by Beth Ciotta
Her skin tingled when she remembered the way he’d pleasured her in the hot springs. She shouldn’t have allowed him the intimacy, what’s worse she shouldn’t have enjoyed it. She certainly should not be yearning for an encore. He’d promised her amazing. Never had she wanted anything so badly.
Except for fame.
My little girl is destined for greatness. Her papa’s decree echoed in her ears, and as always, made it harder to breathe. The pressure to make a name for herself, to make her mark on this world, was suffocating at times and yet she’d never once questioned her goal.
Until recently.
Not that she was seriously considering Josh’s bungled proposals. He’d ordered instead of asked, and wasn’t a man supposed to get down on one knee, or give a girl flowers, or something? No, indeed, she was not getting hitched. She’d wanted success a whole lot longer than the thrill of his touch. Still, this morning when he’d started talking about making babies, reminding her of her adorable nephew and niece, she’d wavered. To think that he had that kind of power over her. Nibble my ear, and I’ll say yes to anything. That’s what really had her in a snit.
Frustrated, she’d blurted out that she didn’t understand why intimacy and marriage had to go hand in hand to which he’d responded, “You’re giving me a headache.”
First she was a pain in his neck, now she affected his head.
Maybe that’s why he’d finally fallen silent on the subject. Maybe he’d concluded that, for the sake of his health, the sooner he ditched her, the better.
That thought should have cheered her. Instead, panic jittered through her veins. She straightened in the saddle and tried to distract herself with Florence’s unique charm. The town’s streets were shaded on either side by rows of cottonwoods. At their roots, along the sidewalks, flowed babbling streams, suggesting there was a river nearby. She noted a schoolhouse, a church, two hotels, various restaurants and numerous saloons, and wondered suddenly how Chance would compare in size.
Chance.
The gravity of her situation weighed mightily on her already heavy heart. She’d lied to Josh, naming Florence as her final destination. Any minute now he’d ask her where he should drop her specifically. Then what? She chewed her bottom lip and braided the top portion of Buckshot’s mane.
Josh leaned forward, overwhelming her with the masculine heat of his big body. “Nervous?”
Warm breath teased her earlobe and her eyes nearly rolled back in her head. “What makes you think that?”
He stopped dead center of the bustling street, covered her nimble fingers with his callused palm, and gave them a calming squeeze. “What’s the name of M.B.’s gurdy?”
Her heart thundered in her ears, the warmth and strength of his grip causing her stomach to flutter with a thousand butterflies. She hated that he could make her world tilt with a simple touch. She whipped around, intending to blast him for complicating her life, and made the mistake of looking into those seductive eyes. Her heart skipped and her thoughts evaporated. She cupped his sinfully attractive face and kissed him full on the mouth.
He sat stock still, no doubt shocked by her boldness, allowing her a brief moment of exquisite control. She caught his bottom lip between her teeth, suckled ever so gently, and then, just as he’d done to her last night, teased open his mouth with her tongue. He groaned, deepening the kiss, and causing a blessed heat to flicker in her belly. Ignited, she bested his passion, determined to make a lasting impression. This was, after all, goodbye.
A wolf whistle pierced the air, followed by applause. Josh broke away from her with a muttered curse.
They’d attracted a crowd.
Uh oh. She hurriedly slid from the saddle, her knees buckling when her feet hit the ground. Was she ever going to master riding? Luckily, Josh caught her upper arm, holding her steady.
“What are you doing?” he demanded in a raspy voice.
“You can leave me here,” she answered, a bit breathless.
“The hell I can.”
She backed away on wobbly legs, excusing herself when she bumped into a group of gawking, weathered cowboys. They smiled and winked. Blushing, she looked back to Josh. He scowled at the men, causing them to quickly disperse.
“I’ll just pick up my carpetbag,” she rambled, edging near the stage depot. “After that I’ll meet with my employer, then get settled somewhere, and then, well … I don’t want to hold you up and well, this is Florence and you did say once here you’d go your way and I’d go mine. If I could just have my sheet music—”
“Not so fast.” He dismounted, roped Buckshot to a hitching rail then bore down on Paris, dark eyes flashing.
“About that kiss … ” She stepped onto the raised boards. “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have … I just wanted to say … ”
“Yes?” He backed her against the outer wall of the post office.
“Thank you,” she croaked. “I just wanted to say, thank you. For,” she fluttered a hand, “everything.”
“You’re welcome. What’s the name of M.B’s gurdy?”
She blinked up at him, cheeks blazing. Why was he being so persistent? Didn’t he understand this was it? The end? Goodbye? Why was he making it so difficult? “Honestly, I don’t want to bother you—”
“I’m already bothered.” He braced his arms on either side of her and dropped his face close to hers. “What’s the name of the opera house?”
She placed her palms against his chest and shoved. He didn’t budge and she didn’t remove her hand, marveling how their hearts pounded in tandem. “People are staring,” she whispered, fidgeting under his intense regard. “Men are staring. They’re going to get the wrong idea.”
“You should have thought of that before you kissed me in the middle of the street. What’s the name of that opera house?”
“I’m not going to the opera house just now.” If she didn’t escape, and fast, she was going to snap. She wanted nothing more than to come clean—as he’d pointed out, she wasn’t very good at lying—but if she told him the truth, he’d no doubt insist on escorting her to Chance. As they couldn’t seem to keep their hands off of each other, and as he seemed to think that constituted a walk down the aisle, it didn’t strike her as a smart idea. “As I was saying, I’ll wait here for my bag—”
“Then you’ll be waiting all night.”
“Excuse me?”
“The next stage won’t arrive until tomorrow.”
“Oh.” She hadn’t thought of that. Defeated, she let out a weary sigh.
“You’re exhausted and you look like you caught too much sun.” With an enigmatic look, he pushed off of the wall and tenderly grasped her elbow. “Let’s get you settled in a hotel.”
She didn’t argue. She couldn’t leave for Chance until her bag arrived, and after a week on the trail, the prospect of a clean, soft bed was too tempting to pass up. Every muscle in her body ached, including her heart. That goodbye kiss had been a stupid mistake. Instead of satisfying a fierce yearning, it only intensified her misery. She wanted more, and she couldn’t have more because she couldn’t have Josh. She was headed for the Desert Moon and he was headed … she didn’t know where he was headed. For someone so intent on knowing her life, he’d been suspiciously quiet about his own. Curious, she wondered aloud, “Why did you turn in your badge?”
“My uncle died and left me his business, which entailed shucking my old life for a new one.”
His curt tone deterred her from probing too deeply. “I’m sorry about your uncle,” she said, heart thumping. She’d yet to recover from Mr. Wiggins’s passing and now this. She didn’t want to pursue the sad subject, but wanted to lend her support. “Were you close?”
“He was like a father to me.”
“What about your real father?”
“He died when I was a boy.”
She cringed at the bitterness in his voice, and though she yearned to comfort him with a hug, she refrained. As he’d pointed out, she’d already made a public
spectacle of herself. Instead, she patted his hand. “I miss my papa, too.”
Before he could comment, two scrawny men clad in dusty overalls staggered out of a saloon, directly into her path. The bowlegged man openly leered. The bearded man smoothed his filthy hands over his greasy hair and belched. “Hey, pretty lady. My name’s Harley Fox. What’s yours?”
Josh glared at the man. “Get lost, Harley.” He cocked a thumb at his friend. “You, too.”
The puny drunks took one look at Josh’s imposing stance and stumbled over each other hitting the street.
Paris frowned up at her self-appointed protector. “You didn’t have to be rude.”
“Shooting them would have been rude.” Stone-faced, he nabbed her hand and hastened her down the walk.
Florence offered visitors two hotels, the Elliott House, and the less imaginatively named Florence. Business boomed for both of the hospitable establishments. Paris had visions of sleeping in a stable when the Florence informed them there was no room at the inn. She feared they’d fare no better at the equally bustling Elliott, so she was relieved when Josh sauntered toward her brandishing a key. Maybe once she was settled in her room he’d finally leave her alone. A bubble of hysteria rose in her throat, her heart heavy at the thought of never seeing him again, even though she knew it was for the best. Breathing deep, she assured herself that she was simply wrung out from the week’s events. Once Joshua Grant was out of the picture, her life would go back to normal. Her dream, her one true focus.
“Room number nine,” he said, squiring her up the stairs and down the hall.
Freedom, she thought. Relief. Sanity. She nabbed the key out of his hand. “Thank you for everything. Good luck with … whatever.” She waved a sloppy farewell over her shoulder as she limped ahead, wincing with each aching step. She didn’t look back. The prospect of saying goodbye for good was unexpectedly devastating.
Heart in her throat, she stopped at the room marked number nine and stuck the key in the lock. It jammed. She wiggled and shimmied the key, but to no avail. “Darn.” She dropped her forehead to the door, fought the overwhelming urge to cry … and lost.
His hand closed over hers. A second later, the door swung open and he swept her up in his powerful arms. The same arms that had comforted her after Mr. Wiggins’s death. The arms that had kept her safe when Buckshot reared. Without a word, he carried her across the threshold and gently laid her on the plump bed.
She blinked up at him through a bleary haze of tears. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” She hiccupped and sniffled, dragging her sleeve across her running nose. “I don’t usually cry this much. Honest.”
“You’ve had one hell of a week.” He placed his hand on her cheek. “You’re wrung out and overheated.”
“I’m fine.”
He raised an unconvinced brow, tugged off her boots and covered her with a quilt.
His tender actions only made her cry harder.
“I know you’re anxious to see M.B.,” he said, “but it can wait until tomorrow. You’ll feel better after a sound night’s sleep.”
She hiccupped and nodded. It would have to wait. M.B. was in Chance. Her anxiety mounted at the thought of her stage debut. She swiped at a new flood of tears, feeling like a blubbering idiot. “You should probably go,” she croaked. “We shouldn’t be in a hotel room alone. It’s inappropriate.”
“So was that public display.”
“I didn’t want you to forget me.”
“Trust me, sweetheart. That’s impossible.” He braced his hands on either side of her head and leaned down. His gaze burned into hers, searching, prying, making her feel exposed and vulnerable. “What exactly is your dream?”
Her heart drummed as she grappled for a sane thought. “To fulfill my papa’s dream.”
He didn’t flinch at her cryptic answer, nor did he relent. “Is he the one who told you you’re destined to become a musical actress?”
She swallowed hard, remembering a similar conversation with her brothers. She’d bared her heart and they’d ripped off her head. Mostly, they’d cursed papa. She wasn’t up to a repeat performance. She merely nodded.
“Shouldn’t passion play into one’s destiny?”
Why was he being so dense? “I thought we’d settled this. I can’t marry you, Josh.”
He smoothed her hair from her tear-streaked face and smiled. “I’m talking about your songwriting.”
“Oh.” Embarrassed, she tried to focus on his words rather than his tempting mouth. “What makes you think I don’t long to sing and dance in front of a sold-out house?”
He brushed his lips across hers, just enough to beckon the seductive groan of a cello. “I’m beginning to understand how you tick.”
Heaven’s citizens congregated in her mind to wag judgmental fingers. I can’t believe you invited Goofy Garrett. If only you’d praised God instead of Boston’s blueberry pancakes. Incorrigible snoop. Musical freak. Her voice trembled. “No one understands how I tick.”
“Maybe I’m special.”
“I don’t want you to be special.” But even as she said it she knew it was too late. A haunting melody took root. Lyrics budded.
A love song.
“This can’t be happening.” She averted her gaze in an effort to harden her heart. “You have to go. It’s for the best. Honest. You don’t want me. I’m a danger to your health.”
After a long moment, he straightened and headed for the door. “I could always track down your brothers.”
Panicked, she shot upright. “Please don’t.”
“Why not?”
“They’d kill me.”
What do you mean it burned down?” Blood pumping, Josh had swung by the front desk to ask the innkeeper the whereabouts of the nearest bible-thumper. In the next breath, he’d asked about M.B.
First things first.
By the time he was done with the gurdy owner, Paris wouldn’t have a job. He refused to feel guilty. Song-writing was one thing. Singing in a gambling hall for the benefit of gun-wielding drunks was just plain begging for trouble. He understood her motivation. How could he fault her for living another man’s dream when he was doing the very same thing? Difference was he had a strong sense of self. He knew his purpose in life. Whether he was riding with the Rangers or dealing Faro at the Desert Moon, he’d keep the peace. He was a lawman same as Paris was a songwriter. Only she didn’t have faith in her talent, didn’t know her own heart. He blamed her damn brothers.
They’ll kill me.
Bastards.
“I mean there was a fire,” Mr. Loss said, jolting him out of his mental rant. “A big one. Wasn’t owned by an M.B., but it did feature the best in entertainment.” He glanced over Josh’s shoulder. “Ain’t that so, Sheriff?”
Well, hell. Josh turned, knocking elbows with the impeccably dressed man who’d claimed the innkeeper’s attention. Sporting a black frock coat and matching plainsman hat, Seth Wright had two inches on his own six feet. The blond-haired, green-eyed-lawman possessed an eye-for-an-eye reputation, a flair for fashion, and a drier-than-dirt sense of humor. Twice he and Josh had vied for the same dove. Twice Seth had won. According to the sporting ladies of the greater Southwest, Seth Wright was a looker and a lover of the first water. Not that he gave a gopher’s ass. “Seth.”
“Josh.” Sporting a lopsided grin, the lawman thrust out his big hand in greeting. “What are you doing back here?”
“Business of sorts.” He gripped his friend’s hand in a warm shake.
“Legal matters,” Seth ventured. “Don’t tell me Niles is contesting the will?”
As far as he knew, his cousin had yet to learn the terms. Seth had tracked down the professional cardsharp at a gambling house in Phoenix to inform him of Mason’s death. Niles acknowledged the wire but skipped the funeral and the reading of the will. Something about a lucky streak. “You mean he finally showed?”
“The day after you left.” Seth snorted in disgust. “Man’s slimier tha
n the underside of riverbed rock.”
He quirked a knowing eyebrow. “No need to be diplomatic on my account.”
“In that case, your cousin’s a snake. A cocky bastard with the morals of a pig. I take that back. Pigs have more morals.” He shook his head. “How in the hell did the apple fall so far from the tree?”
Josh had an idea, but no proof. “Been asking myself that question for years.” Taken in by Mason after his pa died, he’d had the displeasure of bunking with his cousin for a year. At twelve years old, he’d been convinced he was sleeping with the devil. How else could you describe a boy whose favorite pastimes included tying lit firecrackers to a steer’s tail and picking off cats with his slingshot?
Two years Josh’s senior, Niles had been hell-on-wheels since the day he’d learned to walk and had been rolling over his mother ever since. Short on patience and lacking maternal skills, Celia Burke gave up early on, letting her son run wild. Mason wasn’t home enough to be a steady influence, but when he was around he did his best to drum morals into his only son. Futile as far as Josh was concerned since the boy was plain and simple a bad seed. He ran away a year later, much to Josh and Celia’s relief. Mason tracked him down, but he didn’t bring him back. Though he never outright said, Josh knew Mason had sadly concluded Niles a lost cause. “So he met with the lawyer?”
“Walked in smiling … ”
“Walked out cussing a blue streak.”
“Pretty much.” Seth flattened his mouth. “He’s up to no good, Josh.”
Niles and trouble went hand in hand. Nothing new there. However, the concern in his friend’s eyes piqued his interest. “Know that for a fact?”