Surrender A Dream

by Jill Barnett

  She watched him skim through it. "Don't bother. Most of the words have more than four letters."

  He didn't look up, didn't acknowledge her. He slowly closed the book and turned around to put it back on the mantel. He tilted his hat back with a casual nudge of his thumb, then he spoke, "Well, crap, damn, and hell, Miss Pinky, you're right."

  He got her, every time. Sauntering over to a small walnut table, he stopped and picked up an English majolica vase. It was trimmed in gold and midnight-blue and had pink raised flowers and green leaves. He frowned at her. "Can't stand this gaudy stuff though. You can take this with you when you leave."

  "I'm not leaving."

  "We'll see." He reached up and pulled down the polished bronze hanging lamp and examined the dust-covered glass dome, shaking his long-haired head. Then he eyed the crystal prisms that fringed the globe before flicking them with his fingers. The glass pinged like chimes in the wind, and he nodded. "Nice. Very nice."

  For a brief, angry instant, Addie wondered if hanging for murder could possibly be so bad.

  Now he strolled toward the bedroom, so she scurried after him. "Get out!"

  Again he ignored her, walking over to the iron bed, still unmade. He stared at it, then looked around the room, his gaze landing on each item of disarray. He looked at her trunk, open and draped with clothing. Her shoes were piled nearby and all of her farm books were stacked in front of the mirrored armoire. Next he zeroed in on the pile of clothes she had tossed on the floor last night. Her drawers were on top.

  He bent and picked them up by the waist ties, dangling them out in front of him. "Yours?" He smirked.

  She jerked them out of his hand and, face flaming, stuffed them in her robe.

  He waved his hand around the messy room. "Sloppy little thing, aren't you?" His look was just as goading as his words. "Didn't your mama teach you to have more respect for other people's property?"

  Addie just glared at him, not willing to let him know he was getting to her.

  He shrugged and turned, tossing his hat on the still-rumpled bed pillows. Apparently it was now the bed's turn. Ornamented in gold, with enameling in black japan, it sat there, innocently. He ran his hand over the brass top knobs and then sat on the plump mattress, bouncing slightly to test its softness.

  "Feathers. Real comfortable. I'll sleep great in here." With that he lolled back against the pillows, locking his hands behind his head and making a big to-do about crossing his booted ankles, complete with spurs which dug into the crocheted coverlet—her aunt's crocheted coverlet.

  That did it. Without a thought, Addie grabbed the washbasin, still filled with last night's cold wash water, and she baptized the toad.

  "Goddammit!" He swiped his long, dripping wet hair off his purple face.

  "Sleep well, Mr. Creed!" Then Addie and the basin made for the kitchen.

  * * *

  Montana stopped in the bedroom doorway, dripping. He took aim and shot the hanging lamp from the ceiling. It crashed to the floor. That stopped her, but then so had the bullets in the kitchen door, and she'd recovered from that episode. She turned around, dropped the basin, and what little color she had drained away. Her eyes locked on the gun, then she looked right at him. He was sure that this time his plan had worked, and he'd scared the hell out of her. He didn't smile with satisfaction, although he felt like it. Instead he shook his wet hair out of his face, then slowly walked toward her, the gun aimed right at her chest.

  It was working. He had her good and frightened, if her wide eyes were any indication. She backed up slowly, until she had backed out onto the porch. She stopped suddenly and looked around, as if surprised to be outside again.

  Then she turned back, looked at the house, then at him. Her eyes turned black with determination and she did the strangest thing. Instead of stepping back, like a fearful woman should, she stepped toward him. He couldn't believe her. Suddenly, as if the air outside had fortified her, she didn't appear the least bit frightened. She just looked right at him with those unreadable black eyes of hers.

  "You will not drive me off my land. Here's another four-letter word for you, Mr. Creed. Mine. The farm is mine." Her look was pure determination.

  He raised the gun higher. She just stared at him, as if he had no gun and wasn't threatening her at all. Her reaction made him stop and think. She'd been so skittish before, Montana had assumed she'd be easy to frighten. She wasn't, or at least she didn't show it now. He eyed her, assessing her face, her huge, dark eyes, anything that would give him a clue to her fear. Still nothing, no hint of fear. He'd bet she played poker. No one could be so unintimidated by a loaded gun. He'd better push her a little more.

  "My deed isn't a fake. Get off my land." He took one step closer.

  "No. I won't leave."

  She stared him down; he closed the gap. Now they stood eye to eye, she on his porch and he in his doorway. The Pinky woman still appeared to have no fear of him.

  Just to remind her, he lifted the gun.

  She didn't even blink. He moved closer, but deep inside it gave him the chills, the way this woman acted as if his gun couldn't harm her, couldn't end her life in a fast second.

  Slowly, he placed the gun barrel against her chest. That ought to scare her.

  "Go ahead." She smiled at him. It was an icy smile, a poker smile.

  Damn stubborn woman. His teeth clamped together, hard. His shoulders tightened under his wet shirt and he could feel his neck veins throb, could feel his blood race and pump through his body. Seconds crawled by. It was as if she had turned to stone. With her eyes, her look, her stillness, she challenged him. And he didn't dare blink. He wanted her to do it first.

  Slowly, ever so slowly, he drew the gun barrel up an inch, then another. She didn't flinch. With deliberate slowness he traced her collarbone with the barrel, dragging the cold metal sight over her skin. Her lips parted.

  He trailed the gun up her white, white neck, pausing right on the bluish spot where her pulse beat. She licked her lips. His gaze dropped to those lips, heart-shaped, full, and now moist from the only nervous action she'd displayed.

  The air sizzled and as they stared, fire darts of tension shot all around them. Mistrust, desperation, intensity, and something odd—something akin to passion—seemed to crackle above them, like green wood in a camp fire.

  Montana could feel the sunlight glare onto the house. It beat against the left side of his face. He began to sweat, but it wasn't from the sun. There was a thrill in the battle with this woman, something intense and powerful, almost sexual. Her expression defied him, invited him to counter her. It was a provocation, and his mind flashed with the image of her… under him.

  "Do it."

  Do it? He blinked. Dammit.

  "Pull the trigger," she dared in a whisper.

  He blinked again, and she smiled a winner's smile. Beaten for the moment, he lowered the gun and shoved it into his gun belt. Then he stood there a moment more, watching the triumphant grin on her small face. She'd won.

  He jerked the dripping hat off his head and threw it as he stormed past her. His brand-new, wet Stetson hit the dusty, dry ground with a hollow thud. He stomped down the stairs and all around the hat, a cloud of orange dirt drifting up in his wake and then settling on its damp crown.

  "Damn hard-headed female!" Back and forth he paced, trying to vent his frustration. "She's crazy, damn fool crazy," he mumbled, madder than hell at her for beating him. Then he stopped and glared at her.

  She smirked back. Finally he could see her thoughts reflected in her eyes. She had that I've bested him look, and he didn't like it.

  "You're crazy, lady." He shook his head. "You could have been killed."

  Her smile disappeared and she shrugged. "I have no one, and nothing to lose."

  He just stood there, contemplating her words. Jesus, he thought, she was as desperate as he. No wonder she didn't fear him. She was alone with nothing to lose, just like him. Or she was bluffing. Whatever, she'd earned a notch
of his respect. He watched her for a second or so, reassessing his rival. It was obvious that she wasn't going to back down. He'd have to find another way to run her off. A threat with a gun wouldn't do it. She was a worthy adversary, determined, stubborn, and willing to take risks, a good poker player. But so was he, and he'd have to call her bluff.

  He spun around and headed straight for the big red barn. He went around the back and untied his horse, Jericho, and walked to the edge of the barn. She wasn't on the porch, so he figured she must have gone back inside. He rounded the corner of the barn, leading his horse back to the oak tree. He could see the Pinky woman, peering through the flowery-edged curtains, watching him.

  He decided to put on a show. He flipped up the saddlebag flap and began to unpack, dropping a few small things onto the ground.

  The window squeaked open.

  "What are you doing?" she yelled.

  He untied his bedroll and then pulled out a bundle of clothes wrapped in a red union suit he wore on cold winter nights.

  "Answer me!"

  He continued to ignore her and untied the clothes. The window slammed shut. Montana picked up the union suit and held it up in the air, where he knew she couldn't miss it. She now stood in the broken doorway. He watched her, around his longjohns, shaking them some more. She stepped, tentatively, onto the porch, then she paused while he fiddled with the buttons on the backflap of the longjohns. She walked to the porch railing and he turned the underwear this way and that, letting her get the full effect.

  He'd just let her think she won, lull her into a state of confidence. He shook out the union suit and hung it over the low branches of the oak tree, where it couldn't be missed. Its bright color would wave like a red flag when there was a breeze. He smiled at the image.

  She padded down the porch steps, barefoot, and did her best to march toward him. Bending over, he pulled a clean shirt—a dry one with buttons—from his clothes bundle, and watched her out of the corner of his eye. The wrap thing she wore flapped behind her, and her nightdress clung to her legs. It outlined them perfectly. He straightened. Now this was getting interesting.

  Carefully, she tiptoed over the gravel of the front drive, hopping once or twice when her bare foot hit a stone. That was even more interesting since when she'd reached down to grab her foot, Montana could see her legs, clear up to the knees. She looked up, scowling, and then followed his gaze to her exposed leg. She jerked down the gown, stuck her nose up, and closed the few feet between them.

  While she heaved her indignant self forward, Montana made a big deal of shaking out each of his clean shirts. She had nice legs, although they weren't very long since she was such a little thing.

  She stopped in front of him. "What are you doing?"

  Silent, he took off his shirt and dropped it onto his pile. Then he turned around. Her belligerent face stared up at him. She was so short her stubborn chin was about even with his chest hair. Purposely, he took a deep breath and heard her gasp.

  "Unpacking," he finally answered while he shrugged on the other shirt and unbuckled his gun belt, tossing it over his saddle. He undid the buttons on his fly and watched her face flame.

  "Stop!"

  He flicked open the last button. "No."

  She spun around. "You can't stay here!"

  He tucked in his shirt, all the while smiling at her indignant back. Stepping around her, he headed for his saddlebags. "If you can stay here, so can I." He pulled out a pair of denims and shook them. They snapped in the morning air with the same tone as his answer.

  Now she faced him, her hands landed on her hips. "You are not staying in my house."

  He glanced over his shoulder. "You're right, I'm not staying in my house. I'm going to be a gentleman."

  She snorted.

  "You can stay in my house, Miss Pinky." He removed a piece of canvas from the bag.

  "Knee, Pink-ney!"

  He got her.

  "Where are you staying?"

  "Right here." He shook out the canvas and then pulled out his tent stakes. Within a matter of minutes he had erected a small canvas tent. She still stood there, silently fuming.

  He uncinched his saddle and pulled up the stirrups, hooking them over the horn. Then he lifted the saddle and turned, calculating just what height to hold it so it barely missed her hard head. She ducked anyway.

  He hid his smile and dropped his saddle on the ground near the head of the tent. He was having a good time, egging this little woman on, more fun than he'd had in a long time. He turned, planning to mispronounce her name again, but his horse nickered and nosed over to munch on some new grass near her feet. Before he could say a thing, the Pinky woman gasped and ran hellhound for the porch.

  Montana stared at the empty spot where she had stood only a moment before. He glanced at Jericho, grazing peacefully beneath the oak.

  She was afraid of his horse.

  He chuckled. Hooking his fingers into his belt loops, he rocked back on his boot heels, grinning like a weasel at the henhouse door. One nudge from his gentle old horse could do in one minute what all his blustering and bluffing couldn't. Here was a woman who could stare down a gun barrel and dare him to shoot her, but good old Jericho scared the hell out of her.

  He walked over and picked up his hat, dusting it off. He stopped and flicked at the mud on its crown before he walked back to his camp, mulling over this new information. He was desperate to keep this farm. He had to drive that woman away, and he wasn't opposed to playing upon her weakness to do it. But she was a smart one, and he'd have to think about this. He needed to use her fear to his best advantage.

  That was how to win in life. One had to bide his time, take however much time was necessary to appraise an adversary, and use that time, whether it be hours or years—whatever was needed to lull the enemy into a sense of security. Then go for the throat. Get them right in their weakest spot.

  But right here and now, he needed to think and he needed some strong black coffee to turn the wheels of his mind. He started a fire, then poured water from his canteen into the small, graniteware coffeepot he carried with him. Rummaging through his chuck bag, he found the Arbuckle sack and threw a handful of the coarse, black grounds into the pot. Then he sat down, leaning against the sturdy oak and waiting for his coffee. Time was his.

  When the coffee was done, he poured some in his tin cup and sipped it, his eyes now appraising Jericho, who was still munching on the grass nearby. He glanced at the farmhouse, and then his horse. He eyed the doors and windows, then his horse. He stared at the porch, and then at his horse. Leaning back against the hard oak tree again, he drank the coffee and rubbed his chin. It might possibly work…

  The toad was right, she was crazy. She had just done the craziest thing of her life. She had no idea where she'd dug up the nerve to stand there and have a staredown with a gun.

  It was his fault. If he wasn't so… irritating, she'd have probably acted more rationally, maybe bargained with him. Instead, he pricked a devil within her that just made her want to anger him. No, anger was too mild a word. What she wanted to do was stick in his craw, like a month-old biscuit.

  But why? What was it about him that made her want to drive him crazy? Probably his attitude. Never had Addie been able to tolerate someone with a superior attitude. It grated on her. That was what destroyed her position at the library. Hilary's attitude had become so intolerable for Addie that she just had to fight back. For some reason this Mr. Creed scratched that same spot of irritability in her.

  In each of their three encounters she had felt challenged, as if he were daring her. And finally she had to stop backing away. But that wonderful deep voice would be her downfall if she didn't watch it. She'd practiced ignoring it, which was much easier when he shouted at her. It was when he spoke without cynicism or anger that she let her guard down.

  He is your enemy, she reminded herself. He wanted her land and he had the chance to take it away, too good a chance for her to just lie back and trust that justi
ce would be served. She needed to fight, to ensure that she would get the farm. She had to; she had nothing else, nowhere else to go. All she had left was determination, and nothing, not a gun nor a gun-toting madman, was going to chase her away.

  His horrible horse chased me away. Addie groaned. The huge animal had nudged her foot, and she didn't even think. She just reacted, like she always did when one of those deadly animals made a sudden move. She ran as if the devil were after her, that devil of a horse.

  She shivered and rubbed away the chills that flickered through her arms. It had been a pair of horses that killed her father. A raging team of eight deadly hooves that snuffed out all the light in Addie's youth. Her father had been everything to both her and her mother. They adored him, and he never abused that adoration. He had always loved them and never ceased to show that love in his every action and every word.

  Not one day that Addie could ever remember had her father not told her how much he loved her. His teasing, his charm and wit had taught her to laugh. It was on his secure lap that he'd first showed her the rain ring that sometimes framed the moon. He called it a rain ring because, he told her, the ring meant it would rain soon. Addie could remember watching for the rain, and sure enough, three days later a storm had come blustering through the city.

  It was on that same secure lap that Addie'd learned the power of prayer, the gift of knowledge, and the ideal that nothing was beyond her reach, if she really wanted it. Her father had taught her that if she wanted something, she should go after it. Nothing kept you from succeeding except yourself, he'd said. Self-doubt was the one obstacle man constantly creates. And it's what keeps man, or woman—he'd laughed at her frown—from achieving his or her dreams.

  But even self-determination could not bring back the father whose wife and daughter had been his world, a happy world that had died on a cold Sunday in February. Her parents had dropped Addie off at a skating party, then planned to go for a sleigh ride in the park. They never made it. A skittish pair of horses had run wild, overturning a wagon and dragging it into her parents' buggy. The animals didn't stop; her father didn't live. He died, slowly, in agonizing pain, and her mother, crippled forever, had been forced to live a lonely twelve years confined to a husband-less home.