Copper Fire

by Fayrene Preston

  As Brianne pulled Dancer to a halt in front of the hotel, Sloan rose and walked to the edge of the porch.

  “Find any sign of your brother?”

  Sloan always seemed to be around, Brianne thought, trying to disregard the excitement that had shot through her heart as he had risen. Why? she wondered. From what she knew of financiers, they didn’t conduct business from the porch of a hotel.

  She shook her head. “No.” To the woman behind her she said, “You’ll have to dismount first.”

  Henrietta peered at the ground. “It’s too far down! Young man,” she said, addressing Sloan, “do you think you could find us a ladder?”

  With an enigmatic glance at Brianne, Sloan came down from the porch and approached Dancer’s left side. “Allow me to help you,” he said, holding his arms up.

  “Oh, no! I couldn’t possibly! Really! Ohhh!”

  Sloan set Henrietta’s ample form on the ground and turned back for Brianne.

  She threw him a dry smile. “Thanks, but I can manage.” She swung her leg over and slipped off Dancer. “Mr. Lassiter, I’d like you to meet Mrs. – ”

  “Miss, my dear.” She straightened the high starched collar of her blouse. “I will be called by the name I was born with forty-five years ago. I’m Miss Henrietta Jones.”

  Brianne nodded at her. “Right, Miss Henrietta Jones.”

  “I refuse to use that man's name!” Henrietta snorted with vehement emphasis and gave a vicious tug to the wren-brown jacket that matched her skirt. “Bartholomew, it was. Horace Bartholomew. The wedding was so rushed, I’m sure it wasn’t even legal anyway.”

  “Henrietta, this is Mr. Sloan Lassiter. He's staying at the hotel.”

  Henrietta adjusted her hat on her tightly bound mouse-brown hair. “How do you do.”

  Sloan cast Brianne a look that was full of questions. Ignoring him, she took Henrietta’s arm. “This way. We’ll get you a room, and after a nice bath and dinner, you’ll feel much better.”

  Henrietta stalled, giving Sloan a suspicious onceover. “Do you live here in the West?” She used the word West as she might have used the word hell.

  “No, ma’am. I’m from New York City.”

  Henrietta visibly relaxed. “A civilized man! Thank the Lord. Mr. Lassiter, you cannot imagine the hardships I’ve endured. I was scarcely off the stage when that man hustled me off to a justice of the peace. Next thing I knew, I was in a hotel room, and it was short of high noon. Well, you can understand how a woman of my sensibilities would have been offended, can’t you?”

  Brianne had to stifle a great urge to laugh at the obviously puzzled expression on Sloan’s hard face. “Miss Jones arrived in California in answer to a mail order bride advertisement. The gentleman in question apparently, uh, rushed her a bit.”

  “Rushed!” In the fading light of day, Henrietta’s face turned red at the memory. She leaned toward Brianne and whispered loudly in her ear. “My dear, you can't imagine what he wanted me to do! And in the broad light of day too! The pitcher was the only answer.”

  “Allow me to help you inside,” Sloan said smoothly.

  “Thank you; that's very kind, I’m sure. I know I’ll feel much more the thing tomorrow.”

  Brianne closed the door to Henrietta’s room and headed toward her own, her gaze thoughtfully focused on the tips of her boots as she reflected on the day that had just passed. She had ridden south, investigating anything that looked promising, going as far as she possibly could. But nothing she had seen had given her any clue as to what might have happened to Patrick or where he could be. If it hadn’t been for Henrietta, she would have spent the night on the trail and been able to get an early start in the morning.

  “Brianne.”

  Her head snapped up, and she saw that Sloan was standing beside the door to her room. He was dressed for dinner and looked incredibly attractive.

  “Is Miss Jones settled in?”

  Brianne swallowed hard and nodded.

  Sloan took in the weary set of Brianne’s shoulders, and her dust-smudged face. “You are going down to dinner, aren’t you?”

  “I promised Henrietta I would have a tray brought up to her.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “I was thinking of having a tray too.” She closed her hand over the doorknob.

  “Nonsense. Go in and wash up, but don’t bother changing. I’ll wait for you.”

  She turned back to him and gave him a direct look “Why?”

  Brianne was a woman who seemed to ask why a lot, he thought, amused. Unfortunately, he had no satisfactory answers. “Because I hate to eat alone. And because you need a good meal.”

  Was that a trace of concern? she wondered. Or was she wrong one more time. “Both of those things may be true, Mr. Lassiter, but, you see, there is one problem. I know nothing about you.”

  He stepped closer, and his voice changed, becoming more seductive. “On the contrary, Brianne, you know a lot about me.”

  Her eyebrows arched prettily. “Oh? For instance?” He smiled. “For instance, you know what my lips feel like when they’re kissing you.”

  Her throat went dry, and she swallowed, feeling unaccountably off balance. “That’s not what I meant.”

  As if she hadn’t spoken, he went on. “And you know what my body feels like against yours, and how it can make you want things you’ve never wanted before.”

  The heat from his golden eyes bore into her, making his words achingly true. She didn’t even bother to deny them. “What are you doing in Chango, Sloan?” she whispered.

  The fact that without thinking she had called him Sloan gave him an inordinate amount of satisfaction. “I’m on business that will keep me here awhile. As it happens, you also find yourself stuck in this town longer than you anticipated. We’re both strangers. And we both need to eat. It makes perfect sense that we eat together.”

  “Does everything you do make sense?”

  “No,” he murmured, and after a quick glance up and down the hall to make sure no one was coming, he moved forward slightly until his body was pressing hers against the door. The contours of her body were no secret to him, but still the feel of her against him was a potent aphrodisiac. “For instance, kissing you makes no sense at all.”

  His lips touched hers, then his tongue slipped between her lips into the waiting depths of her mouth. Shuddering, Brianne lifted her arms to his neck. They shouldn't be doing this in the hall, where anyone could come along and see them. Her fingers threaded into his hair. What was she thinking? They shouldn’t be doing this at all. And she definitely shouldn’t be enjoying it! Moaning, her arms tightened around him.

  He was right. This made no sense. Slivers of desire were penetrating her skin like splinters of fire, and her head was spinning. From inside her somewhere came the sure feeling that she should run as fast as she could from this man. But her knees felt weak and …

  She was clinging to him, more feminine and desirable than any woman he had ever held. His hands strayed to her breasts, so firm and round. Through the material he could feel her nipple tighten. He groaned, needing to feel her, all of her.

  The buttons of her blouse offered him little problem, and his hand was about to slip beneath the fabric to the soft skin, when he heard her small cry of protest. It took him a moment, but he finally remembered that they were standing in the hall of a public hotel, and it was then he realized that if he didn't end the kiss now, he would take her where she stood, up against the door. He tore his mouth from hers with effort, then couldn’t help smiling at the dazed and bemused expression on her beautiful face. He reached behind her and turned the doorknob. The door opened, depriving her of its support, but Sloan caught her before she fell. “Wash up and I’ll wait for you downstairs. Then you can entertain me with an explanation of how you found Miss Jones.”

  After Sloan had left, Brianne stood in the middle of the room talking to herself. Her world hadn’t always been safe, but it had been secure. She had kno
wn exactly who she was and where she belonged. Now her world was turned upside down. Her brother was missing. And her body was choosing this inappropriate time to awaken to a man’s touch. And not just any man either, but a golden-eyed, cold-hearted man named Sloan Lassiter.

  But he drew her, as light is attracted to darkness, because its natural tendency was to flow toward black places and try to illuminate them. Having dinner with Sloan, with a table between them, and a dining room full of people couldn’t hurt anything. And she certainly couldn’t do anything more about finding Patrick tonight.

  She lifted her fingers to her lips, where his mouth had been just minutes before. She could feel the heat, and it wasn't her imagination.

  Sloan Lassiter excited her, there was no doubt about it. But he also troubled her. No matter how simple he made his business in Chango sound, she had a feeling that it was complex. It was more than the gun he constantly wore. And it was more than the fact that he always seemed to be watching for someone or something.

  The only time his eyes changed from that particular shade of soulless gold was when he looked at her with desire.

  The only time he showed any gentleness was when his hands touched her skin.

  So what was she doing having dinner with him? she asked herself. The answer came swiftly. She wanted to.

  Brianne’s green eyes brimmed with laughter as she gazed at Sloan across their dinner table. The color of her eyes was deepened by the emerald silk of her dress. “Well, apparently Henrietta was so unnerved by what she saw as indecent haste on her husband’s part to consummate their marriage, she picked up a good-size pitcher and struck him over the head.”

  Sloan’s mouth twitched, enjoying Brianne’s amusement. “What happened then?”

  “Luckily, from her point of view that is, she was able to catch a stage out of town before the poor man came to. The problem is, she left so fast, all her belongings are back in California.”

  “And I suppose she doesn’t have any money either.”

  Seriousness replaced Brianne’s smile. “She was a schoolteacher in Philadelphia, and Mr. Bartholomew sent her just enough funds for the fare west. When her own money ran out, she accepted a ride with a group of young women going east. Unfortunately, somewhere along the way she discovered to her horror that the women were not quite as respectable as she had thought; rather, they were the type who, uh – ”

  “Entertain men for money?”

  “I suppose that’s one way of stating the case. Without thinking of the consequences, she parted company with them on the spot, out in the middle of nowhere. And to answer your question, no, Henrietta doesn’t have any money.”

  “Isn’t it fortunate she found you?”

  Brianne tilted her head curiously at the cynical tone of his voice. “Actually, / found her. ”

  “And now you feel responsible for her, and she’s taking advantage of your feelings.”

  “Sloan, I want to help her. The woman is stranded. It will be no problem at all for me to let her rest up here a few days, then pay her way back home.”

  “Are you always so ready to help strangers?” he asked softly. The candle’s glow cast flickering light and shadows over the harsh angles of his face.

  “If I can.”

  “It’s not safe.”

  Neither are you. Without knowing why she was doing it, she rubbed the scarred skin of her left forearm that was covered by the sleeve of her dress. “Henrietta poses no threat to me.”

  “Maybe not.” For a moment he studied her with enigmatic eyes. “So are you going to continue looking for your brother?”

  “Of course.”

  “I was over at Lucky’s today. It was interesting. I learned that most of the men over there seem to be afraid of your family.”

  Her mouth tightened. “Stupid people! They’re not even acquainted with fear yet, but believe me, they will be if something happens to Patrick.”

  “Still, you won’t get any help from them.”

  “That’s why I haven’t asked them.”

  “Why haven’t you asked me?”

  His quietly spoken question made her pause. “It never even occurred to me.”

  His smile sent shivers skimming along her spine. “I find that amazing.”

  It was after midnight, and Sloan lay wide awake, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. Staring at the ceiling was a lot better than what he really wanted to do, which was to go next door and climb into Brianne’s bed. His blood was running hot tonight, and his loins were aching with a need that demanded to be satisfied.

  But Brianne wasn't his answer. What he needed was a woman he could just have and then be done with. Like Janice. Or – in the dark he smiled – like Betsy Spenser, the beautiful young widow of his business associate, Henry Spenser.

  In an effort to help assuage her grief, he had escorted her to the theater, where he kept a box. But the production of Il Trovalore had not captured his interest, and the glances he had received all evening from Betsy had been enticing. So he had pulled her to the floor of the box with the portiere half hiding them and positioned her on her hands and knees in front of him. Kneeling behind her, he had flipped up her black silk skirt and untied her drawers. Careful to keep his head well below the rim of the box, he had grasped her breasts and roughly taken her. Fortunately, several climactic scenes, including a bombastic chorus, served to drown out her cries of ecstasy.

  He could still remember how lush and round her buttocks had been as he had plunged in and out of her. How full her breasts as he had held on tightly. And her red hair –

  Squeezing his eyes shut, he groaned with pure frustration as he realized that, in his mind, Betsy Spenser had somehow become Brianne Delaney. His pillow was thrown through the air and hit the opposite wall with a violent force. Dammit all to hell!

  Chapter 6

  The urge to pace the length of the hotel porch and back was almost overwhelming for Sloan. But he stayed where he was, sitting in the chair.

  His body was perfectly still, but inside, his muscles were burning with their need for movement as they slowly coiled tighter and tighter. He hated the feeling. And, more, he hated the niggling sense that had been with him all day that something was wrong.

  Casting over the day’s events in his mind, he tried to decide what could be bothering him. His investigation into what Wes was up to was going well, and he had learned some interesting things today. No one was willing to tell him much. But someone dropped a piece of information here, another there, and soon he had what amounted to almost a whole.

  Wes McCord was in Washington, D.C., lobbying to put a deal together so that the railroad could come through Chango. Chango was a thriving town now, but if Wes were successful, the town would boom overnight. And that was why the people of Chango were protecting Wes from nosy strangers. They would be distrustful of anyone who might interfere with Wes and his mission to bring the railroad to their town.

  It sounded as if Wes had turned into a civic leader and philanthropist, but Sloan knew better. There was still the underlying fear he heard in certain conversations. Unfortunately, he probably wouldn't learn any more until Wes came back, and he was sure that it was the inactivity that was beginning to bother him.

  Yes, that was it. The inactivity.

  He stood up and walked to the porch railing, his gaze naturally seeking the direction Brianne had taken this morning. Just past dawn he had watched her ride out of town. The sun had set over an hour ago. Surely she wouldn’t be foolish enough to spend the night away from town!

  He understood her need to find Patrick. If it were David who had disappeared, he would be turning over every rock in the territory until he found him. But he was a man. Brianne shouldn't be riding alone into a lonely, rugged land, trying to track down four men.

  She was so alone. He knew what it was like to be desperate and alone.

  Lord, but he wished he had a drink! There was a rawness inside him that a bottle of whiskey would go a long way toward soothing. He hadn’t had
a drink, though, since that night in New York City, and he didn’t intend to. Not until he made Wesley McCord pay for David’s death.

  But he sure as hell hadn’t sworn off women, and, he decided, spending an hour or two driving his body into the softness of a woman might help to rid him of the antsy feelings he had and to satisfy the painful fullness in his loins – especially after the better part of a night spent thinking of burying himself inside Brianne Delaney.

  Where the hell was she anyway?

  Suddenly alert, Sloan narrowed his eyes against the gathering dusk.

  “There is no nobler beast than the horse,” Phineas Tooley observed, gesturing expansively toward Dancer as the horse slowly trudged up the main street of town pulling the maroon-painted wagon with cream-colored trim that proclaimed tooley’s miracle restorative, A patented curativeon its side in distinctive gold and blue letters.

  In the four hours she had been in Phineas’s company, Brianne had discovered that his hands often gestured expansively.

  “My noble beast appears to be most put out,” Brianne said dryly, sighting the hotel up ahead and giving silent thanks. “He’s never pulled a wagon before.”

  “But he’s doing an admirable job! Admirable! If I didn’t find myself in such reduced circumstances, I would offer for him.” He turned toward her hopefully. “Perhaps we could strike a bargain. I still have the contents of the wagon, you know.”

  “I would never part with Dancer. He was a gift from my uncle.”

  He gave a wave of his hand that was meant to indicate a philosophical attitude toward her refusal.

  “Ah, well, I’m sure I’ll find another equally competent animal.”

  “No doubt.” Brianne had just seen Sloan. He was sitting atop the hotel railing with his back supported against a post.

  She reined in Dancer and set the brake on the wagon. With a graceful move she jumped down, and Phineas followed her. Nodding to Sloan, she walked to Dancer’s head to give him a loving pat. “Get what you'll need out of the wagon,” she told Phineas, “then I’ll take the wagon on to the stables. I’m sure the owner won’t mind letting the wagon stay there until you’re ready to leave again.”