by Jodi Thomas
All evening Margaret paced. She searched the house completely just in case Cherish had fallen somewhere and was lying unconscious. As evening veiled the day, Father Daniel came to call. He looked tired and Grayson didn’t miss the bandage on his hand or the bruise along his hairline. The priest explained them both away as a spill from his spirited horse, but Grayson somehow doubted his story.
The clergyman did have a calming effect on Margaret, however. He listened intently to her story and patted her hand gently as he told her he’d do whatever he could to help. His pale gray eyes held a world of sorrow in their depths and somehow Margaret felt better at having laid her problems at his door. When he finally left, he gave her a brotherly hug and told her he’d pray for Cherish’s safe return.
Grayson watched him walk away and wondered if Father Daniel was any closer to God’s ear than anyone else. Somehow he doubted it. Something about the priest made Grayson nervous. He couldn’t put his finger on what didn’t fit together, but he always had the feeling that he needed to wash his hands after touching the man. Grayson felt that somewhere beneath the layers of concern and love was a kind of filth so deep that no amount of lye soap would ever wash it away. He’d spent ten years bringing in murderers, thieves, and traitors, but none gave him the bad taste in his mouth that the priest did. It was no more than a hunch, but Grayson had stayed alive because of his hunches.
Hours later, when Margaret called him, he felt like he’d only just closed his eyes. She was dressed and proper as ever, except for the lines of sleeplessness around her eyes. “We’re going to talk to this woman named Holliday. I have nowhere else to turn.”
While he dressed, she stepped into Cherish’s room and checked on the babies, then rattled off instructions for Azile and Bar. Azile was only half-listening, but Bar nodded his understanding. When she returned, Grayson noticed she’d slipped her derringer into her pocket instead of putting it in the strap holster on her leg.
Margaret was all starch and vinegar as she marched down the street to the core of the area known as Hell’s Half-Acre. She didn’t seem to see the stares or hear the whispers as she continued until she reached the saloon owned by the woman named Holliday.
Without a moment’s hesitation, she pushed the door aside and stepped into the filthy establishment. The initial stench that met Margaret and Grayson was almost overwhelming. Margaret stood for a minute at the entrance to allow her eyes to adjust to the dimness. Grayson’s senses went on immediate alert. He had seen too many of these places not to know that trouble was just waiting for an excuse to explode. The walls of the saloon were a dull gray and black from a mixture of smoke and whiskey, and the floor was so dirty that straw had been thrown down to absorb some of the spilled liquor and spit. Grayson had heard it said once that if a man died in a bar like this, it might be two days before anyone would pick him up off the floor. Not till his body finally outsmelled the grime did they lift him up and toss him into the street.
“I wish to speak to a woman named Holliday,” Margaret said to a sleepy-eyed bartender after getting her bearings and determining that no one was going to ask her if she needed help.
Grayson carefully watched the few people left in the bar from the night before. They were long into their liquor and posed no threat.
“I’m Holliday.” A huge woman stepped through a side door from where voices were coming. “I’m a little busy right now with this big poker game going on. Could you come back later, lady?”
Margaret turned her full attention to the almost topless woman. For a moment Margaret’s mouth dropped open slightly at the size of the big-breasted woman whose blouse had slipped to the point that nipples the blood red color of her lipstick were showing just above the worn lace.
“I’m Margaret Alexander.” Margaret extended her hand. She might be a proud woman full of her own sense of right and wrong, but she was not fast to judge people, no matter how they dressed or where they came from.
Holliday’s smile showed her approval. There wasn’t one lady in a hundred who would look her in the eye, much less shake her hand. This thin widow had just made a friend without doing a thing besides offering her hand. As she took Margaret’s hand and pumped it, Margaret introduced her to Grayson.
One painted eyebrow bounced up. “Your man?”
Margaret straightened. “No. My employee.”
Holliday wasted no time moving the few feet to Grayson. “Hi ya, honey. How come I ain’t never seen you in here before? A body could use a strong man like you.” She heaved her huge breasts against his arm as she added, “I’ll bet you’d give a girl a hell of a ride.”
Grayson tried to keep from laughing, not at Holliday, for she was plying her trade quite well, but at Margaret’s reaction. His lady was about to scratch this whore’s eyes out and he loved seeing the fire in Margaret’s face. He crossed his arms, only giving the overpainted woman more arm to rub against.
She moved her body back and forth across his forearms and licked her scarlet lips. “Don’t forget to come a-looking for me, darling,” she whispered. “My door’s always open to a fine strapping man like yourself.”
Margaret found her tongue. “He doesn’t understand what you’re saying.”
Holliday laughed and stepped away. As she did so, she heaved her chest once more, pulling the material even lower for Grayson’s benefit. “Oh, he understands. There ain’t a man alive who doesn’t understand me.”
Her wink was bold and inviting. Some other time Grayson might have enjoyed a night with such a woman, but lately all he’d been hungry for was Margaret, and he knew no other woman would satisfy him.
Holliday walked back to Margaret and put one fist on her wide hip. “What can I do for you, ma’am?”
“I’m looking for my niece, Cherish Wyatt. Have you seen her?”
Holliday motioned for the bartender to pour her one, and studied Margaret carefully while he made the drink of half-whiskey and half-rye. Finally, with drink in hand, she answered. “I may be a lot of things, Mrs. Alexander, but a liar ain’t one of them. I don’t think I’d be doing no one any harm by telling you your niece came to my door once. She doctored a man staying upstairs and left.” Holliday’s eyes narrowed as she read Margaret’s expression. “There weren’t no harm that come to her that night, you have my word.”
“And the man’s name?” Margaret asked, knowing that the woman spoke the truth. Cherish would go anywhere, even into a place like this, if she thought someone was suffering.
Holliday’s eyes narrowed. “I make a habit of forgetting names as soon as they pay. All you need to know is that she left here without coming to any harm.”
Margaret nodded, knowing she’d get no more information out of this woman. “Thank you for your help.”
Holliday lifted a tray of beer and headed to the back room. “I better get this refreshment to those fools who’ve been playing all night before they break the place down.”
As she opened the door wide to accommodate both herself and the tray, Margaret looked into the smoke-filled room.
Grayson had already turned and was halfway to the door when he realized Margaret wasn’t at his side. He glanced over his shoulder and saw her face drain of all blood. Before he could stop her, she moved to the door Holliday had left open and whispered, “Westley?”
Her one word was like a death toll on the entire room. Every man froze and turned toward her as she stood in the doorway. “Westley,” she whispered again as if confronting a ghost.
A tall, heavyset man stood up behind the table. His chest and stomach were wide with years of drink and his shoulders permanently rounded from playing a lifetime of poker. His hair was pulled back from a hawklike nose and his face was saloon pale.
“Margaret!” He looked at her directly with eyes the color of well water. “I always knew someday you’d find me. You were too stubborn to allow me to remain a dead hero.”
Margaret’s world was shattering. “But, Westley, you died.”
The huge man la
ughed, inspiring the laughter of his comrades. “Gentlemen”—he made a wide sweep with his hand—”my wife. I’ve been dead more than four years and she still mourns me.”
“But”—Margaret ignored the comments of the others—”you didn’t come home.”
“To what?” Westley’s drunken mind resented her. “To a farm where I’d die a slower death than in battle? To you, my barren wife, who was so cold in bed I’d rather sleep with whores. At least they are warm for my money.”
Margaret’s hand began to shake and she moved it inside her pocket. “You’re nothing but a lying traitor, both to me and to your country.”
“Better a traitor than your husband. How many times do you think I’d allow you to turn me away? I should have whipped you senseless that last night when you wouldn’t let me touch you again. You should have taken my seed until you swelled. I wanted to leave with my brat growing in your belly so you’d soften and not be the hard woman you’ve become.”
“Stop!” Margaret shouted.
“Why, Maggie, you know it’s the truth.” He turned to his friends. “Look at her, gentlemen. A man would freeze to death in her bed. Would you believe my last night before I left for battle she tried to lock me out of our bedroom.”
“Stop!”
Westley didn’t listen. “Why? I knew the South’s cause was hopeless early on and got out. Our marriage was just a convenience. Everyone was getting married before they left. It took me a few months to have my fill of army life, but it only took me one night to have all I wanted of you, woman.”
“I said stop!” Margaret raised the gun from her pocket and fired. “I’ll make myself a true widow.”
All the men at the table hit the floor in a heartbeat. Grayson could hear them cussing as they wallowed in the tobacco they’d been spitting all night. Westley darted for the door, but Margaret fired again. He stumbled. Her third bullet hit him in the leg.
Margaret’s world was falling apart. Her hands were shaking badly, but she closed her eyes and fired again, sending splinters from the door Westley had just limped through.
Grayson didn’t know how to stop her. In a moment, she would have a half-dozen men firing at her. He leaned and grabbed her around the waist. His sudden jerk made her drop the gun. Before she could bend to reach it, he threw her over his shoulder and ran from the saloon with her screaming and kicking like a wounded mountain lion.
Folks on the Acre were used to all kinds of wild happenings, but they stopped and stared, open-mouthed, as Grayson stormed down the street with Margaret over his shoulder.
When he reached the house, he carried her up the stairs past Azile, who didn’t act as if anything was out of the ordinary. When he was finally in her room, he slammed the door and set her on her feet.
As he’d expected, she came at him like a madwoman, kicking, hitting, and screaming. For a while, he let her pound against his chest, knowing that her pain hurt her far more than her fists could ever hurt him. He watched in silence as her hair tumbled around her face and wondered how even a fool such as Westley could be so blind.
“I hate you!” she screamed. “I hate all men! Why didn’t you let me kill him?”
Finally, she collapsed in tears at his feet, crying and drawing herself inward like a child too hurt to turn to anyone for help. The one man she’d ever tried to love had betrayed her, had lied to her, had made her a joke to his friends.
Grayson could stand her screaming. He could even take her fighting and swearing, but he could not endure his Margaret crumbled to the floor like some soiled garment someone had thrown away.
He bent and lifted her into his arms and carried her to the old overstuffed chair by the window. She clung to him like a child now, stiff and broken. All her dammed-up emotions poured out in her tears. A lifetime wall against pain crumbled around her.
For a while he let her cry against his wide shoulder as he stroked her hair and comforted her. But slowly, as her cries turned to whimpers, his comfort turned to caresses. He moved his massive hands along her back, molding her close against his chest. He pulled her legs against his hip, so her thigh rested over the center of his need. With slow, loving movement, he buried his face in her hair and drank in the wonderful smell of her. He kissed her forehead and neck. He tasted the soft curve of her ear. Dear God, he was growing drunk on her, and she still wasn’t aware of his advances.
She was lost in a crumbling world. All these years she’d built a life around the fact that she was a hero’s widow, and now she was only a coward’s wife. Her heart was exploding in pain and only Grayson’s soft stroking kept her from going over the edge to insanity. Each time she felt the pain build, his hands would move along her back, or he’d pull her close as if pleading with her not to grieve too hard.
Willingly she accepted his comfort as she cried. His hands felt strong, his lips warm against her burning skin as he kissed first her cheeks and then her eyes. She relaxed in his strong arms as her mind drifted to all the horror of what had happened. Over and over she heard Westley’s words and the laughter of the other men in the room.
Grayson kissed the salty tears from her cheeks and brushed her mouth with his lips. When she didn’t pull away, he grew bolder. Her mouth was open as she sobbed against his shoulder. He turned her head slightly and kissed her long and tenderly.
For a moment she seemed to awaken as if she’d been asleep. She pushed at his chest and tried to move off his lap, but his arms held her fast as his kiss continued. His one hand twisted into her hair, holding her head, while his other arm lay across her, imprisoning her. After a few heartbeats, she stopped struggling and returned his kiss. Her mouth opened wider and his tongue explored the honey taste of her kiss.
Finally, when he pulled away to kiss her neck, she whispered, “We can’t be doing this. It isn’t …”
He silenced her with another kiss and she accepted his mouth willingly. The right or wrong didn’t matter to her. She needed to believe for one moment that she was alive, that she was desirable.
When he freed her lips once more, she voiced no protest. She leaned her head back against the arm of the chair and closed her eyes, allowing the pleasure of his kiss to wash away the wounds on her heart. His touch was like a warm liquid moving through her body, relaxing, warming, and welcome.
As she relaxed, Grayson slowly unbuttoned her blouse and pushed it aside to reveal the tight stays she always wore. Slowly he pulled the bow on the first ribbon. As it released, he saw the swell of her breasts so tightly bound inside. The second ribbon enlarged the swell, exciting him far more than any woman had. The third ribbon freed the top of her breasts to push above the last binding. A thin lace camisole was all that kept them in bounds. Grayson pulled the last ribbon and shoved the offending garment aside. How could anyone bind up such great beauty?
Without hesitation he ran his huge hand over the thin lace of the camisole. Cupping her ripe breast in his palm, he couldn’t hold back a smile of pure pleasure. Her flesh fit the cup of his palm to perfection. As she gasped in surprise, he ran his thumb over her hard peak and pulled her mouth to his. She was ready for his kiss now, hungry for the taste of passion. Each time he pushed into her mouth he tightened his hold on her breast slightly. There was no need for words; he could feel her pleasure in his hand.
After several minutes, he released her mouth and allowed her to lean back and stretch. She no longer pulled away, but smiled as he moved his hands beneath the camisole to touch the warmth of her flesh.
Her hair was tumbling over the arm of the chair. He reached and pulled it forward, loving the ebony silk as it formed a thin veil over her creamy breasts.
He allowed her to move, determining where he kissed her. She closed her eyes as he touched her face, then leaned her head back while he tasted the warm flesh of her neck and below. The low sounds coming from deep in her throat drove him mad with need for her. And always, as his mouth moved against hers, his hands caressed her skin.
He led her into a long swim in this new pas
sion before he slid one hand beneath her skirts and moved his fingers over the silkiness of her thighs.
Again she struggled in his arms, but his hand remained firm while his mouth demanded her full attention. Slowly, she relaxed and he began to move his hand over her legs, dipping deeper into the folds of her skirt with each caress. Her cries were of pleasure as she curled her fingers into his hair and begged for him to deepen his kiss. His lips obeyed as his hands continued to explore.
She leaned her head over his arm as he lifted her breasts to his mouth. While he tasted her, she whispered, “It isn’t right. I shouldn’t be doing this.”
Grayson forgot all but the woman in his arms. “Then tell me to stop, Maggie. Tell me to stop, because I’m planning to make love to you. I want to love you as a woman as fine as you should be loved.”
Reason touched her passion-drugged brain. “You can talk? You understood every word I’ve said?”
Grayson pulled her lips to his but he didn’t kiss her. “That doesn’t matter. What matters is I want you. I’ve wanted you since I first touched you and now I know you want me. Your body was made for my touch. No woman has ever felt so wonderful in my arms. No woman but you, Maggie.”
Margaret tried to pull away, but he kissed her hard and long, bruising her lips with his desire. His arms pulled her body against him, but he could feel her withdrawal.
“No!” she screamed when she was finally able to break the kiss.
“We’ll talk about it later. I’ll tell you everything, but right now, I’m bedding you.”
“I can’t love a man who has lied.” Suddenly her passion had grown cold. “And I’ll never again bed a man I don’t love. What other lies do you have to confess? You’ve allowed me to make a fool of myself for days.”
Grayson bit his bottom lip until it bled and still his anger threatened to explode. He lifted her off his lap and tossed her none too gently on the bed. “I want to love you, woman, and by God I know you want it also. So stop acting like some virgin just out of school and admit you need me as much as I need you.” He rolled beside her, flattening her into the feather bed with his weight.