Texas Hold Him

by Lisa Cooke

  “Miss Mace?” Speak of the devil.

  He stood behind her with a large sorrel gelding and a look that questioned her sanity.

  “Where are you going?”

  “St. Louis,” she answered.

  He pointed north. “St. Louis is that way.”

  She pointed south. “But the river is that way.” Or at least she hoped it was. “And I need to catch a boat.”

  “The boat we’re going to catch is in Greenville.” He grabbed her around the waist, quickly depositing her on the back of the horse. He strapped her valise to the back and climbed on behind her, clutching the reins to calm the prancing animal before it could dump them into the street.

  Lottie grabbed the horse’s mane, holding her breath until Dyer had him under control and heading out of town.

  She relaxed a little when it appeared as though Dyer knew what he was doing. “What’s his name?”

  “Who?”

  “The horse.” She released the mane, though she kept her hands at the ready in case she needed to grab it in an emergency. “It’s much easier to control the animal if you can call it by its name.”

  “Is it now?”

  “Yes.” She had the sneaking suspicion he made sport of her. “Did the owner tell you his name?”

  “Actually, he did, and he said the horse wouldn’t do anything you asked unless you called him by his given name.”

  Just as she thought. “Well? What’s his name?”

  “Peckerhead.”

  She gasped. “It is not!”

  She could feel his shoulders shrug behind her. “I didn’t name him, that’s just what the man told me.”

  “Who would name a horse something like that?”

  “My daddy had one named Son of a Bitch.”

  “I don’t believe that either.”

  “You never met the horse.”

  Dyer led Peckerhead over a log in the road and around a very large puddle, figuring he was probably going to Hell for tormenting Miss Mace so much. If that wasn’t enough for Hell, his fate was definitely sealed for enjoying the tormenting like he did. This time, however, she deserved it. How could she have thought for one minute he would leave her alone in some strange town? He hadn’t run himself ragged looking for her only to leave her at the last minute.

  “I think we’re going to need to change his name.” She snuggled her rump a little closer into his crotch, and for a second he forgot whose name needed to be changed.

  “We can’t change his name,” he said. “It would confuse him.”

  “How can a horse get confused?”

  He wrapped his arm around her waist with the pretense of keeping her in the saddle while he guided Peckerhead around a branch in the road. “Imagine how you would feel if someone changed your name.”

  “It happens to women every time they marry.”

  She had a good point, but then she did that a lot. “That explains why women are so confused.” He allowed himself a grin only because she couldn’t see it.

  “We are not!”

  “If you weren’t confused, why do you constantly need men to rescue you?” Her body tensed against his, and he wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw steam come from her ears.

  “Did I ask you to rescue me?”

  “No, because that would have been the sensible thing to do.”

  “Sensible? The sensible thing for me to have done was to wait in town for the next boat.” Her voice rose in pitch and had a little shake to it that told him he traveled on thin ice.

  “Sitting alone on that old bench?”

  “It would have been better than sitting out here on a Peckerhead!” She gasped and covered her mouth with her hand.

  “Sorry, I’ll try to make more room in the saddle.”

  His grin nearly split his face in two. If her back got any straighter, it would snap like a twig, and if her ears were an indication, her face was red enough to glow in the dark. Yup, he was definitely destined for Hell, but even those dire consequences didn’t deter him any.

  “So, you think you could’ve managed all by yourself? With no help from me or Peckerhead?” he asked, innocently.

  “I am changing that horse’s name.”

  “To what?”

  She paused for a moment, evidently to think of an appropriate name, and then said, “Blaze.”

  Dyer leaned around her shoulder to look over the horse’s ears and down his plain red face. “He doesn’t have a blaze. But he does have a peck—”

  “That’s quite enough, Mr. Straights.”

  He allowed himself a chuckle. Her admonishing tone was pretty damned cute, but the effect it had on him was probably not what she’d intended. He straightened in the saddle, casually pulling her closer to his chest as he moved. Then he leaned forward, brushing his lips against the shell of her ear.

  “Sorry,” he whispered. “Didn’t mean to offend.”

  As if the warmth of his hand against her belly weren’t enough, now Lottie had to contend with his lips suckling her earlobe. She knew she should stop him. There were sensations flooding through her body that were more indecent than the horse’s name, and if she allowed them to continue, she would start moaning like a common trollop. The slide of his hand to clutch her breast snapped her from her lethargy. She sat up and shoved his hand back to her waist.

  “So, Mr. Straights. What unit did you serve with during the war?” That should sidetrack him. Men loved to talk about themselves, and he was a hero, after all.

  His muscles tightened. Her question cooled his ardor more effectively than she’d expected.

  “Does that matter now?” The tension in his body echoed in his voice, and she realized only too late that she’d hit a nerve.

  “It’s just that my . . . neighbor served in the war, and I thought perhaps you may have fought with him.” She had almost mistakenly said her father’s name. She didn’t expect Dyer to know him, but it would’ve brought questions about her pseudonym she didn’t want to answer.

  “I doubt your neighbor and I served in the same war.”

  That was an odd thing to say, even for him. “Whatever do you mean?”

  He hesitated and then said, “I fought for the North.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  If Lottie’s jaw dropped any further, she would have to unbutton her bodice to eat. She practically sat on the lap of a Yankee. Momma would roll over in her grave.

  “But you’re a Texan. Texas was Confederate.” This had to be a mistake.

  “I was raised to believe it was wrong for one man to own another.”

  “The war was about more than slavery.”

  “For you maybe, but not for those men, women and children who worked your plantation.”

  “I never said I had a plantation.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  Lottie clamped her mouth shut. What he’d said stroked the guilt she’d harbored in her heart since the war. She was raised in luxury because of the workers on their plantation, but it wasn’t until the war that she’d ever questioned the morality of it all. It was just the way it had always been and the way she had assumed it would always be. She had slowly come to believe slavery was wrong, but that still didn’t give the Yankees the right to dictate to the South how they were to live their lives. Besides, there were plenty of Yankees who wore cotton picked by the hands of those slaves.

  “At a loss for words?” Dyer’s defensive voice piqued her anger, and a part of her wanted to lash out at him for all the Yankees had done to destroy her beloved South.

  She took a breath to do just that and then remembered the blackmailer, a Southerner who claimed to have served with her father in the war. At least what Dyer did, he did out of conviction and not greed. Of course, that did not change the fact he was a Yankee, and some things were more difficult to forgive than others.

  “I’m not at a loss for words,” she finally answered. “I’ve just decided to take a little time to sort through which ones I want to use.”

&nbs
p; Dyer allowed the knot in his gut to relax. He had fully expected her to flail into him with teeth bared and talons slashing, but she’d surprised him again. He knew the war had destroyed her life, but he doubted her loss was any greater than his. Pain like that couldn’t get any deeper.

  The road was rough and rutted, and the decision to choose a horse over a carriage was a good one. But right now, having her sitting beside him on a bench would be easier than her nestled into his lap.

  She was pissed.

  He was pissed.

  Hell, even Peckerhead was snorting more than usual. Luckily, they came upon a tavern by the road just at lunchtime. He dismounted and tied the horse to a hitching rail alongside a carriage and two other horses. Lottie slid off the horse before he could offer help. She faltered slightly, then regained her legs and marched into the tavern. Apparently, she wanted nothing to do with him, and that suited him fine.

  It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dark interior of the room. The only window in the tavern was covered with enough grime to effectively filter out most of the light that might’ve slithered through the deep forest outside. Lottie walked over to a small table and took a seat with her back to him, sending a very clear message that she wanted to eat alone.

  “Fine,” he muttered, picking a table as far from her as possible. Unfortunately, in a tavern as small as this one, that was only about twenty feet away. He scooted his chair so his back was to her as well. Two could play at this game.

  A large man with a towel wrapped around his waist came into the room from what Dyer guessed was the kitchen. “If y’all are wantin’ to eat, we got deer stew and cornbread today.”

  His sweat-stained shirt was only slightly cleaner than the grubby towel that had probably been used to wipe everything from tables to noses. The man stopped by Dyer’s table and pulled the stub of a cigar out of his mouth.

  He looked first at Dyer, then at Lottie. “You two ain’t together?”

  “No!” they answered simultaneously. A couple of men eating at the table beside Dyer’s looked at each other and grinned.

  “Stew’s fine,” Dyer said, sending the owner on his way. The sooner they could eat, the sooner they could get on the road.

  One of the men beside him leaned toward Dyer once his food was delivered. “You say she ain’t your woman?”

  “Nope,” Dyer answered, biting into the stew, hoping nothing in it bit back.

  The man chuckled and scooted his chair away from the table. Dyer lowered his spoon and sighed. Why hadn’t he seen that coming? He looked over his shoulder at the tree stump of a man as he walked to Lottie’s table.

  “Well, missy,” the stump said to Lottie. “You travelin’ all alone?”

  Dyer couldn’t see Lottie’s face, but the slight tremble of her spoon told him she was frightened. She tipped her head back to speak. “I—”

  Dyer stood. The sound of his chair scraping across the wooden floor drew the stump’s attention. “I said she wasn’t my woman. I didn’t say she traveled alone.”

  The stump’s gaze narrowed. “Seems to me, pretty boy, that you need to make up yer mind.”

  “I believe I did.” Hell. The stew wasn’t half bad, but it looked like he wouldn’t be finishing it.

  The stump growled and ran toward Dyer. Dyer stepped to the side and plowed his fist into the man’s belly, doubling him over. Dyer immediately followed through with an upper cut to his chin, sending the oaf to the floor with an “oof.”

  He opened and closed his fist a couple of times to relieve the sting in his knuckles before he turned around just in time to meet the fist of the stump’s friend. Unfortunately, he met it with his face and down he went, crashing into Lottie’s table as he fell.

  The friend grinned in victory, showing a lack of intelligence only surpassed by his lack of teeth. Dyer rubbed his jaw and regained his feet. He spat the blood from his mouth and raised his fists.

  “Now let’s see if you can do that without blindsiding a man.”

  The goon dropped his grin and took a swing. Dyer blocked it and returned with a blow to his jaw that should have knocked his brains out. But evidently this man’s brains were a little lower. The idiot came at Dyer again, swinging his fists like a fury. Dyer ducked and kicked him in the nuts with all the strength he could muster. The bastard froze, then gave a tiny cough before his eyes rolled back in his head and he dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

  “Let’s get out of here before our friends wake up.” Dyer grabbed Lottie’s arm and led her out of the tavern. He set her on the horse and quickly mounted, leading Peckerhead away from the tavern and down the road toward Greenville.

  Lottie sat in silence for several minutes, which was just as well. Dyer’s face throbbed from where old Swollen Nuts had sucker punched him, and his heart thumped from the exertion of the fight. There was the chance those two men would come after them, and even though he doubted they would, he still needed to stay at the ready.

  After some time passed without any sign of the men from the tavern, Dyer allowed his body to relax.

  “Thank you,” Lottie finally mumbled.

  Dyer leaned closer to her. “For what?” He knew why, but he couldn’t help but force her to say it.

  She sighed. “For helping me.”

  “For coming to your rescue, you mean?”

  “Yes, I guess occasionally I do need rescuing.”

  “Occasionally? Miss Mace, you need more rescuing than a June bug in a chicken coop.”

  “I didn’t before I met you.”

  Since he hadn’t known her before she met him, he’d have to take her word on that.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “I’ve decided to forgive you.”

  If he were a smart man, he’d leave that alone. “For what?”

  “For being a Yankee. As long as you promise to never do it again.”

  And that’s what he got for asking. “Miss Mace, the war is over, and I’m no longer a Yankee, just a man.”

  Her gentle touch on the arm he’d wrapped around her waist surprised him. She patted him like he was a child and muttered, “And I think you’re a good man.”

  Her simple statement hit him harder than anything those two at the tavern had thrown at him. Having nothing to say, he decided to act as though he hadn’t heard her. She’d had enough disappointment in her life, and correcting her mistaken opinion of him would serve no purpose.

  They rode in silence until the sun set and Lottie’s head drifted back onto his shoulder in sleep. The night before had been tough on her, thanks to Mimi’s vindictiveness. Even though Dyer’s muscles ached, he moved as little as possible so he wouldn’t wake Lottie. The singing of the tree frogs and crickets filled the night air as Peckerhead plodded along, but even the old horse sagged with tiredness.

  If they didn’t find someplace to pass the night soon, they would have to sleep in the woods. As they rounded a bend in the road, an inn came into view.

  Lottie’s rumbling stomach under his palm was a reminder that lunch had been cut a tad short. He guided Peckerhead to the hitching rail and waited to see if their stopping would wake Lottie. She didn’t stir. He leaned over and nuzzled her ear.

  “Miss Mace?”

  She made a tiny mewing sound, then snuggled deeper into him. His mind went through a litany of ornery things he could do to wake her, but she was too damned soft and he was too damned hard to take that chance. So instead, he cleared his throat.

  “Miss Mace, if you’re dead set on throwing yourself on me, the least you could do is wait until we have more privacy.”

  That worked. She gasped and sat up, fully awake. “I—

  I . . .”

  “It’s all right,” he grumbled, swinging down from the saddle. “Women always have that problem with me.” He lifted her from the horse and ushered her toward the inn. He leaned next to her ear, adding just before he opened the door, “But they usually fall asleep after they take their pleasure.”

  Very few women c
ould wear a blush as prettily as Lottie. Maybe that was why he enjoyed giving her one so much.

  A man Dyer assumed was the owner came over to meet them. “Y’all wantin’ a room?”

  Dyer nodded. “And a meal.”

  “Meal ain’t no problem, but I hope you and the misses ain’t fightin’, ’cause I’ve only got one room left.”

  “Oh, we’re not—”

  “Fighting,” Dyer interrupted Lottie. He put his arm around her waist and hugged. “We have much better things to do, don’t we, darlin’?” He leaned over to whisper to her. “If we don’t sleep here, we’ll be out in the woods.”

  She nodded her head, forcing a little smile. “Of course we’re not fighting, sweetheart.”

  The proprietor reached into his pocket and pulled out a key. “Your room will be the first one to your left at the top of the stairs. Pay before you eat or do anything else.” He chuckled and winked at Dyer, then handed him the key.

  Lottie hoped her face wasn’t as red as it felt. She waited patiently while Dyer paid the man and led them to a table for supper. The spicy stew and warm bread tasted like heaven, and she ate her fill before she finally leaned across the table to speak to Dyer in private.

  “We cannot share a room.”

  He leaned toward her. “There’s only one.”

  “I am fully aware of that, and if you were any kind of gentleman, you’d let me have it.”

  “I never claimed to be a gentleman.”

  That was true enough. “But you know there will only be one bed.”

  He grinned, and the glint in his eye told her she was in trouble. “I am betting you are correct on that.”

  “Are you going to let me have the bed?”

  “I don’t see why we can’t share it.”

  She gasped. “You know very well why.”

  “Miss Mace, I promise to be a gentleman.”

  “You just said you weren’t a gentleman.”

  He shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “Doesn’t mean I can’t reform.”