by Jill Gregory
"Well, that's fine and dandy, girl." Judd tugged at the corners of his lank brown mustache, giving her a half smile. "Could you make us some coffee first? We're awful parched and tuckered out and gettin' kind of a chill from that there rain."
"Make it yourself." Maura gestured toward the kitchen. She tightened her grip on the rifle, growing more and more uneasy. "Then you can leave."
As Judd heaved himself off the sofa and started to move toward the kitchen, Maura tensed and took a step back. But he didn't come toward her at all. He was glancing toward the armchair, where her sewing basket sat on the floor and the enamel jewel box peeked out from a bed of fabric scraps, thimbles, and thread.
"What are you doing?" she cried sharply as he bent down and scooped up the box.
"This belonged to Ma."
"Well, she gave it to me!" Anger throbbed through her. "You know that."
"I reckon I'm taking it back." Maura couldn't understand the crafty, triumphant smile that crossed his face as he slid the box into the pocket of his dirty gray flannel shirt. Since when did Judd care about a jewel box? He wasn't the sentimental type, and Homer certainly wasn't either—but Homer, watching him, smiled too.
"What's going on? What are you two up to?" she demanded, staring warily from one to the other.
Suddenly lightning split the sky in a flashing bolt and for one instant, Maura glanced instinctively toward the window. Homer lunged at her, knocking her sideways as he wrenched the rifle from her grasp.
With a cry, Maura fell against the wall. Before she could recover, Judd bounded forward.
"I'll teach you to point a rifle at me!" he snarled. He shoved her backward again, and Maura felt a jolt this time as her head struck the wall. Dizzily, she slumped to her knees, pain and fear swirling through her.
"All right, let's get out of here." Homer's voice sounded thin and wavery and a long way above her. "We got what we come for. Let's ride."
"Not so fast." Judd still towered over her. Through blinking pinpoints of hot red light she saw his boots. They were huge, caked with dried mud and grass. "We're not leaving till we've taught this good-for-nothing bitch a lesson."
"I don't know, Judd. Remember, I told you I promised Ma—"
"Ma's dead, you idiot! And Maura Jane's gonna wish she was when I'm through with her."
Maura tried desperately to stand, bracing herself as Judd unexpectedly reached down a hand to help her. But when he yanked her up, he grabbed her by the hair and forced her head to tilt backward until she was staring dazedly into his eyes.
"No... let me go, Judd," she gasped, but he sneered at her.
"You've never been nothin' but trouble."
Something vicious in his expression and the way he spoke those words ignited her fear into panic.
The baby. Nothing must happen to the baby.
"Judd... there's something you should know. I'm going to have a child. You don't want to... hurt the baby...."
"Baby!" Judd looked stunned. But his grip on her hair never lessened.
"Please... Homer. You promised Ma. No matter what I did, this baby inside me is innocent..."
"Is that the reason you up and left, you dirty little slut?" Judd shouted. "Because you had a bun in the oven? Whose is it? The man you're married to—or is he just some dumb fool you talked into raising your bastard—"
He never finished the sentence.
The butt of a gun slammed down over Judd's head and he dropped like a rock to the floor, his fingers sliding through Maura's hair and releasing it as his eyes rolled back. In the next instant Homer went for his gun, but Quinn Lassiter drew first, cocking the trigger before Homer even pulled his pistol from the holster.
"Go on," Quinn invited, cold fury in his eyes. "I want to watch you die."
Homer froze. As Maura watched, every drop of color faded from his face as he stared at the tall, dark man whose gray eyes glittered with the promise of death.
"Who in hell... are you?" he croaked.
Quinn's glance flitted to Maura for an instant. "Go into the other room," he said, "while I deal with these scum."
Homer shuddered.
Quinn's gut clenched as Maura touched a shaking hand to her head. She looked as though a feather could knock her over. He wanted to scoop her into his arms and soothe her hurts, but he didn't dare take his eyes off the two buzzards stinking up his parlor.
"Sit down and take it easy until I'm finished here."
"No... let them go, Quinn. Please. They're my brothers. Judd and Homer. I told you about them."
"I know who they are." He stared with contempt at the two hulking men who looked far from dangerous at the moment. One was slumped on the floor, the other stood mute and motionless, watching him in silent terror.
"Please, just let them go. I owe Ma Duncan that."
"Damn straight, Maura, you do, you owe Ma plenty," Homer began to blabber. "After all she did for you. And Pa too. He didn't have to let her take you in. And think of how Judd and me always looked after you—"
"Say one more word and I'll drop you where you stand," Quinn snarled.
Judd moaned and lifted his head. At that moment, Maura swayed.
"Maura!"
The pain behind her eyes was excruciating. She couldn't keep her balance. She felt herself falling and reached out blindly.
"Quinn—" she gasped, just before the world went black.
Springing forward, Quinn grabbed her as she tumbled sideways.
It was all the opening Homer needed. He seized Judd by the collar, yanked him up and shoved him toward the door.
"Run!" he shouted.
Quinn cradled Maura in his arms as she lost consciousness. Terror pummeled through him. He heard the Duncan brothers scrambling out the door, but gave them only a cursory glance through the window before setting down his gun and scooping Maura up against his chest.
He could have shot both of them as they ran—he could have winged them—but he swore under his breath and let them go.
Fear for Maura overrode everything else.
He carried her to the sofa and loosened the collar of her dress, then stroked his hand lightly over her cheek.
"Maura," he whispered, his voice hoarse.
But she didn't respond. The only sound was the drum of rain and the dull thud of retreating hoofbeats.
"Maura, wake up!"
This time her eyelids fluttered, and as Quinn took her hands in his and began to rub them gently, she gave a moan.
"My head."
"Where does it hurt?"
She put a hand near her temple, behind her ear, and
Quinn gingerly touched there, drawing his fingers away with a frown when she winced.
"You're going to have a fair-sized goose egg," he said grimly. Then his voice roughened. "Where the hell are Saunders and the hands? I gave specific orders that someone always be here when I'm away."
"Saunders had to go to town and Lucky..." Maura's voice faded as she struggled to sit up.
Quinn pushed her back down upon the cushions. "Don't even think about getting up until I say so." He waited long enough to be certain she wasn't going to make another attempt, then stalked into the kitchen, returning a moment later with a glass of water.
"Drink this. Don't argue."
His gut churned at the sight of her so weak, so pale and dizzy. He held the cup for her, but she accepted only a sip before sinking back on the pillow he shoved under her head. He wanted to give her a good piece of his mind for not having let him shoot the Duncan brothers—and at the same time he wanted to draw her close, hold her against him, somehow absorb her pain into himself.
But he did neither. He studied her in concern, met her wan gaze with a scowl, and somehow kept a lid on his temper.
"Did you... take that job in Laramie?"
"No. It would have meant starting right away, being tied up for weeks. I told you I wouldn't leave until you were set."
"Thank you," she murmured.
He met her gaze. "There will be other jobs," he sa
id. "But meantime, it's a damn good thing I got back when I did. What did those sons of bitches want with you?"
"I have no idea." Maura struggled to sit up again, one hand to her head. This time he didn't try to stop her, though when she peeped up she saw him studying her through narrowed eyes.
"They took my jewel box. The one Ma Duncan left to me. I can't imagine why." She moistened her lips, distressed by the anger on his face. She knew that look.
"Quinn," she whispered, "please don't go after them. Stay with me."
The worry and pain in her eyes tugged at his heart more than any tears or pleading ever could.
He turned away, paced to the mantel just so he wouldn't have to look into those beautiful eyes another moment. "I've seen them somewhere before. Wish I could remember where. But don't worry, it'll come back to me."
"They were in Hatchett the night of the blizzard. At the poker tournament. Perhaps that's where."
He stiffened suddenly. And nodded. "That's it." He'd seen them in the Ruby Rose Casino just before he and Black Jack Gannon had stepped outside to conduct their deadly business. He'd recognized the brothers' type: ruffians who liked to make noise, drink themselves mean, browbeat anyone in their path who didn't look like they could fight back.
As his mind shifted through the events of that night, he remembered something else. They'd been lurking outside in the shadows as well, he'd glimpsed them right after the woman screamed and went down....
Maura saw the pain flicker through his eyes and then saw him banish it in the space of a heartbeat. The man who looked back at her the next instant was pure gunfighter—controlled, hardened, cold as December sleet.
"I don't want them coming near you again. They never should have gotten this close in the first place." He returned to her side, looming over her as she lay upon the cushions, a muscle working in his jaw. "I ought to pack you off to Hope—to the Glory Hotel—until the Campbells are rounded up and I've made sure those brothers of yours have hightailed it out of town. And I just might."
"No." She swung her legs off the sofa. A wave of shakiness swept over her, but she fought it down. "I belong here. This cabin is my home. I won't leave it."
It's your home, too, she wanted to say, but she left the thought dangling between them. Yet he may have sensed what she was thinking, because he suddenly turned away and strode to the mantel, shoving his hands into his pockets. He spun around again at the sound of approaching horses.
Bill Saunders and Lucky Johnson were galloping fast through the rain. From the other direction came the ranch hands.
"It's only our men," he told her. "Don't worry."
"I'm not worried, Quinn—now that you're home."
His lean jaw tightened. He strode to the door, but not before she saw that the coldness that sent shivers through her had returned to his eyes. "Reckon I'd better have a few words with them about obeying orders."
Without another glance in her direction, he went outside into the rain.
Chapter 24
He dreamed of the woman.
She was lying in the snow, blood soaking the strands of her curling blond hair, streaking across her ivory skin and the necklace glittering at her throat, seeping into the chill white pillow of Death upon which she lay.
He walked toward her. Exactly as he had that fierce January night, only this time when he knelt beside her and touched his hand to her pulse, he froze in shock, overcome with a terrifying, shattering horror.
Her face wasn't the face of the woman who had fallen that night, struck by a stray bullet from the gun duel with Black Jack Gannon. The face of the woman lying dead in the snow belonged to his mother.
"No!"
Quinn's agonized shout awakened Maura, and she sat up with a jolt in her bed. She rushed to him in the main room of the cabin, touched his arm, his bare chest, then shook his shoulder, all the while softly speaking his name.
"Quinn. Quinn, it's only a dream, a bad dream." Her arms reached out for him, closed around his neck. His bare muscled chest was sheened with sweat in the halo of starlight that glittered in through the window. "Shhh. It's all right," she whispered.
His glazed eyes swung to her face, but his breathing remained quick and ragged.
"A dream." It was a croak, sounding so shaken and unlike him that Maura tightened her arms around his neck.
"Yes, a dream."
"But it was her—the woman in Hatchett. The one with the blond hair..." A tremor shook through him. "The... necklace."
"Necklace?"
"She was dead," he muttered vacantly. "Just the way she looked that night. Blood... everywhere."
A chill ran down Maura's spine.
"Except it wasn't her," Quinn rasped. "When I looked at her face, it wasn't her...."
"Shhh. It's over now. All over."
Quinn closed his eyes, grasping for control, shoving the images of the nightmare away. Maura was wrong. It would never be over. The memories of Hatchett, and of the terrible events that had occurred on his family farm when he was nine years old were engraved upon his mind and his heart.
He hadn't had the dreams of his boyhood for a long time now—but he'd always known they'd return. Just as he'd known that the only way to protect himself from that kind of agony ever again was to keep his distance. Keep himself strong, in control, and invulnerable to the emotions that had rent apart that nine-year-old boy—the boy he had once been.
He'd left that boy behind twenty-two years ago and had done his best to become hard as a rock, with nothing soft on the inside, nothing that could be cracked, or hurt or broken.
But this time... Maura was stroking his chest, her touch tender, so feminine and gentle, that a very different kind of pain seared through him each place her fluttering fingers touched.
He flung himself from the sofa, yanked on his pants and boots, ignored her questions, and slammed out of the cabin like a man pursued.
He needed fresh air, open space. He needed to be away from that auburn-haired woman in there, to feel the cold breeze brushing his flesh, not those slender fingers.
Why couldn't she be like Serena, a warm body, a hard heart, no questions asked. Why couldn't she stop battering at that wall he'd erected around himself—battering it with kindness, sweetness, gentle touches, kisses of honey.
He was proof against everything but that—that and the quiet yearning he found of late whenever he gazed into her eyes.
He reached the crooked tree that stood in front of the corral and paused, leaning against it. From his pocket he dug a cigarillo, and he lit up as his breathing slowed and the night settled cool and bitter around him. Unseen creatures stirred in the brush, a hawk swooped past the glint of the moon, casting a swift shadow that was there and then gone in a blink, and then he sensed that he was no longer alone.
"Go back inside." He spoke without turning around.
The scent of lilacs filled his nostrils. He longed to bury his face in her soft, fragrant neck, to twine his hands in her hair. She could help him forget—forget what had happened on the farm all those years ago—and what had happened in Hatchett the night that woman was killed....
But he wouldn't let her. She was already too much in his blood.
"Go back, Quinn? I don't think so." Her voice, for once, was anything but soft, anything but sweet. She stamped forward until she faced him. And he was forced to face her.
Her chin lifted as he ran his eyes over her in the moonlight. Lord, she was a sight in that sheer white nightgown, which the wind blew tantalizingly around every single one of her curves. Her hair spilled like fire over her shoulders and whipped across her cheeks. But it was her eyes that held him. They blazed like molten copper, hot with indignation and a fiery determination that made her burn like a candle in the empty night.
"I won't let you shut me out tonight, Quinn Lassiter."
"You don't have a choice."
"Oh, yes, I do. This one night, it's going to be different. You're going to talk to me, tell me what's bothering you. Tell m
e about that dream."
"You think so?"
"I certainly do think so."
"Well, think again. And while you're at it, go back inside—you'll catch a chill out here."
"So what if I do? I don't care. It can't be worse than the chill I have inside—because I'm living with a stranger. A stranger who holds me at arm's length, who shuts me out as if I were one of those weeds growing over there, trying to get in the door. I'm not a weed, a pesky weed to be ignored and stomped over. I'm your wife, Quinn! Your...partner. And I want more. I want to know you—just a little. I want to know what you feel, who you are, the hopes and dreams inside you!"
He threw down the cigarillo and crushed it under his boot as he grabbed her, yanked her close, his fingers biting into her skin. "I don't have hopes and dreams, Maura! That's the difference between you and me. That's what you don't understand."
"Everyone has hopes and dreams."
"Not me," he told her coldly. "You want to know what's inside? Nothing. There's nothing inside—does that make you feel any better? You married a man who wants nothing, feels nothing, hopes for nothing. Except maybe to rid the world of some scum before he joins that same scum six feet under."
"I don't believe you." It came out in a whisper. The wind tore at her hair, set her shoulders shivering, and whisked away the words, but not before Quinn heard them and saw the wrenching agony in her eyes. She was no longer fiery, determined, fierce. Now she was a bright-haired angel who gazed at him with such intensity that his hollow soul ached.
"Believe me," he grated back at her. His lip curled in a well-practiced sneer.
But it didn't fool her. She reached up and touched his cheek. "You're lying. To yourself as well as to me."
"Lying, eh?" Her very trust and innocence unleashed fury inside him. The moon floated behind a bank of clouds and the night dimmed into murky shadow, but the glimmer of her fair skin and her questioning eyes remained steadfast in his sight, torturing him.
"Maybe it's time I made you understand," he bit out. Savage emotions churned like acid inside him, and suddenly he could no longer hold the words back. "I told you about my father. He was a drunk and a bully. Like those damned brothers of yours. He used to beat my mother and me, and why she didn't leave him I'll never know. But she stayed and worked the farm, a dirt-poor Missouri farm high up in the Ozarks, and scraped out enough for us to get by—barely."