From the back of the restaurant came, “Anything gives that man an appetite!”
“You’re fired, Minnie.” Boone shoveled in another bite, his brown eyes softened with obvious fondness for the waitress.
Minnie walked to the table, coffeepot in hand. “You fired me yesterday.” She topped off his mug. “A gal kin only git fired but so many times. Even a good-lookin’ one such as me.” She smiled broadly, showing several gaps no longer occupied by teeth.
Boone snatched the gray-haired waitress’s chapped hand and brought it to his lips. “What’s on the menu for tonight, gorgeous?”
Minnie sniggered and slapped Boone’s shoulder. “Baked chicken and beans, you rascal.”
He turned his coffee-colored eyes on Annalee and smiled. Her heart did a somersault. This guy was danger pinned to a badge, so he was. “Annalee, care to join me for supper?”
His dimpled smile caused her insides to do a twitchy thing. “Cora will be expecting me. Plus I have some curtains to make tonight.”
Minnie removed an empty plate. “Ya wants me ta bring your supper now, boss?”
He took a sip of coffee and shook his head. “Later, after I escort this lovely lady home.”
Heat flushed Annalee’s cheeks. “Really, there’s no need. The Maguires’ house is just around the corner.”
“Oh, he knows where their house is, but does he know the way back, that’s the question.” Minnie cackled as she bustled back to the kitchen. “I know how easy these young bucks can get waylaid around a female.”
Annalee watched the cook return to the kitchen. “She seems rather fond of you.”
Boone finished the last bite of pie and set his fork down. “Minnie’s a good woman. Her husband died in a blizzard a couple years ago. It was two weeks before the snow melted enough that we could find his body.” He drained the last of his coffee. “Minnie claimed she’d had enough of living out on the range alone and put her ranch up for sale. My brother and I bought the property. I offered her a job here and the little apartment upstairs. The deal worked out for all of us.”
He settled his hat on his head and stood. “You ready?” At her nod, he reached for her packages lying on the table.
Chapter Nine
The western sky was stained vivid orange and streaked with purple with the oncoming sunset. Boone cupped Annalee’s elbow. “Days are getting shorter now. Dark comes early. Best a lady like you doesn’t venture out unescorted after dark.” He slowed his gait to match hers.
She’d allow him that remark since he hadn’t made it an order. “You mentioned a brother, earlier. He’s a rancher?”
“A rancher and a lawyer, although he has few clients. Remember I said I was taken in by another family?” She nodded. “Well, I was adopted by Cheyenne. They raised me.”
Annalee stopped in her tracks. “You were raised by Indians? Bloodthirsty Indians?” Could this man possibly have lived with savages? What horrors he must have endured. “Oh my goodness, it’s a wonder you weren’t scalped.”
A muscle bunched in Boone’s jaw. “All Indians are not bloodthirsty. There’s good and bad in all groups of people.”
“Not from what I’ve read in my Beedle dime novels.”
“Surely you aren’t naive enough to believe the trash they write in them. If I thought you were, I wouldn’t have bought you one the other day. They’re made up stories, Annalee. Like fairytales for women. Silly women, at that.”
“How dare you insult me!” Oh, he was arrogance in a buckskin jacket, so he was. Annalee jerked her arm away from his grasp. Head held high, she turned the corner from Main to Washington Street, marching toward the Maguires’. He could make her so angry. Yes, she enjoyed her dime novels, but she was not some silly woman.
She knew those books with the salmon-colored covers weren’t real happenings. Still, they were excitement and action bound in print that transported her to worlds she’d never see. They were full of blood-and-thunder narratives, harrowing captivities, and daring rescues.
What would he say if he knew he was carrying two volumes of the very thing he’d just maligned? They were tucked within the folds of the fabric. Annalee rolled her eyes. Wouldn’t he turn himself inside out with laughter if he knew?
She’d bought The Comanche’s Dream and White Dove, The Beautiful Indian Maiden at Stoner’s Mercantile earlier. Nights at the secluded cabin would seem less lonely with something to read. In fact, once she had her dress shop opened, she might start a reading circle. She nodded once in approval at the thought. She could read the ladies a chapter of her silly dime novels over a cup of tea or coffee. A slow smile spread with the possibilities. The ladies would shop afterward. You always did have an eye for business, me darlin’, she could imagine her da saying. Oh, yes, she’d show one lack-wit marshal how silly she was in her intelligence.
Boone caught up to her, grabbed her by the arm, and whirled her around. She narrowed her eyes and hissed. “I am not some silly woman.”
His hold on her arm tightened. “Maybe not, but you’re an ignorant one.”
She jerked her arm free. “I beg your pardon?” His rebuff stung, and she would not stand for it, even if she was a fan of those sensual dime novels.
Boone stepped closer, his voice quiet. “Would you allow me to debase your parents?” At her audible intake of breath, he continued, “By the same token, I’ll not allow you to speak ill of my adoptive parents or my tribe.”
“Your tribe?”
“You heard me. My tribe. To the Cheyenne I’m known as Smiling Wolf. My parents were Walks With Arrow and Little Elk. My brother is Two Bears. I was raised by peace-loving natives.”
“Peace-loving? Do peace-loving people scalp others?”
“Perhaps, when provoked. People do unspeakable things in war.” His features hardened, his cordiality gone. “In truth, few scalps are taken in comparison to the numbers of our innocent women and children killed by the white man. It’s phony stories, like those dime novels, that perpetrate untruths.”
Could Boone be right? If he’d been raised by Indians, he’d have first-hand knowledge. Still, the things he was saying went against all she’d read. “What about articles in the newspapers?”
“That’s a fair question. Some reporters—not all, now, but some—fabricate bloodcurdling tales in newspapers back East. Massacres. Women taken into bondage. The scalping of people.”
Annalee straightened her shoulders, taking in all Boone said. “Are you implying that newspapers print lies?”
They started walking again, nearing their destination. When he spoke, the tone of his voice was less impassioned. “Newspapers print what reporters wire them. I’m sure they expect honest reporting, but do they always get it? Not when you have reporters seeking to make a name for themselves or to increase their pay. For them, it becomes too easy to spice up their tales, especially when they can’t be verified.”
They’d just reached the gate to the Maguires’ yard when Clarence Stoner rode by on his horse and lifted his black hat in greeting. He had two swollen eyes and a fat lip from the fight earlier.
“Why, Miss Annalee, what a pleasure it is ta see you again. I must say you look purtier every time I sets eyes on you.” Clarence turned his attention to Boone. “I’m surprised ta see you escorting the purty lady home after that remark you made earlier about her being a little long in the tooth fer yer liking.” He smirked as he spurred his horse on.
Boone called after him. “I never said that, Clarence, and you know it.” He quickly pivoted toward Annalee. “I never said that.”
“Long in the tooth?” she seethed. “You told the likes of Terrible-Tongued-Clarence that I was too long in the tooth for you?” Her voice rose with indignation. “Why, you insufferable fool!” She yanked her packages from Boone’s grasp. “How dare you imply I’m over the hill, too old for a man’s proper intentions?” She turned and stormed up the path toward the Maguire house.
Annalee dumped her packages on the steps of their porch and whirle
d on Boone, who had followed her to the house. “Now, if I were you, Mr. Raised-By-Peaceful-Indians, I’d hightail it out of here before this Irish lass scalps you herself.” A full-blown crying fit was bearing down on her, and she wanted to be alone when it landed.
Boone grabbed her by her arms. “Listen, you little hellcat, I’m tired of you digging your claws into me. Your temper makes you more dangerous than any Indian in this territory.” His gaze swept down to her mouth. “Damn this growing need for you.”
Before she could stop him, he hauled her to him and kissed her. Warm lips, hard and insistent, captured hers. On a groan, his arms wrapped around her waist. She’d been kissed twice before in Chicago, quick chaste pecks, nothing like this. Her toes curled in her shoes. Oh, merciful heavens!
He tilted his head and gentled his lips, taking his time torturing her. Although she had to allow there wasn’t much torturing going on, just sweet sensations as his lips worked magic over hers. When he pulled back, words of another tongue tumbled from his lips.
Unease danced up her spine. Was he speaking Cheyenne? What prompted this transformation in him? Even his stance changed. Then his words changed to English.
“You behave just like the red badger. From now on, I, Smiling Wolf, will call you Red Badger, for you snarl and fight like one. Like a badger you are fierce, not afraid of anything.”
“You’re a fool if you think I’ll ever respond to an Indian name.” She’d not allow him to scare her.
Boone grinned, and in that instant he resembled a smiling wolf. “Come to me, Red Badger,” he whispered, pulling her to him again. His warm lips feathered kisses against her neck, and she trembled. He pulled back, shaking his head as if to bring himself back from wherever he’d gone.
“Annalee,” he groaned, the tone of his voice changing from Smiling Wolf to Boone Hartwell. Then he laid claim to her lips again, and a growl escaped from deep in his throat, his lips punishing as they battled with hers. It was a skirmish of wills, tempers, and emotions not yet identified.
Annalee’s fingers went to her lips once Boone stepped back. He had no right. She was not some wanton woman to be grabbed and kissed in the evening’s darkening shadows. She gathered her wits about her, eyes narrowed with annoyance. Oh, he was a sneaky one, he was.
He looked at her for a heartbeat. “If I’d known kissing you would have shut you up, I’d have taken my pleasure while we were fighting in the stagecoach.”
With a tender but firm hold, he pulled her fingers away from her lips. She jerked, and he hushed her with gentle words in the language he’d spoken earlier. Eyes locked with hers, Boone ran the pad of his thumb over her lips. “Don’t ever be afraid of me. I won’t hurt you. Not tonight. Not ever.” Then he inclined his head and kissed her gently. “Na’hesta,” he called her before disappearing into the night. His footsteps—the steps of Smiling Wolf—were soundless.
Annalee shivered. She allowed that her reaction came from the chill in the air, or perhaps from the fact that Boone had silently disappeared almost in front of her eyes. Certainly, it was not because his last sweet kiss had gently unlocked her heart.
As she walked toward the steps, the hushed stillness of the evening was pierced by the desolate cry of a wolf. A mournful and savage call, filled with the alluring desire and lyricism of love yearned for. This primeval cry of love stirred her, yet frightened. It was something more passionate and irresistible than she knew how to comprehend or adapt to in her pain-filled life. It overwhelmed, leaving her powerless to resist. Yet common sense told her she must.
Just as she bent to retrieve her packages, a shot rang out.
Annalee dropped across the steps, her panicky heart trying to pound and claw its way out of her chest. Someone had shot at her! She’d actually heard the bullet whiz past and splinter into the Maguires’ wooden front door. Fear battled with fury. When she found out who the lack-wit was who’d fired the gun, she would surely beat him to within an inch of his life.
She glanced at the illuminated house. Franklin and Cora must have heard the shot. Dear Lord, had one of them been hurt? She scrambled up the steps toward the porch, but a band of steel wrapped around her and drew her back against the hard chest of a man.
“Are you hurt?” a frantic whisper breathed against her ear.
She struggled for an instant, alarm overriding recognition. Someone had shot at her and now she was being held tightly against a male body.
The hold tightened. “Na’hesta, answer me. Are you hurt?”
Recognition surfaced through her sea of terror. Boone. Relief washed over her. “No. No, I’m fine. Cora and Franklin. What about them?”
On a dash, he carried her to the door, shouldered it open, and rushed inside. The Maguires were peeking around the doorway of the parlor. “Anyone hurt in here?” Boone still had one arm banded around Annalee’s waist, holding his Colt .45 Peacemaker in his other hand.
Franklin held a protective arm around the shoulders of a pale and trembling Cora. “What in blue blazes is going on, Marshal? Someone shot into our home just as my wife, my only reason for living, was bringing coffee into the parlor.” A silver tray, broken china, and spilled coffee littered the floor. “Since when aren’t a man and his beloved safe in their own home?”
Annalee rushed to Cora, enveloping the older woman in her arms. “I was so worried about you and Franklin. Are you sure you’re all right?” She pushed Cora away and quickly scanned her for blood, bullet holes, anything that would take this woman away from her, this woman she’d come to care about. Annalee closed her eyes for a second and gulped air. Just because she’d lost her parents and grandpa did not mean she’d lose her friend too. She fought to regain control. She had to get beyond this fear.
Cora placed a trembling hand on Annalee’s cheek. “My dear, are you all right? You’re positively pale.”
“I’m fine, just scared. If I hadn’t bent over to retrieve my packages on your steps, I might have been shot.”
Annalee and Boone’s gazes connected.
His eyes narrowed, and a muscle bunched in his jaw, something she was beginning to recognize as a sign of anger.
Boone kept his eyes locked on hers. “Franklin, can you take care of the ladies? I doubt the shooter is still around, but I’ll need to check. Might find some footprints.” He stepped in front of her, and his head lowered. Before his lips met hers, he whispered, “I protect what’s mine.” His kiss was hard and emotionally explosive. That quickly he was gone.
****
Boone was now convinced that what had resembled a stagecoach robbery was really an attempt to kill Annalee. Tonight was the second effort to end her life. All he had to do was find out why and who. He cursed softly as he ran through the night, searching the areas where one might fire off a shot in the direction of the Maguires’ house. Holding one lit phosphorous matchstick after another, he finally found tracks, the chewed butt of a hand-rolled cigarette, and a spent cartridge.
Moments later he sauntered through the bat-wing doors of the Red Garter. Odors of stale cigar smoke, cheap beer, and sour, unwashed bodies assaulted his nose.
Priding himself on his cool detachment, Boone masked his rage with a smile, nodding as first one man and then another greeted him. Rarely did he lose control, but knowing someone had shot at his Annalee—and that’s how he regarded her—nearly dissolved the formidable restraint he used to corral his emotions. He’d poured everything into that all-too-brief kiss: all the anger at whoever had fired the shot, all the frustration at the danger he feared Annalee was in, and all the longing she made him feel.
Moving in the easy prowl of a wolf, his boots silent on the sawdust floor, Boone headed for the bar. Tinny piano music and various conversations filled the wooden saloon. Two card games were going on between town regulars, Clarence, Three Fingers, Doc Lufkin, and a few ranch hands. Two strangers stood at the bar. Their long canvas coats appeared trail-worn and were tucked behind their Colt Pattersons in holsters slung low on their hips. They were knocking
back Emmitt’s watered-down rotgut whiskey and smoking cigars. Cigars, not cigarettes.
Boone leaned a hip against the bar, his elbow resting on a spot freshly wiped by the grisly man pouring drinks. “Evening, Emmitt. How about a shot of whiskey to calm my nerves a mite? Been too much shooting going on around here of late. Makes a marshal nervous.” He nodded in greeting to the two strangers. “Welcome to Cicero Creek, gentlemen.” Boone raised the rotgut to his lips. His eyes scanned the crowd, and he tamped down his rage. Someone in here had shot at his Annalee. Someone who smoked cigarettes just like the seven men in here who sat with their index fingers coiled around one.
Chapter Ten
Once she’d calmed down from the shooting incident, Annalee stayed up late sewing bed linens from cream-colored flannel and cheery curtains for the grimy windows she planned to scrub until they glistened. Then she spent a fitful night, sleeping little and dreaming during the moments when she did. Thus, she greeted her moving day with weariness.
What would her life be like living a solitary existence in a log cabin? She’d grown up in a four-story apartment house where sounds from other families seeped through thin walls and floors. Smells of cooking cabbage, frying fish, or roasting chicken foretold what neighbors were eating that day. There’d been no secrets in the Gallagher building.
Twin tears crept down her cheeks. Wishing her parents were still with her was futile. Reality had to be acknowledged. She was alone now.
A yawn made her yearn for one more hour of sleep. She’d been awakened several times by the mournful howls of a wolf. Real or imaginary, she did not know. Yet the animal’s forlorn cry of longing pulled at her soul. During her periods of wakefulness, she’d thought of Boone and his kisses and the warmth of his embrace. She’d grown so heated thinking about him, she had to kick off some of her covers. A silly reaction, really, when she could not allow herself to yearn for a man in her life. To care for someone would only open her heart to the possibility of losing again. She refused to entertain the thought.
A Man for Annalee Page 7