Kit Gardner

by Twilight

  And yet his boots suddenly seemed to spring a touch lighter against the wooden boardwalk, perhaps because he knew Bartlett was searching for a long-haired, bearded gunman, not a shorn and shaven farmhand with a child at his side. As for Bartlett remembering him from that faro table...

  Some part of him hoped he would. Yes, a very big part of him suddenly realized that he had far more to gain from confronting Cameron Spotz and his gun Bartlett than he’d ever imagined he would. Perhaps because for the first time in his life he found himself with far too much to lose to run from it now. Hell, he’d been running most of his life, rankling as the thought was. But a man with no ties could call himself a loner and a drifter only so many times and still fool himself, when the grim reality of it was that he was hiding like a scared rabbit, even allowing himself to remain a man wanted for murder. Just another excuse to keep running. Run or be hanged. Damned unspoken law. But better to nurse a decades-old desire for vengeance for his parents’ wrongful deaths than to allow anything or anyone to get their shackles around his soul. Yet somewhere along the way, his vengeance had become a prison, his ability with a gun his only comfort, his only ally—until he’d taken Frank Wynne’s life. Until Jess.

  “This way,” he muttered to Christian, directing the child across the wide street toward the blacksmith’s before they reached Bartlett. They paused as a wagon rumbled past. Rance nodded to the driver, then continued on, returning several young ladies’ eager greetings.

  And Black Jack Bartlett watched them until they disappeared inside the blacksmith’s barn.

  * * *

  Why she’d allowed Avram to ride off back to town in his plush curricle alone, Jessica would never know. Pride was a vicious thing, particularly when exercising it meant walking the two miles to Twilight in blistering heat. She supposed women more cunning than she, and just as proud, would have recognized folly for what it was and endured Avram’s company the few moments more it would have taken for him to deliver her to town. But she’d never professed to have an ounce of cunning, and folly and she had become faithful friends in recent years. Besides, the thought of sitting beside Avram anywhere, even for the sake of her feet, made her want to retch.

  And in some perverse way, she supposed, she viewed this trudging over unforgiving prairie in this heat the least penance to pay for continuing to be played for a fool.

  Her breaths came swift and shallow, and her pace had slowed considerably since she’d first stalked off down this road, full of stubborn pride and grim determination. Perspiration weighted her gown and soaked the limp curls falling like a heavy blanket down her back. Waves of dust billowed over her in merciless succession, snaking into her throat with her every breath. Heat swallowed her up, radiating from the sun-parched earth in great, endless waves. Still, she willed one foot in front of the other in steps that grew heavier and heavier over the deeply rutted trail.

  She had no choice. She had to get to Twilight. Who but she could convince the sheriff that Logan Stark wasn’t a dangerous man? Avram, pious pillar of the community that he was, couldn’t have convinced them so quickly to run him out, not now...now that she’d finally found him.

  She heard the buckboard before she could distinguish it from the rippling, dusty horizon. One hand shot out in reflex, a terrified croak spilling from her parched lips, so certain was she that the buckboard would somehow run her down. And then the great black beast Jack plunged into her wavering vision, skidding to a halt directly before her.

  “Stark...” she rasped, sure now that the world was tilting beneath her feet in skewed waves of billowing heat.

  “What the hell? Woman, are you crazy?”

  “Stark...” The word came out in another long slur. She blinked, unable to focus upon the broad-shouldered bulk that leapt from the buckboard and moved swiftly toward her. “Turn the wagon around, Stark.”

  His big hands grasped her shoulders and gently shook her. “Damned foolish woman, are you trying to kill yourself in this heat? You must be two miles from the farm.”

  The untempered urgency in his voice stoked the most pleasurable warmth deep in Jessica’s soul. Her palm sought the rugged visage swimming before her eyes, and finally found one beard-stubbled cheek. A wavering smile parted her lips. “Kill myself? Heavens, no. Why would I want to do that? I simply need to get to town. You have to take me there.”

  “The hell I do,” he growled, sweeping her from her feet and striding to the wagon. “Damned stubborn female, nothing you could get in that town is worth heatstroke, or worse. And you know it. You’re going nowhere but home.”

  “No,” she croaked, licking her parched lips and valiantly seeking to reason with him. The truth seemed the best course at the moment. “A-Avram has convinced the sheriff to run you out. I must talk to him before he gets the whole town provoked. They’re sure to form one of those awful vigilante groups and come and force you to go—”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he told her, and the mere uttering of those words seemed to dismiss such a probability. And then, as though she weighed next to nothing, he lifted her up onto the seat, then settled his bulk close beside her.

  Her fingers curled into the leather seat. “Stark, you don’t understand. If I don’t convince the sheriff otherwise—”

  “Put your head between your knees before you faint,” he ordered. One broad hand wrapped about the back of her head and pushed her face into her skirts.

  Blood rushed to her temples, ringing ominously in her ears. “I’ve never fainted in my life,” she felt compelled to add, regardless of the queasiness settling in her belly as the buckboard jerked into motion. A moan that belied that fact slipped from her lips before she could snatch it back. And then a tiny hand worked itself into hers upon the jostling seat.

  “Don’t worry, Mama. Logan and me will take care of you.”

  Confidence, pride and an undeniable tenderness rang in her son’s voice. A great lump formed in Jessica’s throat. “I know you will,” she replied softly.

  At some point along the way, Jessica slipped into a half sleep, stirring once when Stark lifted her from the wagon, and then again when cool air washed over her fevered skin. Some part of her realized that she lay upon her bed sheets, and that Stark’s fingers were stripping her sodden gown from her. She could voice no protest, trapped as she was in this heated fog. Words remained half formed upon her tongue. Her limbs responded with a sort of drugged delay, and then as though weighted with lead. She drifted into half sleep again, only to awaken to Stark’s warmly hushed voice murmuring, “Open for me, love.”

  His thumb brushed over her bottom lip, and she opened her mouth in response. Cool water spilled into her throat, and she gulped ravenously, heedless of the droplets plunging down her neck and chest. She forced her eyes open. In the dim light, he loomed over her, filling her vision. Concern etched grim lines deep into his gloriously handsome face.

  Had her hand not weighed so much, she would have caressed the lean cheek, assuaged all those lines.

  Gently he eased her back upon the sheets and laid a cool, wet cloth over her brow. With a tenderness she’d never thought a man capable of, he pressed another wet cloth to the racing pulse at the base of her throat, then swept it across her shoulders, down her arms, again and again, until the feverish heat left her blood and she slipped into an untroubled slumber.

  * * *

  Jessica surged awake. She stared at the crack meandering through the ceiling overhead and listened to the even beating of her pulse. Her skin felt cool and dry beneath her fingertips, despite the white coverlet drawn clear to her chin. Though her room was dark, the shades drawn low, instinct told her she should not be abed at such an hour. Besides, the grumbling in her belly could not go ignored much longer, particularly with the aroma of something cooking in the air.

  Sweeping the coverlet aside, she eased herself up and slowly swung her legs over the edge of the bed. No spinning room. No rushing sounds in her ears. The fevered heat had subsided. Her nose twitched. Someth
ing smelled suspiciously like biscuits baking.

  Who the devil was baking biscuits in her kitchen?

  Mouth watering, she braced her hands on the bed and pushed herself to her feet. Her camisole and pantalets clung damp and cool against her skin and tangled heavily between her legs. Save for her hair spilling in loose riotous curls over her bosom and down her back, she might well have been naked, for all the transparent cotton concealed. A blush heated her cheeks at the memory of Stark bathing her skin free of fever, of his hands moving with dizzying familiarity over her as he removed her gown. Even in a near delirium, she had responded to his touch.

  “And where the hell do you think you’re going?”

  Her head snapped up at the harsh rasping of his voice. For some reason, when her gaze met Stark’s, she suddenly envisioned what it might be like to be a helpless fox caught in a trap. Perhaps because his broad-shouldered bulk filled the doorway, blocking out all else, making her feel too small, too vulnerable. His expression might have been chiseled from rock, lips tight, jaw deeply hollowed, brows drawn together in their habitual scowl. His eyes blazed with warning even as they moved over her in a slow caress. His shirtsleeves were rolled clear to his elbows, revealing his muscled, generously furred forearms and the long-fingered hands clamped against his thighs. And his butter-colored shirt was as damp as her camisole, and plastered against the wall of his chest. A weakness stole through her, and she clawed at one bedpost with a hand that trembled.

  “I—I’m hungry,” she said softly, her voice dying when he growled something and in two strides swept her up into his arms. He turned to the bed, obviously intent upon depositing her there. But then he paused. Jessica sensed more than heard his breath catch, perhaps because hers did, as well, the moment those arms caught her high and close against him. She stared at the thick column of his beard-stubbled throat. His entire body seemed rigid as a steel beam. She knew neither of them breathed.

  Time hung suspended. Jessica slowly lifted her eyes to his. She’d never thought to find such delight in the boldness of a man, in desire so profoundly and unabashedly displayed. The mere idea of a man’s carnal thoughts had forever embarrassed her; the mysteries of a male body, the terror it would surely wreak upon her tender flesh, had only stoked terrifying images. The marriage bed had held no pleasure for her, only pain, save for the child born of it. And her body had always been something she had merely fed and clothed.

  But not with Stark. His passion didn’t provoke fear or embarrassment. Beneath his eye, her body had become an instrument of seduction, her awareness burgeoning daily of the power of her every move, every gesture, every slight smile, and its devastating consequences upon Stark. His bold masculinity, the irrefutable evidence of her effect upon him, brought a rosy glow to her skin, not one of shame, but one of desire. To lie thus in his arms, all but bare to his passionate regard, felt as natural as she could imagine or hope. And she ached with a longing as old as time to feel every taut male fiber of him pressing her deep into this bed.

  She watched his lips part and his eyes darken to molten bronze as the peaks of her breasts tightened and thrust against the damp cotton. And when he bent his head and pressed his face to the lush curves swelling above the camisole, she could only close her eyes with deeply felt pleasure.

  Dimly she was aware that he’d lowered himself to the edge of the bed. Languid heat rippled through her when he filled his palm with her breast and his thumb brushed over the nipple, until the nub was distended and aching.

  A breath shuddered through her, and then came the swelling of that deep ache, a painful awakening of her soul. Reservation fled on a wave of abandonment, and she arched her back, offering herself to him.

  His breath played hot and harsh against her throat, and then his fingers molded the back of her head and forced her gaze to meet his. “Only an animal would take you now,” he rasped. “Besides, when I do, your son won’t be in the next room. I’ll want to take my time. All night, if I so wish it. Even then—” His gaze dipped to her breasts, and his jaw tightened with obvious restraint. “I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you, Jess. Maybe because it feels like I’ve wanted you for a lifetime. Now get back in that bed and rest.”

  She allowed her lids to droop over languid eyes, and parted her lips in a soft pout, her arms remaining staunchly locked about his neck. “I’m not tired. Truly, I’m fine. Just famished, is all.”

  His eyes narrowed upon her lips. “So am I, sweetheart.” And then, in one supple movement, he deposited her on the sheets and snapped the coverlet clear to her chin, as though he dared not tempt himself a moment longer.

  “What’s for dinner?” Jessica asked, feeling smug as a cat in cream. And as powerful as a lioness. Very much aware that Stark drank in her every movement, she fluffed and stacked the pillows, then sat back against the headboard, coverlet drawn only to her waist, arms folded demurely in her lap.

  Rance watched the glitter light her eyes, the secretive curve flirt with her lips, and wondered what the hell he’d created. His loins knew precisely what he’d created: the most sensual, passionate, ripe and rosy woman he’d ever imagined. She was like a sweet, plump peach, all soft, downy curves begging to be tasted and plundered. Sweet torment. His eyes followed one thin strap as it slid just off her shoulder. His mouth parched. Her skin glowed with a luminescence all its own, and he tasted it again upon his lips as his gaze plundered the lush curves of her breasts, and his mind recalled the lavish nest of blond curls nestled between her white thighs.

  “Dinner?” he heard himself say. He spread his teeth into a smile he didn’t feel one damn bit. Perhaps Christian wouldn’t hear anything, after all. Perhaps for once he could set consequences from his mind with this woman. Dammit, only a noble fool would give consequences more consideration than the insistent, swollen pulse in his groin, and the torture he would endure to deny it...again. “Uh...biscuits and...uh...beets.”

  Her lips parted, almost hopefully. “Beets?”

  “Why not? You left a whole damned pot of them in the sink. They were delicious.” Her tiny pink tongue appeared between her teeth. He gnashed his and struggled to keep his gaze from wandering again to those pale orbs so gloriously displayed. “Soft,” he heard himself say hoarsely. “They were very soft. And sweet on the tongue. Round and full and—”

  Her lips spread into a smile that took his breath. “You mean you liked the beets?”

  His brows dived into their comfortable scowl. “Of course I liked them. Christian and I both ate two bowls full.”

  “You did? Two full bowls?”

  The other strap slipped unheeded from her shoulder and slid down one slender arm as she leaned forward with eagerness. One more breath...just one...and that flimsy camisole would sag away altogether.

  “Put this on.” He snatched her robe from the hook on the back of the door and tossed it to her.

  She gathered the cotton robe close to her belly, eyes still wide and expectant. Rance knew a man could lose every noble aspiration he’d ever possessed in those languid sapphire pools. “They weren’t overcooked?” she asked softly.

  “What?”

  “The beets. They weren’t overcooked?”

  Rance heard his teeth click. Here he stood, a prisoner of his desires, all but salivating with raw need for this woman, and doing a right miserable job of concealing all this, when all Jess needed to spark that glitter in her eyes was a veritable gush of praise for her damned beets. Then again, he’d do just about anything for another smile like that.

  “They were perfect,” he said.

  “They were perfect,” she repeated, her lips tipping upward in a whimsical smile. She drew the robe over her shoulders and began to work one arm into a sleeve, shimmying her shoulders to accomplish this. This motion, of course, set her breasts to swaying, and Rance, confronted with the sight, decided even the most foolish of the noble would remove himself at this point. Even noble men had their limits.

  He returned bearing a tray with beets, bi
scuits, a jar of honey and a large glass of water. Whatever relief he gained from her having donned the robe sputtered and died when she licked her lips and dribbled honey on the biscuit. Watching her eat could prove the end of him, yet.

  With hands on his hips, he stood at the side of the bed, glaring down at her. Yes, he could glare. The woman looked like something sent from hell to plague him. All tumbled blond curls and soft white skin, she looked every inch a woman made for ravishing and little else. He could almost believe she’d orchestrated the whole damned thing to torment him.

  “Christian and I are going down to the stream.”

  She took a bite of biscuit, her tongue darting out to catch a dab of honey at the corner of her mouth. “Mmm...” was all she replied. “Thank you, Stark. You’re a marvelous cook.”

  “I need a cold swim,” he grumbled, decidedly uncaring of his culinary skill at the moment.

  She nodded as though she didn’t much care for his reasons for needing a cold swim, then directed herself once more to the honey and biscuits, all but dismissing him.

  “When you’re finished, sleep. I don’t want you all weak-kneed tonight from lack of rest.”

  “Tonight?” she said, lifting her eyes.

  “The town social. We’re going.”

  “There’s the small matter of Avram. I told him that I cannot possibly marry him.”

  “I’ll take care of Halsey.”

  “You already did, last night, when he came here so late. Why didn’t you tell me what happened?”

  “He tried to bribe me to leave.”

  “I guessed as much. But I suppose I already knew I wouldn’t marry him.”

  “So did I, Jess. Halsey dug his own grave with you. He didn’t need my help.”

  “Do be gentle with him, Stark. He seems bent upon revenge. What about the sheriff?”

  What about Black Jack Bartlett? He lifted a thick blond curl from her shoulder and watched it spill like the finest silk through his fingers. “Lady, I’m beginning to think you’re taking a liking to me.”