by Anne Avery
Pete squirmed and wriggled, to no avail. Witt tucked him securely under his arm.
“I’d be doing Molly a favor if I let you run off.”
Pete wagged his tail, then licked Witt’s hand as if to reassure him that he’d never have gone that far. Just out for a stroll, he seemed to say. Really. Trust me!
“You’re a damned ungrateful hound and you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
Pete gave a little bark, then relaxed in Witt’s hold, panting softly.
He’d take the mutt home, Witt decided. Just knock on the back door, hand him over when Molly answered, then walk away. What could be simpler?
This time of night, she’d probably have let her hair down. She’d come to the door and her hair would be a fall of silk and shadow around her shoulders. The lamplight would be behind her, soft and welcoming, and she’d thank him and invite him in for a cup of coffee if there was any left in the pot. He didn’t dare let his imagination go any further than that.
Unfortunately, there were no lights on in the Calhan household. Witt walked around the place twice, just to be sure.
“Snuck out without ’em knowing, huh?”
Pete whined, then wriggled to get free.
“Oh, no, you don’t. She’ll string me up if she finds out I had you, then let you get away.” He frowned, considering, then headed back the way he’d come. “There’s only one place to put you where neither one of us can get in trouble,” he informed the dog, “and that’s the city jail.”
Molly had let down her hair, hung up her dress and unfastened the hooks and laces of her corset when she remembered Pete.
Irritated, she tossed the corset aside, grabbed her wrapper, and clumped back downstairs. The mutt was nowhere in sight. She called his name, then gave a low whistle. Not a sound—no bark, no eager whine. Nothing.
For a moment, she considered leaving him to his fate, but the thought of explaining it to Dickie should anything happen to his dog drove her back upstairs to dress. She didn’t bother about her hair. There’d be no one to see her. She wouldn’t be lucky enough to run into Witt every time she was out too late.
Bonnie and Dickie were sound asleep, but since there was no telling how long it would take her to find Pete in the dark, she reluctantly woke Bonnie and explained the situation. Bonnie muttered something about a stupid dog, rolled over and went back to sleep.
Half an hour later, Molly had searched every alley and street between home and Calhan’s, without success. Her lantern had gone out for lack of oil—she would have to have a talk with her son about tending to his chores—and she was tired and chilled and very, very cross. She was about to give up and go home when a shadow loomed in the dark.
“Sheriff Gavin?”
“Mrs. Calhan? Thought that was you. You’re looking for your dog.” It wasn’t a question.
“You’ve seen him?”
“Got him in the jail. He was sniffin’ round the back door of Tommy McLaren’s butcher shop. I’m thinkin’ of charging him with attempted breaking and entering.” Laughter rumbled in the words.
She stifled a snort of disgust. “That dog has a bottomless pit for a stomach.”
For a moment, she didn’t think he would answer, then, without the laughter he said, “A fellow gets that way sometimes, so hungry for somethin’ that nothin’ else quite fills him up.”
As it always did, his soft voice sent shivers down her spine, starting a small, warm fire inside her. It was only her imagination that there was an intimate roughness in it, and more beneath his words than there seemed.
“I’ll take you back to the jail,” he said curtly, as if he were sorry for already having said so much.
He didn’t offer to take her arm, but he was close enough that the heat from his body seemed to wrap around her, driving out the lingering chill.
The jail was dark, the shades pulled. When Witt shut the door, the air suddenly seemed to compress around her, making it harder to breathe.
“Wait here while I light a lamp,” he said gruffly.
From the back of the building came an eager whine, immediately followed by a sharp, imperative bark.
Lamp in hand, Witt opened the door at the back that Molly knew led to the jail cell. He quickly stepped through and drew another door shut, but not quickly enough. She caught a glimpse of a window with an old blanket tacked over it and a narrow, rumpled bed. The pillow still had a hollow where his head had pressed.
“Dog’s in here,” he said—unnecessarily, since Pete was scrabbling at the iron bars of the cell, whining and demanding to be let out. “Figured he couldn’t get out if I locked him up.”
“I’ve half a mind to leave him right where he’s at,” Molly said.
She stared at Pete, but what she saw was a narrow iron bed, tumbled sheets, and a crushed pillow in its wrinkled case. The scent of him would be on the pillow and the sheets. Almost she could feel the rasp of the coarse muslin against her skin.
“I’ll let him out,” Witt said.
She could hear the strain in his voice, and thought how strange it was that she always heard so much in it when he said so very little.
“No, wait.” She swallowed, trying to force her heart back out of her throat. “Not yet.”
Sometimes you have to take a chance. She’d told herself that only a few hours earlier. The envelope with her letter lay on her kitchen table, proof of her choice.
But all she risked with that letter was money. She wasn’t sure she could tally what she risked now, and wasn’t sure she cared to try.
Of one thing she was certain, however—if she waited for Witt to make the first move, she’d be waiting a long, long time.
“Here, let me take the lamp,” she said.
He breathed out, huffing a bit, like a man who’d held his breath too long. A small, secret smile tugged at her lips. Poor man thought she was being helpful.
She set the lamp on the floor, safely out of reach where there was no risk of tripping over it. Then, calmly, despite her pounding heart, she rose on tiptoe and wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him.
He staggered, groaning like a man in pain, then wrapped his arms around her and kissed her back, deep and hot and hungry. And as he kissed her, he dragged her down until they were half seated, half sprawled on the floor. He held her so tightly she could scarcely breathe, but she could kiss him and that was more than enough.
It was Pete’s anxious whining that dragged them back from the madness. Witt slumped against the wall, eyes closed, and let his head drop back.
“Damn dog.”
Molly collapsed in giggles on his chest.
Gently, he shifted her so that she was in his lap, cradling her against him. She could feel his fingers playing with her hair, his palm drifting down her side, then up again.
Still safe and close against him, she tilted her head back and looked into his face. It was such a strong, compelling face.
Fascinated, she brushed a finger across one brow, then down the side of his face and along that granite jaw.
His eyes opened, locked with hers. In their depths she read his longing and all the truth she would ever need.
“I love you, Witt Gavin,” she said softly. “Will you marry me?”
A right to the jaw wouldn’t have stopped him as easily. He stared at her. And then he sucked in air, taking deep breaths, fighting for control. She could feel his hand fisting in her hair. He didn’t seem aware of it.
“No,” he said. It was more an exhalation of air than a word.
She pushed away and sat up, still on his lap. “Why not?”
His brow furrowed, as if he were struggling for an answer. “Because.”
“That’s not good enough. I don’t go around kissing men I’m not serious about, and I don’t think you go around kissing women just because you happen to run into them on the street. I’m in love with you, and I want to marry you. It’s as simple as that.
“Besides,” she added, teasing, “if I waited for you to ge
t around to asking, I’d be too old to care.”
“Don’t be a fool,” he said, and tried to shove her away.
She grabbed the front of his shirt and hung on. “Don’t try and tell me you don’t love me because I won’t believe you.”
Before he could throw her off, she shifted so that she was straddling his lap, pinning him down.
That’s when she knew she’d won, no matter what he said. The proof of it was pressing hard against her center, unmistakable even through the layers of clothing between them.
She grinned. “You want me, Witt Gavin, just as much as I want you.”
“Wanting’s not loving,” he said harshly.
“No, wanting’s not loving, but it’s part of it. A wonderful and very important part of it.” She leaned close and stared straight into his eyes. “I love you, DeWitt Gavin, and I want you. And I know damned well you love me and want me, no matter what you say.”
He blinked at the curse.
She kissed him, and this time she blatantly rubbed herself against him, wanton as any fallen woman.
With a roar, he threw her off, slamming her into the bars of the cell and startling Pete into a frantic barking. Neither one of them paid the dog any heed.
“You think it’s as easy as that?” he shouted. “That all it takes is love to make a marriage work? Well you’re wrong. Wrong, dammit! I know! I loved my wife and it wasn’t enough to keep her with me. Not near enough!”
He was half on his feet, looming over her.
“There’s some with a talent for building a marriage. There’s more that get by because they don’t know any other way. And there’s some—” he leaned closer, so close she could feel the anger and a deeper, darker pain coming off him in waves “—who can’t ever make it work, no matter how hard they try. Love? Hell!”
He surged to his feet.
Molly leapt to hers, darting in front of him to stop him storming out of the jail, away from her.
“Is this what happened to your marriage?” she demanded, bracing her hands against the doorjamb on either side as if that would stop him. “You ran away?”
“Me?” For a moment he just stared at her, then, to her surprise, he threw back his head and laughed. The scorn in the laughter was like acid, burning her even though she knew it was meant for him, and him alone.
“I didn’t run away,” he said. “It was my wife who ran, straight into the arms of a fine, well-dressed gentleman who knew what she needed and could give it to her.” The words came tumbling out like water over a floodgate, driven by his fury and his pain. “He could talk pretty and dress pretty, and he knew all the right things to say and the right places to go and the right way to do things once he got there. I’ll bet he did all the right things in bed, too, since I sure as hell never managed to please her there, either.”
Understanding hit Molly with near blinding force. He had loved his wife, but she had flung that love in his face—and he blamed himself for all of it.
“There’s all kinds of whores,” she said softly, “and some of them wear wedding rings and wouldn’t so much as glance at a brothel.”
That stopped him.
“You’re a good man, Witt Gavin, no matter what went wrong in your first marriage. Do you think I can’t see that?”
“I’m a divorced man.” He darned near spat the words at her. “I wasn’t able to make Clara happy. What makes you think I can do any better now?”
Anger exploded within her. She slammed the heel of her hand against his chest, making him take a stumbling step backward.
“Who said I expected you to make me happy?”
She punched him again, harder this time. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it takes two to make a marriage work?”
He grabbed her hand before she could hit him a third time.
“That’s pretty darned arrogant, Mr. Gavin, thinking that everything depends on you.”
“If I’d been a better man…” He shook his head, then let her go. His shoulders slumped as he turned away, defeated.
Molly hoped she never met Clara Gavin because she’d be tempted to claw out the woman’s eyes.
Nothing she could say would make Witt change his mind, certainly not right now. But then, words weren’t always the best solution.
She had the first six buttons of her dress undone when she threw open the door to Witt’s room and walked in. She’d freed the rest of the buttons by the time he realized where she was.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Me?” She smiled at him and let the dress slide to the floor. “I’m undressing.”
“You—you can’t do that.”
“No?” she said sweetly.
He shook his head, wild-eyed as a bull being pestered by a very determined gnat. “No.”
The last lacing strings on her petticoats came free. Yards of starched muslin and lace slid to the floor in a billow of wedding-cake white.
“Oh,” she said, and tugged at the ties at the top of the chemise.
He’d stopped breathing, but he hadn’t stopped looking—his eyes were getting bigger by the minute. His gaze fixed on her breasts. Freed of their normal boned support, they swayed a little with her movement, the nipples pricking to hard points beneath the delicate fabric of her chemise.
She wondered how long it would take before he exploded from lack of oxygen.
“Would you care to help me with the last of it?” she asked, and held her arms open wide.
He gulped, stunned, then took another look and charged.
It was lucky she hadn’t bothered to put her corset back on because he probably would have snapped the laces and torn the hooks right out of the fabric if she had. As it was, her chemise and bloomers were all going to need some mending. She heard the fabric tear as he ripped them off her, and almost laughed out loud for the sheer joy of it.
Madness drove him. Witt knew it, yet he couldn’t stop himself. All these weeks of thinking of her, dreaming of her, wanting her, and now here she was half-naked in his room with the bed only a foot away.
She bent as he tugged on that simple white top she wore, letting him pull it up and over her head. He flung it away, not caring where it landed, and reached for the waistband of those funny pantaloons she wore. The fabric ripped when he yanked on the strings at the waist, but he didn’t care. He just pulled harder, dragging it down, almost toppling her in his frantic haste to get it off.
And then she was naked, smooth, bare flesh gold in the light from the lamp they’d left outside the door. Her hair tumbled around her like something out of his dreams, covering one shoulder, baring the other, teasing at the curve of a breast, the swell of her hips. Caressing the tops of her thighs.
He stopped breathing and drank her in. Need consumed him, yet pinned him where he stood, unable to move or think.
She watched him staring, and smiled, unashamed and sure.
The smile dragged a groan from somewhere deep in his gut. This was madness. He was mad—drunk, perhaps, or dreaming. All he knew was that if he was drunk, he wanted more; if he was dreaming, he prayed he’d never wake up.
Clara had never granted him such a gift. Always she wore a chemise or a gown, hiding her body from him. Their lovemaking, what little there had been of it, had always been committed in the dark, as if it were a crime.
Never, until now, had he realized what a crime the darkness itself had been to have hidden such wonders from him.
Molly laughed and held her arms out from her body as if offering him…everything.
“Looking’s fine,” she said. “But making love is better.”
She reached to undo the first button on his shirt.
He never let her get to the second. Crazed with wanting, he laid her on the bed and freed himself from his trousers. And then he was driving into her, his self-control shattered, his hunger a thing with claws that threatened to rip him apart, so hot and fierce was it.
Instead of screaming or trying to push him away, she laughed
and clung tighter, moving with him rather than against him, demanding more rather than passively waiting for him to be done, crying out in what, in his madness, he would swear was pleasure and not pain.
When his climax came, it damn near killed him.
It was her tongue in his ear that eventually, ages later, brought him back to life.
“What—?” He swatted at the distraction, then groggily shoved up on his elbow.
Tried to, anyway. He didn’t get very far before she wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist and dragged him back against her.
“Don’t move,” she murmured. “Not yet.”
“I’m crushing you.”
“Mm-hmm. I like it.”
That’s when he realized that there was something going on down there between them. He was dead as a drowned rat, but she—
“You’re squeezing me!” He gaped at her, stunned.
“Clever man.” She pulled his head down even as her hips shoved up against him.
He would have sworn it wasn’t possible, but she was bringing him back to life, too. Yet when she cried out and arched against him, eyes shut, face tight with ecstasy as her own climax claimed her, he simply held her, too awed by the wonder of it to do anything else.
“I didn’t know…” he whispered when she roused at last, blinking up at him and smiling like the cat that got the cream.
“Now you do.” Her fingers were playing in his hair, distracting him. She ran her tongue across her lower lip as her hands dragged down his back, then up again, and over to the buttons of his shirt.
When he reluctantly stood to remove his trousers and his boots, he turned away and wished he’d thought to put out the lamp, first. He should have known she’d laugh and tug on his arm, demanding he turn around, instead of turning away in disgust.
“You’re a fine-looking man, Mr. Gavin,” she said, tracing the line of his ribs with the tip of one fingernail. “All the ladies say so.”
He’d been about to toss his pants aside, but at her words, he instinctively wadded them in front of himself, instead. “They do?”
She laughed and nodded. The light rippled across her hair with every move.
“They do,” she said with satisfaction. “Despite the fact that you’re so very big.”