Once again, Jacob hesitated, unsure why he felt it would be better to remain silent, but keeping his own counsel all the same.
“Jacob Grey, are you aware that two lawmen have been hurt while trying to apprehend this man?”
Anger and frustration shuddered through Jacob’s system at the other man’s words. Jeb Clark had died tonight.
“Are you aware—”
“Yes!”
Someone grasped Jacob’s hand and he jerked free, but the unknown person caught his wrist and held it with an iron grip, pushing it down. Jacob tried to wrench away, wondering what he was being forced to do. When his fingers encountered a nubby flat surface, his brow creased in confusion, and his eyes strained to see through the tough weave of the flour sack. Although a faint light seeped through the cloth, it came from behind, offering him nothing of value—no blocks of shape, no hazy shadows.
“Jacob Grey, you now have your hand upon the cover of the Holy Bible. Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
Jacob felt a rush of confusion at the familiar oath. “Yes.”
“Are you aware that in breaking your oath, you will be held accountable with your very life?”
The variation of the oath caused Jacob to pause before answering. “Yes.”
“Do you know who is responsible for these robberies?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
Once more he hesitated before answering. “Ethan McGuire.”
“Jacob Grey, have you ever been associated with a group known as the Star Council of Justice?”
A sickness swirled in Jacob’s stomach and he began to shake. How should he answer? If he weren’t in the presence of the Star, admitting his involvement would mean death. If he were in the presence of the Star Council, the penalty for breaking the code of silence… would also mean death.
“Answer.”
Jacob remained stubbornly silent. He jerked when the barrel of a revolver was placed against the side of his temple.
“Answer!”
Growling deep in his throat, Jacob lashed out, jabbing his captor in the groin and grasping the revolver in one hand while ripping the flour sack from his head with the other. In one instinctive motion, he was on his feet, the revolver aimed and ready.
Then his eyes adjusted to the light and he grew still when he found himself in the company of seven exhausted, dusty men who had crowded into the cramped keeping room of the abandoned Johnston farmhouse.
“Sit down, Jacob.” The voice came again, much more warmly this time.
His gaze swerved across the room to connect with that of Judge Harry Krupp, the man who had been interrogating him.
Very slowly, Jacob sank into the chair, but he did not relinquish his hold on the revolver.
Judge Krupp pushed himself to his feet and crossed toward Jacob. His white hair gleamed in the dim lamplight, making him appear more of an elderly grandfather than the “hanging judge” he was reported to be.
“Gerald, take a seat,” the judge ordered.
Behind Jacob, Gerald Stone gasped for air, bending his body at an awkward angle and swearing. “Dammit all to hell, Jacob,” he muttered, hobbling toward the nearest chair. “Why’d you have to hit me?”
Jacob’s gaze once again swept across the room. He recognized each of the men present: Walt Moore, a lawyer from Petesville; Slim Garson, a deputy from Dewey; Tony Lambert, Lincoln’s only attorney; Judge Garson Miller, from the circuit; Thaad Cusper, marshal from Libbyville; and Judge Harry Krupp, also from the circuit. And the community men: Silas Gruber and Ned Abernathy.
“We apologize for the theatrics, Grey. But not many people are allowed an introduction to the governors of the Star. We have to make sure those who do are honorable enough to keep our identities a secret”—he leveled a piercing gaze in Jacob’s direction—“but not so honorable as to reveal our identities to a United States marshal.”
Since the judge waited, Jacob nodded his head in confirmation of the warning.
“Getting back to our original purposes: A message was left for you at the old oak explaining that Ethan McGuire had been found guilty and should pay for his crimes.” Krupp continued in an almost negligent manner, his voice calm and low, “Judging by what you’ve just said, you agree that Ethan McGuire is responsible for the robberies.”
Though Jacob felt a twinge of uneasiness, he stated, “Yes.”
“And Jeb’s death?”
Jacob paused. “Yes.”
The judge took a deep breath and nodded in approval. “You’ve been a devoted member of the Star for what—five years now?”
“Six.”
Once again, the judge paused and turned to his companions. “Gentlemen, your decisions. All in favor.”
The room echoed with a chorus of resounding “Ayes.”
“All opposed.”
Silence.
The judge turned.
“Jacob Grey, would you willingly defend the secrets of the Star with your life?”
A slight chill seemed to feather down Jacob’s spine, then a slow realization. “Yes.”
“Would you take a blood oath to that effect?”
“Yes,” he stated firmly, thinking of Jeb. It was Jeb Clark who had introduced him to the Star Council, who had taught him the secrets of the lightning-blasted oak.
“Jacob Grey, you have been nominated to replace Jeb Clark on the Star Council of Justice. Do you accept?”
Jacob straightened ever so slightly in his chair, and his eyes slipped over each member of the group. A powerful combination of anger and revenge began to tumble through his veins.
“Yes. I accept.”
Only then did Jacob taste the metallic bitterness of foreboding lingering on his own tongue.
Dawn streaked across the sky, scarlet and heavy, with thick sultry clouds. Feeling the first insistent fingers of light pressing against her eyelids, Lettie blinked and snuggled a little more deeply into her pillow, regretting the fact that another dawn meant another day at the boardinghouse: cooking, cleaning, washing, milking. Once again, the chickens would have to be fed and the eggs washed. There was bacon to fry in the morning, sandwiches to make in the afternoon, and vegetables to scrub in the evening.
A heavy sigh pushed against her chest and escaped in a slow puff of air. As always, morning was the worst time of day for Lettie. She buried her nose into the pillow in regret, wishing that she could have the time, just once, to lie in bed and linger until the sun had completely risen.
“Lettie?”
From the door below, she heard her mother’s soft tap and she jerked completely awake. “Coming!” she called. Despite her efforts, the lack of enthusiasm in her response was evident.
Rolling onto her back, Lettie pushed her hair away from her face and rose to a sitting position. Almost immediately, as had become her habit, her eyes swung to the man who slept in a nest of blankets and sheets on the opposite side of the room.
Her arms wrapped around her legs and she rested her chin on her knees. She had delayed moving Ethan into his room until she could prepare him for his new role. A smile flitted across her features when she noted the way Ethan’s neatly trimmed hair lay closely cropped around his ears and neck and a little longer on top, emphasizing the bold bone structure of his face. Although a night’s growth of beard darkened his jaw, the strong lines were free of the darker whiskers, which had been there until last night.
Yes indeed, her Ethan was a handsome man.
Lettie’s smile flickered and disappeared beneath a warm wave of awareness. Last night her fingers had been allowed some small measure of freedom as she’d wrapped a bath sheet around his shoulders and trimmed his hair to a more fashionable length. Time had seemed to pass as slowly as an inchworm measuring a stalk. With each moment that moved by, something warm and infinitely sensual had begun to simmer between them in the hot summer night until the very air seemed heavy and static, like the tangible beginnings of a lightning s
torm. Soon, Lettie had barely been able to maintain her grip on the shears. And when Ethan drew her between his legs to hold her tightly against his chest, she hadn’t demurred. She’d simply threaded her fingers through his hair and bowed to hold him tightly against her.
For long moments they’d remained that way, remembering their fear when the posse had come and pushing aside their fear for the days ahead. Somehow, without really intending it, the bond between them had strengthened, becoming an almost tangible thing that drew them together as surely as a spider’s web. Then Ethan had drawn back and looked into her eyes. Despite the dim lamplight, despite the gloom of evening, Lettie had felt something open and blossom inside of her at the expressions she found there: strength, desire… hunger. And she’d known, deep in her heart, that it would be only a matter of time before she and Ethan became joined in the most intimate manner possible.
Now Lettie blinked, allowing her eyes to slip from Ethan’s jaw to the breadth of his shoulders. He’d flung an arm above his head during his sleep, and her eyes lovingly traced the firm contour made by his ribs as they swept in a beguiling arc to the narrowness of his stomach.
Her breath paused, then quickened. The sheet had slipped low upon his hips. So very low.
Lettie straightened, her chin lifting from her knees without her really being aware of it. Her eyes widened ever so slightly, and she found herself tracing the dark hair that feathered down his stomach from his chest, swirling around the slight indentation of his navel before slipping lower.
Lettie felt herself growing warm. Though the sheet covered Ethan where it counted, there was no denying the washboard honing of his stomach, the flat scoop of his pelvis, and the masculine jut of his hips beneath the sheet.
Lettie’s eyes grew wider still. Her heart began a slow, methodic pounding at the base of her throat and the pit of her stomach. Impulsively, she pushed aside the covers and slipped from the bed.
Her bare feet made no sound on the hooked rug in the center of the floor as she padded across the garret to where Ethan lay beside the wardrobe. Slowly, silently, she knelt beside him, her nightgown puddling onto the floor beside them. Her hair became a curtain of honey-brown waves as she bent toward him.
“Ethan?” she whispered, so softly that he probably would not have heard her had he been awake.
Trying to breathe against the warmth flooding her body and the heavy beat of her own heart, Lettie leaned forward and brushed a light kiss against his mouth. His skin was warm and still smelled of soap.
Once again, she bent to brush the opposite corner of his mouth, then moved to trace the tip of her tongue against the lower swell of his lips.
Ethan awakened with a start and she drew back, ever so slightly, smiling at his expression of confusion.
“Good morning, Ethan.”
He blinked at her, still obviously disoriented from his heavy slumber. The events of the previous night had evidently taken their toll, and he’d slept without stirring most of the night.
“You seemed to sleep well,” she commented softly.
Ethan’s eyes narrowed, becoming azure hot as they slipped over her features and the hair that spilled over her shoulders and surrounded them like an intimate set of bedcurtains.
“At least you must have slept well,” she continued. “I didn’t hear you stirring.”
In fact, she was very aware that he had spent part of the evening watching her. She’d felt the warm heat of his gaze long into the night until, finally, he’d succumbed to his own exhaustion.
“You’re up early,” he murmured, his voice sleep-gruff and endearing.
“Boardinghouse rules,” she teased. “Late to bed, early to rise.”
His eyes dipped, and Lettie became acutely aware of the way her unfettered breasts swayed provocatively above him. She tried to draw back, but he grasped a strand of her hair and wound it around his wrist, drawing her irresistibly forward. Once again, she found the intense heat of his gaze directed toward her. And there was no denying that he wanted her. Now.
Lettie balked slightly. “I guess I’d better get dressed.”
“No.” He drew her closer, so close she could feel his breath whispering against her cheek. “I haven’t thanked you for helping me last night.” His voice was low, husky. Firm.
“There’s no need.”
“Oh, but there is. My mother tried to teach me—”
“Manners,” she supplied, laughing softly.
“As I said once before, I wasn’t an exemplary pupil.”
“But you try.”
“I try.”
With an insistent tug of her hair, he drew her to him and their lips brushed, then met again for a kiss that revealed their mutual hunger and the desire that had been growing steadily between them for days.
Placing her hands on his shoulders for balance, Lettie allowed herself to be drawn tightly against his chest. She moaned deep in her throat when the heat of his body seemed to seep through her nightgown with the intensity of a burning brand—branding her as Ethan’s woman. When his hand slowly moved from her waist, to her back, then around the curve of her ribs to rest beneath her breast, she jerked slightly in an unconscious reflex, her heart beginning to pound, her breath locking in her throat. Without being aware of it, she nudged her chest against his own, unconsciously bidding his hand to cover her breast.
“Do you suppose we’ll have flapcakes or cornbread this morning, Sister?”
They sprang apart when the Beasleys’ voices drifted up from the floor below.
“What do you think, Alma?”
“I’m putting my money on the cornbread.”
“I have to go,” Lettie breathed. “Otherwise Mama will come looking for me.” She turned back to Ethan, knowing her eyes must mirror some of her own passion and regret. He was watching her, and, for a moment, she thought she saw a hint of softening within his features, before they settled into their usual blunt-hewn lines.
“I’m sorry.”
He pressed a finger over her lips, then drew her down for a soft kiss. “I’ll miss you.”
Her smile was shy, despite their intimate position.
“I’ll miss you, too.”
Reluctantly, regretfully, she untangled herself from Ethan’s embrace and moved toward the wardrobe to retrieve something to wear for the day.
When she turned to find Ethan watching her, she gave him the all-too-familiar swirling gesture of her hand to signify that he should turn his back.
“And no peeking in the mirror this time,” she scolded, then blushed when she realized she’d given away the fact that she’d known he’d seen her undressing on occasion by watching her reflection in the mirror.
To her surprise, Ethan chuckled. A low, rusty sound, but a chuckle nonetheless. Following her command, he pushed himself into a sitting position and swiveled so that his back was presented to her.
Lettie swallowed against the sudden tightness of her throat when her gaze slipped across the width of his shoulders. His skin was smooth and dappled with a light beading of sweat. Broad shoulders tapered to the firm span of his ribs, delineated by the curving length of his spine. A slim masculine waist tapered into narrow hips and the bare curves of his buttocks.
“Why, Ethan McGuire, you aren’t wearing any drawers!” she blurted, then slapped a hand over her mouth at the impropriety of her hasty words.
Ethan peered at her over his shoulder, his eyes hot and blue. “No, Lettie Grey, I’m not.”
After that, it became harder than ever to slip into a gingham day dress and fasten the tiny hooks along her hip and waist, let alone fasten the tiny mother-of-pearl buttons that marched up the front of the bodice.
When she announced that she’d finished dressing, Ethan wrapped a sheet around his hips and pushed himself to his feet.
“You look pretty in that color,” he murmured softly, moving toward her.
His compliment flustered her slightly, and she glanced down at the tiny Wedgwood-blue squares amid their field of wint
er white.
“Thank you.”
He stopped only inches away. “I like the way it fits, too.” His finger lifted to feather across her chest. “It’s nice and tight here—” his fingers slipped down the side of her ribs and she gasped—“and here.” His hand slid around her waist. “It’s fitted here, then flares here.” His hand moved from the tight tailored bodice to the gentle gathering of her skirt, slipping down the curve of her derrière.
“What the—” The pressure of his hand grew a little firmer and she tried to bat his hand away, but he insistently kept it where it was, grasping a fistful of skirt. “That isn’t all you, is it?”
She grunted in outrage. “I’ll have you know I’m wearing a bustle pad under there.”
“So Natalie Gruber isn’t the only one padded to her eyeteeth?”
“Well, I never!”
Ethan chuckled and his hand flattened, drawing her firmly against the cradle of his hips. “Never mind,” he murmured next to her mouth. “I like a woman who can fill my hand like a luscious peach.”
“Ethan!”
He silenced her shocked outburst with his mouth, immediately coaxing a response from her that she found she could not willingly deny him. As he explored the tempting sweetness of her mouth, one of his hands reached to take her own and lay it against the firmly toned muscles of his stomach.
Moaning in delight, she moved closer still, her fingers curling slightly to test the resilience of his skin before slipping around the side of his waist to the hollow of his back. For a moment, her fingers ran up and down the crease of his spine in a tantalizing motion before pausing and dipping.
“Lettie?”
Once again they separated at the sound of Alma Beasley’s voice.
“Your mother asked me to come get you.”
“Coming!” she called, then turned back to Ethan. “I have to go now or she’ll wake the whole house. I’ll come up again as soon as I can.”
“When?”
She reluctantly backed away, ignoring the way his hand lingered on the curve of her ribs before finally dropping away. Something had changed within him since the night before, Lettie realized. Somehow he’d softened, though ever so slightly. His features were a little less bitter. His eyes a little less grim.
Silken Dreams Page 17