by Sandra Brown
"I don't think we can ever go back—"
He held up his hand. "Don't give me an answer today-Just think about it."
Banner was suddenly tired, fatigued to the point of collapsing. She just wanted him to leave. "I'll think about it. I need time."
"I understand." He garnered enough courage to reach for her hand and carry it to his lips. He kissed it tenderly before releasing it. It fell listlessly back to her side, dangling limply from her arm. "I won't give up, Banner, until you say yes."
He turned on his heel and went out the door.
Banner sank into a chair, buried her face between her hands and wept. For weeks, since the party and that horrid afternoon prior to it, she had kept her tears damned behind a stubborn will. Now they gushed from her eyes in hot, salty streams.
How simple life would have been if the wedding had gone off as planned. She would have been blissfully happy never to know about Grady's dalliance with Wanda Burns or anybody else. She and Jake would still be friends. There wouldn't be this animosity between them. How had she ever convinced herself that going to him in the barn that night would be an answer to her problems? How?
She jerked her head around when she heard the tread of Jake's boots at the back door. He swung the door open after one swift knock and called her name. She averted her head, but not before he saw the streaks of her tears. "What's the matter? What's happened?"
"Nothing."
"Have you been crying?" He crossed the floor, his spurs ringing, and crouched down beside her chair.
"No."
"You have too. Don't lie to me."
He pushed his hat back and a lock of blond hair fell over his brow. As her heart twisted with love, her face crumpled. "Oh, Jake."
Suddenly his aims were around her and her face was buried in the crook between his neck and shoulder. Tears drenched his collar. Her hands clenched and unclenched against the muscles of his back.
He rubbed his face in her hair. His hands spread wide over her narrow back, drawing her closer, making her as much a part of him as possible. He didn't push her away until she had cried herself out and her sobs were reduced to soft hiccups absorbed by his bandana.
Only men did he clasp her upper arms and lift her from his chest to peer down into her face. "Do you want to tell me what's wrong?"
"Would you believe hayfever?"
He looked at the flowers. "You never had it as a kid,"
"How do you know? You weren't here. You were always going off and leaving me."
His eyes came to rest on her chastising mouth and stayed. Even when he raised one hand to his mouth and pulled off the leather glove with his strong white teem, his eyes didn't stray from her lips. He laid his thumb against them vertically. He glidingly moved it to one corner, slowly returned to the center, then slid it to the other side. "I'm sorry. For every time I left you, for every time I hurt you in any way, I'm sorry, Banner."
He laid the ungloved hand along her cheek. The other hand went around her waist and pulled her forward until her breasts were crushed against his chest again. Then he lowered his head and pressed his lips to hers.
A tremble of emotion rippled through her, a slight aftershock from her eruption of tears. Her arms curled up under his. Her hands met at his spine and her fingers intertwined across that ridged column.
"Who taught you to kiss, Banner?" he asked moments later against her mouth.
"You."
"This isn't the way I taught you. Open your mouth."
"I don't want you to think I'm a whore like that Watkins woman or a flirt like Dora Lee Denney."
"Oh, for Christ's sake." He sighed. "Kiss me right, will ya?"
He didn't exactly leave the choice up to her. His tongue probed the seam of her lips with such delicious persuasion that they parted. He tilted her head to one side with meager pressure of his hand on her cheek. Then his tongue probed deep, prowling and penetrating and pumping. It swirled to touch the roof of her mouth, the back of her teeth, the slick lining of her lips. It stroked evocatively, delving deeper into her mouth with each magic thrust.
He wasn't finished when he released her mouth. She sagged against him weakly, trustingly. He sipped the lingering tears from her eyelashes, touched the tip of her nose with the tip of his tongue, dropped light random kisses over her tear-stained cheeks. They nuzzled. And it was peaceful. And turbulent. And wonderful.
"Why were you crying, Banner?"
She smiled against his hard lean cheekbone. "I told you. Hayfever."
He sank his fingers into her hair, lifted it and caught her earlobe between his teeth. She gasped and he smiled. "Don't you know better than to pick flowers when you've got hayfever?"
"I didn't pick them."
"Where'd they come from then?"
"Grady brought them to me."
Jake's head snapped back. Seconds ticked by ponderously while he stared at her. Slowly he straightened his knees and rose to his full height. He took off his hat, which had somehow managed to stay atop his head during their embrace, and slapped it against his chap-covered thigh, creating a cloud of dust.
"I hope I heard you wrong."
"Grady brought them to me," she repeated, disliking the tight expression on his face.
"Grady Sheldon?" His lighthearted, pleasant tone was belied by the tension emanating from him.
Banner came out of the chair. "Yes, Grady Sheldon."
Jake's temper flared. He slapped his hat against the rack near the door. Luckily it caught one of the pegs on the first pass. He faced Banner with his fists digging into his hips. "And you let him come in?"
His stance, his inflection, his expression clearly told her he thought she was stupid beyond belief. That did Banner's temper no good. "Why not?" She went to the sink for lack of anything better to do and needlessly, but viciously, began to pump water into it.
"Why not?" Jake's roar rattled the panes of glass in the window.
"Yes, why not? I was once engaged to marry him, remember?"
"Yeah, I remember," he said, advancing toward the sink. He peeled off his remaining glove and tossed it down on the table beside the other one. "I also remember him getting a hole shot in his shoulder the day of your wedding for putting a kid in some white trash girl."
She spun around. "You have such a quaint way of putting things," she said sarcastically.
"What were you thinking of to let him come in here with you alone?"
Now that Jake pointed that out to her, she realized how foolhardy she had been. Lee had told her later that Ross had threatened Grady's life in the church. A man as proud as Grady couldn't have taken that lightly. What if he had come here today seeking revenge instead of forgiveness? But he hadn't. Even if she had any qualms about letting Grady in now, she wasn't going to admit mem to Jake. She faced him with cool detachment. "He's sorry for what happened. He's asked me to marry him."
Jake stared at her in mute incredulity. Finally he shook his head and laughed mirthlessly. "I hope you're not considering it."
"I might be."
Jake's eyes narrowed dangerously. He didn't trust Sheldon any further than he could throw him. To Jake's way of thinking the fire that had killed Wanda and her father smacked too much of coincidence. How it had started was still unexplained. He had hated the sonofabitch from the moment he saw him in the church. Jake had known immediately that Sheldon wasn't man enough for Banner. He had always detested shifty, sneaky, ambitious bastards like Sheldon,
"Did that little runt threaten you?"
"No!"
"Then what did he say?"
"That's my business."
"Don't get smart with me, Miss Coleman. Ross would kill Sheldon on sight if he knew he had come anywhere near you."
"And I suppose you'll blaze a trail right over to River Bend and report it."
Disgust showed in every weather-beaten feature of his face. "I'm not a tattletale, Banner, and you're not a child."
"That's right. I'm not. And I'm at liberty to accept flowers from
any man I choose to. You're the foreman of Plum Creek. I defer to your judgment on business decisions, but until I ask your advice on my personal life, kindly keep it to yourself."
He didn't know whether to throttle her or kiss her again. But he was too mad to do either. He grabbed up his gloves, snatched his hat from the rack, and slammed out the door. His spurs spun crazily as his heels struck the hard-packed earth. He cursed in tune to them.
Spoiled rotten brat. She didn't know what was good for her. She wouldn't recognize good fortune if it came up and kicked her in the butt. She didn't know he was only trying to protect her from weasels like Sheldon and seducers like Randy.
And goddamned if she hadn't been kissing him with Sheldon's friggin' flowers lying right there on the table!
Why the hell he should care he didn't know. He had promised Ross he'd look after her. All right, he would. But he wouldn't be blamed if she got hooked up again with some no-account like Sheldon. Hell no, he wouldn't. If she got herself in a fix, it would be no more than she deserved.
Still, he knew as well as he knew the sun would come up tomorrow that he would kill Grady Sheldon before he would let the man touch her.
THIRTEEN
Cool gray eyes scanned the column of figures in the ledger and were pleased with the tally at the bottom. It showed a considerable profit. Let the church groups march with their silly signs that promised condemnation and God's wrath. Let the preachers warn of hellfire and brimstone. Inside the Garden of Eden, things couldn't be better.
A knock sounded on the door. Priscilla checked the small gold clock on her desk. It was time for Dub Abernathy's appointment. "Come in." Meticulously she locked the ledger in the bottom drawer of her desk. She was wealthy. No one knew quite how wealthy, and she intended to keep it that way.
Dub always blustered in, as swift and sudden as the first norther of the season. He did so today, but turned to close the door softly behind him so as not to wake the sleeping whores upstairs.
He had often wondered how Priscilla bore up under the hours she kept. She was up until the wee hours of the morning when the Garden of Eden closed. While her card dealers and prostitutes slept well into the afternoon in preparation for the evening to come, she worked in her office and entertained personal clients. He knew he wasn't the only one, though the number of that favored few was limited.
It was not surprising that Priscilla's saloon was the most profitable in town. Dedication such as hers went hand in hand with success. Dub was a Trojan himself, never satisfied with what he had, always hungry for more. He recognized that kind of greed in someone else.
"Priscilla, dear." He laid his bowler hat and cane on the satin-covered chair by the door and advanced into the room.
Priscilla's greeting was noticeably cooler than usual. "Hello, Dub." He crossed the room to take her into his arms and kiss her long and hard. Today, she avoided his embrace, going to the sideboard instead and pouring a shot of whiskey into a tumbler. "Drink?"
"Of course." He sensed her reserve, knew the reason for it, and cursed to himself. This liaison was becoming complicated. He enjoyed Priscilla and tremendously liked what they did in bed together. But soon he might have to make other arrangements.
A very attractive widow had recently joined his church. She lived alone in a quiet part of town in a comfortable house surrounded by a white picket fence. Only yesterday she had come into the bank seeking his advice about her finances. There was a definite possibility there. She might not have Priscilla's sexual expertise, but she could be coached. And weren't widows starved for affection? An affair of that sort wouldn't be subject to these complications. That was a big plus in the widow's favor.
Priscilla handed Dub the glass of whiskey and poured one for herself. She drifted into the bedroom beyond the office. Dub followed her like a faithful puppy. "You missed your appointment last week," she said idly, checking her appearance in the mirror of her dresser.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart. An emergency board meeting was called. I had no choice but to attend and there wasn't time to notify you. I hope you didn't worry."
"I didn't," she said to his reflection hi the mirror. "I merely added the usual fee to your bill." She smiled, but the warmth didn't reach her eyes.
Dub squelched his irritation just in time to ask repentantly, "Are you angry with me?"
She turned to face him. Her hair was loose around her shoulders. She was dressed in a blue satin robe. Its long bell sleeves fell over her wrists in cascades of pearl-gray lace. The satin conformed to the lush figure beneath. One smooth thigh peeped through the folds of the robe in front.
"Not angry, Dub. Disappointed. The last time you were, here, you promised to keep these religious fanatics out of my hair."
"I didn't promise."
"As good as promised. I thought you could sway public opinion."
"One man can only do so much against a growing mob."
"Mobs are just like sheep. They go where they're led. Put them onto some other cause. Get their attention off Hell's Half Acre."
"How do you propose I do that?"
"I don't care." She was pacing now, angrily tossing her head back and forth. "I've never asked you for favors, Dub. I don't now. All I want to do is run my business like any other citizen. What makes me any different from the butcher, baker, and candlestick maker? No one is raising hell about them." She pointed a finger at him. "And I'd bet next week's profits that they're not as honest in their business dealings as I am."
Dub sank wearily onto the chaise longue and rubbed his thumb and second finger into his eyesockets. He didn't need this today. He had escaped the pressures at the bank for a good frisky romp in Priscilla's bed and a few glasses of her Tennessee whiskey, that's all. No arguments. No scenes. He could have that in the boardrooms.
He lowered his hand and looked up at her. She was mad. Anger radiated off her in waves. Her eyes shone hard and cold. He had never noticed those unflattering lines around her mouth before. When had they gotten there?
"You hardly provide the same service as a baker, Priscilla," he said dryly. "How do you expect me to call off the dogs when this part of town is in constant turmoil? This past weekend one of your own girls was murdered."
Priscilla sat down on the padded stool in front of her vanity. She picked up a powder puff and dusted it across her palm and up the inside of her arm. "That's a hazard of this business and every girl who takes a paying customer into a bedroom knows that. She might be unfortunate enough to get a farmer whose wife found this life more exciting than milking and gathering eggs, or a jealous lover, or a do-gooder who takes a whore to bed, then sees it as his duty to God to punish her for leading him astray." She shrugged her shoulders eloquently. "It happens all the time. 'Another Fallen Dove Slain.' " She quoted the familiar headline.
"There was a gunfight in the streets last week. Three cowboys shot it out after a poker game. Two of them died."
"That didn't happen in my place."
"Still, decent folks don't—"
"Decent folks!" she cried. She left her seat on the stool and began pacing again. "I'm sick up to here with decent folks. What makes them decent? They're trying to ruin my business. Is that decent? Is that what that preacher of theirs tells them is the decent thing to do?" She whirled on Dub. "Do something about him."
"I can't. He's got a following and it's growing. I warned you about him, Priscilla. He's putting pressure on the sheriff. Sooner or later the sheriff is going to sit up and pay attention. That preacher's got voters on his side, lots of voters, and this is an election year. If it takes closing down Hell's Half Acre and boarding up the businesses in this part of town, he'll do it to win next fell. The sheriffs ambitious."
"He's a fraud. He's in here nearly every night right along with the men he throws in jail."
"I know that," Dub said patiently. "And you know it. But they"—he tilted his head in the direction of downtown— "don't. Or if they do, they don't care so long as he keeps the peace."
"Shi
t," Priscilla muttered under her breath. She flounced down on the stool again and crossed her legs. The robe separated to accommodate her thighs. Her blue satin, high-heeled mule with the egret feathers on the toe whisked back and forth like an angry pendulum.
Dub was entranced by the length and shape of her leg. He was growing bored wife the conversation. It wasn't what he had taken time out from his busy schedule for. His eyes ventured up her leg to her lap, then to her breasts which were trembling with agitation. Her nipples were hard and pointed. The thickening in his groin became more pronounced by the second.
"Baby," he said in a conciliatory tone, "I know you're upset."
"Damn right I am."
"I'm doing what I can."
"It isn't enough."
"So I'll do better," he snapped. He was losing patience. How dare a whore have the gall to speak to him, Dub Abernathy, with no more deference that Priscilla did? That pretty widow lady had been as meek as a lamb in his office yesterday, speaking softly, weeping quietly, looking at him with limpid eyes that were filled with timorous respect. "Come on, Priscilla. Are you going to waste my hour away from the bank arguing?" He pouted at her like a little boy.
His theatrics didn't impress Priscilla. Dub was shrewd and manipulative and she knew it. She also knew that if it came down to protecting her or protecting himself, there would be no choice in his mind. Such selfish disloyalty only went to prove that a girl had to look out for herself. If she had a good time along the way, she was damned lucky.
She came to her feet slowly. Her fingers caught the ends of the robe's sash and pulled until the belt fell away and the satin parted. She was completely naked underneath. A sensuous shimmy of her shoulders sent the robe slithering down her body to pool around her feet.
"I don't ever want to argue with you, Dub. But your point is well taken. Your visits to me are too precious and too short for us to waste time discussing business." She ran her hands down her sides, skimming her thighs, trailing her fingers through the thatch of hair between them. "Maybe I should start coming to the bank for our business meetings."