by Beth Ciotta
“I’m warning you, mister!”
“Warn away.”
She elbowed him in the gut.
A second later she kicked him in the shin.
“You’re making it difficult for me to behave in a valiant fashion here, kid.”
She slapped at his hands. “Don’t make me hurt you.”
He laughed for the first time in over a week.
Two feet from the doors, she twisted in his arms, reared back and socked him.
“Son of a—” He bit off the curse and worked his offended jaw. “What’d you do that for?”
“I’m sorry. But I did warn you.”
“So you did. Now I’m warning you. Stop fussing. We’re leaving.”
“But—”
“I warned you.” Grinning, he hauled her up and over his shoulder like a sack of grain and whisked her from the saloon. The rowdy mob cheered.
Humiliated. Paris Garrett had never been so humiliated in all her born days! On second thought, yes, she had. Three or forty times at least. Athens, the most diplomatic of her four brothers, was forever pointing out her penchant for acting without thought, the consequences faithfully disastrous. Her cheeks blazed. Having her hand pressed over the privates of one man and being toted out of the saloon over the shoulder of another certainly qualified as a disaster.
Clear of flying fists and furniture, her thoughts settled back on her sole purpose for entering Hell’s Drinking Hole in the first place. “I didn’t get to play so much as a single note on that dratted piano.”
Mumbling obscenities, the man she’d punched ambled across the street to a moonlit corner where he eased her off of his broad shoulder. Her skin tingled as her body brushed intimately along his admirable six-foot frame.
Her rescuer or captor, whichever, was drop-dead gorgeous, in a rugged, hulking kind of way. A real heart-stopper. Bronze skin. Square jaw. Full lips. And those eyes! Soulful, cocoa-brown orbs. To her horror, she actually sighed in appreciation, unbalanced in more ways than one when her feet touched the ground.
He steadied her when she teetered then narrowed those magnificent eyes and clenched his jaw. Her eldest brother, London, had perfected that same grim expression. Out of habit, Paris braced herself for a lecture.
He cocked his head toward the rollicking saloon. “You risked your safety and reputation because you wanted to play the piano?”
Not exactly a lecture. The disapproving tone, however, was unmistakable. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
His voice was husky and deep—probably a baritone, she mused—and his breath smelled of liquor. According to her youngest brother, Boston, drunks couldn’t be trusted.
Brown Eyes squeezed her shoulders, prompting a response.
She glared in return. “Plan on shaking an explanation out of me?”
He uncurled his fingers and crossed his arms over his chest in a casual manner. “Better?”
“Much.” She struggled to match his nonchalance. He rattled her, and not because he’d been drinking. Unlike the two baboons they’d left inside the saloon, she instinctively knew this man wouldn’t harm her even though he was glowering. This man represented another kind of danger. He made her heart flutter. She shook her head, disgusted at the thought. Attracted to somebody solely based on good looks. She felt as shallow as her brother Rome.
“You’re courting trouble, kid, looking at a man like that.”
“Like what?” Then she realized she was staring at his mouth and thinking about kissing. Mortified, she retreated a step. “Listen, Mr.—”
“Grant. Joshua Grant. You can call me Josh.” He closed the space between them, trying to intimidate her, no doubt, with his impressive height and brawn. “So?”
She blinked up at him. Lordy, he was handsome. Imagine if he smiled. “So, what?”
“You were going to explain your urgent need to play that piano.”
She didn’t know which was more mesmerizing. His seductive eyes or his to-die-for mouth. Both set her heart to pounding in triple time. “I needed to get a song out of my head.”
“Pardon?”
“A new composition. It’s been plaguing me for three days. I’ve tried singing it, humming it, writing it down. Nothing helps. The only way to get a song out of my head, once it sticks there, is to give it life. I need a piano for that.”
“You’re joshing.”
“I told you, you wouldn’t understand.” Her own brothers didn’t understand. Another musician would, which is why she’d been disappointed in the obtuse pianist inside. Then again, that particular person was an all-thumbed, tin-eared excuse for a musician. She’d been willing to overlook his butchered rendition of Buffalo Gals, but his blatant disregard for her as a fellow artist was unforgivable. All she’d wanted was to play his piano.
She wondered if it was worth a second try. Certainly it was safer than standing here with a man who prompted images of moonlight kisses. “Meeting you has been interesting, Mr. Grant.” She turned on her heel and steered her thoughts toward her latest composition. “Take care.”
He nabbed her shirttail and yanked her back. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, swinging around front to block her path.
“To get my carpetbag.” And to play the piano. She’d spent two days on a train. A train with no piano. It wasn’t just a matter of getting a song out of her head. This was about reconnecting with her soul.
“Where is it?”
“In there.” She jabbed an impatient finger at the saloon. “Now, please step aside so I can go in and get it.”
“Stubborn as a mule and twice as contrary.” Josh swept his hand toward the swinging doors, bidding her free entry. “There are two men in particular who, I’m sure, will be anxious to see you. The Riley brothers. Burgess and Billy. You remember them, don’t you?” He relaxed against a wooden post and folded his arms over his impressive chest. “Feel free to give a shout if you get into another fix.”
She hesitated, Athens’s voice booming in her ears, Think before you act, Squirt. She thought about the formidable Riley brothers.
Josh arched an arrogant eyebrow and pushed off of the splintered post. “Wait here.” Muttering to himself, he strode through the swinging doors.
Shaken, Paris paced the boards, wondering, for the first time in a week, what in the thunder she’d gotten herself into. Heeding her best friend, Emily McBride’s, advice (Emily was ever so resourceful), she’d made it from Heaven to San Francisco and from there to Yuma without a single hitch. She’d successfully eluded four of the most overprotective brothers God had ever seen fit to place on His glorious earth. She should be dancing the jig. Instead she was fighting an indecent attraction to a man she’d just met. Not to mention pangs of guilt knowing she’d caused her brothers several restless nights’ sleep—if they’d slept at all. They’d no doubt searched the better part of California by now. But dang it all, if they hadn’t forbidden her to perform at the Gilded Garrett Theater, or any other San Franciscan or Napa County playhouse, she wouldn’t have scanned the employment pages of a Southwestern newspaper. She wouldn’t have read the advertisement—Opera House seeking entertainers! Hitch your star to the Desert Moon!
It didn’t matter that the Desert Moon was smack dab in the wilds of Arizona Territory. It didn’t matter that she didn’t have a lick of stage experience. She had to start somewhere, and the middle of nowhere seemed like a good place since her brothers were dead set against her becoming a musical actress.
Not that she was all that excited about being a musical actress, but she figured while she was at it she could perfect her songwriting. By performing her original compositions for the patrons of an opera house she’d gain objective opinions of her work. She’d learn which of her songs were worth submitting to the persnickety music publishers. She’d acted foolishly in the past, submitting inferior songs in her haste to become a famous composer. The result: six bald rejections. Although the content of those letters stung, she refused to b
e beaten. Refused to believe, as one publisher had penned, that she belonged behind a stove instead of a piano.
“This bag’s nearly as big as you are, kid.”
Joshua Grant’s resonant voice beckoned her out of her wayward thoughts and back to her problem at hand.
Him.
She sucked in an appreciative breath. Certainly more ladylike than cutting loose with a whistle. While she’d been pacing, he’d fixed his rumpled clothes. He’d tucked in the ends of his white shirt, buttoned his brocade vest and positioned a black Stetson atop his head at a jaunty tilt. She had the insane desire to fling that hat from his head and to tousle the dark, thick locks that curled at his collar.
Mercy! Was she insane? She’d never mussed a man’s hair. She’d never even considered it. Her fingers had always been busy doing other things, namely playing the piano and scribbling down notes and words. This man had a lot of nerve being so attractive. She had plans, and those plans did not include a certain Mr. Joshua Grant!
“Thank you,” she said, grabbing awkwardly at her bag. Only he didn’t let go. Her hand froze on top of his, unwilling or unable to break the unexpected intimacy between them. For the second time this evening her body tingled and a strange queasiness churned in her gut. Her stomach actually flipped when she made the mistake of looking into his eyes.
“What’s your name, kid?”
Paris blinked at him, wondering what in the heck was wrong with her knees. They felt all weak and jelly-like. She couldn’t remember a man ever looking at her as if memorizing every freckle on her face. “Paris.” Merciful heavens, her voice cracked. Not only that, she’d blurted out her real name. Clearing her throat, she hastily amended, “Pauline.”
“Paris Pauline?”
Still pondering on how to best cover her slip, she merely nodded.
“Pauline being your middle name? Or last?”
Neither, she wanted to say. It was supposed to be her first. Getty to be the last. Emily had insisted that Paris adopt a stage name. An alias. A precautionary measure, she’d explained. Lord knew Emily understood the value of an alter ego. So when her friend had dubbed her Pauline Getty, explaining it would be easy to remember as it was close to her real name, Paris hadn’t argued. It had been easy to remember. Until now. “Middle,” she answered, because what kind of a name was Paris Pauline? “Getty’s the last.”
“Paris Pauline Getty. Interesting name for an interesting girl. What brings you to Yuma?”
“Just passing through on my way to … Florence,” she lied. At least she had sense enough to keep her destination a secret. “Ever been there?” Blast. Her voice didn’t just crack, it squeaked! She stepped back, taking her hand and senses with her.
“A few times.” He glanced away for a moment, cleared his throat, and then focused back on her. “What’s in Florence? Friends? Family?”
“My future. Not that it’s any of your business.”
His lips curved though she wouldn’t exactly call it a smile. “Traveling with your ma and pa?”
“Traveling alone.”
That comment earned her another frown. Honestly, the man had but two expressions—grim and grimmer. She felt her color rising under his pointed stare. “Could you please direct me to the nearest hotel?”
“The Grand Hotel is two buildings over. I’ll walk you there.”
“No! I mean, no, thank you. You’ve done quite enough already.” She reached again for her carpetbag, taking special care to avoid his touch. She doubted she could withstand the intensity of it a second time. “Thank you for what you did in the saloon. For giving Mr. Riley his due. If there’s anything I can ever do to repay you, well,” she fluttered one hand in the air, “just let me know.”
He held her gaze a breathless minute before tucking her disheveled hair behind her ears. “It’s unlikely our paths will cross again, kid, seeing I’m leaving town come morning. So if you don’t mind, I’ll claim my thanks tonight.”
He swept her up in a lover’s embrace, scattering her thoughts like leaves in the autumn winds. She gasped and dropped her valise. It landed with a heavy thud, not that she noticed much since invisible angels were singing in her ears. When his lips touched down on hers, those divine voices reached an earth-shattering crescendo. She wondered fleetingly if she’d died and gone to heaven.
Shivers, hot and cold combined, tingled down her spine to the tips of her dangling toes as their mouths fused. It didn’t occur to protest, nor did she encourage. She simply allowed the kiss to happen.
A wave of disappointment washed over her when her tingling feet touched the sandy streets of Yuma. Half dazed, she fought to maintain her balance when Joshua Grant, consummate kisser, released her from the strength of his enfolding arms. Even though he owed her an apology, she didn’t want one. Nor was she compelled to slap his face, as well she should. Amazingly, she wanted another kiss. He’d teased her with a taste of something delicious, and suddenly she was starving. Like sugar cookies—who could have just one?
Emily’s voice rang in her ears—Life experience inspires passionate prose—lending Paris inspiration, and an excuse to behave recklessly. Isn’t that why she’d traveled this far? To experience life? To improve her lyrics? To achieve success? It’s not like she did this sort of thing all the time. She’d never done this sort of thing. And it’s not as if she’d ever see this man again. She swallowed hard, willing her voice not to quiver with the nervous excitement trembling just below her surface. “I want to make sure that my debt is paid in full, Mr. Grant.” Decorum be hanged, she grabbed the lapels of his vest and yanked down.
“Josh,” he choked out.
Relishing the shocked look in his eyes, she boldly planted her lips on his and commenced kissing him for all she was worth. She had limited experience, but she was a quick learner and more than capable of substituting enthusiasm for technique. His lips tasted of sinful liquor and blessed sweetness. She couldn’t get enough. Kissing this man was a heck of a lot more satisfying than devouring a tin full of cookies.
Her addictive dessert eased back at the sound of an approaching horse. Expressionless, he held Paris steady as she blinked out of a sensual stupor.
The rider cleared his throat, tipped his hat. “Evenin’, ma’am. Sheriff Grant.”
“Evenin’, Jenkins.” Josh waited until the man rode past then clapped a hand over the back of his neck and rubbed.
Paris stared at the victim of her passionate assault, warning drums beating in her ears. A sheriff? She couldn’t afford to mix with the law! What if he knew Rome and Boston? Being Wells Fargo detectives, her brothers interacted with various lawmen across several borders. If Josh figured out that she was the sister of the famous Garrett brothers, he’d turn her in. Professional courtesy and all that. Blast! Why hadn’t she experienced life with a blacksmith? Or a gambler? Any man but a lawman!
Heart pounding, she scooped up her carpetbag and fled toward the Grand Hotel. Her gaze flicked to the quarter moon swinging high in the star-filled sky. A child’s promise echoed in her ears. Determination hastened her steps as Paris fought to erase Joshua Grant and his to-die-for kisses from her seemingly lost mind.
If the morning was any indication, Josh decided he’d rather tangle with a bear for squatter’s rights of a dark cave than continue with this day. He was operating on four hours of sleep, a pot of coffee, and a teaspoon of Dr. Klein’s Miracle Bitters.
He rode through the heart of Yuma, struggling not to wince as the townsfolk shouted their fond and reluctant farewells. Men, women, and children alike made it clear that he would be missed. He tipped his hat and nodded in return, silently acknowledging their kindness. If he spoke, if he even smiled, he was certain his whole damn head would fall off.
He’d been a fool to drink so much. An even bigger fool because he’d known he was drunk when he’d returned to the saloon for further swilling. Poor judgment begets a mighty high price. Cursing his stupidity, he spurred Buckshot into a steady trot, trying his best to ignore the shooting
pain behind his eyeballs. The sooner he got out of town, the sooner he’d have some peace and quiet. Dead sure medicine for a rotgut headache.
Fingers skidded into his path waving a Winchester and spouting some nonsense about a woman hooligan. “No tellin’ what she’s capable of, Sheriff Grant,” he ranted at the top of his lungs. “Marshal Fedderman wants ya’ over at the jailhouse lickety-split!”
Josh glowered down at the bothersome man. “What’s this got to do with me? I’m not the law around here anymore.”
“Marshal Fedderman says you should come right away!”
His head pounded. “Stop shouting, dammit. I’m not deaf.”
“I ain’t shoutin’!” Fingers shouted.
“Move the hell out of my way, piano man, or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”
Fingers kicked at a loose stone, sulking away like a scolded dog.
“Musicians,” Josh grumbled. “Haven’t met a sane one yet.” A specific black-haired, brown-eyed hellion sprang to mind. He shifted in his saddle. Woman hooligan? It couldn’t be. But the nagging twinge in his neck told him different.
Paris.
That girl was trouble with a capital T. His hangover was partly her fault, not to mention his restless night’s sleep. He shouldn’t give a gopher’s ass about her state-of-being.
“Damn.” Against his better judgment, he reined Buckshot toward the jailhouse.
“Fingers said you wanted to see me,” he growled, his mood less than amiable when he dragged through the front door.
“Good morning to you, too.”
“Thought we said our goodbyes yesterday, Hank.”
The marshal looked up from the stack of yellowed wanted posters he’d been thumbing through and greeted him with a tobacco-stained grin. “You look like hell, son.”
“Kind of you to point that out.” Josh didn’t take real offense. He’d worked side by side with Hank Fedderman for the last two years. He respected the aging town marshal. The man wasn’t near tough enough, but he was sure as shootin’ honest. Crooked officials were as common as centipedes in the Southwest and a downright hazard to upright civilians and lawmen alike. If Mason had taught Josh anything, it was to recognize and value an honest man.