She’d nodded reluctantly while he headed for the marshal’s room. She resisted the temptation to argue. It was only too obvious she wasn’t to be part of whatever he wanted to discuss with their prisoner.
Another kind of chill ran through her. What if he believed there was an…attraction between her and the marshal?
“I’ll meet you in Mac’s room,” she said, and went up the steps to her own bedroom. She stopped halfway and looked down to see Archie unlocking the door to the marshal’s room and disappearing inside.
She changed her clothes, hanging her wet ones on a hook to dry. She wished she had something pretty, but that was a nonsensical notion now when everyone she loved was in danger. Archie’s plan to bring down part of the mountain brought home the fact that he thought there might be truth to the marshal’s claim that gunmen were on the way.
She found herself shivering.
When she finished drying her hair, she went out into the hall and met Archie. They walked to Mac’s room together.
“That marshal has no right to be gittin’ better so fast,” he grumbled. Then he looked her in the eye. “We’re going to have to tell Mac about him. Maybe not at this moment, but soon.”
She nodded. He had to know. Maybe he would have some ideas about what to do.
“Woulda been better if you killed him,” Archie said, not for the first time.
Sam listened while Archie scolded Mac about trying to get up and checked his wounds. He changed Mac’s bandages with her help.
“You gonna have to stop doing this,” he told Mac. “I’m too old to keep lookin’ after you.”
Mac smiled at him. “You have to keep me around. No one else could tolerate you.”
“Jest remember you need to heal. No more trying to get out of that bed.”
“Maybe some food would help,” Mac said. “No more broth.”
Immense relief flooded Sam. That was the Mac she knew. “Coming up,” she said.
“I’ll stay and look at his wounds,” Archie said.
Maybe after preparing the food, she would have time with the marshal. Maybe she could find out more about the paid posse he’d mentioned. It could be a lie, something he’d made up to scare her into surrendering Mac.
Her heart pounded harder, then she thought of the pass and the possibility of riders. The rain made it unlikely for the next couple of days. Very few men would tackle the narrow ledges and sharp drop-offs at night or during a rainfall. Slides were notorious. But then would strangers know that?
After putting together the makings of a gooseberry pie, she plopped it in the fireplace oven, then cut what was left of the haunch of venison Ike had brought a week earlier. She had smoked it, then used some of it for the stew. Now she cut the remainder into small pieces. She planned to fry them in bacon grease, then add water and flour, along with some herbs for the gravy. She sliced potatoes and put them in another pan with salt and pepper.
Sam glanced at the door once more. How could she want so badly to open it?
Later.
While the meat and pie were cooking, she prepared dough for baking bread the next day. Anything to keep busy, to keep her mind from the man a few feet away. This might be one of the last really good meals they would have.
Before long, supper was ready and she was taking the food upstairs. Archie was entertaining Mac with one of his adventures. She never knew whether they were true or not, and Mac had probably heard them all, but he was listening.
He brightened at the sight of the steaming plates, but as he moved to sit up she saw the pain carve even deeper lines in his face.
“You look better,” she said, giving him one of the plates along with a fork. “The pie’s gooseberry. Your favorite.”
“You sure take after your ma,” Mac said. “Best cooking in the territory.” The compliment never failed to please Sam. She’d learned from her mother, had helped her cook for the boarders and others who came to her table for breakfast, dinner or supper. From the time she was seven, she’d helped pour, stir and serve. “Need any water?”
“We have enough,” Archie said.
She hurried downstairs and fixed a plate for the marshal. She cut his meat and included only a slice of pie. Then she unlocked the door. She took a deep breath and went inside.
He was playing with the cards. She wasn’t prepared for the surprised smile. Not sardonic. Not wry. But a smile that escaped before he could take it back. It completely changed his face. And then, as if he’d caught himself, it faded.
“I brought some food,” she said.
A lock of dark hair fell over his forehead and his eyes were half-open. “I’ve been wondering when you would feed me.” He struggled to a sitting position.
She handed him the plate, and he looked at it with wry amusement. “I see the meat is already cut.”
“I wanted to be of help,” she said as sweetly as she could.
“You were gone for a long time.” It was a question more than a statement.
“We’re not your servants,” she retorted.
“No,” he agreed.
“I expect this is better than a jail cell.”
“You’re here, so yes.”
He’d done it again. Disarmed her. But despite his light words, there was a glittering intensity in his eyes, a fierce indication of a powerful will.
Instead of intimidating her, though, it made her heart ache almost unbearably. She wanted him with every fiber of her being. As their gazes met, tension arced between them, filling the air with a hungering need. She knew he felt it, as well, from the muscle that leaped along a tightened jaw.
He turned his gaze from her and took a bite. Then he looked at her with a piercing gaze. “It’s good,” he said with a slight smile.
It was as much of a compliment as she was likely to get from him. The smile warmed her straight through to the end of her toes. If only she knew how to cope with the turmoil inside her, that hot aching need.
He seemed not to notice her confusion and eagerly ate the meat, chewing each piece with a satisfaction that was a pleasure to watch. Then he got to the pie. When he finished he slowly ran his tongue along his lips to capture every crumb. She never knew watching someone eat could be so…provocative.
It was all she could do to keep from reaching out to him, from touching those lips. Then moving her fingers to the dimple that emphasized the strength of his features rather than softening them. She wanted to explore his body with her hands and she wanted him to do the same to hers.
Her skin was on fire at the mere thought. Maybe if she hated him, she wouldn’t have such feelings. But try as she might, she couldn’t, not after hearing him talk so heart-wrenchingly about his wife and child. She remembered how he had charmed Dawg, and she’d seen those glimpses of humor that flashed in his eyes. He had many sides and she liked all but one, and that one was the most important.
Almost without noticing she moved next to him, drawn like a piece of metal to a magnet. Tension sizzled between them, making a shambles of the calm she wanted to project. Her eyes searched frantically for something other than his rigid body. She took the plate from him and placed it on the floor, aware that his dark eyes were watching every movement. She reached for the deck of cards, and they went fluttering like feathers over him. She, who could handle a deck of cards like any card cheat.
His eyes were partially curtained by thick black lashes, but she saw a flame deep within. Conflicted, she reached out to gather the cards, and their hands touched. A tremor ran through his body, and her own trembled at the surge of heat between them. Her control was seeping away, lost in all those soft, needy sensations.
He pulled her to him, but unlike before there was nothing angry in the action. Instead his cheek brushed hers and stayed there for a fraction of a moment in a gesture so tender she thought her heart would crack. Then he pulled her against his chest and she heard the steady beat of his heart. It seemed to pulse through her, too. She relished the moment’s closeness, the smell and feel a
nd touch of him. The…unexpected tenderness he exuded.
Every nerve tingled. She felt bold and shy, reckless and cautious, sure and uncertain. Her heart hurt and her body ached, and a storm was building inside, fed by his touch. He shifted, using his free hand to guide her up until her cheek rested against his rough one again. She relished the heat of his body, even through their clothes. New sensations spiraled through her, each one more powerful than the next.
She closed her eyes, the better to feel. And feel she did. For the first time, she felt truly alive. As if she’d just been drifting along until now, waiting, only she hadn’t known it.
His lips touched hers. Not like the last time, with anger and need, but lazily. Lips touching lips with gentle exploration, each brush prolonging a magical moment. She put her hands around his neck and played with the muscles there.
She opened her eyes to see the dark blue of his. Usually so curtained, so careful, they were anything but. They were scorching. Intense. And suddenly…sad.
He touched her face with a gentleness she hadn’t expected. She sensed the restraint in him…felt it in the tenseness of his body. She didn’t want restraint. She wanted to pursue all these feelings to wherever they led.
“You should go,” he said lightly, as if to disperse the weighty emotions settling around them.
She knew he was right. He was still her enemy and she was his captor, and their goals were diametrically opposed. But she couldn’t. Her skin was alive with feeling, with wanting, and the core of her was a mass of writhing nerve ends. She had to take this ride to the moon.
“No,” she protested.
With a groan, he released her and guided her body to the side of the bed. When she looked at him she saw agony in his eyes, and she knew it wasn’t altogether from his leg.
He touched her cheek. “I have no right,” he said.
“I’m giving you that right,” she murmured.
“Nothing has changed,” he said softly. “Nothing at all.”
But it had. To her, it had.
Except for Mac. The marshal was right. That was the same.
She stiffened. “You won’t change your mind about Mac?”
“Is that what you thought?” he said, his tone suddenly harsh. “A kiss would make me forget I’m a marshal?”
Tears pricked her eyes, but she wasn’t going to let him see them. For a moment she had forgotten everything but the feel and touch of him. She was angry now, but it was mostly at herself.
“Of course not,” she said. “How could I ever be so foolish as to forget that?”
Her heart pounded. Had she really misled herself into thinking he was attracted to her? That he cared about anything beyond getting free? Getting free and hanging Mac?
Her heart pounded and she felt sick to her stomach. Well, she could play the same game.
She sat up, then stood. She ran a finger through her curls and tried to get some part of her sanity back. The cards were all over the bed and floor. Some were bent. She decided to leave them there. Her legs were unsteady, and her body still hummed from his touch, but she didn’t want him to know that. Better he think that she’d kissed him only for Mac’s sake. Not her own.
For Mac.
The posse. Ask him about the posse. Then leave with dignity.
“You haven’t said anything more about the posse you mentioned.”
His eyes were suddenly alert. “Then you believe me?”
“I might,” she said. “But why do you think they could find this valley?”
“They could figure it out like I did. Start where the men were shot. Keep going in the direction Thornton was headed. I’d heard years ago that he was holed up in some mining town, but I never knew which one. This time I asked the right questions and came up with Gideon’s Hope. It suddenly seemed logical.”
“Maybe they’re not as…persistent.”
“With the kind of money being offered, some of those gun hands would go to the ends of the earth.”
She made the mistake of looking into his eyes. She saw worry, and something close to understanding. “He will be better off with me,” he continued. “And so would you.”
She almost lost herself in those eyes. She almost believed him, but she also knew no court would give Mac a chance. “No,” she said sharply as she tried to ignore the intense craving in her belly.
Her back stiff, she left the room and locked the door before she did or said something she would regret.
12
LETTING HER GO had been one of the hardest things Jared had ever done. Letting her believe that all he wanted was MacDonald was another.
He couldn’t remember when he’d wanted a woman so badly. The fact that she’d been not only willing but eager made his words that much more difficult.
He ached all over. The pain in his leg had exploded when her leg had touched it. But then other parts of his anatomy were on fire, as well. He hadn’t expected that, at least not to this extent. There was a connection—a sexual tension—between them that he’d never felt before. But he’d thought he could control it.
She’d felt so perfect in his arms. So right. Her face had been so incredibly wistful and enchanting in the glow of the oil lamp. He saw her lips again in his mind’s eye. Trembling and stretched into a shy, tentative smile that reached into his heart and squeezed so hard he could barely breathe.
While he had hoped to persuade her, he also knew she’d had the same motive. But somehow both had become lost in the overwhelming passion that had swept over both of them.
A groan escaped his lips. How had he allowed this to go so far? He didn’t like seeing himself as a despoiler.
When had his job become so important he was ready to discard every scruple he had?
He started picking up the scattered cards. He couldn’t reach them all, but he stacked the ones he could and placed them on the chair near the bed. The others would have to wait.
He found himself smiling as he remembered the chagrined look on her face when the deck virtually exploded from her hand. She was probably a good poker player. There seemed to be no end to her talents. Nothing seemed to frighten her.
She was a walking mass of contradictions, of toughness and unconscious femininity. When he put them all together, he had to admit someone had done well in raising her. Except for the fact she had shot him—which was a big except—she was smart and kind and competent. Her joy for life was evident, and she had a heart that loved well, too well.
Damn, what a mess he’d made.
She’d left the oil lamp on low, too low to read. It was out of his reach, and he couldn’t turn it up. He was left with pain and memories and self-disgust to pass the time, and none were satisfactory.
He turned on his side.
He suspected it was going to be a long, lonely night. And he was worried. He couldn’t get that posse out of his mind. They wouldn’t care if Sam was in the cross fire, and he knew her well enough now to realize she would be in the middle of things.
But why would MacDonald allow her to stay if he thought she was in danger? That question bothered Jared. And why hadn’t the outlaw been in to see him if he was in the valley? And if he wasn’t, why was Sam so worried about the posse?
One idea kept pounding at him, though, and it wouldn’t go away. How could someone like Sam love and respect the man Jared wanted? Love him enough to risk her life. Love him enough to shoot another human being.
Women had been known to love bad men. But she loved this man like a father. Sam was no one’s fool. She would recognize evil, even in a father figure, and he didn’t think she would condone it.
He wondered now whether he was chasing the right man.
SAM WASHED all the pots and pans and dishes. From now on they would be eating mostly bacon and beans. There was still half a pie, and bread dough was rising. She would bake it at first light. But the last of the venison was gone.
Everything else was ready. Half their supplies were in the cave. The other half were in bundles in th
e saloon. She had little to do, and that annoyed her. She needed to keep busy. She needed to divert her mind from the man just feet away from her.
Rain slashed against the windows, and a clap of thunder rocked the building. Her first instinct was a prayer of thanks. More rain would further delay any posse. Maybe long enough for Mac to heal. Maybe enough to raft down the stream.
She also thought how miserable both Ike and Jake must be, up watching the pass.
Sam filled pitchers of water. She would take one to Mac and Archie, although she expected both would be asleep. The marshal already had plenty of water. She put several logs in the fireplace and poured water into a pot to heat. She would use that to wash.
Then she sat and waited for it. She was restless, thinking about her time with the marshal. She’d been wanton. Maybe too wanton. Her face flushed as she remembered his rejection.
She looked down at her britches and shirt. Was that it? The fact she didn’t look like a woman.
Another roll of thunder roared through the building, this one louder than before. It would have woken the marshal if he slept. Possibly Mac, too. She took the water upstairs to Mac’s room. Both he and Archie were asleep.
Dawg raised his head, then got up lazily and followed her out. She stopped by her room, picked up her guitar and took it downstairs. She sat in one of the chairs by the window and watched the storm with Dawg beside her. Despite his presence, loneliness echoed in her.
She strummed the notes to a song. A lullaby. Then her fingers went to “Lorena.” Lightning streaked through the sky, revealing the muddy road, the dilapidated building on the other side of it. Bombarded by emotions, she feasted on a sight most would probably consider sad. Not her. This had been her home since she could remember. Her mother’s and father’s graves were a block away in the haphazard cemetery. She had been a child in this place, and still felt only half-grown, too inexperienced to know the ways of men and women.
She blinked back tears. She cared about the marshal. Too much. Maybe she even loved him. And she didn’t know what to do about it. She had hoped to convince him that Mac was not the man he thought him to be. She wanted the marshal to trust her. But then maybe he wanted her to trust him.
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