Banner O'Brien

by Linda Lael Miller

  A few drinks, a good steak—he’d feel better soon.

  Striding up the boarding ramp, Adam considered Bessie and the singular relief she offered. God knew, with O’Brien sleeping in another bedroom and making it clear that she’d sooner couple with a gorilla than him, he could use some female consolation.

  The saloon was brightly lit and a little too loud for Adam’s tastes, but he went to the bar, thinking how damnably married he was. Had it really only been two months since he’d been able to come into Temple Royce’s establishment and take his pleasures in good conscience?

  The Shadow was crowded that night; there was music and a blond wisp of a girl with dark, empty eyes was singing on the stage. Adam bought a drink and moved closer, trying to hear her.

  Instead, he heard Cam Peters, the marshal, who was sitting at a nearby table, a drink in his hand, the center of attention.

  “I knew one man wouldn’t be enough for that one first time I laid eyes on her,” Peters boomed. “No sir. Nobody needed to tell me there was fire enough in that redhead to scar a man for life!”

  Adam’s hand tightened around his glass; he read the worn signboard beneath the stage methodically, in an attempt to settle his mind: Fancy Jordan. She Sings. She Dances. She Does Magic.

  “I shouldn’t look the other way, I guess,” Peters prattled on, blithely unaware of the man standing just behind him. “It’s agin the law for a lady to have two husbands, even if one of ‘em is a Corbin.”

  Stewart Henderson was at the table, too, and he lifted a glass in a gesture of agreement, spoke clearly without the wires that had held his jaw in place. “Mr. Royce wanted to bed her, but she was already—”

  Cam Peters broke in with a lewd chuckle. “Two husbands!” he marveled. “I reckon there’ll be more’n one man in line if she decides she needs a third!”

  Adam closed his eyes. “Stop,” he said, in a low, rumbling tone that somehow managed to still Fancy Jordan’s tremulous little voice and every other sound in the saloon in the bargain.

  Peters whirled in his chair and fear worked in his grizzled, ordinary face. “Adam! Jesus, I didn’t know you were—”

  Adam set down his drink, grappling with the murderous rage inside him. “That was obvious,” he said.

  And his body seemed to be acting independently of his reason; he approached Peters, clasped his lapels in aching fists, wrenched the man to his feet. “Go on, Cam,” he said, in a deadly undertone. “Tell us all about my wife and her two husbands.”

  “Christ, Adam—”

  “Talk. You know so much about the subject.”

  “I ain’t got nothin’ to say!”

  Some measure of sanity returned. Adam released the marshal, watched as he sank back into his chair with all the decorum of a jellyfish.

  The girl on the stage began to sing again.

  Adam went back to the bar and his drink, which held no appeal for him now. He didn’t want a steak, he didn’t want a woman.

  He most certainly didn’t want to hear Fancy Jordan sing.

  Wishing to God that he’d never met Banner O’Brien, let alone married her, he gathered the last of his strength and went home.

  * * *

  The marshal shifted from one foot to the other, looking both reluctant and angry in the thin morning light. “I’m afraid you’ll have to come down to the jail with me, Mrs. Corbin,” he said.

  Banner reeled, cast one look at Francelle, who was suddenly very busy at her typewriting machine. “Jail?” she echoed, certain that she couldn’t have heard correctly.

  “It’s agin the law to have more than one husband,” pontificated the marshal.

  Banner felt color rise in her cheeks. “I don’t think you understand, Marshal. Sean Malloy and I were divorced—I have the papers to prove it.”

  “I’d like to see them,” retorted the lawman.

  “I-I’ll just get my bag.”

  “Fine, Mrs. Corbin. That’s fine.”

  Banner hurried into the office, pushed aside papers and books and a yellow envelope that rested on the desk. For such a brilliant man, Adam was certainly slovenly, she thought. And where was he now, when she needed him to tell the marshal that she was his wife and no one else’s?

  She found her bag and wrenched it open, reaching into the side pocket where she kept not only her divorce decree but the papers proving that she was a doctor and the certificates from both her marriages.

  The diploma from the New York Infirmary was there, as was the certificate binding her to Adam Corbin. But her divorce decree and the license bearing Sean’s name were gone.

  Banner shivered. The papers couldn’t be gone—she never took them out of this bag. Never.

  “Doctor?” prodded Marshal Peters, from the office doorway. “You find them documents?”

  Slowly, resigned to a dismal fate, Banner shook her head. “They were here—you must believe me—”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Banner closed her eyes briefly, drew a deep breath, and turned to face the constable. “S-Someone has taken my papers.” Adam, perhaps? Had he been that desperate to be free of her, now that she refused him his marital rights?

  “Sure they have,” said Marshal Peters. “Now, if you’ll just come along with me.”

  Banner swallowed a sob of terror and frustration. Then she lifted her chin, collected her cloak, and walked out of the office with dignity.

  Fifteen minutes later, the door of a musty, close little cell closed behind her.

  There were no other prisoners being held anywhere in the jail that day, Banner could be grateful for that, at least.

  In a daze, she paced the sawdust floor, wondering if Adam had brought her to this. Heaven knew, he could have found those papers in her bag easily enough. Who had better access to her things than he did?

  One tear rolled down her face. Adam hated her, and he was unfaithful and callous and wholly immovable, but she could hardly believe that he would do something so base and underhanded as this. Had he wished to dispose of an unwanted wife, after all, there were certainly easier ways.

  And yet, what did Banner really know of Adam? He was handsome, he was a brilliant physician with almost unerring instincts, he was a gifted lover. He liked cream in his coffee and wore spectacles when he read and he distrusted all politicians.

  Realizing that these unrelated things constituted almost the whole of her knowledge of her husband, the father of her child, Banner wept.

  * * *

  Adam was cold, tired, hungry, and irritated, and he came to a lurching halt when he saw his mother racing across the backyard toward him, her skirts knotted in her hands, her face murderous in the twilight.

  “Where in the devil have you been?” she demanded.

  Adam had been in an isolated farmhouse most of the day, as it happened, delivering a particularly reluctant baby, but he did not feel disposed to explain. Stubbornly, he faced Katherine in silence.

  “Banner is in jail!” she cried, boiling over.

  Adam felt as though someone had just rammed his middle with the butt of a log. “What?”

  “That idiot Peters came and took her away—she’s been charged with bigamy! Bigamy, mind you! I offered to pay any bail but—”

  Rasping a swear word, Adam whirled back toward the stables and his buggy. This, he knew, was his payment for embarrassing Cam Peters on board the Silver Shadow the night before. And when he got his hands on that squirrely . . .

  Katherine was scrambling along at his side like a small, furious puppy. “Cam wouldn’t set bail and he wouldn’t let me see Banner even for a minute!” she complained, intensifying Adam’s headache and the swirling sickness in his gut.

  “Damn it, she has divorce papers,” he spat. “Why didn’t she show him those?”

  “Cam says she didn’t have any documents,” replied Katherine breathlessly, as her son began to rehitch the tired horse and the muddy buggy in the dense shadows of the barn. “He did show me a marriage certificate, signed by Banner and som
e man named Malloy.”

  “Sean,” breathed Adam, hating.

  “Sean? Adam, who—”

  “I haven’t time to explain it now,” he broke in, leading the nickering horse outside, the buggy jolting along behind. He could have reached the courthouse faster on horseback, but he intended to bring Banner back with him, and she’d be in no condition to ride double.

  Despite the encumberance of the small vehicle, Adam reached the courthouse within minutes.

  And Royce was there, of all people—looking genteel and solicitous as he squired a dazed Banner down the stone steps.

  Adam leaped out of the buggy, strode toward them, half-blind with anger. “What the—”

  Temple Royce smiled and held up one hand; with the other, he gripped Banner’s elbow. “You’ve done enough, Adam,” he said. “Please, let us pass.”

  Adam’s eyes sliced to Banner’s face and a thousand questions hammered in his mind. Why had Royce succeeded in freeing his wife when Katherine had failed? Why was Shamrock staring at him that way, as though she only vaguely remembered him?

  “Give me my wife,” he said.

  “I’m afraid there is some question about whose wife Banner is, Adam. And she’s in my custody until some determination is made.”

  “The hell she is!” rasped Adam, reaching for Banner, feeling gut-jarring pain when she huddled against Royce as if to seek his protection.

  “Haven’t you done enough?” asked Royce smoothly, his eyes raking Adam’s face. “Look at the woman! She’s terrified—I’m not sure she even knows you!”

  It seemed to be true—O’Brien’s eyes were wide and vacant and she was shivering, holding on to Royce’s arm with both her hands.

  “Banner,” Adam ventured, holding out his hand in a gentle gesture.

  She shook her head, hid her face in Temple’s handy shoulder. “No,” she said. “Please. Leave me alone.”

  Adam was nearly apoplectic now; it was impossible to separate his fear from his anger. “What the hell is going on here?” he rasped.

  Royce shrugged, cradled Banner with one arm. “All I know is that Banner has been accused—quite wrongly, I’m sure—of bigamy. The moment I heard about it, of course, I came and persuaded Cam Peters to free her—in my custody.”

  “Why did he release Banner to you?”

  “When he wouldn’t turn her over to your mother?” finished Royce, smiling cordially. Benignly. “That’s simple, Adam. She was very overwrought at the prospect of going back to your house. Marshal Peters tells me that the poor dear blames you for her arrest, as a matter of fact.”

  “What?” The bullet-sharpness of the word made O’Brien bury her head in Temple’s coat again and shiver.

  “O’Brien, look at me.”

  She looked, though not willingly, and her green eyes registered fear all right.

  “I wouldn’t do a thing like this to you,” Adam breathed desperately. “You must know that.”

  Banner did know him; he could see that now. It was good to have at least one terror dispelled. “I won’t go home with you,” she said.

  Adam tilted his head back and drew a ragged breath. The night air was cold, crisp, promising snow. “Where are you going, Banner? To Temple’s bed?”

  As Adam had intended, she broke free of Royce’s tender hold and flung herself at her husband, scratching and shrieking and spitting like a cat.

  He caught her wrists and held them. “That’s it, O’Brien. Fight.”

  Tears poured down her face. “I hate you!” she hissed. “I’d rather sleep in any bed than yours!”

  “I love you, too, dear,” Adam replied calmly. “Thank Mr. Royce for his kind attentions and we’ll go home.”

  “Now, just a—” protested Royce, a bit lamely.

  Adam smiled at Banner, loving her, rejoicing in the return of her spirit and her fire. Even her hatred was better than the quiet, catatonic despair that had possessed her before. “Sorry, Temple,” he said, and then he swung Banner up into his arms, where she damn well belonged, and hauled her to the buggy.

  It was rather like trying to carry a mother mountain lion away from her cubs.

  “Peters will take her back into custody!” warned Royce, who was, no doubt, less concerned with that prospect than the spoiling of his plans to offer comfort and solace to the nubile transgressor.

  Adam was busy, taking up the reins with one hand, struggling with Banner with the other. Still, he managed a polite nod for his old and respected adversary. “Good night, Temple. And thanks again.”

  Royce bellowed an obscene response and hurled his fancy beaver top hat into the slush and mud at the foot of the courthouse steps.

  * * *

  Banner hated Adam Corbin. Hated him. And, as he flung her unceremoniously onto his bed, she almost hoped that he would make love to her, so that she could hate him even more.

  He began undressing her, as a gentle father might undress a troublesome child, undoing buttons, pulling off shoes, rolling down stockings.

  “Don’t you dare try to make love to me!” Banner whispered, her cheeks flaming.

  “I wouldn’t dare,” replied Adam, with a half-grin and a lift of one eyebrow.

  “You’re afraid of me?”

  Adam drew her camisole up over her head and tossed it aside, apparently taking no more than a clinical interest in her exposed breasts. “Terrified,” he said.

  “Stop mocking me!”

  He ignored her, untying her drawers and pulling them down.

  “It’s been a long time,” Banner reminded him, her tones testy and somewhat petulant.

  “Ummm. Too long.” Adam found a flannel nightgown—one he had damned as virginal and threatened to burn, time and time again. He tugged it over her head.

  “I won’t let you make love to me!”

  He chuckled. “Your virtue is safe for tonight. I don’t go to bed with jailbirds, O’Brien.”

  Banner flailed her arms, but they were bound up in the sleeves of the nightgown. “Good! You needn’t make any advances—”

  Adam pushed her back onto the pillows, covered her with the blankets, kissed her forehead dispassionately. In another minute, he’d be wanting to hear her prayers.

  “Sleep. We can talk in the morning.”

  Banner reddened. Here she was, protesting and protesting, and he wasn’t the least bit ruffled. “Don’t you want me?”

  Adam laughed. “I want you.”

  “Then—”

  “Sleep.” He was moving toward the door now.

  “Wait!” Banner gasped.

  Adam paused, looking indulgent, his hand on the knob. “What?”

  “You d-didn’t have me put in jail, did you?”

  The magnificent face contorted, ever so slightly, despite the maddeningly benign smile curving Adam’s lips and veiling the expression in his eyes. “Of course I didn’t. But, since you never believe a word I say, I’ll spare you the customary heated denials.”

  Banner colored profusely. Maybe she didn’t believe him when it came to Bessie Ingram or Lulani, but she knew he was telling the truth now, where her arrest was concerned.

  “I wouldn’t really have gone home with Mr. Royce,” she said, to offer an olive branch.

  Adam’s jaw tightened, and a blue fire sparked in his eyes, turning them savage. “Why should I believe that, Shamrock?” he drawled. “You were clinging to his arm as though you expected me to murder you in the street!”

  So, he was capable of jealousy. Banner smiled inwardly, thinking that turnabout was, indeed, fair play. “It’s all very innocent, Adam,” she chimed. “Temple is my friend.”

  The emphasis on the final word struck Adam with a satisfyingly visible impact. He staunchly maintained that Lulani was his “friend,” so let him wonder about Banner’s association with Temple Royce. Let him wonder about the nights they’d spent apart, as she wondered.

  “Temple is very handsome, don’t you think?” she threw into the dangerous conversational void.

 
“Actually, he doesn’t excite me,” retorted Adam, in a biting, sardonic hiss.

  Banner shrugged and lowered her eyes. This was a stupid, childish game she was playing, and she was too tired for it. Too broken and needing and afraid.

  “Do you think I’ll have to go back to jail?” she whispered.

  “No,” replied Adam flatly, opening the door.

  Banner’s heart surged into her throat. She couldn’t be alone now, not tonight. “Don’t go, Adam,” she said. “Please, don’t go.”

  Adam closed the door again, came to her slowly, as though he was trying to restrain himself every inch of the way. He sat down on the edge of the bed, traced the outline of her cheek with one slightly unsteady finger. “O’Brien,” he said, and for all its softness, the word was like a cry for help. “I’ve needed you—I’ve wanted you—”

  “And have you loved me, Adam Corbin?”

  He closed his eyes, and some unreadable emotion moved in his fine, arrogant features. “Yes,” he rasped.

  Banner took up one of his hands, brought it to her beflanneled breasts. “That night in the cabin, when I said that Sean sat-satisfied me—I didn’t mean it.”

  Slowly, as if against his will, Adam’s hand began to move upon her, kneading her. He opened his wonderous eyes, and she saw torment in their depths. “I know,” he said.

  “He n-never did anything but hurt me.”

  Adam’s fingers were drawing at the cloth-sheltered nipple now, causing it to rise to attention like a little soldier. “Bare this for me,” he ground out.

  Banner obeyed, undoing the nightgown, pulling it aside with both hands. Her breasts were plump peaks, proud and firm and overladen with weeks of passion.

  A soft, desperate sound escaped Adam as he swept his eyes over this waiting wealth, hungering. “Banner . . .”

  Gently, she cupped her hand at the back of his magnificent ebony head and drew him down to suckle.

  Chapter Twelve

  ADAM’S BREATH CAUGHT IN HIS THROAT WHEN HE SAW the telegraph message half buried in the clutter on his desk. How long had it been there, unnoticed? Why hadn’t Francelle brought it to him, personally, when it was delivered?

  He ripped open the envelope too fiercely; the message inside was torn. Swearing, Adam reassembled it. It was not the half-expected warning from Jeff, letting him know that Sean Malloy had jumped ship. Banner was safe, for the moment at least.