Special Delivery

by Gini Rifkin

  Hands around her waist, he encouraged her movements, penetrating deeper and more urgently. She whimpered and cried out again. He stiffened and slammed up into her—his need uncontrolled and uncensored. Grabbing the nape of her neck, he drew her face close and crushed his mouth to hers, and they held fast and went over the edge together.

  Exhausted, she collapsed on his chest, rising and falling with the deep breaths he continued to take. He grazed his fingers up and down her back.

  “Is it always that wonderful?” she whispered.

  “Sometimes even better.”

  “It couldn’t be. It would kill me,” she laughed and sat up to stare into his face. Those cold gray eyes seemed a little warmer now, with a new depth and sparkle. She squeezed her body around him, and he groaned.

  “Now you’re killing me,” he joked, “and so is the back of this chair. If I’m ever going to walk normal again I’m going to have to ask you to let me up.”

  “Well if I’m ever going to walk normal again, I guess I better agree.”

  She dipped forward and gave him an innocent kiss, then they gasped in unison as she slid free of him and gained her feet.

  He grappled upright at her side, arranged himself back into his denim trousers, and buttoned the fly. She smoothed out her skirt and buttoned her bodice. The proof and reminder of what they had just done was wet on her thighs, and the magnitude of the act struck her full force. Had it been a mistake? Not for her. Since they had crossed the line to lovers, she wanted him more than ever. But would he lose interest now that he’d gotten everything from her she had to give?

  Both fully dressed, they turned to face one another. Virgil drew her near and gave her a proper kiss.

  “I’m sure glad you came by to deliver that pie, Miss McAllister.”

  Chapter Eight

  Mariah could barely maintain her equilibrium or hold a sober expression as she headed down the boardwalk toward home. Did it show in her eyes, her walk, the curl of her hair? Something must be different, because this was a turning point in her life.

  She wanted to sing, to shout, to laugh right out loud. She was in love with Virgil Kincaid—had made love to Virgil Kincaid—glorious, amazing, blazing love. It was the greatest of secrets, like discovering a huge vein of gold, but you couldn’t tell anyone lest they jump your claim or somehow take it away from you. But who could do that? Molly Malloy came to mind.

  Mariah suspected part of the reason Molly was spending so much time with Mr. Wentworth was to make Virgil jealous. Of course if Arthur fell for Molly and took her back to England, a lot of problems would be solved. Miss Malloy seemed fairly flexible when it came to relationships. She’d probably go without too much of a struggle. At any rate, Molly had darn well had her chance with Virgil. And to Mariah’s way of thinking, she wasn’t getting a second go at him.

  The glow of her happiness dimmed slightly. Had she been too bold, too presumptuous? In this day and age, women had rights and prerogatives and dreams to follow just like men. And there wasn’t anything wrong with fighting for what you wanted was there? How could it be wrong to show her love for Virgil? Or to prove she had a mind of her own, a mind consumed of late with thinking only of him.

  Her birthday wasn’t far off, she wasn’t getting any younger, and there weren’t many eligible bachelors in Clover City. The clock was ticking, she wanted to be married and eventually raise a family. Of course it really wouldn’t matter if there were a thousand men from whom to choose, she only wanted Virgil. He would make a fine husband. It sounded as if he had already sown enough oats to plant unlimited acreage, and he’d know what to tell their children not to do as well as be an inspiration of redemption.

  He’d keep her safe and work hard to provide for her. She knew he would. What she hadn’t known was how a person could love someone with such complete abandon and total commitment. She was overwhelmed with her feelings for him. Was that how her mother and father had felt about one another? No wonder Dad hadn’t remarried; it seemed unlikely a person was granted such a miracle twice in one lifetime.

  All these thoughts had the ring of truth, yet a small bit of doubt dogged her heels. What if Virgil was just stringing her along? Mariah nearly tripped on the boardwalk as the thought struck home. But he had revealed his scandalous past to her, not something he would share with just anybody. In fact, she might be the only person in Clover City who knew about him being in prison. And he’d tried twice to talk her out of wantonly giving herself to him. He wouldn’t do that if she didn’t matter to him. Hellfire, even if she never saw him again, she was glad he was the first man to make love to her. And if she had anything to say about it, he would be the last and forever one.

  ****

  Virgil ate a second piece of pie, his mood fluctuating between flying high and dropping off a cliff. How could he have let this happen? He had promised never to fall in love again, yet here he was mooning over a woman. One that caused him to ponder frightful things, like marriage, family, and having someone with whom he could grow old together.

  What Mariah did to his mind and body was an unfair advantage when it came to thinking straight or keeping promises to himself. That sounded like a good excuse. But why did he even need one? Why not just admit he was tired of being alone, and if she could forgive him for his past then he should too.

  Now that they had been together in the biblical sense, he knew he’d want more, wouldn’t be able to stay away. It was like this pie, the best he’d ever had. Still, the idea of buying her a ring near made him dizzy with its implications. He’d have to go to Denver to find a decent one. So what? If need be, he’d ride to the ends of the earth for her.

  This evening, if he won his fair share at the Saturday night poker game, he swore every penny would go toward the prettiest ring he could find.

  Reaching for more pie, he wondered how good Wentworth was at cards.

  Chapter Nine

  Molly watched the poker game from afar. The stakes had never been higher, and the four men seated around the table wanted no distractions.

  Harry Whitcomb, too proud to call it a night so early, was in way over his head and sweating like a horse thief at a necktie party. Morgan was also down substantially and surprisingly holding his tongue and not blaming everyone else for his bad luck. The real standoff was between the marshal and Mr. Wentworth—the winning edge alternating between the two, the expectation in the room thick as the cigar smoke.

  Virgil, his wide brimmed hat tipped back on his brow, had never looked more handsome. He hadn’t shaved today, and the shadow of a beard made him appear reckless and dangerous. She missed Virgil. He was all man, and had been decent to her in a “no strings attached” kind of way. Without question he satisfied her in bed. That was one of the things she missed most. She squirmed just remembering what they had done together between the sheets. It was hard to miss much else as they had never gotten to know one another in any other sense. She couldn’t help but rue that stupid little wench Mariah for stealing Virgil away. He never looked at her the way he looked at Doc’s daughter.

  Tossing back another shot of whiskey, Molly let her gaze drift over to Mr. Wentworth. He was handsome in his own right and a straight forward kind of lover. Almost gentlemanly about it all. If push came to shove, she supposed she could live with that, or perhaps tempt him into being a bit more experimental. He seemed willing to learn. And although he didn’t set her blood on fire, it was a nice comfortable reassuring simmer.

  With a sigh, she ambled about the room. She’d invited Arthur to come to her room after the poker game. He said he’d try but might be too tired, and if he wasn’t there by midnight to count him out and he’d see her tomorrow. It was 10:45 p.m. and the game showed no signs of tapering off.

  He was an odd fellow and asked a lot of questions, especially about England. Maybe he was homesick. It was common knowledge she’d been there on a visit, but no one knew she’d been born in Liverpool. Dirty, crowded, dreary Liverpool. The enchantment of a new start in sunsh
ine and wide-open spaces was how she’d ended up in Colorado. So far, she’d succeeded pretty well at fitting in and hiding her foreign accent. She’d even changed her name, severing all ties with the black-sheep side of the family still living in the old country. But although the air was cleaner here, life was hard. Hard and lonely.

  ****

  It was well after midnight.

  Molly carefully folded and set aside the special silk nightgown she’d hoped to wear tonight. Then with a sigh, she retrieved her old unflattering flannel one and pulled it on over her head.

  Moving by rote in the dim light, she turned down the covers on her little bed. The sheets were threadbare and the blanket ruff homespun wool. Tears pricked at the back of her eyes. She just had to see Arthur again. She must. Unlike the poor folks in this out­­-of-the-way town, he had eloquent manners and his clothes were of the finest quality.

  If he fell in love with her, he would be her ticket out of here, albeit ironically back full circle to where she’d begun. No more working in saloons, saving all year to afford one pretty dress. She’d have beautiful clothes and furs, maybe even a maid, and a blanket soft as a cloud.

  Putting out the lamp, she started to crawl into bed only to have a hand snake out of the darkness and clamp down over her mouth. An arm, strong as iron, jerked her back up against the attacker’s chest, and she struggled for her freedom as well as a decent breath.

  Her heart skipped a beat then tripped forward double time. What was going on? Was this the mad killer who was running loose in the town? No, no, no, this couldn’t be happening, not now when she had a chance at a decent future. Refusing to die without a fight, she bit down hard, catching a nip of the man’s palm between her teeth.

  “You bloody bitch. What’d you do that for?”

  Molly twisted free, stumbled across the room, and grabbed the loaded pistol she kept by the door. The man came at her, but at the sound of the hammer being pulled back, he stopped dead in his tracks.

  “Don’t shoot, ducks. It’s me, cousin Benny.”

  Benny? She hadn’t seen him since they were children—hadn’t wanted to see him. She’d been glad not to run into her kin the time Morgan Blackwell took her to London. Benny and his side of the family were criminals, no accounts, spending most of their time in debtor’s prison. When she and Aunt Lillie had first immigrated to New York, the motley Maguire’s had quickly followed to beg, borrow, and finally steal from her family. Then they had hightailed it back to England. How could this be? She’d changed her name and moved thousands of miles away. To see Benny now would be like seeing a ghost.

  “Set a match to the lamp,” she ordered.

  Maybe it wasn’t him, yet who else could it be?

  He followed her suggestion, and she squinted as the matched flared.

  “See, Molly old girl, it’s only me. How about aiming that iron barker in a less formidable direction?”

  “How about telling me what the hell you’re doing in this country in general and in my room in particular?”

  “Sure, Molly, no need to get your knickers in a twist. I needs a bit of help, that’s all.”

  “What a surprise.”

  “I see’d you dancin’ the other night with that fellow what’s from the Yard. What’d he tell you about what’s going on around here?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  Benny didn’t answer, but rather he glanced around like a trapped rabbit looking for a hidey-hole.

  “Oh good Lord. You’re the one they’re after. You killed that man. What else did you do? Never mind, I don’t want to know. Damn you, you’re going to ruin everything.”

  Her mind was in a dither. What was she going to do? Maybe if she captured Benny and turned him in she’d be a heroine like that snooty Mariah McAllister. There might even be a reward, and Arthur would surely want to marry her for her help in capturing his quarry.

  “All I need is a bit of rhino, you know a few shillings. And some food. I been living on Donovans and duck eggs for days. I’m bloody well sick of potatoes, a man needs meat.”

  “Shut up,” she hollered. “I’m not about to help you, except on your way to the marshal’s office.”

  “Well now you might want to reconsider that idea, luv. It could have an unfortunate effect on dear Aunt Lillie back in New York. You changed your names, but not your prior address.”

  “What do you mean? What have you done to her?”

  “Nothing as yet. But I’ve a friend standing by, and one telegraph cable from me and Aunt Lillie is pushing up daisies if you gets me drift.”

  Chapter Ten

  Mariah had wondered how Virgil had made out at last night’s poker game, and using that as an excuse, she had gone to see him. But he was nowhere to be found, so instead she spent the morning reliving yesterday’s lovemaking over and over in her mind. Her visions were tantalizing, but seeing him in the flesh would be much more satisfying.

  When she’d returned home, Dad had kept her busy the rest of the morning with one chore following another. Now it was mid-afternoon and she was about to head out to the Newsome’s place.

  “Yes, Dad,” Mariah promised, “I’ll be home before dark. No more midnight rides for me on that stretch of road. And you promise to rest. You shouldn’t have gone over to the Newsome’s yesterday morning. You’re coughing again and your fever is back.”

  “Well I couldn’t find hide nor hair of you at the time, and I can never tell when the Mrs. is really in trouble or when her husband is only in a panic. Having twins is serious business. The good Lord help us if one or both are breech.”

  Heat rushed into her cheeks. She’d been in Virgil’s arms when Dad needed her here. A stab of guilt clashed head on with a flash of remembered ecstasy—the ecstasy winning the battle. “I know. I’m not mad, just worried about you. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Mr. Newsome had come by again today, fretting and in a terrible state. It seemed simpler to bring his wife here for the confinement and delivery rather than constantly running out to their farm. Since the Newsome’s buckboard had a broken axle, she’d volunteered to go pick up their patient.

  “Jethro at the livery put a goodly bit of straw in the wagon to cushion the ride,” Dad said.

  “Good idea,” she called over her shoulder, and scurried from the house before he could pursue more questions regarding her unexplained absence yesterday. Postponing that conversation was the only answer. Keeping secrets from Dad didn’t come easy and was a situation best avoided. Maybe by the time she got back with Mrs. Newsome and had the woman set up in the small bedroom in the clinic, he’d have other things on his mind.

  ****

  Sweet Molly drove the rented pony and cart as slowly as possible, praying all the while for a way out the mess she was in. She’d given Benny every bit of cash she had on hand and smuggled in some food. And although she’d convinced him last night to head for Old Mexico, that meant coming up with more funds today.

  Sure as sunrise she couldn’t go to Arthur or the marshal. That left Morgan Blackwell. His message to come visit had not only been a big surprise, but a Godsend. She wondered what he was up to. Had she been forgiven for throwing him over for Virgil? Perhaps he was jealous now that she’d taken up with Mr. Wentworth. Either way, if she could persuade him to give or lend her some money, all her problems would be solved. Benny would leave, never to darken her doorstep again. Aunt Lillie would be safe, and she would still have a chance with Arthur.

  Nearly to the front entrance of the big ranch house, she glanced back down the road checking to make sure it was empty. Benny better damn well stay put where she’d left him at the turn off. It was the exact spot where they’d found poor Mr. Underhill. A shiver snaked down her spine. It wasn’t fair, him getting away with such a terrible crime. And heaven only knew how he’d gotten involved in a plot to kill the Queen. Benny was a horrid murdering bastard, and she didn’t doubt for a minute he’d see to having her Aunt killed without batting an eye.

  Maybe once
he was gone, she could explain everything to Arthur. He could make sure her Aunt was protected and track down Benny. But she would have to admit to helping him and worse yet, claim him as a relative. Somehow she doubted even her superior seductive skills could overcome those obstacles.

  As she reined in the pony, Morgan moseyed down the front steps to meet her.

  “Good day, Molly. Thank you for coming. You’re looking fetching as usual.”

  Suddenly the gentleman, he helped her down and escorted her inside. Suspicion abounded. Something was up. Even at the height of their prurient entanglement he had never treated her with such regard. He wanted more than a smile. So be it, so did she.

  ****

  “Easy Tillie,” Mariah cautioned, keeping the mare at a steady smooth pace.

  “How are you doing, Mrs. Newsome?” she asked over her shoulder.

  “Fine as frog fur, Mariah. I can’t tell you how thankful William and I are for you suggesting I stay at the clinic until the babies are delivered. God bless him for being so worried, but I couldn’t cough, burp, or get up to pee without him thinking it was my time. Neither one of us was getting any sleep, the farm work wasn’t getting done, and in general it was taking its toll.”

  If you only knew, Mariah thought with a grin. “You’re welcome, Mrs. Newsome. It’s quite exciting you having twins. And according to Dad it shouldn’t be long.”

  Her smile faded as she spotted something in the road up ahead. It couldn’t be.

  “Hold on, Mrs. Newsome,” she said and reined in the mare. Shading her eyes with one hand, she prayed it was a trick of the sun. Nope. There was definitely a man lying in the road, almost exactly where she’d found Mr. Underhill. She fixed the brake, tied off the reins, and slipped down from the wagon.

  Hands clenched at her sides in fear of what she would find, she glanced around and reluctantly edged forward. The murderer was getting even bolder, killing folks right in the light of day. But he wasn’t very creative leaving the body in the same place. The poor man was facedown and unmoving. She bent over and found herself staring down the barrel of a very old, very treacherous looking pistol.