No Angel's Grace

by Linda Winstead Jones

  The three bowls of stew steamed invitingly, but Dillon waited. This was certainly not the sort of place Grace was accustomed to, but there was nothing to be done about that. There were a couple of other women in the room, but they seemed to belong there. There was the proprietor’s wife—a stout woman in a dirty gray dress. A thin, tired-looking woman—the wife of a fellow traveler who was headed for San Antonio. Most of the patrons were men, drifters who slurped down their stew in large, noisy gulps, and tossed back cheap whiskey as they leaned against the bar. The bar was nothing more than an unsteady plank laid over a couple of barrels. There wasn’t anything in the room that didn’t look like a stiff breeze would knock it over.

  Most of the patrons surveyed the room with suspicious eyes, and most every man in the room—himself and Billy included—was armed. Cigar smoke hung over the room like a low cloud, and even Dillon’s undiscriminating nose detected the sour odor of unwashed bodies.

  It was definitely not a place for a lady like Grace.

  The door opened, and Dillon turned his head to watch an entire family rush into the room. They were dust covered and wide eyed, a middle-aged woman herding four little girls into a smoky corner while her husband sought out the owner of the bustling establishment.

  And that was why he didn’t see her at first. The room was suddenly quiet. The only sound was the gurgle of Billy choking on his stew. Several of the men in the smoky room stared with their mouths hanging open. Others leered openly as Grace descended the staircase without an outward sign that she was causing a commotion. A low murmur began to build, replacing the momentary silence.

  Grace smiled at him as she walked slowly toward his table, her hips swaying underneath the clinging red material, wisps of still-drying hair framing her face and falling in a black waterfall down her back. Wide sleeves that came to a point over her hands danced with every step she took.

  The damn dress was cut so low he could see the rounded globes of her breasts, and it fit so tight that as she calmly took her seat he could see the nub of her nipples pressing against the fabric. A delicate gold chain encircled her neck, and a teardrop-shaped ruby rested between her breasts.

  “What in the name of the devil do you think you’re wearing?” His voice was hoarse and gravelly, and so low it wouldn’t travel beyond their table. He didn’t know whether he should be furious with her or lean back and enjoy the view. Then he remembered that she was Colonel Cavanaugh’s daughter, and his responsibility. And she was sitting in a room full of leering men.

  “What’s the matter, Becket?” Grace asked sweetly, leaning forward to take a piece of corn bread and giving him a generous view. “Don’t you like it? You certainly didn’t care for the way I dressed before.” She met his hard glare with a fire and determination that told him she had not easily dismissed his earlier comment. “I thought you might find this more appropriate for the evening.”

  The newly arrived family rushed past them, the man herding his family up the stairs, the woman doing her best to shield her daughters’ eyes.

  Dillon rose to his feet slowly, and whipped his buckskin jacket off the back of his chair. “Put this on, Grace,” he said in a low voice, holding the jacket out to her.

  “No, thank you.” Grace looked up at him and smiled, and Dillon had a clear view down the front of her dress. From what he could see—which was damn near everything—her perfection didn’t include only her face. Her breasts were white, and the skin looked so soft he had to clench his fists around the jacket to keep from reaching out and touching them, just to see if they felt as silky as they looked.

  Dillon leaned close to her, bending forward and stopping when his face was so near to hers he could feel her breath on his lips. He looked down, taking in every inch of skin that was exposed by the low-cut gown, letting his eyes rest on those hard nipples. If she was going to show, he was damn well going to look.

  “Put it on, Grace, or I’ll put it on for you,” he threatened. “Don’t think I won’t.”

  “I’ll make a scene,” Grace whispered.

  Dillon raised his eyes to meet hers again. “You’ll make a scene? Honey, this isn’t New Orleans, or England, or wherever the hell you’ve been spending the past eleven years. This is Texas. If I were to shoot you, that might be considered making a scene. If I were to toss you up on this table and give you exactly what you’re asking for by wearing that dress, I reckon that might be called making a scene. But if I yank you up by the hair, and you take to yellin’ and screamin’ while I dress you in front of these people…hell, honey, that ain’t a scene. That’s exactly what you deserve, and ain’t nobody gonna lift a hand to stop me.”

  He saw it, sensed it really, the moment she lost her nerve. It had come when he’d threatened to toss her up on the table. Maybe she thought he’d really do that. Maybe she believed him to be capable of anything.

  The only outward sign of her defeat was a slight softening of her eyes. And she licked her lips as if they’d suddenly gone dry. Damn, but he wished she wouldn’t do that.

  “Now that you mention it,” Grace said as she rose languidly to her feet, “I am a bit chilly.” She offered an arm to Dillon, and he slipped the soft buckskin over her red silk. He crossed behind her and repeated the gesture, then freed her hair from under the collar—hair as black as a moonless night on the trail, and shiny as moonlight on the water.

  Dillon returned to his own seat as Grace turned up the sleeves of his jacket and began to eat her stew, taking dainty bites. He still had a generous view of her neck and upper chest through the vee in his jacket, but her breasts were covered, and it seemed that the other men in the room had turned their attention to other matters.

  Billy was shaking his head and staring into his nearly empty bowl.

  Dillon could hardly eat as he watched Grace. The prospect of finding her a husband was looking dimmer and dimmer. At first glance she was perfect, but if she pulled a stunt like this in Plummerton he’d never be able to marry her off. And half the time when she opened her mouth she was complaining. If only he could show her off from a distance, or drug her. Just a little bit. Just enough so that she would sit there quietly for a while. After she was married, well, it would be too late for her poor husband to bring her back.

  With a shake of her head, Grace looked him full in the face. “Well, you look pleased with yourself, Becket. If I didn’t know better I’d think you were on the verge of a smile.”

  Dillon didn’t answer her, but met her gaze as she stared at him, unflinching, with those startling bluebonnet eyes.

  “I’m not wearing this jacket because you told me to, Becket,” Grace said in a low, warning voice. “I’m wearing it because I felt a chill in the room.”

  She looked like a defiant child, all bundled up in a coat that was far too large for her, her eyes wide and bright as she challenged him.

  “I didn’t intend to insult you,” Dillon said in a low voice, doing his best to apologize.

  Grace leaned forward, and the jacket gaped open. This time Dillon didn’t mind, because no one could see but him. “You said I dressed like a high-priced whore,” she hissed.

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Did he really say that?” Billy asked, and Grace turned to the gray-haired man.

  “Yes, he most certainly did.”

  Billy looked most relieved, now that he had an explanation for Grace’s strange behavior.

  “You’ve twisted my words around, Grace. That’s not exactly what I—”

  Grace ignored him and kept her attention on Billy, who watched her with great sympathy on his face. “Does the man think I have no feelings? Perhaps my reaction was a bit extreme, but I was very upset.”

  Billy patted Grace’s slender hand with his own hairy paw. “You poor little thing. Are you feelin’ all right now? Dillon probably didn’t mean nothin’ by what he said. He just ain’t got no manners at all.”

  Dillon sat back and watched as his best friend and his new burden discussed his lack o
f breeding and his poor manners as if he weren’t even in the room. Grace was loving it. Billy was coddling her, comforting her…his old ranch hand relishing his new role as Grace’s friend and protector.

  Dillon pretended to ignore their conversation, cleaning the dirt out from under his fingernails and leaning back casually in his unsteady chair.

  When Grace excused herself and asked to be escorted to her room, Billy jumped to his feet and offered to accompany her. He got no argument from Dillon. Billy might be years past his prime, but he was strong, and big enough to make any man think twice about getting in his way. Grace would be safe with Billy at her side.

  Grace rushed down the stairs, her feet barely touching one step before they were flying to the next. Billy was right behind her, his tread much heavier on the steps than her own. Again he asked her what was wrong.

  She saw Becket across the room, seated at a table with four other men. Glasses of whiskey sat on the round table, as well as discarded playing cards and a pile of silver and gold. They were all smoking foul-smelling cigars, even Becket. He was so intent on the cards in his hand that he didn’t even see her cross the room.

  “Becket?” she whispered, clutching his buckskin jacket to her body with suddenly cold hands. “Dillon?”

  He glanced over his shoulder, nothing but irritation in his eyes. “What do you want, Grace?”

  “May I speak to you…privately?” She didn’t want to air her fears in front of all these men. They were looking at her boldly, probably remembering what she wore beneath the buckskin jacket.

  Becket waved a dismissive hand in the air. “We just got started. Say what you have to say, honey. I’m kinda busy right now.”

  Grace leaned forward, holding the buckskin close to her chest so that it didn’t gape open. “There’s just one room. With four beds. And there are already people in those beds. The lady said I was to…to sleep in one of them. With those other women.”

  Becket looked over his shoulder to her. “There are two rooms. One for men. One for women. I’m sorry if it makes you uncomfortable, but I can’t do anything about it.” He turned away from her, dismissing her fears. Dismissing her.

  Uncomfortable? She wasn’t uncomfortable; she was terrified. She couldn’t possibly climb into bed with a stranger. A filthy bed, at that. And she had seen several large bugs scuttling across the floor as she’d surveyed the room.

  “Where are you going to sleep?” she whispered. “In the other room upstairs?”

  Becket turned back to her, his already tested patience evidently gone. “Why? Are you planning on joining me?” He didn’t even bother to lower his voice, and every man at the table was listening raptly.

  She could feel the blood drain from her face, and she drew away from him sharply. “I can’t sleep in that room, Becket.”

  He returned his attention to his cards. “Just close your eyes and snuggle up to one of those women the way you snuggled up to me last night.”

  One man guffawed, but a glare from Billy cut the man’s hilarity short.

  “I did no such thing,” Grace said indignantly. “I’d sooner snuggle up with a snake.”

  Becket nonchalantly pitched a coin into the center of the table. “That can be arranged, Grace.”

  She reached over Becket’s shoulder and snatched the cards from his hand. With a snap of her wrist she sent his cards sailing through the air. He turned to her as she grabbed up the closest glass of whiskey and poured it over his head. The golden liquid trickled over his chestnut hair, down his harshly rigid face, down his neck, and under his collar. He even managed to catch a drop or two with his tongue.

  “Do I have your attention now?” Grace seethed.

  “I’d say that you do,” Becket answered in a deceptively calm voice.

  “I can’t possibly sleep in that room. It’s filthy and bug infested, and I will not sleep with a stranger.” She tried to keep the emotion from her voice, but she couldn’t keep that tiny tremble from creeping into her last words. She only hoped that Dillon Becket had not noticed.

  “What do you suggest?” Becket stood and faced her, clenching his hands at his sides. Grace stared at his hard face, the harsh angles, the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes. She could see every hair of the stubbly beard that covered his cheeks. There was heat radiating off of his body that wrapped around her like a living thing.

  She should have been terrified.

  “I don’t know.” Her voice was much calmer now.

  Billy leaned forward. He had been close behind her the whole time, and he looked at Becket with censure. “I can rig her up a bed in the carriage. It’ll be cramped, but she won’t have to share it with nobody, and it’s cleaner than this place.”

  Becket finally swiped a hand across his face, removing the last signs of the whiskey from his shadowed cheeks. “It won’t be safe,” he said sharply.

  Grace opened her mouth to protest, but Billy cut her off. “I’ll keep watch,” he promised.

  Becket raised disbelieving eyebrows. “All night?”

  “I’m an old man. I don’t sleep none too well, anyway,” Billy said gruffly. He ignored Becket and laid a hand on her shoulder. “You wait right here while I see to your trunk, and then we’ll head on out to the carriage. Does that sound all right to you, Miss Grace?”

  She nodded, never taking her eyes from Becket’s face. “If you don’t mind.” Her fear was slowly vanishing, and she felt a rising disappointment that Becket hadn’t taken her worry more seriously. Somehow she had expected him to look after her. But he didn’t care. He was no better than her father.

  There was just enough moonlight to illuminate Billy well as he sat with his back against the carriage wheel, a rifle in his lap as he kept a close watch over Grace. Dillon approached with a purposely lazy gait, his hands in his pockets.

  He should have climbed the stairs and gotten a decent night’s sleep without wasting another moment of thought on Grace Cavanaugh…but that wasn’t going to happen.

  “How’s it going?” he whispered.

  Billy shrugged his broad shoulders, but he wasn’t relaxed as he usually was. “It’s been quiet. Miss Grace fell asleep right away, and ain’t nobody been out here.” Billy made it clear by the tone of his voice that he was still peeved with his employer. “How’d you do, boss?”

  “Pretty good,” Dillon whispered as he glanced into the carriage window. “I won fifty bucks.”

  Billy didn’t say a word, but Dillon heard a faint harumph under the big man’s breath. He looked down at a silver head. “Every little bit helps.”

  He returned his gaze to the woman in the carriage. She was curled up on the narrow seat, her face half covered as she buried her nose into the buckskin jacket she still wore over her tantalizing red dress. A bit of moonlight lit her face, and she looked amazingly peaceful for a woman who had, a few hours earlier, tossed his cards about the room and doused him with his own whiskey. He shook his head. He’d always heard that looks could be deceiving, and Grace was certainly proving the point. She looked like an angel, sleeping so peacefully, but he knew she was not.

  “She is right purty, ain’t she?” Billy asked from directly behind Dillon. Dillon started, just a little. He hadn’t even heard the big man rise to his feet.

  “No,” Dillon said testily. “She isn’t right purty. She’s beautiful. The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

  Billy smiled, that generous smile that seemed to come so easily to him. “You make that sound like a bad thing, boss.”

  “She’s gonna be a passel of trouble, Billy.” Dillon took another glance at the sleeping angel who was no angel, then turned away and lowered himself to the ground. He leaned the back of his head against the carriage door. “Like tonight. Why the hell couldn’t she just…”

  Billy’s censuring expression and a tsk that was loud in the still night stopped Dillon’s question.

  “What?” he snapped.

  Billy sat beside Dillon and spoke in a low voice. “I always th
ought you were purty smart, but I’m beginnin’ to have my doubts, boss.”

  Dillon sighed and waited for Billy to continue. The old man wouldn’t need any prompting to explain his less than flattering observation; that was certain.

  “Didn’t you think she acted kinda strange when that fella on the train put his hand on her knee?” Billy turned a questioning face to Dillon. “And I tell you, when I took her hand to help her into the carriage this afternoon, why, her whole body stiffened up. I could feel it, in her hand and her arm, and I could even see the cords in her neck tense up.”

  “She’s a very proper lady, Billy,” Dillon said in a wry voice. That was one of the problems. A very proper lady like Grace Cavanaugh didn’t belong in Texas, in a common trailside hotel, or on a ranch like the Double B.

  Billy was shaking his head thoughtfully. “I reckon I know that. It’s more than that, though.”

  “So what are you tryin’ to say, Billy?”

  Billy leaned closer and lowered his voice even more, until it was a hoarse whisper. “I’m thinkin’ she don’t like to be touched.”

  Dillon snorted. “Didn’t you see her this morning? She was all over me, and her hand was right on my—”

  “I know,” Billy interrupted. “But she was sleepin’, so it don’t count.”

  Dillon lifted his head and turned to the hand who had worked for his father for years, and was now his most trusted employee. “You’re not getting any ideas about Grace, are you, Billy? She’s young enough to be your own daughter!”

  Billy’s voice was low, but there was a menacing quality in the tone that was usually so nonthreatening. “Dang right. Elizabeth would be about her age, if she’d lived. Don’t be thinkin’ I’m lookin’ at Miss Grace in an improper way, boss. She needs a friend, that’s all, someone to look after her.”

  Billy had two grown sons who’d gone their own way years earlier, but his only daughter, Elizabeth, had died shortly after her birth. Counting back, Dillon realized that Elizabeth would have been just Grace’s age.