by Eli Easton
Trace bit back a smile. So Robby had managed to push off the wedding. Pa’s tone was downright admiring. He was going to be awfully disappointed at the end of this thing, when his mail-order bride disappeared. But right now, Trace could only think about saving Robby’s skin.
Trace was at the corral, untying his horse, when Robby came out of the house. He strolled toward Trace casually and stopped ten feet away, pulling the shawl tightly around himself in the cool evening air. The biggest red pig, Killboar, came over to the fence and sniffed the air, curious about the stranger. Trace ignored his anxious snorting.
“You shouldn’t be seen talkin’ to me,” Trace said with a glance at the house.
“What did you tell him?” Robby sounded upset.
Trace gave Robby a measured stare. “I didn’t betray you, if that’s what you mean. I wouldn’t do that.”
Robby’s expression relaxed, and he blinked back some emotion. After a moment he took a deep breath. “Sorry. It’s just all so . . .” He shrugged.
“Don’t be apologizin’.” Trace led Jasper back from the rail.
“Did something happen today?”
Trace got up onto his horse. “Meet me tonight by the privy once everyone’s asleep. Don’t let your guard slip, Robby. Be strong.”
Trace rode away. He refused to look back, even though he wanted to. He also wanted to pull Robby Riverton up onto his horse and take him away, put him somewhere safe. But that was a foolish instinct, and Trace the soldier knew better than to listen to it. Slow and deliberate and strategic, that’s how a man avoided making stupid mistakes in a war.
Though it occurred to him that he might be fighting a war on more than one front. And when it came to his softer feelings, he refused to lose.
Chapter Twelve
The privy was a smart place to meet, Robby realized. It was set some ways off from the house and close to a stand of trees. In the dark, it would be safe from prying eyes. And if he got caught going there, he had a ready-made excuse.
Trace was waiting for him on the back side of the privy, the side that faced the trees.
“Hello,” Robby whispered, not knowing what else to say.
“Hey there,” came Trace’s deep drawl. He leaned one shoulder against the wooden privy wall. A flash of white in his fingers announced the presence of a cigarette, but it wasn’t lit.
Robby was relieved to see him. At times the day had seemed interminable. And since supper, Robby could think of nothing beyond finding out what Trace had told Pa-Pa.
His feelings about Sheriff Trace Crabtree swung wildly, like a weather vane before a storm. Trace had seemed to be on Robby’s side last night in the barn, and he’d felt so grateful at the time. But what if Trace changed his mind? All day, Robby had worried about how he’d acted in the barn, how close they’d stood, how he’d leaned into Trace’s hand. It was stupid to have risked that. Yes, the sheriff seemed to share Robby’s tastes, but he’d stepped away, hadn’t he? Robby needed his help too much to risk angering or disgusting him.
But now, being this close to Trace again, seeing the calm, relaxed solidity of him, hearing the straight-forward bluntness in his voice, feeling the aura of care he exuded, Robby’s fears seem foolish. The knots in his stomach eased. He could trust Trace. He really thought he could. And Trace was the one person who knew Robby as Robby. And just being known was a relief.
“Do you have news?” Robby asked.
“Yup. Now, I need ya to stay calm and listen. Can ya do that?”
Robby nodded. He crossed his arms over his chest and grasped his elbows tight.
Trace tilted back his hat and scratched his forehead with a thumb. Robby’s eyes were adjusting to the dark and he thought Trace’s expression was sympathetic. “Well, I went back to Santa Fe this mornin’, and I learnt a few things. First of all, seems ya got yourself a WANTED poster.”
“What?”
Trace shushed him and told Robby about the notice from the U.S. Marshals. They wanted him officially as an eyewitness! He also said the Bowery Boys were still in Santa Fe, still looking to question other members of the wagon train.
It was the worst news possible. If the Feds wanted Robby’s testimony to finally nail Mose McCann, he and his Boys wouldn’t rest, not until Robby was six feet under.
He sank against the wall of the privy, his breath coming hard. “Good God. This nightmare just won’t end.”
“It will,” Trace said levelly. “It’ll end. But I have a feelin’ the hardest lumps are still to come.”
Trace didn’t say anything more, didn’t offer any lofty promises. Robby was upset, and he was terrified, but he was also sick of feeling that way. He quietly pulled himself together, turning his back to Trace and squeezing his eyes shut.
It was all very well and good to want things. To want this to be over with. To want to be free to just live his damned life, to start over, to try again. He was only twenty-four, for God’s sake. But it wasn’t over with, and he had to face facts. After the initial anger and resentment faded, Robby felt strangely calm. Maybe this was what prisoners felt like going to their deaths.
He turned back to Trace. “Thank you for going all the way back to Santa Fe and learning what you could. I’m not sure what I should do next.” He’d almost said we. He wanted to believe it was we. But that seemed presumptuous.
Trace laid a reassuring hand on Robby’s shoulder. “We hold tight. I telegraphed the U.S. Marshal’s office and told ’em to come here. Seems to me once you’ve told them everythin’ you know, those Bowery Boys won’t have any reason to keep after ya.”
Robby thought about that. He supposed he was willing to talk. It certainly couldn’t get him into any worse trouble than he was already in. And he supposed, too, he owed Stoltz that much. He shouldn’t have died for nothing. “All right. How long will it take them to get here?”
“I dunno,” Trace admitted. “A few weeks probably. Meanwhile, we keep ya safe here at the ranch. I figure it’ll take at least four or five days before the Bowery Boys get organized and show up in Flat Bottom. Maybe a week. If they’ve only got a couple of guns with ’em, I might be able to arrest ’em in town. If not, Pa and my brothers will hold ’em off here.”
“Is that why you talked to Pa-Pa?”
Trace nodded. “I told him there was some fuss about a fugitive on your wagon train, and a man had been murdered in Santa Fe over it. Told him it was possible the Easterners might come lookin’ to question ya.”
Robby squeezed his arms tighter, feeling the cold. “What did he say to that?”
Trace snorted. “About what you’d expect. That they’d step foot on his land over his dead body.” Trace sounded grimly pleased. “I never thought I’d be glad my father is such a stubborn old cuss.”
Robby could well imagine Pa-Pa saying exactly that. But still. The idea of gunmen attacking the ranch on his account didn’t sit well at all. “If we have four or five days before the Bowery Boys come here, maybe I should just—”
There was the squeak of a door opening. Trace grabbed Robby’s hand and pulled him into the trees. They stood in the shadows, Trace behind Robby, one arm around his waist as though he might try to escape. Robby hadn’t the least intention of escaping. The warm muscle behind his back felt so damn good. He watched Pa Crabtree walk with his bow-legged gait across the yard to the privy. He was wearing a long night shirt, a wool hat, gloves, and galoshes over bare legs. He stumbled, half asleep. He went into the privy and the door banged shut.
Robby tried to calm his racing heart. His pulse pounded along Trace’s arm. Electricity radiated in time with the thud, thud. Dear God above. This attraction was officially insane. How could he feel even a speck of lust at one of the most dangerous and dodgy points of his life?
Unless that was why he felt it? He’d heard a close brush with death brought on the urge to copulate, as if the body was reminded of how imperative it was to reproduce, and soon. Of course, if Robby’s body was thinking about offspring, it shouldn’t ha
ve set its sights on Sheriff Trace Crabtree.
Something tugged under Robby’s chin. It was Trace, untying his bonnet. The damn thing was perpetually in the way. How did women stand it? He felt cool air as it was tugged off his head and tossed on the ground. He raised a hand to rake his fingers through his hair, loosening the tamed locks. It felt so good to be free.
“Are ya doin’ all right here at the ranch?” Trace asked in a voice that was so low, Robby wouldn’t have heard it except Trace’s mouth was against Robby’s ear.
He replied just as softly. “So far. But I still think I should run while I can.”
Trace pulled him closer, so that Robby’s back was pressed tight against Trace’s chest. His palm spread out along Robby’s ribs, making his skin dance with awareness. His words were firm despite the whisper. “Ya can’t go south, and the way north is dangerous. Besides, ya ran all the way from New York and didn’t outrun your troubles. Don’t run, Robby.”
His words were so sure, so certain. Robby needed to trust someone, needed to not feel alone. He turned, grasping Trace’s waist under his open canvas coat and resting his forehead on Trace’s chin. He was acutely aware of the texture of Trace’s wool vest beneath his fingers and the smooth, thick leather of his gun belt where one pinky rested, of the warm sweat-smell of man and the faint whiff of horse. Those things had never been his favorite smells, but right now they were more than merely good, the scent was life itself, like the smell of the woods and the night air.
Trace’s hands covered Robby’s. Probably he was nervous with Robby so close to his guns. But that was all right. Robby didn’t blame him in the least. All he wanted was to be allowed to stand here for a moment. To not think—just for a moment.
Behind him, Robby heard the privy door bang as Pa-Pa exited. Trace held still until there was the fainter sound of Pa-Pa going back into the house.
Trace relaxed. “He’s gone.”
Robby sighed and stepped back. “It’s going to be hell sitting here waiting. With no idea what’s going on, or when they’ll come.”
“I’ll be keepin’ an eye on ya. Is there a time of day ya can get away? Take a walk?”
Robby thought about it. “Afternoons. The men and older boys work outside and the little ones nap. Marcy and Emmie are usually occupied.”
“All right. There’s a trail behind the barn that goes to the river. Walk south on the riverbank maybe ten minutes, and you’ll find an old cabin. Meet me there tomorrow.”
Robby nodded, relieved he wouldn’t have to wait too long for another update. “Tomorrow.”
“And if ya ever need to get out of that house, just go to the cabin. All right?”
Robby nodded again. He wasn’t sure what else to say and, honestly, he didn’t want to say anything. He wanted to stand there like this, feeling Trace’s warmth and strong confidence. He made everything seem so much more manageable, turned monsters into annoyances. He seemed to think Robby could do this, that they’d be fine. And maybe he was right.
Then he realized that Trace was all but holding him. They were only inches apart and Trace looked down at Robby’s hands, which he still grasped in his own. It should be awkward, but it didn’t feel that way. And Robby wasn’t stupid enough to push away the only good thing he’d felt in ages.
“Why are you doing this for me?” Robby asked at last. The intimacy of Trace’s closeness in the dark was doing strange things to his head.
Trace met his gaze, his eyes troubled. “I’m helpin’ you because it’s the right thing to do. I don’t want to see ya dead. And, in case it’s not obvious . . .” He huffed out a resentful sigh. “I kind of like ya.”
Robby laughed. “You don’t have to sound so put out about it.”
“Well, I am. I am put out about it. It’s the goddamnedest, most inconvenient thing.”
Robby couldn’t argue with that. But he felt a surge of happiness that Trace had admitted it. It made him feel reckless. Without over-thinking it, he leaned in for a kiss.
Trace stopped him, releasing Robby’s hands to grasp both upper arms. “Don’t. You know it’s foolish.”
Robby felt a flash of irritation. “What I know is that I’m scared out of my fucking mind. And I know that I might not be alive next week. So I’m not interested in nursemaid morality.”
Trace glowered at him for a long moment before responding. “Fine. One kiss. But we can’t be doin’ this.”
It was the worst logic ever, but Robby wasn’t about to point that out. The arms that were holding Robby away now pulled him in. And, despite Trace’s words, his lips were the ones that sought out Robby’s. And they were hungry.
Robby’s eyes slammed shut as the banked fire inside him shot up in delicious licks of flame. He pressed tighter, wanting all the contact he could get. Trace’s body molded to his, and Robby gave back the aggressive desire, passion bright on his tongue, need thick in his veins as he sucked on Trace’s tongue.
Trace made a sound in his throat and cupped Robby’s ass. The hard jut of his flesh against Robby’s hip made him want to lie down right there in the dirt.
Then Trace turned away, stepped back, and shook his head. No more.
Robby clenched his suddenly empty fingers. He huffed. “I sure hope those marshals hurry up.”
“Me too,” Trace said, his voice like sandpaper. “Go on back now.”
He picked up the bonnet and held it up. Robby took it and stumbled toward the house.
Chapter Thirteen
Thursday
Robby woke up the next morning and sat straight up in bed. Something burned low in his belly.
Anger. It was anger.
Enough was enough. He was tired of being worried and afraid and hoping that if he laid low enough, or ran fast enough, or smiled winningly enough, his problems would vanish. Being weak and fearful fit him about as well as Rowena’s dress the first time he’d tried it on. Robby Riverton wasn’t a cowering man. He was a handsome, charming, green-eyed devil that could hold the audience in the palm of his hand—so sayeth The Weekly Sun.
It was time to reclaim that Robby Riverton.
He’d made all of New York City believe he was Miss Annabelle Smith playing Ophelia. He could damn well fool the Crabtree family. It was time to stop worrying about being discovered and take charge of the situation—in this house, with the Bowery Boys, and with that tempting-as-sin, big-gunned sheriff too.
It was time for some tiger-footed rage.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, was how this play would go on.
He got up and got dressed, his movements sure and deliberate. In the mirror as he shaved and then put on his makeup, his back was ramrod straight, and his eyes were flinty steel.
Pa-Pa Crabtree was about to meet his match.
When Robby appeared in the kitchen, Marcy and Emmie were cooking and Marcy’s five-year-old, Missy, was solemnly putting plates on the table.
“Mornin’, Miss Fairchild,” Missy said.
“Good morning, sweet girl!” Robby kissed the little dumpling on the head. “Marcy, where might I find napkins?”
Marcy, who was stirring a huge pan of scrambled eggs at the woodstove, wrinkled her nose in confusion. “Napkins?”
“Yes, napkins.”
“Uh, I think there’s some in the sideboard,” Emmie said. “Back behind that big soup dish.”
“Oh, yes,” said Marcy. “Those things belonged to . . .” Her eyes darted toward the door. “. . . to Wayne’s mama.”
Robby marched to the old sideboard in the dining room. It was a massive piece with various drawers and cupboards. In the bottom cupboard, he found a stash of fancy dishes he’d never seen. There were candlesticks and a huge china soup tureen, serving dishes, a big silver ladle, and other items more at home on a society table than at the Crabtree ranch.
He found a stack of old linen napkins crammed in the back. Robby pulled them out and took them to the kitchen. “There’s no time to iron these, but we can make do for this meal,” he announced. “Mi
ssy, set a place for your mama and Emmie too.”
“Oh, we don’t normally—” Emmie began.
“You’ll sit at the table like members of the family,” Robby said, with a hint of steel in his tone. “How about Emmie on the end here. We can just move baby George’s chair like so.”
Marcy and Emmie regarded Robby as if he were crazy, but they didn’t say a word as he organized the table to his liking.
Wayne, Roy, and Clovis came in from doing chores and sat down heavily at their seats. Wayne ordered Marcy to get the kids to the table so’s they could eat, and she went and rounded them up. Pa-Pa was the last to enter. He’d given up on wearing the gray leather vest and white shirt with a bow, and he now wore a flannel work shirt that had seen better days and a pair of old brown pants. But everything was clean, and his hair was slicked back. He still smelled of a cheap men’s cologne, which he put on surely for Rowena’s sake.
“Now!” Robby said, looking over the table. “Is everything on? Salt and pepper? Bread? Let’s make sure we have everything, so no one has to get up ten times.”
Marcy put a large wooden bowl of scrambled eggs on the table and Emmie a bowl of gravy to go with the biscuits. After a moment’s hesitation, they took their seats and Robby sat next to Pa-Pa. Marcy and Emmie got some strange looks, but no one said a word.
Wayne picked his napkin up off his plate, looked at it with a frown, and tossed it over his shoulder to the floor. Robby watched as Roy, Clovis, and the kids around the table followed his lead. Pa-Pa stuffed his napkin in an empty glass.
Robby’s blood surged, and his cheeks got hot. He slowly stood, a brittle smile on his face. “I see I need to demonstrate the use of the napkin.” Robby picked his up, flicked it open with a snap of his wrist, and smoothed it over the lap of his dress. “You place a napkin in your lap. During the meal, you wipe your fingers on it. This keeps the jam and butter and grease and drool in one place. Instead of all over the tablecloth and your clothes and—” He leveled a stony look at Wayne. “—under your armpits. This minor alteration on your part means much less work for Marcy and Emmie and less stained clothing.”