The Talisman - Crisscross
Page 22
Quinn wondered if he would ever figure her out. First, she had surprised him that very first night. He'd never known a woman to fight her way out of captivity with the venom of a rattler. Women, in his experience, existed as shallow creatures. They apparently wanted either a family or the distinct opposite, to live in a whorehouse. This woman didn't seem to fit into either of those categories. Yet she spent time with Zelda as if they were close friends, she even stayed at Pierre's saloon but she claimed she wasn't a whore.
Maybe she stayed at Pierre's for the drink? Did she drink herself into oblivion when she said she'd had a headache? If she did, yet another woman in addition to Zelda would prove a disappointment to him. And still, Pierre had said she hadn't touched the whiskey since she'd arrived. She appeared well rested this morning, not a woman whose bearing reflected a generous amount of drinking. She just didn't seem the drinking type to him. She proved so different from the women he had known. She intrigued him.
He knew he didn't understand women in general, not even specific specimens. He wanted to get to know her. He relished rescuing women but until this weekend he hadn't recognized that not every woman needed rescuing from everything. Zelda certainly didn't. Unlike the ladies of the South he had known growing up, Zelda, and now Trish, could provide for themselves, not the way a man would, but adequately. This new breed of self-sufficient women threatened him while intriguing him at the same time.
He didn't know her. He didn't know anything about her except for the secret they shared. He believed she intentionally misled him with her living arrangements and friendliness with Zelda. She claimed she wasn't a whore. So who and what was she?
He had asked her questions about her past, including where she was from, and she had sidestepped it. Would she answer this time or would these moments of waiting in silence prove female manipulation? He hated female wiles; they most always got the better of him. Like when Zelda used him to get out of San Francisco, she'd used him and continued to do so-- until yesterday. He had paid a price for her the other night.
He touched the wrap on his arm where broken glass had cut his flesh. It hadn't remained merely a fistfight. The wound across his forearm from the whiskey bottle as it broke had gone deep. That fight and almost losing the use of his arm for the past two days had made up his mind. No woman would ever prove worth losing his arm over. He wasn't proud of that night or the damage he had inflicted. He wondered if Kueter had died trying to get across the desert for help. He may have killed a man, but might never know for sure.
Zelda's sweet interludes were not worth the price it had nearly cost him. He had believed her motives mirrored the Southern ladies in his mother's circle. They wanted a man to protect and provide for them. Not Zelda. Even though he had offered, she had refused him repeatedly. He had grown used to the idea of marriage. He even believed he wanted marriage. Women. A man needed them.
"So ya ain't a whore. Leaves a man to wonderin'. Maybe ya don't remember yer past, but what do ya remember?"
"It's common to see a lot more of a woman's breast." She undid another couple of buttons.
Quinn felt his pulse jump a notch at her revelation, but kept control of his growing hunger.
"I'm trying to adjust to the way Penelope and Lucinda insist I dress here, but when I'm alone, I do what I've always done. Don't look at me so surprised. I'm still trying to figure all of this out too."
Quinn evaluated the woman astride her horse. She was definitely pleasing on the eye, like a young horse needing to learn man could be trusted. She possessed a smoldering and yet wild disposition. She fascinated him, every tendril of her reddish brown hair, every curve, every expression that crossed her features. He knew the possibility of marriage to Trish was a huge jump from rescuing her, but damn modern convention. He would remain patient this time, as if gentling a wild mustang. He would take his time, no matter how much she fought him or his gentle convincing. She would be his.
The realization of what he wanted surprised him somewhat. Impulse must give way to perseverance and what better cause than to win a woman's love, especially when they shared a deadly secret.
"So do ya remember where yer from, exactly?" he asked in an effort to shield his feelings. He hadn't realized until this moment that his desire for her went beyond the physical. He wanted to know everything about her.
"Still working on that. If I figure it out, I might-- maybe, tell you. Are you sure you want to know?"
Quinn watched her blue eyes, expecting her to bat them flirtatiously, proving to him that a little of a wanton woman existed behind the fiery self-preservation. She didn't even blink. Instead, she smiled. His gut flip-flopped. Unpredictable. He liked that in her.
"Yeah, I wanna know if I shouldn't a helped ya on the trail."
"You mean you would have let him rape me?"
"Don't think it woulda got that far." She may have been able to defend herself without his help.
She stared at him. "I think I'll be leaving now."
Quinn stepped back. Apparently, she hadn't appreciated his compliment. She clucked to her horse, reining him around and rode away. He followed around the house and stood watching as she turned toward the river and disappeared in the trees.
She had put a spell on him. Her presence consumed him and he found himself wanting her. He forced the desire aside. He had work to do.
Chapter 18