Cold Night, Warm Stranger

by Jill Gregory

  He was scowling out into the distance, staring at nothing. But his features were taut, as if he was seeing an old nightmare unfolding before his eyes: something terrible, something far away yet dreadful enough to chill the soul and strike the heart with despair.

  He looked alone, embittered, utterly drained.

  Maura felt an almost irresistible urge sweep through her, an urge to run back to him, to lean down and wrap her arms around him, to kiss that strong bronzed jaw and tell him "there, there" as if he were a child.

  It was absurd. She gave herself a shake as she forced her feet to proceed toward the kitchen.

  But she couldn't erase that bleak expression from her mind.

  Even as she washed up the dishes, even as she tidied the kitchen, she wondered what would make a man look so weary of life.

  When she returned to the dining room for the plate of chocolate cake, that drained expression was still locked in place on the stranger's face. But the moment she approached the table where he was sitting, it vanished. His eyes hardened, his broad, powerful shoulders straightened, and the coldness was there again in every line of his implacable features.

  He threw his napkin down on the empty plate and pushed back his chair.

  "Is there anything else I can get for you?"

  "A room. A bed. And I don't want to be disturbed before morning." His speech had become slightly slurred, and Maura guessed the liquor was taking its toll. But it wasn't affecting him as much as she would have expected, for his eyes were still as hard and piercing as ever, his movements steady as he stood up, brushed past her, and started toward his gear.

  "If you'll follow me, I'll get the key and show you to your room. I thought you'd like 203. It's our best room." She gave him a tentative smile as he plopped his hat on his head and slung his bedroll over his shoulder.

  "It has a fireplace. That will come in handy tonight. I can't remember when it's been so cold. Or snowed so long. Can you?"

  His only answer was a grunt.

  Maura felt like a fool. Why couldn't she seem to stop chattering at the man? He was obviously not interested in making conversation. And she rarely spoke more than a few words at a time to anyone.

  So why was she babbling so much tonight?

  Perhaps, she thought, because she had so much bottled up inside her. Twenty-four years' worth of loneliness and it all seemed to be spilling out now.

  Maybe it was the snowstorm, being cooped up almost all alone in Knotsville for days. Maybe it was something about this night that was so magically white and frosty, it made her want to warm herself with more than tea and toast—with conversation and companionship.

  Well, she'd picked the worst possible person, she decided as she fumbled for the key on the peg behind the counter, and locked the money he had paid her in the metal box in the drawer. And he was obviously not at all interested in exchanging even the most basic pleasantries with her, she thought as she led the way up the narrow, uncarpeted stairs.

  "There's wood in the box. I hope you'll be comfortable," she said primly as she fitted the key in the lock and pushed open the door.

  He started past her, and Maura tried to ease out of the way of his large frame and that thick bedroll. But the liquor must have affected him, for he staggered and fell against her. She was knocked forward into the room, but he grabbed her shoulders just in time to keep her from tumbling to the floor. Strong hands held her steady.

  At his touch, a blaze of heated sensations ran through her. It was so startlingly intense, Maura cried out.

  He was watching her, his head bent toward her in concern. "Are you hurt?"

  "No... no. I'm fine."

  But she didn't feel fine. Something was happening to her. Something she couldn't explain. Warmth and weakness swam up from her knees. It radiated across her belly, then spread upward, enveloping her breasts in a searing heat. Then her hands began to shake.

  Every nerve in her body was on fire.

  This had never happened to her before.

  It's the first time you've ever been this close to a man, she told herself dizzily. That's all.

  Especially to a man like this one.

  She noticed his eyes were still fastened upon her, studying her. The icy glint was gone. There was a flicker of warmth in his expression now, and suddenly his hands slid to her waist.

  Their grip tightened and he stared down into her eyes.

  For a moment, there was silence except for the wind roaring at the window. A deep, electric silence that sliced through the numbing cold of the night.

  Then the stranger's hand lifted and he brushed a knuckle across her cheek.

  "Sorry about that, angel."

  She swallowed. "My name is Maura," she whispered. "Pretty."

  He touched her hair then, wrapping one of her auburn curls around his finger.

  Maura Reed, you'd better get out of here right now, she told herself, fighting panic. Before this gunfighter gets any ideas....

  But as she started to pull away, the hand still at her waist drew her against him.

  "Don't go."

  She stiffened.

  "Stay with me, Maura."

  "Wh-why?" she croaked out.

  He smiled then. A slow, easy half-drunk smile that transformed his hard masculine features, softening them ever so slightly into vibrant warmth and making Maura's heart flip like a pancake on a hot griddle.

  "Why?" he repeated, releasing her hair and slipping his hand around her nape with expert, practiced ease. "Honey—why not?"

  She could think of a hundred reasons why not, but only managed to gasp out one. "I... have work to do. Chores. Cleaning up the k-kitchen."

  "Now that sure doesn't sound like much fun."

  "Life," Maura murmured, echoing what Ma Duncan had repeated many a time, "is not supposed to be fun."

  The arm around her waist tightened. "Who says?"

  She stared at him as her heart began to race. He was confusing her. Unsettling her. Affecting her in a way she'd never been affected before.

  Heavens, why was she still here at all? If she didn't leave soon, and make it very plain that she meant what she said, he might get the wrong idea and then she'd be in real trouble....

  "If you'll excuse me, I'm sure you're ready to go to bed—"

  "You got that right."

  Hot color rushed into her cheeks and he grinned, pulling her even closer against him.

  "Hell, Maura, you're even prettier when you blush."

  "I'm not blushing... and I'm not pretty." She flushed deeper then, feeling the heat scorch her cheeks. "I think you'd best let me go right now!"

  "Not pretty?" His eyes gleamed into hers, and she saw a flicker of surprise in their silver depths. She noticed with a rush of panic that instead of letting her go, he was now holding her tighter and closer than ever. The sensation left her feeling breathless. And warm. Some of the biting night cold ebbed as the strength and heat of him seemed to envelop her.

  "Of course you're pretty." His voice was low and rough in the dimness of the room. "Didn't anyone ever tell you?"

  "Ma Duncan told me—once. She said... oh, never mind! Just let me go!"

  There was quiet for a moment as those hard eyes pinned her. "Is that what you really want?"

  Say yes. Run away right now, lock yourself in your room and don't come out till sunup.

  But Lord help her, some part of herself wanted to stay. To stay and be held like this, sweet-talked like this. To be near this fascinating, dangerous man, this rough-and-tumble stranger who was too handsome for words.

  Go! a voice inside her shrieked. Go right now before it's too late.

  "Maura," he said softly, his eyes boring into hers. "Won't you stay and keep me company for a spell?"

  "That isn't possible." She shivered as the wind rattled the windows and a frigid blast of air swept across the floorboards.

  "It's going to be an awful cold night. On a night like this a man needs a little company. And so does a woman."

 
"N-not this woman."

  "You sure about that?"

  "Very sure." But staring into those gleaming silver eyes, she wasn't sure about anything. Her blood was pounding in her ears. He thought she was a woman who would stay in a hotel room, talking—no, flirting—with a complete stranger. Perhaps he even thought she would climb into that bed with him and let him make love to her! She had to get out of here, and fast. Why had she stayed this long with a man like him, someone dangerous, bold, and altogether too good-looking?

  Maybe because most of the girls she'd gone to school with years ago were married now, with husbands and homes and babies of their own. And she'd never even been courted, never even had her hand held—much less been kissed.

  Maybe because she was curious—and lonely—and cold. And nothing exciting or wonderful or the least bit romantic had ever happened to her before—until tonight when this forceful stranger had burst through her door and awakened every drowsing feminine nerve in her body.

  The wind screamed again at the window like a wild thing dying and a deeper chill swept through the room. It whistled beneath the cracks of the shutters, piercing her very bones, and Maura trembled from head to toe.

  "I'll build a fire," he said roughly, his mouth against her hair. "You'll be warm. And," he added, with a short hard laugh, "I promise not to bite."

  Warm. She so wanted to be warm. And held, held tight. Just this once.

  "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to stay—for a little while." She took a deep breath as he began drawing her farther into the room. "But if you bite," she told him with a tentative little smile, "I'll leave at once."

  "Deal," he said with a smile, then kicked the door closed behind him and dumped his bedroll on the floor, followed immediately by the long duster he'd worn all through dinner.

  "Believe me, sweetheart, I'm gentle as a lamb. You're perfectly safe."

  But she had never felt less safe. He looked formidably big and strong in the heavy flannel shirt, dark pants, and boots that encased his powerful body. She didn't know what to do, what to expect, and was relieved when he turned from her and hefted a log from the wood box, tossing it onto the hearth as if it weighed no more than a pin.

  "Not much wood left."

  "There's a little left outside in the shed. We're running low, but I can get some more..."

  "In this cold?" His back to her, he put a match to tinder and a tiny golden flame soared. "Not on your life. You're staying right here. We'll find a way to keep warm. Somehow."

  She wasn't sure about the sound of that. For a moment Maura was tempted to run. Glancing around the darkened room she had cleaned and swept and aired for years, she saw it tonight as if for the first time: the wide feather bed with its pink and yellow handmade quilt, the oil lamp and china pitcher on top of the nightstand, the rag rug on the floor, the ladder-backed chair with its embroidered cushion, and the shutters with their chipped green paint, bolted fast against the wild night.

  What was she doing here, with this stranger?

  She hurried to the lamp, intending to light it, hoping to dispel the intimate atmosphere, but the stranger's deep voice stopped her.

  "Don't trouble yourself, angel. The firelight's enough to see by."

  Golden flames the color of a summer sunset danced out behind him even as he spoke. He moved away from the hearth, advancing toward her with measured steps. She caught her breath at the imposing size of him, the lean, dark face and cool, watchful eyes.

  "We don't need to see much, do we, angel? Only each other."

  Panic struck then. This was madness, this crazy little game she was playing. He didn't want company—he wanted to make love with her! She wasn't actually going to let this man, this stranger, take her to bed!

  She didn't know him, not even his name. There was nothing between them, she was a virgin, she was afraid, she was a fool, and it was wrong... wrong...

  Maura was light and quick on her feet, but he was quicker. She darted for the door, but he blocked her path before she had gone two steps. His hands dropped onto her shoulders, heavily.

  "Spooked you, didn't I?" As her eyes widened, bright with fear, he lifted one big hand and brushed it across her cheek. "Calm down, honey, there's nothing to be scared of."

  "I'm not scared." But she was. And they both knew it.

  He stroked her hair, his fingers winding gently through the vibrant red curls. The warmth and gentleness of the simple touch set off a wave of yearning inside her. His touch was so heartbreakingly gentle for a man of such powerful proportions—and the expression in his eyes was one of such warmth as she had never seen before.

  No one—no one—had ever looked at her in quite that way. Before she knew what she was doing, she moved a step closer to him. "I'm cold. So cold. I just want to be warm."

  "Then this is your lucky day. You see, there's three things I'm real good at, angel—shooting a gun, tracking a man—and keeping women warm."

  She laughed in spite of herself, caught in the spell of hard silver eyes, in the delicious sensation of a strong hand caressing her neck. Then, as he pulled her slowly, gently into his arms, Maura's knees shook and she swayed. He caught her with one swift movement and scooped her up.

  His eyes were intent on her face as he carried her toward the bed. "You don't have to be afraid."

  "I'm not," she whispered, half defiantly.

  But that wasn't true—her heart was thundering like a train, and her breath felt trapped in her chest. Yet she knew that she didn't want to leave—not really. She was cold. She wanted to be warm. She was lonely. She wanted to be held. For just one night, this one damned empty, wild, blizzarding night she wanted someone, something...

  His chuckle scraped over her rough as burlap as he lowered her onto the bed.

  "Reckon you won't need all these clothes, Maura."

  "Don't be so sure." She sat up quickly on the mattress, brushing a stray curl back from her cheek. "Even with that fire"—she nodded toward the lovely golden-red blaze—"it's going to be awfully cold in here."

  "Don't count on it, darlin'." Amusement gleamed in his eyes as he gave a tug at the tie that fastened her robe. When its folds parted and she gasped, he gave a sudden sharp laugh as he saw the red and black flannel nightshirt covering her body, the navy blue woolen long johns encasing her legs, the brown socks hiding even her feet.

  "I see you like a man to work for his pleasure." He grinned. "Never figured you'd be so full of surprises."

  "More than you know," Maura muttered a bit breathlessly, thinking dazedly of her virginity, of her own recklessness at being here, at letting things progress so far. She ought to warn him—no, she ought to stop him—but before she could say a word, he pushed her back against the pillows with a strength that shocked her, straddled her in one easy move, and with a dark grin that curled her toes, he began to peel off everything that stood in the way of what he wanted.

  Chapter 3

  "Wait—wait just a minute!" Maura pushed his hands away as he began to sweep her nightshirt over her head. She tugged it back down. "I never said I would let you..."

  "You never said you wouldn't."

  "You didn't give me a chance to say anything!" Breathing hard, she knew she had to decide: stay or go. Yes or no.

  Once and for all.

  "Well?" he growled. "What do you want to say?"

  Maura had no idea. She simply stared at him, trying to think, trying to keep her mind on the decision before her, when he looked so ruggedly handsome, all she could think about was how she'd like to comb her fingers through his black hair, or touch that dark stubble along his jaw, or... kiss him.

  "Time's up," he announced suddenly, and with one movement swept the nightshirt over her head and tossed it on the floor. Her hair cascaded down, bright as the flames of the fire, to swirl around her shoulders, and her golden-brown eyes went wide with shock.

  Now she wore only her thin white camisole above the long johns and coarse brown socks. She was practically naked.

  "Just hold
on a minute," she cried. Breathing hard, she crossed her arms over her breasts. "I have to think."

  "I thought you wanted to stay warm."

  "Taking off my clothes doesn't seem like the way to do that!"

  He seized her then, and pulled her close. "Trust me— it works."

  For a moment she was dizzy with the nearness of him. Her breasts were thrust up against his chest, the rough flannel of his shirt scraped her tender flesh. His breath was warm on her cheek, and his mouth was only scant inches away from hers...

  "I don't even know your name," she whispered desperately.

  There was a heartbeat of silence. Then he spoke flatly. "It's Lassiter."

  Snowflakes hurled themselves against the window as he braced himself for her reaction. He knew damn well what was coming. It was always the same.

  "Lassiter?" He heard her sharp intake of breath. She jerked back, but not before he'd felt the slamming of her heart against his chest, the shudder of fear jolting through her bones.

  "Not... Quinn Lassiter?" she asked in a trembling voice.

  "The same." He watched her grimly. He knew what they said about him, what she would believe just by hearing his name.

  Quinn Lassiter, deadliest man in the West. Fastest gun-fighter alive. There's a lump of steel where his heart should be. He kills as casually as most men spit.

  She went pale as the snow swirling outside the window. "I've heard of you," she croaked.

  He shrugged. "Probably a pack of lies."

  "They say you've killed more than twenty men. Is that... true?"

  "More or less. But—"

  "And they say you shot Johnny the Kid between the eyes, and captured the entire Melton gang single-handed. Is that t-true?"

  "I reckon. But—"

  "And last spring," Maura plunged on, her pulse racing, "you fought three gunfights in one morning and killed all three men with only two bullets..."

  "It wasn't anything special," he growled. As her lips parted and her eyes grew glassy, he lifted a brow. "I reckon this means you are scared of me?"