statehood had been long and hard fought. Her father would have been proud. She missed him and wished he were standing there to see the culmination of the efforts. As the bar owner’s deep, baritone voice droned on, Lucille sighed.
“Are you all right?” Tom asked.
“Yes, fine. I just wish my father were here.”
Tom turned her to face him. “Listen, I know you’re still hurting, Lucille, but this is a night for celebration. It’s a time for being happy.”
“I know.” She’d come to the celebration with Tom precisely because she wanted him to help her break through that morass of grief and sadness she carried with her, because he knew how to have a good time, even if she didn’t. She looked up into his eyes and took a deep breath. “I know I’ve been walking around with a black cloud hovering over me, Tom. I want you to show me how to get rid of it.”
He grinned. “I think I know something that might do the trick. Wait here,” he told her, patting her hand.
She watched him work his way through the crowd. When he disappeared from sight, she worried that he might not return. Maybe he’d only been looking for a chance to break free from her and her gloominess. Lucille continued to stare in the direction he’d gone, holding her breath as she waited. At last she spotted him heading toward her. She felt giddy inside.
“Here, try this,” Tom said, handing her a drink.
She lifted the glass and peered at the contents. Catching a whiff of the reddish liquor, she drew back. Her nose wrinkled. “What is this?”
“Jake Walker’s special. It’s his Red Mule whiskey, guaranteed to give you a real kick in the head.”
“A kick in the head?” Lucille frowned. “Why would I want that?”
“It’s an expression, sweetheart.” Tom’s grin was infectious.
She grinned back, loving the sound of his voice. He’d called her sweetheart once again. This time, the way he said it sent shivers up her spine.
“What’s it supposed to mean?”
“It means it will make you forget all your troubles,” Tom explained, moving closer and throwing an arm around Lucille’s shoulder.
Already her troubles seemed far away.
“Here’s to Colorado,” Lucille said in a cheery voice, lifting her glass.
The fiery whiskey slid down her throat and at once she felt an odd sense of pleasure wrapping around her. She glanced at Tom and tried to bring his grinning face into focus. She licked her lips.
“Do that again.”
“Do what?”
“Lick your lips.”
Slowly, she glided her tongue over her lips, aware of Tom watching, the pupils of his eyes large and dark with desire. The giddiness returned. She felt light-headed, and light-hearted.
“You’re just dying to be kissed.” Tom chuckled. “Go on, admit it. Ever since you kissed me yesterday afternoon, you’ve been crazy wanting more.”
“I—” Speechless, her mouth opened slightly.
“We can make it happen.” He bent forward and kissed her. She tasted the sweet alcohol on his tongue, and her mouth craved more, more of his kisses, more of the wicked, sinful brew.
“Get me another glass of whiskey,” she whispered. “If we’re going to celebrate, let’s do it right.”
Throughout the night, whiskey flowed freely. Lucille’s senses reeled as laughter and music spun around her. She soon lost track of time, but what did it matter?
“Nights like this,” Tom whispered in her ear, “come only once in a lifetime.”
She sighed, loving the touch of his hand against her cheek, the silky sensation of her long hair falling loose across her shoulders.
What had happened to her hairpins?
“You took them,” she accused, shaking a finger in Tom’s direction. “You naughty, naughty boy. You pulled them all out.” Smiling she closed her eyes, giggling as he swept her up in his arms and carried her away.
* * * *
A kick.
Another kick.
Lucille groaned and brought her hands up to her head. Every attempt at coherent thought quickly proved futile. Her brains must have turned to mush.
Guaranteed to give you a real kick in the head.
She understood now exactly what Tom meant.
“You best get your sorry ass up, girl, and get out of that bed.”
Lucille cringed at the sound of the voice. She knew it all too well. With effort she managed to pry one eye open enough to see Charlotte standing at the doorway, her heavy form sagging against the jamb.
What was Charlotte doing in her bedroom? Why was she ordering her out of her own bed?
Lucille closed her eyes again as doubts crept in. Beneath her shoulder, she felt not the soft quilted coverlets of her bed, but a coarse woolen blanket. The pillow beneath her head was filled not with soft eiderdown but straw.
This is not my pillow. These are not my blankets. This is not my bed.
She pulled the covers up and ducked beneath them, as if to hide from the shame—and shock—of waking up somewhere she shouldn’t be.
Memories from the night before flooded her mind.
The pounding in her head worsened, and Lucille clutched the covers tighter as heavy footsteps stomped across the floor. Charlotte snatched at the blankets.
“You hear me? I said get your lazy ass out of that bed. I’m worn out, and I’m damned tired of listening to you snort and snore.”
“I don’t…”
“Yes, you do. Now, get the hell up. You need to get home.”
She lowered the blanket and opened her eyes enough to peek out from behind it. “Where’s Tom?”
“I don’t know that it’s any of your business, but I reckon he’s back at his bunkhouse.”
Lucille nodded, but even that slight movement brought excruciating pain. Never before in her life had she been drunk. Consequently, she’d never had a hangover, and to be blunt about it, neither had she ever had an ounce of sympathy for those who did suffer the after-effects of a serious bout of drinking.
Back in the day when her family still owned the mercantile, there’d been many mornings when bleary-eyed miners and cowpokes had staggered in, looking to try one sure-fire cure after another.
Did any of them work?
Squinting against the harsh light, she tried to remember some of those cures. She doubted any medicine would be strong enough to stop the pounding in her head or quell the roiling of her stomach.
Lucille clasped a hand to her mouth. At the same time, Charlotte thrust a basin toward her.
“I figured you were going to need this.”
“Thank you.” She barely got the words out.
Charlotte laughed. “You sure don’t know how to hold your liquor, girl. If you’ve got any thoughts about fixing up with Tommy, you’d better learn how
to drink.” She looked at Lucille, then moved the basin aside.
With great effort, Lucille managed to get her legs to move, gradually easing them toward the side of the bed. Next she planted her feet on the floor. Grabbing at Charlotte for support—only because there was nothing else to reach for—she finally pulled herself up. “Trust me, I’ve got no interest in your son.” She blew out a breath, still tasting the sickly sweet liquor on her lips and tongue. What a fright she must look! She pressed her hands to her head, surprised to find her hair falling loose and free.
What happened to my hair pins?
“Are you saying you’re too damned good for Tommy?” Charlotte’s blue eyes bore down on her. “You know, he could have any woman he wanted. Why he bothered bringing you home is beyond me. He could have had any one of those gals at that dance.”
“To set your mind at ease,” she said, “I don’t give a hoot about your son. As far as I’m concerned, if I never see him again so long as I live, that will be fine with me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to gather my belongings and get home.”
“Well, aren’t you the prissy one?” Charlotte rolled her eyes, then tugged at her ear. “And what’s wrong with my boy?”
“Nothing’s wrong with him.” Lucille choked back heated thoughts. No, there’s not a thing wrong with Tom, and that’s the trouble. Well, there was a lot wrong with Tom, at least in the romantic sense.
First, he was hardly civilized. He talked too loud, sang those awful bawdy songs in an off-key voice, and he laughed at his own jokes. Second, he was irresponsible, a trait he’d no doubt picked up from his mother. Oh, what was the point in counting? Tom Henderson was a fine looking man, and if the feelings still stirring about inside her heart and soul were any indication, he sure knew how to please a woman. But Tom wasn’t looking for love, only for a good time, a one-night stand as the cowboys called it.
Mortified to think she might have given him what he wanted—and frantic that she didn’t even know whether she had or not—Lucille ducked her head, slouched her shoulders, and walked slowly toward the door. How could she ever face Tom again?
“Just so you know, Miss McIntyre, my son didn’t lay a hand on you last night. I suspect you came here a virgin, and you’ll be leaving the same way. All you did was pass out. He put you to bed. Anybody ever tell you how loud you snore?”
“I do not snore!” How dare this woman insult her. Relieved to know that nothing seriously wrong had happened, Lucille finally drew in a deep, refreshing breath. A little bit of sanity returned. “Where are my shoes? Did I have my bag with me?” She scavenged around, found both, and snatched them up. “I’m leaving now. Tell Tom I don’t ever want to see him again. As for you, Charlotte, I’ll see you at work on Monday morning. Don’t be late.”
She stepped outside, then suddenly realized she had no way to get home other than walking. She stopped, squared her shoulders and looked back toward the door. “Charlotte, would you mind…”
“Get in the wagon.” She was already headed that direction. “I sure don’t know why that son of mine went to so much trouble over you. I still can’t figure out why he brought you out here.”
Lucille knew why he’d done it. With her mother visiting in Denver, she would have had no one to look after her had Tom taken her home. In her intoxicated state, she could have fallen or hurt herself in other ways. He’d brought her here to keep her from harm.
What a good man he was. Good, indeed, in so many ways.
As far as she could remember, not once had she ever heard him speak an unkind word about anyone. He never quarreled or argued. He was quite a gentle man, she thought, recalling his touch. And among all the men she’d met in her twenty-two years, she’d never really known one who showed so much courtesy toward others as Tom Henderson.
Yes, he was sometimes loud and boisterous. He was a cowboy! Of course he enjoyed kicking up his heels at the Saturday night barn dances. Of course he liked a shot of whiskey and a bawdy tune. That’s how men were. Especially cowboys.
But how many men had that other side? That gentleness about them, that inherent kindness?
Not that it mattered now, of course. Seeing Tom would be much too embarrassing. She simply couldn’t face him again. Not ever.
* * * *
Sunday was definitely a day of rest in Sunset. Most of the hands at the Flying W slept right thought it, and Tom figured it was a sure bet Miss Lucille McIntyre most certainly wasn’t stirring about much.
As he lay in his bunk, he smiled, thinking of how lovely she’d looked when he’d last seen her, sleeping in the spare bed at his mother’s little house. He’d been sorely tempted to stay with her all night, but giving in to that temptation would have led to greater ones, and he might have ended up doing things…well, not things he’d regret, but the sort of things she would regret. In time, he meant to get her into his bed, but on her own terms. He liked his women willing.
It was the same with horses, Tom thought, as he set to work on Monday morning. He intended to get that bonus his boss had offered him. For more than a week, he’d been working patiently with the headstrong sorrel colt Wes Randall swore no man could ever break.
Tom gripped the rope in his hand and grinned as the colt trotted, drawing a large circle around his trainer. “That’s a good fellow,” he called out, keeping his voice calm and soothing. Too many cowboys thought breaking a horse meant shouting commands and keeping a heavy hand on the rope, trying to compel the animal to submit to the trainer’s demands. Tom knew better. A horse, especially a young horse, was like any other living creature. Patience, gentleness, and a willingness to guide rather than force was the secret.
He lowered the rope, held out his hand and invited the sorrel to come toward him for a lump of sugar.
“So, you’ve got this one trotting around in circles and eating out of your hand, I see.” Wes Randall stood at the corral gate, leaning on the post. “Proved me wrong, that’s for sure.”
A short, dark-haired Mexican stood beside the ranch owner. His name was Gustavo, but nobody called him by his name. He was just Goose. He grinned and the morning sunlight flashed on his white teeth. “You know, señor, why he’s so good with the horses, no? What I hear is that he’s thinks he’s one of them. Born right in the barn, they say.” Goose grabbed a stalk of weed and chewed on it. “Verdad, Henderson?”
For the life of him, Tom had no idea where and how the lazy-eyed cowpoke from below the Rio Grande had heard the sorry particulars of his birth. Denial wouldn’t work. Too many others knew the story of how his mother had made that wrong turn on that April morning after leaving the outhouse. Thought she was headed back to bed, but ended up in the horse barn, giving birth to her son on a pile of dirty straw.
Later she laughed about it, and all the while he was growing up, she pointed out that his fate had been sealed at birth. He’d never amount to a damned thing. Or actually, a hill of beans, as she put it. For some reason, it seemed to almost make her proud. All it did for Tom was make him ashamed for her. For himself, too.
Goose’s question didn’t deserve an answer, but even if Tom had chosen to reply, he wouldn’t have gotten the chance. Before he could open his mouth, a ruckus rose up from the general direction of the drive that led from road to ranch. All the old dogs hanging around took up barking and howling, and the chickens that usually strutted about squawked and flapped and ran around like they’d just lost their heads. Even Mousy, the old grey cat who usually didn’t move more than once or twice a day—and then, only if food was involved—lifted his head and looked around before closing his eyes again and going right back to sleep. Whatever was coming, Mousy didn’t care all that much.
But Tom saw what was coming—or, who was coming—and he did care. The wagon belonged to Lucille McIntyre, and from the way she was barreling up that long stretch of drive, she was hell-bent to get there in a mighty big hurry.
Chapter Four
She saw him at once, actually spotted him from a good distance. He stood
near the corral, surrounded by a colorful group of cowpokes in chaps, bandanas, and broad-brimmed hats.
Of course, it would be hard to miss a man like Tom Henderson. He stood taller than the other men gathered around him, but it was more than his physical height that gave him such a commanding presence. Maybe it was that unruly shock of blond hair, or the startling clearness of his gentle blue eyes, but the morning sunlight seemed to pick him out of the crowd and fall upon him alone.
And why not? Dear Lord, the man was gorgeous!
Lucille choked back the rush of emotions that that threatened to swallow her whole. Flames of desire flickered over every inch of her skin even as embarrassment set her to blushing. Sparks shot through her veins, making her blood burn. Her body tingled from head to toe.
How could one man make a woman feel all those sensations all at once? It was wrong. Especially when that man was a rough-around-the-edges cowboy who laughed too loud, drank too much, partied too hard, and kissed like there was no tomorrow.
Lucille fought for control as the wagon clattered to a halt. When, from the corner of her eye, she noticed Tom break away from the motley crew and walk toward her, she gripped the reins so hard her fingers ached.
He didn’t walk. He swaggered. With that slow, easy grace he possessed, he drew closer. Judging from the warmth in her cheeks, Lucille’s face turned a deeper shade of scarlet with each step the man took.
She lowered her gaze.
“Morning, Miss McIntyre.”
Staring down at her hands, she managed a curt nod but nothing more.
“Sure didn’t expect to see you out here.” He leaned closer. “Does this mean maybe you wanted to see me again? Maybe you liked—”
She could not allow him to finish the thought. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped. “You’re the last man on earth I want to see right now, and the only reason I drove all the way out here was because I had no other choice.”
He lifted a hand, scratched at his right ear, and grinned.
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