"Will you stay around until he and Eva get back from California?"
"Maybe. If that's not too far off." Lane glanced over at the wicker rocking chairs evenly lined up along the porch. He reached out and set one moving, trying to picture her and Stuart McKenna sitting there, side by side, watching the sun go down together. The homey scene was so foreign to his own unsettled way of life that Lane had a hard time picturing it.
Down the street, a man laughed. The sound reverberated off the darkened storefronts.
"I'd like you to tell me a little bit about my uncle, what he's been up to all these years, before I see him myself."
"It's very late—"
"I didn't mean tonight." He looked at her again. At a loss, he paused, and then said, "Thanks for the dance, Mrs. McKenna."
She put her hand out in protest. "Not that. Please. Rachel is just fine."
Was the McKenna name still a painful reminder of the love she had lost? he wondered.
"Rachel, then." His thoughts were traveling down impossible, illogical, very dangerous passageways. In a matter of minutes he had lost control and embarrassed the one person he knew who didn't deserve it. He might be living a different life now, but the past few minutes proved to him that he would never really change.
He wanted to be clear of this house. Or her.
He said good-bye, and didn't wait for her response. In two strides he was off the porch and headed down the neatly laid out path between the rosebushes. He didn't turn around until he heard the door open.
The house swallowed her up as the door closed behind her. A moment later the gas porch light dimmed. Lane closed the gate behind him without a sound and headed toward the far end of Main, where the saloons, run-down hotels and eateries were gathered. He knew those places would be full of miners and cowboys, drifters and loose women who smelled of musk and cheap perfume.
In a few moments he would be back in his element.
Rachel McKenna—dressed in such crisp black silk that it fairly crackled as they had walked side by side, Rachel with her neat coiffure, her impeccable reputation and gracious manners—Rachel McKenna was not the kind of woman with whom he kept company. She lived and moved in a world that he had glimpsed only a very few times in his life.
Lane passed a hotel, a ramshackle two-story building with a cryptically lettered sign tacked to the front door that read no beds left. Moving on, he headed for the nearest saloon. Tonight, instead of the obligatory tinny piano plunking away somewhere in the back of the room, music was provided by a few of the more wayward members of the Last Chance Brass Band. They had reassembled, this time with their coat collars collars unbuttoned and mugs of frothy beer within reach. It was nearly impossible to be heard over the two trumpets and a trombone that blared in the middle of the room.
Unlike the reception he'd experienced at the dance earlier, his entrance to the saloon went unnoticed. Walking up to the bar, Lane rested his boot on the brass footrail and leaned forward, forearms propped on the worn wooden finish. The bartender nodded, signaling that he would soon get to Lane.
Lane ordered a whiskey and was treated to a double, compliments of one of the band members who had shouted he was buying a round for the crowd. Lane stood with his back to the room, but his eyes never left the mirror on the wall behind the bar. To the naked eye he appeared lost in thought.
In a matter of seconds he had studied everyone in the room, memorized each by some outstanding feature or article of clothing and summarily dismissed any except those who might be a potential threat to his health.
In a matter of minutes one of the whores was standing beside him, leaning provocatively against the bar, elbows back, breasts temptingly exposed. She was raven-haired, well endowed but painfully thin, her skin sallow, her hair in need of a good, long shampoo.
"Hi, cowboy. Want to buy a girl a drink?"
He nodded to the barkeep. Without a word being exchanged, a whiskey instantly appeared at the girl's elbow. The band members stopped their infernal racket to make a toast. She reached out and rubbed her hand up and down his forearm in invitation. He dropped his gaze to her hand, flicked his eyes back up to hers and pinned her with such a chilling stare that she quickly drew her hand away.
"I hate to be touched," he told her as he brought the squat tumbler of whiskey to his lips. "Unless I say who, when and how."
She licked her lips and leaned closer, this time overtly careful not to touch him in any way. "Want to go upstairs with me, cowboy? If you say yes, I'll let you say when and how all night long."
He watched her slowly form the words by pouting and pursing her mouth and reckoned she thought the practiced routine was a tempting display of lips and tongue. He almost felt sorry for her. Almost. Who was he to judge her when he knew his soul didn't shine any brighter than hers?
He might have a reputation of his own, but that didn't mean he wasn't choosy.
"Move on, darlin'," he said, half smiling, trying to let her down easy. "I'm not in the mood tonight."
She tossed back the drink and shook her long inky hair back off her shoulders. "Another time then," she said.
"Yeah."
Another time.
He watched the crowd in the mirror and focused often on the door. From where he stood he could easily gun down anyone who had a mind to make trouble before they cleared the threshold. It never hurt to be prepared. Ordering another drink, he shifted his weight and let himself think about what Rachel had said earlier. He'd known Chase Cassidy had two children, but not that his uncle had named the boy after him.
Who would have figured? Chase's wife, Eva, had once told him that his uncle cared for him more than he knew. Maybe that was true, but he'd still bet good money that naming the boy Lane had been Eva's idea. He wanted to convince himself it didn't matter, but it did. For some idiotic reason, whenever he thought of his namesake, he felt like grinning, but in these surroundings, Lane didn't even crack a smile.
Rachel stood in the unlit entry hall, still too shaken to move.
Lane Cassidy was back.
Still impulsive. Still unpredictable. Still brazen enough to kiss her and bluntly reveal his youthful fantasies. It would probably never enter his mind that a lady would be insulted by such talk or that it wasn't proper to manhandle her the way he had—just as it had never entered her mind that he might have ever harbored such disturbing thoughts about her. As a student he had always been so troubled, so silent, but attracted to her? She would have never guessed it.
Once or twice she had asked Chase and Eva about him, but such an awkward silence would ensue that she had stopped doing so.
Thankful for the darkness and momentary solitude, she reached up and traced her lips. As time had slowly reduced her anger from boil to simmer, she realized with chagrin that the intensity of her anger was fueled by the fact that Lane's kiss had moved her in a way Stuart McKenna's had never done.
For a moment on the porch she thought Lane might have been aroused too, but now that reason had returned—and given everything her husband said about her lack of seductive skills—she realized that was highly unlikely.
To change the odd direction of her thoughts, Rachel made sure the door was locked. She took a deep breath and put the entire exchange out of her mind. The sounds of conversation and laughter were coming from the kitchen down the hall. She walked toward the room at the back of the comfortable, well-appointed two-story house she had inherited from her parents.
The house was her haven, a solid symbol of the world and her place in it. Whenever Rachel entered her home, she felt embraced by it, comforted, secure in the knowledge that everything inside was orderly and controlled.
She paused before the mirrored hall tree. As she slipped off the black-tasseled cord that held the fan to her wrist, Rachel caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She had lost weight this year and her eyes appeared shadowed, too big for her face. She leaned forward to get a better look and ran her fingertip over the dark smudges beneath her lower lashes. In the
dim light it was impossible to see the minute laugh lines at the corners of her eyes.
"Mama?"
At the sound of her son's voice, all else was forgotten. She slipped the fan cord over a hook, smoothed her hair and hurried down the hall, purposely lightening her step and adding a cheery lilt to her tone.
"What are you two up to?"
Inside the cozy kitchen she had decorated in deep green and creamy yellow to match the outside of the house, Rachel found Tyson and her housekeeper, Delphie, seated at the sturdy oak table in the center of the room.
"Have you eaten all the ice cream? I hope not, because I worked up quite an appetite at the dance," she told them.
Still dressed in his summer knickers, Ty's white shirt was splotched with strawberry ice cream. One suspender hung off his shoulder. With his auburn hair, his deep blue eyes and the freckles that were spattered across his upturned nose, her son took after her own father more than Stuart McKenna. Ty stood up on the chair and began to dig into a deep ice cream bucket with a long-handled spoon.
"It tastes superlicious. I'll dip you some, Mama, if Delphie can get me another bowl."
"Please…" Rachel amended.
"Please, Delphie," Ty added.
Philadelphia Jones stood up, ready to do the child's bidding. Rachel watched the two of them interact, her precious son and this woman she had come to depend on for so much more than household help over the years. The stately woman, with her exotic features, dark hair and eyes, and café-au-lait skin, was nearly sixty by her own account, but she appeared far younger. Born into slavery in Tennessee, Delphie had married a freeman and moved west with her pioneering husband. She had been widowed before she was forty. Delphie had worked for the McKennas for nearly eight years, and she and Rachel had long ago dispensed with formality.
"You really have a good time?" Delphie asked. There was a skeptical arch to her brow.
It was a moment before Rachel admitted, "Sort of." She tried to block the instant memory of Lane's stolen kiss as she reached for a striped crockery bowl of ice cream, dipped in her spoon and fished around until she found a particularly large, frosty strawberry. Before she popped it into her mouth, she added offhandedly, "An old student of mine showed up tonight."
Delphie was watching her closely. "Oh, really? How old?"
Rachel swallowed and swirled her spoon around the ice cream again. "Old meaning I taught him some years ago. He's twenty-six."
"Shoot. He's almost as 'old' as you are."
"He started school late in life. In fact, you could say he was my first failure. When he left town the same year I'd had him as a student, he could barely read anything but his name."
Uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation, Rachel swiftly changed the subject. "Tell me what you liked best about the day, Ty."
His face smeared with ice cream from ear to ear, Ty smiled. "This ice cream. And the picnic." He rolled his eyes up and stared at the ceiling as he talked. "And the parade. And eatin' outside."
"Me too." Rachel smiled.
"How come Grandma and Grandpa McKenna didn't come today?"
Rachel and Delphie exchanged a quick glance. How could Rachel explain her mother-in-law's peculiarities to a five-year-old?
"Well, Grandma Loretta doesn't like to picnic."
"Why?"
"Um… because of the ants."
He was staring at her, his spoon arrested a few inches from his lips. He frowned. "I didn't see any ants."
Rachel knew he was waiting for a believable answer and that he was smart enough to know when he heard the truth. She sighed. How could she explain social standing, or the fact that Loretta McKenna didn't feel there were very many residents of Last Chance who were worthy of her time?
"Grandma McKenna just doesn't like to mingle."
"You mean she doesn't want to be with other people?"
"Yes."
"She likes us."
Rachel could agree that her mother-in-law loved Ty, but she knew the woman barely tolerated her. "Grand-mama does love you, Ty. Now, don't you think it's time to get up to bed? You've had a long, exciting day."
He groaned, but always an even-tempered child, he didn't argue. The boy climbed down off the chair and started out the door.
"Hold on, young man." Delphie started after him with a damp dishcloth, the jacket that matched his knickers thrown over her arm. "Don't you touch a thing until I wipe those hands."
The housekeeper followed him out the door and down the hall.
"I'll be up to tuck you in and read you a story," Rachel called after them. She could hear the two chattering amiably, their voices fading as they climbed the stairs.
She walked back into the kitchen to clear the table and put out the light. As she gathered up the spoons and bowls and carried them to the dry sink, one thought played over and over in her mind.
Lane Cassidy was back.
He was back and he had been bold enough to kiss her.
Her cheeks burned at the very thought. She avoided looking at her reflection in the window over the sink and bustled back to the table, attempting to keep her hands and mind occupied. The task didn't require much thought, so her mind was left to wander back to the kiss on the porch.
She couldn't bear to think Lane would toy with her merely for sport. She wanted to believe he might have kissed her for old times' sake, kissed her because of what they had once been to each other—a young teacher uncertain of the boundaries of her role and a troubled youth who had desperately needed a friend.
While she was his teacher, she had never thought of Lane as anything but her student.
Her initial reaction to his kiss both surprised and appalled her, for she was not at all desperate for a man in her life. A banker, an elderly lawyer and a widowed rancher with four children of his own—all respected members of the community—had let it be known that once she was out of mourning they would welcome a chance to come courting. She had not given them a second thought because she had not pictured herself ready to commit to any man, and yet here she stood, angry with Lane for his impulsiveness, even more upset over her own response.
The dishes were cleared, the table wiped clean before she turned down the gas jet and made her way along the short hall to the entryway. Her gaze strayed to the front door. Unconsciously, she lifted her hand and pressed her fingers against her lips.
Intent upon putting the embarrassing moment behind her, Rachel Albright McKenna lifted her ankle-length black skirt and used the puddles of moonlight that washed in through the window at the top of the landing to guide herself up the stairs.
Reins in hand, Lane led his horse, an Appaloosa he named Shield, up Main Street. He was content to stroll rather than ride and more than willing to breathe deep of the night air and put the smoke-tainted smell of the Slippery Saloon behind him. He paused outside the huge barn at the end of the street, studying a sign that read livery painted above wide double doors that stood open. It was so dark inside that he couldn't make out anyone moving around.
He walked up close to the entrance, one hand riding on the butt of his gun, and called out, "Anybody around?"
"That depends on what you want," a resonant voice responded from just inside the door.
Lane had his gun clear of the holster and aimed at the shadows of the right corner of the barn before whoever was speaking had completed his sentence.
He watched as a powerfully built giant shuffled out of the shadows. The young man had his hands raised alongside his head to assure Lane he wasn't armed—at least not with anything more lethal than his own huge hands and bulging biceps.
"I came to see about putting my horse up for the night," Lane told him.
"You don't need a gun to do that, not unless you plan on holdin' me up first, mister, but then it wouldn't stand to reason you'd need a place to leave your horse, 'cause you'd most likely be hightailin' it out of town, wouldn't you?" The liveryman smiled, but since Lane hadn't holstered his gun, he hadn't lowered his hands.
After a second more, Lane shoved his gun back in the holster. "You shouldn't walk up on somebody without warning. You're liable to get yourself killed."
Although he stood a good head taller than Lane, the amiable giant didn't seem the least bit intimidating, with a smile as wide as the Montana sky. Obviously still dressed from the day's festivities, the man wore tweed trousers, a white shirt topped by striped suspenders and boots polished to such a high shine that the moonlight reflected off them whenever he shifted his feet.
"Never thought about it. Not too many likely to want to pick a fight with me."
"You're big, but it's pretty hard to fight a bullet," Lane told him bluntly.
"You want to put up that horse, mister, or stand here jawin' about it? I was all set to lock up and turn in."
"I'd like to pay you for one night." As the man watched him closely, Lane reached into his pocket and drew out a coin. "If you happen to have a place I could bed down, I'll pay double."
"You willing to sleep in the hayloft?"
"I'm willing to sleep anyplace. There's not a room to be had in town tonight."
The man stepped forward until he'd cleared the shadows. He was carefully sizing Lane up when he said, "You're that gunfighter fella named Cassidy, aren't you, mister? Saw you at the dance tonight."
Lane mused that he might not recognize the liveryman from his years in Last Chance, but it seemed he couldn't shake his own notoriety.
"Yeah, I'm Lane Cassidy." Lane waited for some reaction, waited for the big man to refuse his request for lodging.
"You're Chase Cassidy's kin?"
"His nephew. You know Chase?"
"I'm Tom Castor." Extending a hand the size of a bear paw, he pumped Lane's hand once. "My wife's a friend of Eva's. We moved here not long ago and have little ones the same age as the Cassidys'." He looked Lane over carefully, the frown on his face evident even in the weak light. "I'm not looking for any trouble."
Lane shifted his weight and flicked the ends of the reins against one open palm. "I'm not looking to give you any, either. All I need is a place to sleep. I'll pay in advance."
Last Chance Page 3