The song ended abruptly. Lane straightened away from the wall. He didn't intend to let anyone see him tonight, at least not anyone who didn't frequent the bawdy end of town—not if he could help it. He was. about to back down the alley the way he had come, collect his horse and head down to the Slippery Saloon and Opera House and join in a game of pinochle or keno or whatever other riotous celebration some of the less-than-wholesome citizens of Last Chance were engaged in.
With a backward glance, he caught a glimpse of Rachel's eyes and froze. Her most stunning feature, her incredible eyes had always been a sparkling, deep royal blue. In all these years he had never seen the likes of them on anyone else. Tonight, although their brilliant color was lost in the darkness, even the night's shadows could not hide the emptiness mirrored in the depths of her eyes and reflected upon her face. She gazed about the dance floor as if the abrupt cessation of music had startled her out of her preoccupation and rudely pitched her back to an uncomfortable reality.
He recognized Millie Carberry sitting beside her. The storekeeper leaned away from Rachel and whispered to the woman on her other side. Because of her widow's attire, no gentleman rushed to ask Rachel to dance. No one spoke to her. She folded the fan and looked down at her hands, then up and away, as if she were trying to recall where she was and what she should do next. She looked as fragile as a butterfly hovering indecisively on the edge of a leaf. He could sense the tense urgency in her.
The measured tempo of a waltz began. Lane recognized the tune, although he couldn't name it. He was half the distance to the dance floor before he realized he had taken the first step. When he reached the edge of the canvas he could tell without looking left or right, without making eye contact with anyone, that they were all watching him.
He focused on Rachel Albright.
Hushed whispers rode the air, hissing in his ears as he strode by one after another of the stunned onlookers.
The crowd of the dance floor parted to let him pass. Lane never faltered. Life had taught him never to hesitate, not even for an instant. Rachel looked up. He saw a startled recognition in her eyes, and felt satisfied by her reaction. At least his appearance had shaken her out of her anesthetized state. She didn't move, but remained on the edge of her chair, still perched, as if to flee.
In three more strides he was standing over her. He had always wondered what it would be like to touch her, to hold her in his arms. At sixteen, he had spent his few brief hours of formal schooling staring at the schoolmarm's breasts.
Lane reached out, extending his hand to her. At least her expression was no longer devoid of emotion, her stunning eyes no longer lackluster. Her lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. She was staring up at him as if he were a ghost, a vision, an apparition from her past.
Across the dance floor, the musicians played on, some of them oblivious to the unfolding drama. The notes of the waltz swirled hauntingly on the air, the music neglected by the other dancers. Lane waited, easily dismissing the curious stares of the crowd, disregarding the whispers, the titters of nervous laughter, the gasps of recognition. He concentrated on Rachel's face, on her eyes. In the darkness, the midnight blue appeared black. To his relief, he saw a spark of life flare in her eyes. It was coupled with something close to defiance.
He leaned near so that only she might hear.
"May I have this dance?"
Rachel stared up into the unfathomable depths of black eyes she had not seen in years—although she would have recognized the cool rebellion in them anywhere.
Lane Cassidy. Older, rugged, more sure of himself. His cocky swagger was no longer feigned, but coupled with an underlying confidence she couldn't help but notice as soon as she saw him begin to walk across the dance floor.
"Rachel?"
The sound of his deep voice was little more than a whisper. He was waiting for an answer, and she knew without a doubt that he had not yet mastered the art of patience. His deliberate stare penetrated to her soul, stripped away the past, her black gown and the heaviness that seemed to linger in her heart these days. The sight of him took her back to a time when she was an enthusiastic new teacher, when she knew who she was and where she was going, when she had been confident and secure in her own independence. Before Stuart.
His eyes never left hers. She knew he was daring her to accept and knew by his cocky smile that he expected her to refuse.
The band was playing a waltz. It dawned on her that the dance floor was deserted. She could feel the hostility emanating from Millie Carberry, who sat paralyzed beside her. The old biddy would have paid for the privilege of her front-row seat. The thought amused Rachel, but she did not smile. She rarely smiled these days.
Lane was one of the only men present wearing a gun. She didn't have to stare to know that he wore it low on his hip in a distinctive holster decorated with a hand-tooled rose.
Just as he had expected to when he'd left Last Chance, Lane Cassidy had a name for himself with that gun, and everyone in town knew it, including Rachel McKenna.
Rachel let her gaze ricochet around the crowd, and found all eyes upon the two of them. Why not give them something to talk about?
In an act of open rebellion that felt much too refreshing, she snapped her fan closed and let it dangle from the cord around her wrist, ran her palms along her skirt and then reached out for Lane's hand.
There was not a breath of wind. The heat was stifling, yet his skin was cool and dry to the touch, not hot as she had expected it to be. He drew her up until they stood toe to toe, then placed his hand possessively low on the small of her back.
Rachel heard Millie Carberry gasp as he whirled her out onto the dance floor. Again, if she had been in the habit of smiling, Rachel would have done so at that moment.
Lane's elegance and grace as a dancer belied his dark, predatory looks, his understated black clothing and the gun on his hip. She couldn't help but find herself wondering when and where he had learned to dance so very well, and more to the point, who had taught him.
Rachel concentrated on the hard, perfectly chiseled line of his jaw. The lower half of his face was covered with the dark stubble of a day's growth of beard. His midnight hair just teased the collar of his shirt. His lips seemed more prominent, fuller because they were outlined by shadow. She met his eyes and looked away, let her gaze fall to where her hand rested on his shoulder. She felt solid muscle move beneath his black shirt. Everything about him was alive and male. Sensations that had become foreign to her began to stir.
As he whirled her around the floor in time to the music, there was nothing innocent about the way he held her. She felt their thighs accidentally brush through the layers of her clothing and her cheeks flush with heat. She dropped her gaze. The neck of his shirt was unbuttoned and she found herself staring at the hollow of his throat. Against the dark fabric of his shirt, his skin was gilded bronze by the lamplight.
When she dared a glance at his face, she found Lane staring down at her, his lips still curved into a mocking half-smile.
"What are you doing here, Lane?"
Without missing a step, he gazed at the crowd around them, his eyes piercing beneath his dark hat brim. "Not now, Teacher," he replied, his tone low, barely audible. He glanced at the assembly and then said, "I hope you don't mind being the topic of conversation."
Rachel peered around and noticed that, except for a few younger couples who either did not recognize him or did not care, the dance floor was practically deserted.
"It won't be the first time," she told him.
He whirled her around so swiftly that her full skirt belled out behind her. She couldn't help but notice that they were directly in front of Millie Carberry when he did it again.
"What have you been up to, Miss Rachel, that keeps your name on everyone's lips?"
"Far less than you, Lane Cassidy."
The music ended without warning and they found themselves standing a breath away from each other in the center of the dance floor. He was waitin
g for her to make the first move. Rachel stepped back and opened the fan that dangled at her wrist and began to ply the air, attempting to create enough of a breeze to cool her blazing cheeks.
"Thank you, Lane."
He tugged on his hat brim. "My pleasure."
She turned to walk back to the edge of the dance floor, and knew when she saw Millie Carberry and her cronies staring in her direction that Lane had followed her. Her bold act of bravado had caused more of a stir than she had anticipated. Rachel bypassed them and moved to the edge of the canvas, then stepped onto the dusty street. A few paces along, she folded her fan and turned to him.
"I'm going home now."
"This shindig isn't over. If I guess right, I'd say that was the first dance you've had all evening."
"And it was my last."
"I'll walk you home."
"You don't have to."
"Fine." Lane's eyes darkened and his expression hardened as he interpreted her refusal. He turned away from her and stared defiantly at the good citizens of Last Chance.
They were still the center of attention, even though they were standing off to the side of the festivities. Still, she had not intended to hurt him. How could she have forgotten how sensitive he was?
Rachel reached for his arm. "Lane, I'm sorry. I'd be proud to have you walk me home."
Slowly, he turned and faced her. His expression didn't change, but he started walking down Main Street in the direction of her house. Rachel hurried to catch up.
"You still live in the same place?" he asked.
"Yes."
They lapsed into silence again, the past a ghostly companion walking between them in the whitewash of moonlight that stained the street. There were questions she was burning to ask, but she knew Lane would say nothing until he was good and ready to answer, so she held her peace.
"You've made quite a legend of yourself, Lane." She did not smile as she said it, nor was there any lightness to her tone. How could she possibly make light of the fact that he had accomplished his dream of becoming a notorious gunfighter?
They walked side by side down the darkened street, both staring straight ahead. She was all too aware of this taller, muscular, self-assured Lane Cassidy.
She took a deep breath and broke the silence. His uncle owned the Trail's End, an hour's ride from town. "Have you been out to the ranch?"
It was a few more strides before he answered. "Not yet. How are Chase and Eva?"
There had been a slight hesitation before he'd asked after his uncle and Eva Cassidy, Rachel's dearest friend. Over the last few years, time and circumstances had kept Rachel from seeing them as much as she would have liked.
She glanced over at Lane and found him interested in the storefronts they passed as they walked along. "They're both fine," she began. "They aren't at home, though. They took the children to California to visit Eva's folks. Did you know they named their boy after you? He's eight. Little Ellie is five."
"I heard someplace they had two children—"
"I know they would love to see you—if you'll be around long enough." She knew better than to push, but she couldn't help herself.
Lane laughed aloud, a warm, masculine laugh that made her heart skip a beat.
"That's your refined way of coming right out and asking me what the hell I'm doing in Last Chance again, isn't it?"
She smiled into the darkness. "It is. But you don't have to tell me."
"You know I wouldn't if I didn't want to."
"I know you haven't changed that much."
"Let's just say I'm here on business." The warmth that his laugh had initiated suddenly chilled. Business. The business of killing? "So, you think I've changed?" he asked. "Well, for one thing, you're taller." His cocky smile certainly hadn't changed. She wasn't about to tell him how handsome he had become when he obviously knew it. Rachel looked away.
They reached the white picket fence that surrounded her neatly trimmed lawn and the even path bordered by her rosebushes that led to the porch. She paused beside the gate, her hand on the top of a picket. "It was quite a surprise seeing you tonight, Lane."
"I'm walking you to the door, so don't bother with any good-byes yet."
Rachel started to protest, then stopped. It had never done any good to argue with Lane Cassidy once his mind was made up. She opened the gate and started along the meandering stone path that led to the front steps. He followed along behind her.
They crossed the wide covered veranda and paused beneath the porch light above the door. The lamp flickered, but gave off enough of a warm glow to draw moths. The street behind them was deserted, the corners of the porch shadowed in darkness.
They stood in awkward silence. Lane leaned one shoulder casually into the doorframe.
Rachel cleared her throat.
"You married, Rachel?"
The question was so abrupt that she hesitated a moment before she said, "I was."
Lane reached out and fingered the black silk cuff at her wrist. He grazed the cloth so carefully that she wouldn't have known he had touched her if she had not been closely watching his hands.
"I married Stuart McKenna."
There was a slight pause before he responded. "The sheriff? That figures. The schoolmarm married to a sheriff who stood to inherit half of Montana. How fitting."
"He's dead. He died a year ago." She wished she could have added a touch of sorrow to her tone, given some indication that she once cared, but she had stopped caring a long time before Stuart had met his untimely and inconvenient end.
Lane leaned closer. Rachel tried to step back but found herself pressed up against the door. She couldn't move.
"So he's dead?" It wasn't until he whispered the question that she realized he had brought his lips too close to hers.
"Yes." Her gaze shot to the street and then back to his eyes. She held up her hands in a weak show of protest coupled with disbelief. "Lane, I think—"
"Then I won't have to worry about getting killed over this."
Everything happened at once. His hands moved to the small of her back. He roughly drew her up against him, swung her into the shadows and pressed her up against the wall beside the door.
Before she could react, Lane deepened the kiss. For having led such a hard life, his lips were surprisingly soft and warm against hers. His arms were sure and strong. Pinned there, she was powerless to step out of his embrace.
Even as her mind shouted a warning, she closed her eyes. It had been so very long since she had been held—and it felt so very, very good. He kissed her with unwavering determination. Her senses drank him in. He seemed to be tasting her, sampling her to see if he desired more.
Stuart had always found her lacking.
The thought sobered her as quickly as a bucket of cold water. So did the sound of laughter and hushed conversation that echoed through the empty street. Her eyes flew open. Her breath was coming hard and fast. Accepting a dance to cause a stir was one thing, but she had never intended for anything like this to happen.
Rachel pushed him away. As furious at herself for the momentary lapse as she was with him, she met his gaze straight on. He was smiling the cocky almost-smile that was as much a part of Lane Cassidy as the gun he wore on his hip.
She braced her hands against his chest and held him at arm's length. "I see you still don't have any manners. Why in the world did you do that?"
His hint of a smile filled out, brilliant even in the shadows.
"Because I've always wanted to."
* * *
Chapter Two
Lane had suspected it would be a mistake to come back to Last Chance, and the last hour had proved him right. In the time it took a pot to boil he had already drawn attention to himself in front of the town's upstanding citizenry and then plastered the late sheriff's widow up against the front wall of her own house.
The sound of music that drifted to them on the night air slowly died away. Because of the roofline of the porch, half of Rachel's face was sh
adowed, the other washed in silver-blue moonlight. Still, there was no denying the smoldering anger in her eyes, any more than he could ignore the just-kissed, pouty look about her full lips.
"I used to daydream about kissing you when I was a kid," he confessed.
When she didn't respond, he found himself staring at her dark hair and wished he could take the liberty of freeing it from the pins that held it in place. She used to wear it in a long, thick braid, a style far more suited to her than the matronly, confined twist she had fashioned tonight. He fantasized running his fingers through her hair, wrapping it around his hands and wrists and pulling her up against him again.
She was too outraged to speak coherently. "I didn't… I never—"
"You did nothing to encourage me. You couldn't have guessed what I was thinking. You were so hell-bent on being the best teacher this town ever saw that you had no idea the sixteen-year-old in the back of the room was watching the way you moved or wondering how you would feel if he ever dared to touch you."
His gaze left her hair and trailed down to the pulse point on her neck. Curiously unable to resist, he reached up, cupped her jaw and ran his thumbs across her lower lip. She pushed his hand away.
When the sound of voices in the street reached them, Lane noticed a group of holiday revelers walking arm in arm up Main. Unlike him, she had a reputation to think of. He turned his back on Rachel, pulled the brim of his hat down and moved away from her. He stood at the edge of the porch, half hidden in shadow.
A few members of the marching band walked by. Their voices echoed down the street. Rachel's composure had returned by the time he looked back at her. Having regained her poise, she was standing in front of the door. Her hand clutched the knob as if a hasty exit might protect her.
He owed her some explanation. A man didn't just reappear after ten years with no reason whatsoever.
"I didn't come back to terrorize you. I came to town to see Chase."
It was all he could admit at this point, all he could allow her to know.
Last Chance Page 2