Last Chance

by Jill Marie Landis

  "I understand. Watch your back if I don't see you again."

  Lane shoved on his hat and grabbed the door handle. He looked across the room at the man he credited with having given him a purpose in life when he'd had none. He owed Boyd more than a cold good-bye.

  With a sigh, Lane walked over to the desk. "Give me a pen and paper and I'll let you know where you can find me if you need me again," he said.

  Johnson shoved a glass inkwell and pen toward him, rustled through the stack and came up with a clean sheet of vellum. Lane bent over the desk, wrote out the information and handed it to Boyd. He walked back to the door.

  "Take care of yourself, Boyd."

  As Lane closed the door behind him, Boyd looked at the address in his hand and smiled.

  As if bad weather had kept all the guests on the premises, the dining room of the Windsor Hotel was filled to capacity. Each table was covered with white damask that had been perfectly ironed with a long fold down the middle. Silver epergnes stood in the center of each table, the shining urns filled with hothouse flowers and flanked by handsome candles.

  Rachel lifted her water goblet, took a sip and set it down, content to watch the other diners as she, Delphie and Ty waited for their main course to be served. The room was filled to capacity for the renowned food. They were surrounded by diners in their finest evening wear, ladies in satins and silks escorted by well-dressed gentlemen, some in black swallow-tailed jackets and starched white shirts studded with diamonds.

  Delphie leaned close to Rachel. "Not one of these ladies can hold a candle to you. That wine-colored gown brings out your color. I still think you look a mite too thin, but nothing like you did when… well, back in August."

  Rachel could feel herself blush over Delphie's compliments. The dressmaker had assured her the deep burgundy moire trimmed in black lace complemented her dark hair and emphasized the shocking contrast of her blue eyes. When she'd bought it, she had imagined wearing it for Lane someday. She refused to let go of the dream.

  She felt her heart swell with pride as she looked at her little family. Ty's hair had been slicked down, but his cowlick was trying to defy the magic of hair oil. Delphie was outfitted in an aqua watered-silk gown that was nearly as grand as her own. Rachel had insisted on buying it for her, since Delphie had become more of a companion than a housekeeper.

  "Mama?" Ty's shoulders barely cleared the edge of the table. Fork in hand, he waited impatiently for his roast beef and Yorkshire pudding to arrive.

  "What, dear?"

  "You think there will be snow on the ground when I get up tomorrow? How are we going to get to school? I've been wanting to take a cab since we got here."

  "If it snows we will have to take a cab."

  He raised both hands and the fork in the air in a show of triumph.

  She shushed him gently before he could express his joy out loud, and they all fell silent as the waiter arrived with their entrees. Rachel looked down at the baked fillet of trout with Madeira sauce and wished it inspired her appetite, which had fled as soon as Boyd had delivered his latest report that afternoon.

  Delphie was speculating on how the cook might have prepared the lamb with caper sauce she had ordered as Rachel picked up her fork. Just as she was about to take a bite, Rachel caught the eye of a young, handsome gentleman headed toward her. His face was round without being plump, his eyes a shade of gray-blue. He was well dressed, of medium height, and upon close inspection, she decided he was probably no older than twenty.

  Rachel felt her palms grow cold and her stomach lurch as she readied herself to turn away any advance the man intended to make. He stopped beside her chair and bowed with an enthusiastic smile.

  "Excuse me, ma'am, for interrupting…"

  "That's quite all right."

  He looked kind enough. Handsome enough. Sincere enough. But he was far too young. And he wasn't Lane. Rachel was prepared to tell him that although she found his attention quite complimentary, she really wasn't seeking companionship.

  "My wife couldn't help but admire your fan," he said, indicating the folded fan Rachel had laid near the corner of the table. Featuring ivory ribs carefully covered with saffron stain and shells embroidered in seed pearls, it was one of her proudest creations.

  "Your wife?" She felt a rush of relief.

  The man pointed to a lovely young woman in a confection of mint green, elbow-length gloves and matching shoes. She looked barely old enough to be out of the schoolroom.

  "We're newly wed," he added with a shy smile. Rachel was so relieved to hear the handsome stranger had a wife that she quickly grabbed up her fan and offered it to him.

  "Please, take it, as a gift," she said easily.

  "Really, I couldn't," he protested. "If you tell me where you bought it, though, I can buy her one of her own."

  Rachel glanced over at the petite blonde again and waved, then turned back to the gentleman. "That's impossible, for I made it myself," she told him. "I can easily make another. I insist. Your wife must have it."

  Finally convinced, he reached out and took the fan, bowing low. "I don't know what to say…"

  "Just be sure to take your wife to many wonderful events where she'll be able to use the fan," Rachel told him.

  He thanked her profusely before he walked away.

  "You're too good, Rachel," Delphie said.

  Rachel began to comment just as she glanced over at the entrance to the dining room, hoping to see the new husband present her fan to his wife. "What you give away comes back to you—"

  She lost her train of thought completely when she noticed a sinister figure who had the audacity to flaunt propriety. Not only had he left his hat on, but he was dressed in worn trail clothes, a long black duster and black trousers. He looked like a bird of prey hovering between the heavy velvet draperies in the entry. The impatience in his stance reminded her of Lane.

  Unable to look away, she watched the man gaze slowly around the room as if he was looking for someone. There was no spare movement in his actions. He barely moved his head, yet it was apparent that he was well aware of everything going on around him.

  The lower half of his face was shadowed by a few days' growth of beard. His eyes were half hidden by the brim of his hat. When those eyes met hers, they touched her with a searing recognition and heat.

  Rachel went numb. Her fork clattered to her plate, drawing the attention of everyone around them.

  "Mama?"

  "Rachel?"

  She couldn't answer Ty or Delphie. She couldn't move.

  Rachel watched Lane move through the room as he walked directly toward her, ignoring the stares of the other diners.

  Conversation had all but ceased in the room. All eyes were on the tall, lean man stalking across the room, daring anyone to stop him.

  Lane could feel the open stares of the curious and heard the low grumbling of the disapproving, but he was beyond giving them a second thought. By some miracle, Rachel was in Denver. Sweet Rachel, sitting there like a vision with her indigo eyes shining at him, giving him the strength he needed to calmly cross the room when what he really longed to do was vault over every table in his way, knock patrons right and left in order to clear the quickest path to her side.

  He was too adept at hiding his emotions for them to show, but he was trembling by the time he reached her table. It was a new experience for him. He didn't dare touch her or offer a hand in greeting, so he stood a stride away, fighting to find his voice while he watched her eyes grow suspiciously moist.

  "Lane!" Ty shouted when he finally recognized him.

  "Howdy, Ty." Lane took his eyes off Rachel just long enough to smile at the boy and nod to Delphie.

  As if Lane's being there were the most natural thing in the world, Ty said, "I got a new hat like yours, Lane, but Mama won't let me wear it in the dining room. How come you get to wear your hat in the dining room?"

  "'Cause I never had a mama like yours to tell me not to." He searched Rachel's face. "What ar
e you doing here?"

  "Waiting for you."

  "Are you Boyd's mysterious client?" Suddenly Boyd's smug, secretive behavior earlier that afternoon was explained.

  "Not so mysterious," she said softly. "You're the one who was missing."

  "I wasn't missing. I knew right where I was."

  Rachel smiled up at him, her eyes luminous, offering him all the love she had to give. He wanted to reach for her, to sweep her into his arms and carry her away, lock her up where the world could never find them—where Stuart McKenna could never find them.

  Rachel glanced around the dining room. The conversation was hushed and expectant. Practically every eye in the room was on them.

  "I need to talk to you," she said quietly. "Alone."

  She would accept no excuse; he could tell by her tone. He took a deep breath, steadied his hand, then held it out in invitation to her.

  She took his hand, picked up her black reticule and began to push back her chair. Lane caught the back of the chair and assisted her, waited while she gathered up the rich wine moire skirt and stepped out from behind the table.

  Lane was back.

  Rachel let her hem drop into place and took his hand. Immediately, her racing heart tripped and then settled back into a furious tattoo that set her ears to ringing. She glanced down at Delphie, who nodded in silent understanding.

  "Ty and I will be up after dessert," Delphie assured her. "Maybe one or two desserts and a long walk around the hotel," she added with a smile.

  As calmly as she could, Mrs. Rachel Albright McKenna, former schoolmarm, sheriff's widow and prominent citizen of Last Chance, Montana, carefully lifted her skirt, took Lane Cassidy's arm and let one of the most notorious gunslingers in the West lead her from the Windsor dining room.

  As they approached the entry, a waiter carrying an ice bucket and champagne stepped aside to let them pass. Lane reached out, smoothly lifted the bottle by the neck and kept walking. The headwaiter, who had witnessed the sleight of hand, deftly signaled the waiter back to the kitchen.

  Neither Rachel nor Lane said a word as they stepped into one of the Windsor's three elevators. A couple Rachel recognized was already inside. She couldn't help but notice the way Mrs. Harvey Daniels quickly grabbed her husband's arm when she caught sight of Lane. Rachel nodded politely as the gate clanked shut behind them. The Danielses moved as far away from Lane as possible, but were unable to resist casting sidelong glances his way.

  Rachel bit her lips together to keep from smiling. Lane ignored them all as he and Rachel stood shoulder to shoulder while the elevator ascended. When they reached the second of five floors, she led the way to her suite. Her hand shook as she fished around in her small bag for the key, then tried in vain to open her door with it.

  If they were ever going to get inside, Lane figured, it was up to him. He took the key from her, easily slipped it into the lock and opened the door. A single lamp was burning in the room. He followed Rachel inside, closed the door behind them and carefully locked it. As condensation ran off the cold champagne bottle in his hand and dripped onto the plush Belgian carpet, he stood there staring down at her.

  Half afraid that if she spoke the spell would be shattered, she stared back. There were questions in his eyes, questions and something far more compelling. He wanted her. She could see it in his wary stance, in the way he had been so careful not to touch her.

  "Boyd said his client had asked for me specifically. Are the McKennas trying to gain custody of Ty again? Why come to me, Rachel?"

  "I need you." Rachel walked the two steps that separated them until she stood just inches away, looking up into his eyes. In their ebony depths she recognized all the protective defenses his childhood had forced him to erect around his heart.

  "I know that despite what you told me in Last Chance, you're no longer a Pinkerton," she said softly. Before he could argue she added, "And I know why you left me."

  He turned his back on her, walked over to a sideboard and set the bottle down. The beveled-glass doors that fronted the upper cabinets revealed an assortment of crystal. He chose two champagne goblets and began to open the bottle.

  Rachel drank in the sight of him, from his dark hat to his overlong hair, from his broad shoulders to the heels of his dusty black boots. Her hands itched to touch him, to untie the queue at his nape and run her fingers through his hair. She longed to help him shrug out of his coat, unbutton his shirt, let her hands play along the corded muscles of his abdomen, run her fingers over the rough stubble that shadowed his jaw.

  "Champagne?"

  He was standing before her, presenting her with a glass of sparkling wine. Anxiety, mingled with anticipation, made her afraid to reach out and take it. She was already feeling heady enough to fly.

  Lane extended the glass and waited, forced her to reach out for it. She took it with two hands, carried it to her lips and watched him over the rim as she took a quick sip, followed immediately by another.

  "Tell me why you think I left," he urged.

  "You promised Stuart McKenna you would have nothing to do with me or my son."

  He downed his own glass of champagne in one quick shot, reached for the bottle on a nearby side table and poured himself another drink.

  "Who told you that?"

  "The McKennas' maid, Martha. Lane Cassidy, don't try to pretend it's not true."

  "And is that what you came all the way to Denver for? The truth?"

  "Yes."

  "I told you once I couldn't make you any promises," he reminded her as he fought to keep up his defenses, ached to take her in his arms and forget everything he had sworn to McKenna.

  "You made a promise to Stuart easily enough."

  "And he expects me to keep it."

  "I made him no such promise," she reminded him. "I didn't swear never to see you again. I never promised that man a thing. You can't make promises for me, Lane."

  His eyes were shadowed with pain that he couldn't hide. Rachel finished her champagne and set her glass down. She reached out and took his empty glass and set it beside hers, then took his hands and held on for dear life.

  "You swore to Stuart that you would never see me again so that I could keep my son. You were willing to ride off and let me believe that you were so cold, so callous, so uncaring that you could just use me and leave me without looking back. And for a time that's just what I thought. But now I know you did it for me because you loved me—"

  "Rachel—"

  "Did you love me, Lane?"

  His gaze focused somewhere over her head. He swallowed.

  "You know I did," he whispered.

  "Do you still love me?"

  He closed his eyes. "Yeah. I still love you."

  "I want you to listen to me, Lane Cassidy, and listen well. You brought me out of the darkness, made me feel worthy of loving a man again. You gave me back my son. When I found out why you really left Last Chance, I turned my back on that life. I sold my house—"

  "Shit, Rachel—"

  "Let me finish. I sold my house and came directly here and asked Boyd to find you. Then I found a teaching position. I have waited weeks for some word, spent hours living on the hope that you would show up, and lately I've even been praying that you weren't dead. I told you once that I didn't expect any promises or guarantees, and I still don't. But you just admitted that you still love me. I'm willing to take whatever it is you want to give until the day you can tell me you don't love me anymore—"

  He pulled her into his arms. She went willingly, trusting him as she always had—the only person who had ever fully trusted in him. His mouth found hers unerringly. She closed her eyes and, as a tear fell, let her hand slip around his neck, then held on tight.

  The kiss they shared tasted of champagne and desire. Rachel pulled the rawhide thong from his hair and ran her fingers through the heavy strands. His hat fell off, hit the floor and rolled beneath the settee.

  "What about Ty…"

  "Delphie will keep him busy," s
he whispered, "for a while."

  Lane's breathing was erratic, matching the beat of her heart. They clung to one another, hungering for a taste of what they had once shared. His hands were everywhere, as if he had to feel each and every inch of her to prove she was really there in his arms. His lips moved over her face, her temple, tasted her tears and covered her mouth again. Her lips opened invitingly, welcoming him. He thrust his tongue inside her mouth, tasted deep, teased hers, drew out the kiss until she moaned and began frantically pulling at the buttons that ran down his shirtfront.

  He reached around her, fumbling at the low neck-line of her gown. A long tendril of her hair caught in his fingers. He quickly, carefully extricated himself without hurting her.

  "How do you get out of this thing?"

  Between kisses she said, "Hooks. Eyes."

  He slipped his fingers between the burgundy moire and her smooth flesh and found a minute hook and eye at the neckline. But his fingers were too big, his hands shaking too hard to slip the hook free.

  "Damn," he cursed when he heard stitches give. "Sorry," he mumbled against her ear.

  Rachel shivered as his warm breath caressed her ear and neck. "Hurry." Her hands had already worked free the buttons down the front of his pants.

  His knees were turning to water even as fire raced through his veins. He was hot and hard and softly cursing her dressmaker. Three out of the six hooks and eyes tore. Eleven yards of expensive moire slipped off her shoulders and slithered to the carpet, where it mounded around her ankles.

  He sighed and knew he would never tire of looking at her, touching her, loving her. As he went to work on her underclothes, able to deal with tabs and ties far better than with the hateful hooks and eyes, Rachel reached up and unpinned her hair and shook it free around her shoulders.

  She had opened his shirtfront and his pants, freed his heated erection. His pants were slung low on his slim hips. He slipped off her clothes until she stood in nothing but her shoes and stockings, in a pool of petticoats, white silk and lace.