by Eli Easton
Robby looked at Miss Stubbens curiously. She and big, bearish Clovis would be an odd match in nearly every way, yet something about her gentle demeanor rang a bell. Clovis had a gentleness to him too. And Robby, feeling guilty that Rowena would leave Clovis at the altar, wanted to lay some seeds if he could.
“I haven’t known Clovis long,” he said slowly. “But I can tell he’s a decent man. He works long hours on the ranch, has a real talent for woodworking, and he’s spoken up for me to his family when it was important. He’s ever so big and strong. Why, I doubt there’s a finer fellow in all of Flat Bottom.”
That wasn’t a huge stretch given the size of Flat Bottom. And Robby wasn’t counting Trace.
Miss Stubbens wrung the lace between her fingers, not meeting Robby’s gaze. “It sounds like you’ll be very happy, then.”
That wasn’t the response he wanted, drat it. It was frustrating not to be able to say what he meant. But Rowena would hardly push her betrothed onto another woman.
“Do you . . . feel quite safe there?” Miss Stubbens asked. She gave Marcy and Emmie a pointed look then looked back at Robby, her spine stiffening with determination. Miss Stubbens was trying to warn Rowena.
Ah. Now it made sense—the way these ladies acted, stiff and formal with something like pity in their faces, Marcy and Emmie’s delight in being talked to. They must normally get a cold shoulder. Maybe their clothes were part of it, and their meek ways, but the bruises were part of it too. Trace told Robby the gals were not smacked around, and Robby believed him. The men and boys had bruises too. And Pa-Pa had been very angry with Rowena that morning, but he hadn’t come close to raising his hand.
If he had, Robby would have punched him right in the kisser.
“It isn’t like that,” Robby said quietly. At least, he was pretty sure it wasn’t.
Miss Stubbens studied his face as if trying to judge whether to believe him or not. The fact that she seemed so invested in the answer made Robby think she cared for Clovis at least a little.
Mrs. Jones nudged Robby hard from the other side. She was holding out a card of robin’s-egg-blue lace. “Now, what do you think of this color, Miss Fairchild? This blue is all well and good, but I saw the most divine gown on a gal in Santa Fe once. I won’t forget it as long as I live! She looked just like a peacock. The gown had midnight blue and emerald green stripes and this exquisite midnight-blue lace. It was richer than a navy but not quite a purple. Have you ever seen lace that color back in St. Louis?”
“Why, yes I have,” Robby said in Rowena’s peaches-and-cream voice. “There’s a shop that sells every color of lace you could possibly imagine. They have lace that looks like real gold, shiny and all. And emeralds and sapphires and the most gorgeous black lace from Spain. Ruby reds . . . Pinks that would shame a rose. It’s delightful.”
The shop Robby was thinking of was in New York city. But no one here would ever know that. The ladies looked amazed and envious.
“I suppose now that we have someone from St. Louis in our own little community,” Mrs. Jones said leadingly. “You’ll be able to get things like that sent to you from home. Whatever you desire.”
“I suppose I could,” Robby said thoughtfully. “As long as I cared to make the effort.” She gave Mrs. Jones a challenging look, eyebrow cocked. “Now, darling sister Marcy, we simply must get some of this gray broadcloth for you. You have such an air of dignity, and this would suit you to a T.”
They picked out yards of blue dungaree material and a heavy blue poplin for the kids, some bits of white lace for Missy’s dress and all the accessories. When the shopkeeper rang them up, it came to nineteen dollars and ninety cents, so Robby tossed in some penny candy for everyone back at the ranch.
He also got a chance to speak to the mercantile’s owner for a moment in private. He said the Silverton coach had been running surprisingly regular of late, why practically every single Wednesday. You could set your watch by it.
Chapter Fifteen
After Robby went into the store, Trace hurried a few doors down to City Hall. He went straight up to Floyd, a thin, middle-aged man with spectacles and wispy brown hair.
“Have there been any wires for me?”
“Why no, Sheriff. Not a thing since you checked last night.”
“Ya sure?”
Floyd nodded his head solemnly. “Nothin’s come in today at all.”
“All right, all right.”
“You want to send somethin’?” Floyd asked.
But Trace was already heading out the door. He went across the street to the saloon which had a second-story window that faced south. He jogged up the stairs and to the end of the long hall. He opened the window and stuck his head out.
The land around Flat Bottom, as the name implied, was pretty damn flat. The road to Santa Fe was visible for a good mile. And even after it turned at a clump of rocks and vanished from sight, you could tell if riders were approaching from plumes of dust in the air.
But the sky was clear and blue today, so clear the horizon went on forever. There was not a disturbance in the atmosphere anywhere to be seen. Trace listened. There were no sounds either.
Reassured that the Bowery Boys were not about to bust into town, Trace loped downstairs again. He tilted his hat at the bartender, Stan, and at a couple of men drinking at the bar. He waved away their offer of a whiskey and left the saloon.
He moseyed on over to the general store and leaned against the Crabtree wagon in a lackadaisical way, as if his heart weren’t pounding clear out of his chest. The two chestnut horses, Bella and Buster, nickered at him, so he pet their noses for a spell.
Glancing inside the store’s windows, he saw a clutch of ladies around the fabric table—Marcy and Emmie and Robby among them.
“Huh,” he said out loud.
He’d been a Crabtree his whole life, so he was used to getting a lukewarm reception in town, even after he’d become sheriff. The townspeople were polite, but not overly friendly. He knew what they thought of his family, and especially his pa.
Now he watched “Rowena” hold court, chatting happily and holding up bolts of fabric to various ladies around the table. Trace figured the storekeeper was about to have one hell of a good day. A pang of warm and gooey feeling struck Trace in the belly. Damn Robby Riverton, anyhow. He was like a litter of puppies—loads of rambunctious trouble and just as appealing. And he’d no doubt leave just as much of a stinking mess behind too.
When the gals paid for their purchases and headed for the front door, Trace slunk off like a coward. He didn’t trust himself not to yell at Robby or otherwise give himself away. So he watched from the chair on the sheriff’s office porch as the gals loaded up a lot of bags, unhitched the horses, and set off again.
Marcy and Emmie waved to him, both smiling to beat the band. Trace wiggled his fingers back stupidly, confused as hell.
It wasn’t until they were practically out of sight that Trace figured out the source of his confusion: They’d come into town without any of the menfolk. Robby had been driving the wagon.
Now how the hell had he pulled that off?
Once they were gone, Trace knew in his gut what he had to do. He went into the sheriff’s office and up a narrow set of stairs in the back that led to the room above.
He looked around regretfully. The room was plain enough. A wooden half-wall separated a space for his bed in the back. There was a woodstove and a sink with real running water. There were a few chairs, a small table, and a braided rug that Mrs. Jones had given him.
The first time he’d laid eyes on this place it had looked like heaven, because it meant he could move away from the ranch. Away from Pa, away from the endless chores, away from Marcy and Emmie looking harried all the time, away from the constant reminder that he’d never be like his brothers, would never have a wife and family. He loved his nieces and nephews, but they could be exhausting.
He wasn’t like them, and he never would be.
He looked around the s
pace with a sad feeling, as if he had to sell his favorite horse. With a sigh, he stoked the embers in the woodstove, added a dry log, and left the little door open. The place began to fill with smoke.
He coughed and waved it away from his face. A bit more. Just enough to make it unbearable for a few days. Hell.
Chapter Sixteen
Trace paced at the hunter’s cabin, hands on his hips. Anxiety gripped him down low, even though he knew Robby had gotten home safely from town. He knew because he’d seen Marcy on the porch beating a rug when he’d ridden by the ranch.
Trace fumed. He was going to give Robby one hell of a talking-to. The one morning he didn’t sit on the Crabtree ranch like a hen on an egg, and Robby pulls a stunt like that. Trace had been busy trying to get some plans in order. He should be able to count on Robby to sit tight for a single goddamn day.
He paced some more, then decided, in disgust, that he ought to do something useful while he waited. The tiny cabin had been built by Ansel Maynor years ago as a fishing retreat, but more likely to get way from Mrs. Maynor, who scolded that man to within an inch of his life. Ansel had passed away when Trace was a boy, and it looked like no one had used the place lately. There was an old broom in one corner, its bristles half gnawed away by mice, but Trace quickly swept the worst piles of dust and animal droppings out the door and beat some life into the old straw mattress and faded quilt set in a wooden bed frame. Other than a rickety table and two chairs, that was all that was in the cabin.
Land’s sake, why was he even bothering with this? You’d think the queen was coming.
Back outside, Trace scanned the river bank and saw what he’d hoped to see at last—Robby walking toward him. Trace’s mouth went dry and he got an awful swimmy sort of ache in his belly. Yet Robby strolled along, dawdling along the thick grass at the river’s edge as if he wasn’t in any particular hurry to see Trace. Despite the dress and bonnet, Robby’s movements were sure and undeniably masculine. He wasn’t even pretending now.
By the time he got close, Trace was ready to strangle him. He grabbed Robby’s arm and pulled him into the old cabin.
“What are ya doin’?” Trace demanded.
Robby untied his bonnet, his face determined. “At the moment? Getting out of these clothes. God, I need one hour without skirts wrapping around my knees every time I move—and this blasted bonnet! I swear it was designed by Satan himself. I will be in heaven the day I can set fire to the cursed thing.”
The bonnet was cast onto the table along with his lace collar and gloves. Robby reached behind himself and started undoing the buttons on his dress.
“What if someone followed ya?”
Robby rolled his eyes. “They didn’t. This would go quicker if you helped.”
Trace wanted to argue, but he could see a desperation in Robby. And then Trace figured that if he had to wear women’s clothing all the time, he’d probably just go out and stand in front of the Bowery Boys and beg to be shot. Besides, it was unlikely anyone else would come along. So he undid the buttons at Robby’s back.
Robby stepped out of the dress. He wore long johns on the bottom and a thin muslin camisole on the top. “Oh, thank God!” Robby scrubbed his hands through his hair, which sent the smooth dark locks into a riot of curls and pokey bits. He rubbed his hands down his body with a shiver of distaste, like a young boy checking for leeches after a swim. “I have to be me again before I lose my mind.”
Trace was mesmerized by this new “me,” but he made himself go to the window and look out. There was no sign of anyone up or down the river’s banks. This was an isolated spot, but he was still uneasy. “Sure no one followed ya?”
“Will you stop worrying? Wayne and Roy went to a horse auction, and Clovis and Pa-Pa and the two boys went to round up some beeves. None of them are expected back until dark. Marcy and Emmie are so excited about the new fabric and laying out patterns that they wouldn’t notice if a buffalo herd ran through the yard.”
Trace grunted. He finally turned and let himself really look at Robby. The undergarment he wore up top was a woman’s, but its thin straps and see-through fabric looked erotic over Robby’s broad shoulders and slim chest. His dark nipples were visible under the muslin. From the waist down, he had on a pair of men’s white long johns. Those were far from alluring, but what they clung to was—slim hips, muscled thighs, and a serious bulge. Trace’s mouth went dry and his heart began a sickly rhythm like maybe he’d just up and pass out.
He was being ridiculous. He made himself focus on his anger. “I can’t believe ya rode into town this morning, easy as pie! I about grabbed ya and locked you in my jail cell.”
“Maybe that’s what you should do,” Robby said seriously.
Trace swiped a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I don’t have enough manpower to protect ya in town. I said four or five days before the Bowery Boys show, but I don’t know that for sure. Ya could have been— Christ, Robby.”
Robby looked a little guilty. “Nothing happened. It worked out fine.”
“Well, don’t do it again! Don’t. Leave. The Crabtree ranch. Again.” Trace said it with every ounce of conviction he could muster. Hell, he’d tie Robby to a tree if he had to.
Robby’s guilty look turned coy. “Why, Sheriff, I didn’t know you cared so much,” he said in Rowena’s sexiest purr.
“This isn’t a joke, Robby. Promise me!”
Trace wasn’t going to let Robby charm his way out of this. The idea of coming across that wagon stopped on the road, Robby with his throat cut, and maybe Marcy and Emmie too . . . It was too hellacious to contemplate. He’d seen enough horrors. That might just tip him over into insanity.
Robby’s face grew solemn. “I promise. Honest, I do.”
Trace let out a relieved breath. “Fine. All right, then. Christ on a crutch.”
Robby leaned against the wall watching him, his eyes bright. He didn’t try to argue or defend himself, which Trace liked. He seemed stronger today, more determined, cockier. Trace sort of liked that too.
After Trace had calmed down, he asked, “How’s it going at the ranch anyhow? No one acts like they suspect anythin’?”
“They don’t suspect. It’s going all right, Trace.”
Robby’s voice was calm, and it helped settle Trace a bit more. With a sigh, he took his tin of cigarettes from a pocket. He almost offered Robby one until he remembered—Robby didn’t smoke.
Robby rested back against the log wall. He had on those city boots with the long johns, which should have looked ridiculous but somehow looked damned titillating, or probably that was just Trace’s addled brain. It was a bit cool in the cabin after the heat of the summer afternoon outside, and Robby folded his arms across his mostly-exposed chest. Trace resisted the urge to go and warm him up.
“Do you have any news about the Bowery Boys?” Robby asked.
“No. But I paid a boy to keep lookout up on Eagle Rock. He’ll be able to see them comin’ from a good two miles out of Flat Bottom. And I’ve got a friend in Santa Fe who’s keeping his ear to the ground. He’ll wire me if he hears anythin’.”
Rafael the barber was well-connected in Santa Fe, so Trace hoped he could get the gist of what the Bowery Boys were doing without getting himself in trouble. He’d promised to send a wire when they rode out.
“And when they come? What then?” Robby frowned at Trace worriedly.
“I’ll handle it. Don’t worry.”
Robby watched him, chewing his lip. He didn’t have to say it—what if you can’t?
Trace wasn’t afraid. He might be a lazy man, but he’d never been a fearful one. He trusted his guns. And his brothers and Pa. They’d be all right. As long as the Bowery Boys didn’t show up with an army.
Robby pushed himself off the wall, kicked off his boots, and pulled the camisole over his head.
“Hey now,” Trace warned. He’d told himself he wasn’t going to do this.
But Robby ignored him, pushing his long johns off to reveal a dark
nest of hair and a long, soft cock. He headed out the door buck naked.
Trace followed, because of course he did. He watched Robby wade into the river, as eager as a child. He let out a big whoop and splashed water to the heavens. He ducked under and came up gasping and laughing, his dark hair streaming. He raised his face to the sun, smiling.
With a stab of pain, Trace understood. Robby’s new defiant attitude, his recklessness . . . Trace had seen more than a few battles in his army years, and he’d watched a lot of young men chase life hard the night before—laugh too loud, drink too much, wrestle and carry on—right up until the morning when they were cut down.
It hurt so badly for a moment, it stole his breath. This is what he’d run from, why he never wanted to care about anything again, or be close to any kind of action whatsoever.
He let it hurt for a moment, the aching pain throbbing bright as a knife wound then fading out. When it was done, he peeled off his clothes and went for a goddamn swim.
Chapter Seventeen
The river had looked so crystal clean and welcoming on Robby’s walk. He was anxious to get in it. The icy cold shocked his body but there was only a moment’s breathlessness before the slick felt wonderful against his naked skin. It was like a baptism. When he submerged and rose up again, he was 100 percent Robby Riverton and no one else. Dear God, he needed that.
The river’s surface was mostly calm here, dotted and dimpled with the current. It had enough force to drag against his skin, but not enough to knock him off his feet. He swam, broad, overhand strokes, first with the current, then against it. All the while he was aware of Trace watching him, treading water up to his shoulders. His expression was melancholy.
He looked so good though, with those bare shoulders, his stubble-roughed jaw, and his sandy hair darkened and slicked back. Robby was no saint and his willpower was in short supply. Suddenly he couldn’t swim toward Trace fast enough.