Except he would never agree. She didn’t know him that well, but deep in her soul she knew. It wasn’t in the man.
She had to try, anyway. She poured coffee into a tin cup, buttered some of the newly baked biscuits and added honey.
She hesitated. Was this only an excuse to see him? To test whether she could forget about last night? That it had been a temporary—monumental—lapse in judgement? She just knew she wanted to see him. Had to see him.
He was awake when she unlocked his door, but she knew he would be, since Archie had been in there.
He was halfway sitting, his upper body resting against the iron framework of the bed. He wore a shirt, but it was unbuttoned and open. And now his right wrist was encircled by iron. The other end was locked around the iron bedpost. The chain itself was about three feet long, which gave him some movement.
His hawklike eyes were inscrutable as she studied him. The sheet only partially covered his lower half. She noticed instantly that Archie had provided him with a clean pair of long johns—probably Mac’s. The right leg of the underwear was partially cut off to provide access to the wound.
The long johns were tight on him. He was heavier than Mac, and taller, and they sculpted his body, making the mound at the apex of his thighs even more obvious. She averted her eyes but not before a burning ache took hold in her stomach.
Lord help her, but he was pure, powerful masculinity, and the cuff around his wrist only served to emphasize rather than diminish it.
“Ah, I hoped you would come,” he said with a slight—very slight—smile.
Archie was right. He was better.
She handed the cup of coffee to him and watched as he sipped it. Then she rested the plate on his lap, only too aware that the mound underneath the sheet was bigger than when she came in.
He followed her gaze. “I need help again,” he said. He pulled on the chain. “I’m somewhat inconvenienced.”
“You seem pretty good at managing things,” she said. “There’s plenty of room on the plate for that coffee.”
“But if I spill it…?”
Damn him. She could envision the hot coffee spilling over his…
She snatched the plate back. “I’ll just hold it until you finish the coffee, then you can eat.”
“I think I would prefer it the other way around.”
He was deliberately aggravating her. She was ready to take both coffee and biscuits away when his expression softened, revealing that damn dimple. “I’ve been smelling those biscuits all morning.”
Sam gave him the plate and held the coffee. She watched as he used his free hand to grab a biscuit. He took a bite, then looked up. “You made these?”
She nodded.
“I’m impressed.”
He took another bite of biscuit and chewed slowly. Maybe too slowly. Even that small act was…titillating.
She pulled the chair closer to him and put the coffee on it. He could darn well help himself.
“Don’t go,” he said.
“I have work to do.”
“I suppose I should apologize to you for yesterday.”
“But you won’t.”
“No. I would be lying. You felt too good.”
“It must have hurt you. Or you’re stronger than you pretend…” She allowed the word to dangle. “Maybe inspired is a better word.”
“Why don’t I believe that?” she replied. She’d never bantered with a man before, certainly not when there was such a sensual overtone. She didn’t know the rules.
His gaze caught hers. “It’s true.”
“I don’t like marshals,” she replied sharply. She had to do something before he lured her back into the sensual web again. Do something. Say something. Anything to break the spell.
“I figured that out.”
“I tried to kill you,” she said. “I can still do it.”
“Would you?” he said, his voice low and intimate. “You didn’t seem to try that hard the first time.”
“I missed,” she lied.
“I don’t think so. You’re not a killer.”
“Do you want to bet your life on it?”
He took several more sips of coffee, held the cup out for her to take, then took another bite of biscuit. Honey coated his lips. That half smile was there again.
The exquisite heat that had so undermined her yesterday flowed back though her veins. Or maybe it had never left. It had just been lying deep inside, ready to flare even stronger.
“Coffee,” he said, holding out his free left hand. He looked at her with innocence in his face, but she feared he was laughing inside. She was acting like a besotted fool. But then she’d never felt like this before. There was a fever inside her and the cure was just feet away.
When she handed him the cup, she was mortified that her hand shook slightly, and even more mortified at her disappointment that he didn’t grab her again.
“Tell me about Thornton.” His voice was soft, insistent.
“You already know everything,” she retorted. “So you say.”
“I’m willing to listen. I don’t have anything else to do right now.” Despite the mild words, his eyes simmered with challenge.
“He’s nothing like you say.”
“Your Archie said he helped take care of you. Why?”
“Why what?”
“Did he take care of you? He’s not related, is he?”
“He loved my mother,” she said simply.
“And your mother?” he persisted. “Did she love him?”
She nodded. “He feared that his…reputation would put her in danger. Does that sound like a vicious outlaw?” she asked defiantly.
He wanted to say something to her defense of Thornton. She saw it in his face, but he didn’t immediately reply.
“He’s lived here a long time, then?” he asked after a lengthy pause.
“Why does that matter?”
“Because it’s said he’s committed robberies in the past few years. Maybe he had help.”
She tried to hide her disquiet. What if he went after Archie or Reese, as well? “You believe everything that’s said?”
“No, but I look into it.” He paused. “Who looks after you when he’s gone? That old man?”
“That old man can whip the skin off your hide.” She clamped her mouth shut. She was talking too much. Yet she wanted to convince him to go away. That Mac wasn’t the heartless killer he was after.
“And,” she added, “I don’t need anyone to look after me. I take care of myself. Have for a long time.”
“What about schooling?” He paused, then added in an intimate tone, “Doesn’t it get lonely?”
“My education was probably as good as yours,” she retorted. “I know Latin. And history. Astronomy. I know about herbs and medicine. I probably know as much as you in book learning—more, most likely.”
“The old man knows Latin? Or Thornton?” He sounded skeptical.
“You don’t know anything about him—or about me.” She clenched her teeth together. She had to leave before he wormed out any more. Before she melted under the deep gaze of his eyes and the heat that lurked there. One thing, for sure, she wasn’t going to mention Reese. That would only give the marshal another target.
She looked at the coffee cup. It was empty. She filled it with water. “I have to go,” she said.
“I had a book in my saddlebags,” he said. “I would…be grateful if you’d bring it to me.”
Grateful? Not a word he’d used before. But she imagined he was bored with nothing to do but feel the pain she’d inflicted on him. The reminder stung.
She nodded. Reading would keep him busy while she was gone.
She had left the saddlebags behind the bar. She fetched the book and returned, handing it to him.
“Why do you stay here?” he asked suddenly. “You’re pretty and…”
That pretty word again. He threw it around too easily.
“Isn’t there any place you love?” she asked softly. “Anyone
at all you love?”
His face turned to stone again. The warm room suddenly became frigid. She pulled the chair close to him so she could leave the coffee cup within reach. Then she added a pitcher of fresh water.
He said nothing, and his eyes were hooded. She wanted to reach out and touch him. She yearned to do that. But he turned away from her, and she left, knowing she had done nothing to help Mac. And not that much for the marshal.
Nor—she realized—had she done anything to quench the burning, untamed need inside her. Instead, she’d only added fuel to it.
9
JARED YANKED at the chain binding him to the bed.
It had been an hour or so since Sam left. The door was heavy, too heavy to hear any conversations outside. The book lay beside him unopened.
He tried to shift himself up in the bed to get better leverage, but his leg still hurt like the devil, and even that small effort drained him.
Another part of his anatomy hurt, as well, and that particularly galled him.
He managed to get to a sitting position at last. He probably could have done so earlier, but he’d wanted Sam and the old man to believe him more helpless than he was. He wanted her to come close to him. He’d even been considering seducing her to find MacDonald’s whereabouts.
What he hadn’t expected was to become entrapped in his own scheme. He was beginning to care far too much. He waited impatiently every hour for her to come into the room so he could see the appealing vulnerability she tried to hide behind a tough veneer. He wanted to watch her cheeks flush when he touched her, by accident or on purpose. And most of all to feel her lips on his.
He hadn’t expected to grow so hard, and she’d felt that hardness, all right. He’d seen the turmoil, then wonder, in those golden eyes as she’d instinctively responded.
Hell, he got hard just thinking how she’d felt against him. Despite her slender build, she’d been incredibly soft. He ached, and not only from the wound. It was altogether too long since he’d had a woman.
Problem was Sam was not just any woman. He felt like the worst kind of scoundrel to take advantage of her. And he had been doing that. At first, it had been purposeful. She had shot him, after all, and he’d felt little compunction about trying to find out what he could about MacDonald and her role in the outlaw’s life. But that was when he thought she was MacDonald’s woman. He knew now that she wasn’t, not in the way he’d first thought.
Didn’t that say something about Thornton/MacDonald?
He brushed that thought aside, and his thoughts turned back to Sam and the enigma she was. Untamed and free and unconventional. Strong and determined. And yet gentle, even tender. Wistful. Vulnerable. Quick-witted. Sam was like a thunderstorm while Sarah had been a gentle rain.
Dammit, but she touched him and excited him in ways that no woman had since his wife died. She made him feel alive for the first time since his wife and daughter died, and her presence temporarily banished the pain.
He hadn’t thought anyone could touch his heart again. And certainly not a girl who dressed like a lad and shot lawmen.
Isn’t there any place you love? Anyone you love?
The question had thrown him, and after she left he’d felt a loneliness he’d never permitted himself to acknowledge before. No. There wasn’t any place he loved. No one he loved, and now he knew how empty his life was.
But nothing had really changed. She’d made it clear she wouldn’t hesitate to shoot him again if he tried to take her MacDonald. And he had no intention of leaving here without the man who killed Emma.
He was nearby. Or she wouldn’t have gone to such lengths to protect him.
Why hadn’t Thornton come to confront him while he was helpless? That was the question. From all accounts, the outlaw was a fast draw. One of the fastest. Was he wounded? Sick?
That was the only thing that made sense.
He studied the iron bedpost to which he was chained, but it was welded to the frame. He remembered being told the room had been used as a jail. Now he knew why. No windows. A stout door and wooden floors. A jail in a saloon. Made about as much sense as everything else in Gideon’s Hope.
He then turned his attention to the interior of the room and looked for something that could help him free himself. Both the woman and the old man had been careful not to leave anything within reach except the chair, the metal pitcher and the tin cup.
Several possibilities. Maybe he could utilize the chair in some way. Use one of the legs as a lever to pry the iron bedpost free. It would be difficult with his wrist chained to it. And the chair looked flimsy. But maybe there was a scrap of metal he could use to play with the lock of the wrist irons.
He inspected the cup. No rough edge to use against the iron in the shackles. His badge? It had been on his vest, but that was gone. God knew where it was, or where his saddlebags were.
Damn, there was nothing. He would have to get something from her. A pin of some kind.
He had to get out of here for more than one reason. When he didn’t report back in Denver, others would come looking for him. He had no reason to believe whoever it was wouldn’t meet with the same reception he had.
And someone else might not realize Sam was a woman. Or care. His blood ran cold at the thought. He sure as hell didn’t want her killed. Or the irascible Archie, either. They hadn’t had to doctor him. They could have left him out in the street to bleed to death.
But chained here, he couldn’t do anything to stop a bloodbath. A paid posse didn’t care who got in the way.
He believed in the law. It was his life. It was the only way to stop the kind of wanton killing that had taken his family. He hated criminals, particularly those who preyed on honest, hardworking people, and he despised murderers. Thornton/MacDonald had been on the top of that list for a long time.
He wasn’t ready to believe this new version of the man, nor would he dishonor his badge. Not even for a sprite of a woman who’d charmed herself into his heart.
AFTER SHE LEFT the marshal’s room, Sam checked on Mac. Asleep. She thought Archie had probably given him some laudanum to keep him still while they were gone. There wasn’t much left. She said a silent prayer that there would be no more injuries.
She carried the supplies out to the stable. Burley was gone, and Archie’s mule was in his stall. She quickly packed the mule and her own horse and left for the mine she’d selected as a possible hideout.
She knew it well. Mac had stored some supplies there years ago in the event he might need to disappear for a while.
It was one of the larger mines. Deep but with a relatively small opening that permitted horses to enter but could be easily concealed. After the nuggets ran out in the creek, groups of miners joined their claims and used dynamite to blast into the mountains. They dreamed of finding a vein, but they never did, and eventually, one by one, the shafts were abandoned.
She didn’t know how long they might have to stay—if they had to stay at all—but she figured five days for four to five people at most. She didn’t know whether that total would include Reese or the marshal.
There was still the possibility that Jared had been lying. Maybe no one was coming after Mac. Maybe he thought he could scare them into surrendering Mac.
When she reached the mine, she stood there for a moment, remembering all the hopes that had gone into this shaft and others. She could almost hear the sound of dynamite blasting into the mountain. See the anxious, expectant faces. But all hope was long gone. She placed the blankets as far back as she could and protected them with oilcloth. She did the same with the food items, then stacked some wood inside for a fire. She doubted it would be used. If someone was looking for them, a fire would be a reckless indulgence.
When she was satisfied that her hoard would be protected from rain and animals, she carefully placed branches at the entrance.
It would survive a quick look if not a longer one, but then anyone from outside the area would not be likely to know about the mines. She was
gambling that the bounty hunters would look in town first and then leave when they couldn’t find Mac.
Which was why Burley had to come with them. Jake and Ike could easily fade into the mountains.
When she had arranged everything to her satisfaction, she rode back to the livery through heavy rain. Water leaked inside her slicker and pasted her hair to her head.
She shivered as she went inside. Mac’s horse was still missing. So Archie hadn’t returned yet. Neither had Burley. She unsaddled her horse and stabled Archie’s mule.
Where was Archie? She didn’t like him out in the rain this long. The path was slippery, and his legs gave him a lot of pain. Worry nibbled at her as she grabbed her rifle and walked rapidly to the saloon. She tossed the slicker on a chair and placed her rifle behind the bar.
The door to the marshal’s room was still closed. Nothing looked amiss. Sam hurried up to Mac’s room and opened the door. Chaos. Mac was on the floor, Dawg whining at his side. Shattered crockery surrounded both.
She stooped next to Mac and examined him. There was a bump on his head as well as new cuts on his good hand. His face was flush. He muttered something, then moaned. She examined Dawg briefly. His paw was bleeding from a cut.
“Mac,” she said. No answer. “Mac,” she repeated, this time insistently. She tugged at him, and his body jerked. His eyes opened.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Heard…something below. Dawg…he was barking. I called you and Archie…no one answered. I tried to get up…and fell. Knocked over…the damn pitcher. Must have hit my head. You were…right. I’m not strong enough…” He stopped. “Are you all right? You and…Archie?”
She nodded. “I had a few things to do.”
“I called…”
She put her hand on his shoulder. Inwardly she was shaking. What was the noise he’d heard? Had the marshal escaped? Had he gone for help? He was in no position to go far. Not with that leg.
Mac was bleeding. She wasn’t even going to try to lift him. He couldn’t afford another fall. She put a pillow under his head. “Don’t move,” she directed him. “Stay,” she told Dawg.
She hurried downstairs, fetched a broom and dustpan, and returned. In seconds, she’d swept up the pieces of broken crockery. Then she cleaned and bandaged two cuts and picked a piece of pottery from Dawg’s paw. She would have to wait for Archie to get Mac in bed again.
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