Everyone she drew was stiff, lifeless. Like her model had been a doll instead of a human being. Oh, the proportions had been right, the shape of the features. But she could never seem to animate a face.
Until now. It was all there, the desperate, narrow eyes. A face that should have been round, if its owner had been sufficiently well fed. And most of all the emotion—she couldn’t look at that face on the page without her eyes stinging.
Oh, it wasn’t perfect. She was too demanding of her own talent ever to be completely satisfied.
It was rough, the lines slashing across the page, the background nothing but a rough scribble. She’d missed on the hair, completely, and put in nothing more than a suggestion of his clothing.
But the feel of it was right. There was power in it, and despair, and panic.
She’d drawn a face.
Sam figured the town of Silver Creek could be a problem. He’d changed his appearance as much as he could, even retiring his favorite coat and hat. But he’d asked a lot of questions there, enough to be memorable. He could only hope they wouldn’t stay long, and try and stay out of sight as much as possible while they were there.
They pulled into town near sunset. Later than they’d planned; the Union Pacific had been a little tardy in picking them up. Sam wondered if the passengers were ever annoyed that they had to stop and wait for Laura’s cars to get hitched up, or if they were too happy to have the famous Miss Hamilton aboard to overlook the slight inconvenience. They’d have a story to tell their mothers, their cousins, their sweethearts, whoever waited for them at the end of their journey.
And he was nearing the end of his.
Silver Creek looked more like a stage set than a town, Laura decided as she stood on the back platform of her rail car while they unhitched it from the main train.
They’d sit on the siding until Thursday, until the next train through would take them to the station, three miles from town, where the trains from the mines met the railroad. An engine ran back and forth to the mines twice a week, shuttling long strings of ore cars. On that day it would return to the Silver Spur with a couple of extra cars.
The town was neat, neater than any she’d seen in the West. It hadn’t grown naturally, springing up living and haphazard along natural lines. Instead, it boasted carefully geometric streets, well kept frame buildings that all looked the same, a tidy brick schoolhouse, a white, spire-topped church that could have modeled for a Christmas card. Even the grass, small, perfectly square lawns laid out in front of the houses and all clipped to the same length were unnatural. Lawns were rare out here, and yards tended to go wild, bare dirt or choked with weeds, for there was no time for luxuries such as grass.
Silver Creek would be difficult to paint, almost impossible to make real. No matter how she did it, what feature she tried to dramatize, nobody would believe that the town actually looked like this. There should be some flaw, somewhere—a wall in need of a fresh coat of whitewash, a determined weed pushing up through the boardwalk, a withering bush.
“Isn’t it cute?” Mrs. Bossidy said. “I spoke to the conductor before we arrived. Mr. Crocker gives generously to the town. That’s why they can keep it so nice.” She sniffed. “Not like some of the places we’ve been through.”
Well, Mrs. Bossidy always did like things all prettied up. Laura, who had spent her life in a polished world, not a single brown petal allowed on a flower before it was replaced, had discovered that she was drawn to things that were a little rough around the edges. They told a story through their imperfections, revealed their life in their scratches and dents.
She apparently preferred her men a bit like that, too, automatically seeking out Sam. Very unusually for him, he wasn’t standing on the back platform, either of her car or the men’s.
The stationmaster, balding and beaming, took up residence on the platform before the train rolled to a full stop, with a little step and a hand to assist her descent.
“That was very efficient,” she told him with a smile.
“Mr. Crocker told us to take very good care of you.”
“Then I will tell him that you did so.”
He grinned even more broadly, seeing her safely to the ground before turning to support Mrs. Bossidy.
“Welcome to Silver Creek, ma’am.”
“Thank you,” she said, stepping down with the alacrity of a child charging down to the parlor on Christmas morning. “And I’m very happy to be here. Where is the telegraph station?”
“The telegraph station?” Laura repeated. And just who could Mrs. Bossidy be telegraphing? She had a few friends amongst the staff at Sea Haven, but no one she’d ever seemed particularly close to. “Are you sending my father a report?”
“No,” she snapped. “I do have business of my own upon occasion.”
“I know you do. I just meant…of course you do.”
Laura knew very little of Mrs. Bossidy’s life before she came to Sea Haven. Oh, she’d asked, often in the early days, questions that Mrs. Bossidy deflected easily and Laura had been too young to know how to pursue. But she hadn’t tried for a very long time, she realized. Hadn’t even wondered.
“Oh, it’s only a few blocks down that way,” the stationmaster said. “But it’s closed. Evening, you know.”
Mrs. Bossidy frowned. “What time will it be open in the morning?”
“Nine, usually. Sometimes earlier, if he’s been to bed early enough the night before.”
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Bossidy said, clearly deflated.
“But that’s all right,” he said quickly. Obviously it wouldn’t do for their honored guests to be unhappy with anything about Silver Creek. “I’m sure he’d be pleased to open it up for you.”
She glanced at Laura, then shrugged. “No, no. I’m sure it’s fine. Tomorrow will be soon enough.”
Hiram and Erastus lumbered up to them.
“Whew. Glad to be off that thing,” Hiram said. “All that rockin’ to and fro is unsettlin’ to a man’s stomach.”
“Oh, no,” Mrs. Bossidy said. “Can’t have your appetite leaving you, can we? With so little flesh to spare you’d waste away in no time.”
“Where’s Mr. Duncan?” Laura asked before she thought better of it.
“In the car.”
“In the car?” That was very unlike him. He was inside seldom enough if they were under way, and even then only when driven indoors by unfriendly weather. Inside on a lovely day when they were in a station was unheard of.
“Yeah, he said he was a little under the weather,” Hiram informed her. “Seems like he was, too. He was kinda pale, and sweating like a sailor in the boiler room.”
“Oh.” Poor thing. Of course the man fell ill occasionally. He was human, after all, though he seemed so vital and healthy and perfect that she couldn’t picture him succumbing to mere illness. “I’ll go look in on him.”
“I’m sure he’s fine,” said Mr. Peel. “Just a touch of the ague, maybe.”
“No, no, I’m sure you’re anxious to begin work, Laura,” Mrs. Bossidy said quickly. “And you’re useless in a sickroom in any case. Too many bad memories. I, on the other hand, am quite good at it.”
“It’s so good to know where your skills lie,” Hiram interjected.
“As long as one has skills in the first place,” she tossed off serenely as she headed for the second car.
“But—” Too late. Mrs. Bossidy was already halfway there, and Laura really couldn’t protest without being obvious. And even if she followed, Mrs. Bossidy would be hovering the entire time. She wouldn’t have an instant alone with Sam.
Besides, Mrs. Bossidy really was much better in a sickroom than Laura.
He’d fallen asleep. That surprised him. When he’d first entered the car, he’d been dizzy, his heart panic-knocking like it belonged to a fresh recruit in a dugout with shells flying his way.
He could go inside when he had to, he’d reminded himself. Was even—mostly—okay in big, airy places with lots of windows
like churches and train stations. But small places, dark places…they gave him trouble. But he could do it if he had to, he’d told himself a million times.
He just preferred…not to.
But it had seemed eminently sensible to sequester himself in the car when they rolled into Silver Creek. There promised to be too much hubbub surrounding their arrival, too many interested, eager people mulling about, though most of them were there to get a look at Laura. Not that they weren’t used to millionaires, given they had one of their own. But she was different, an Eastern one, famous in her own right.
He could leave the train car as soon as it got dark, he promised himself. Prowl and poke around, see what there was to see. Not that he expected much. He’d had no luck there the first time and wasn’t likely to have any more now. Any trace of Griff was long gone if it had ever been there in the first place.
No, his only hope was to slip right on to the Silver Spur without anybody noticing. Who would ever look for him as part of Laura Hamilton’s entourage? They thought they’d chased him off once and for all. He’d been gone for weeks. And he really didn’t think they’d actually looked at him all that closely. He hadn’t spent much time with any one person in particular, though there were one or two he’d questioned that he’d have to avoid.
But the plan was workable, he judged. Soon as they got to the Silver Spur, this mysterious illness was going to come roaring back and confine him to his room. There’d be guards at night, no doubt, but there was an awful lot of ground to cover, and he’d be careful, a lot more careful than he’d been the last time. And the moon was waning; he’d checked last night. Two more nights, maybe three, and you wouldn’t be able to see your six-shooter when held in your own hand.
But he’d dropped off while those thoughts whirled around in his head, right after Mrs. Bossidy’s strangely solicitous visit. Probably because he hadn’t dropped off the night before, when the thoughts spinning around in his head had been of that poor captured Chinaman.
He could have been a thief or a murderer, just as he’d explained to Laura.
It just wasn’t likely. He had well-honed instincts for such things, and he felt in his bones there was something very wrong on the Silver Spur.
But it wasn’t his business. He’d learned long ago to ignore his conscience in the name of survival. He’d had little choice. But you could tamp down a conscience, discount it, be certain it was eradicated, only to find it stirring at inconvenient moments.
Discovering what had happened to Griff remained his primary goal. He owed his friend that much. Owed him more than that when it came right down to it. If in the process he found out what happened to that man, that would be a nice bonus. He promised himself that he’d help if the opportunity arose—if the man needed any assistance.
It wasn’t all that late, he judged. Coming up on midnight, maybe? The other two men were likely still out. Certainly Hiram was gone; if you couldn’t hear the man, he wasn’t in the car. They liked to tip a few at the local saloon whenever they rolled into a new town.
It was a pleasant evening. The window was wide open—it helped keep his heart steady to have it open, letting in fresh air—and a breeze fluttered through, soft and sweet-smelling.
He couldn’t lie in bed on such a night and not think of her. Was that such a terrible thing?
Nothing more would happen between them. Only a few more days at the most, and they would never see each other again. In the meantime she was well chaperoned, particularly lately.
And neither of them was likely to allow any further…exploration. He knew what place he held in her life. He was an experiment, a part of her adventure, a memory of her excursion into the real world. She would go home and find a man who fit neatly into her life and that her family would welcome. Someone who carried a far sight less baggage than he did.
Someone who was willing to love her the way she deserved.
But it wasn’t so wrong to fantasize, was it? To dream about what it would be like if she were a different kind of woman, one who could do more than a little kissing and keep a physical relationship in its proper, safe place?
Or, even, what there might be between them were he a different kind of man.
The breeze brushed his face, bringing with it a sweeter smell. Something must be blooming—
“You’re awake,” Laura said.
Chapter 10
His breath seized in his chest. He sprang up, the light bedclothes falling to his waist before he realized he was bare-chested. Naked? he thought frantically. No, he had his pants on. Thank heavens—or hell—or small favors.
“What are you doing here?” He should have heard her coming and had a chance to prepare himself. He’d spent a lifetime on high alert, listening for a telltale footstep, a whisper of sound that betrayed someone’s stealthy approach. And she’d slipped right beside his bed without him hearing a thing.
Perhaps because she’d already been there in his mind, ever-present, ever-tempting.
She hovered beside the bed, her fingers twisting uncertainly together. Not in a nightgown, the frilly confection he’d imagined she would sleep in. No, fully dressed, in the wide dark skirt she’d worn that day, a shirt that ended in a flutter of lace beneath her chin, pure and ghostly white in the dim moonlight. She’d left the short little jacket behind. One less layer, he thought dimly, through the haze of rising desire that blurred his thoughts.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you.” She hovered beside the bed, just out of reach, a dream he could not reach for.
“What are you doing here?” he repeated harshly.
“I’m sorry,” Laura said, backing away. “I didn’t mean to—they said you were sick. I know Mrs. Bossidy looked in on you, but I just wanted to make sure—” The man wasn’t wearing a shirt, Laura realized. She tried not to stare—oh, it was so terribly wrong of her to take such advantage of the situation! But how could she not? She’d seen statues. Paintings. But not living, vibrant flesh. Dimension, motion…it added so much fascination to the form. And there wasn’t an artist in the world who wouldn’t have begged for the opportunity to paint that body, all sinew and broad muscle and long bones.
“Oh yeah. Sick.” He flopped back on the bed, his arms wide. Surely that’d be safer, Sam thought. Unthreatening.
“Do you have a fever? I—” She laid her hand on his forehead. “I—”
He caught her wrist.
“Laura.”
Her pulse beat against his thumb. Quicker, harder, as every nerve she owned vibrated from the bright sensation of that one point of contact.
“Leave.” His thumb moved, slow circles against the vulnerable flesh at the inside of her wrist. “For God’s sake, Laura, leave. Now.”
“I just wanted to—”
“Now.” He should release her. Sam knew it, dimly, in the small part of him that retained a fraying shred of sanity.
Laura didn’t move. How could she move? Life thrummed through her veins, fizzy, bubbling, wonderful life. This was what she’d survived for. This was what she’d waited for, all those gray, confined days and nights.
Slowly, she lowered herself to the edge of the bed. Still they touched nowhere but where his fingers encircled her wrist, but she knew her hip was no more than two inches from his thigh. Was he bare there, too, beneath the linens? The idea reeled in her rapidly fogging mind.
It was so terribly wicked, the sort of thing she’d never thought she would do. She was in the bed of a naked man, a wild and terrible and mysterious man.
“Are you ill?” she whispered.
“Yes,” he growled. “Terribly so. Contagious, too. Extremely.”
“No you’re not.” She lifted her free hand and wrapped it around his wrist, his hand.
“Laura, you have no idea what you’re risking here.”
“Is it such a risk?” she asked. “Such an awful thing? I liked kissing you. You liked kissing me. Why would it be so terrible to do it again?”
“Do you think I can do that?” E
very muscle in his body was so tight it hurt, a sweet, burning pain that he was afraid he would forevermore associate with her. “That we can just…play for a while, then I could let you go?” he asked savagely. “Because I can’t. Won’t. If you don’t leave now, you may not leave at all.”
There. He’d finally gotten through to her, Sam thought: a quick intake of breath, her eyes wide, glinting with fear. The woman wasn’t stupid. Surely she knew enough to run, fast and hard, back to her safe, guarded life.
He loosened his grip in slow, incremental fractions, regretting it every second, because he knew it would be the last time he ever touched her, and touching her suddenly seemed like the best thing in the world, the one thing that would make living worthwhile.
Possibilities hovered in the air between them, all the things that might have been and would never be. Regret wrenched him. He understood it was for the best. For both of them. But oh, he longed for it to be different. That his whole life would have been different, so this could be something other than what it simply had to be.
She let go of his wrist, and the skin was warm where she’d touched him. He could remember it exactly, the soft smoothness of her flesh, the narrow, delicate length of her fingers.
And then she reached out and placed her hand squarely on his bare chest.
Their eyes met. Time caught, held, ripe with choices and possibilities. Shadows flickered across his throat, his chest. Bedazzled, she drifted her fingers across his skin. His collarbone angled down, straight and strong. Dark hair, wiry beneath her touch, thickened toward the center of his chest. I could spend a lifetime here, she thought, and never lose the fascination of touching him.
Then he yanked, tumbling her on top of him. They lay there like that, breathing hard, gazes locked. There was a sheen of moisture on his forehead, a hard, harsh line to his mouth as though he hurt, deeply and irrevocably.
A Wanted Man Page 12