“The library,” Daisy answered in a tone that said any idiot could have figured that out.
Steven nodded and collected his hat and canvas coat from the chair. They’d both seen better days, all before the explosion at the Yellow Belly Saloon, and he supposed it would be a good idea to replace them. “Thanks for everything, Daisy,” he said, and as he passed the big woman, he kissed her lightly on the cheek. “You’re the best cook north of New Orleans.”
She beamed at the compliment, then made herself glower. “You just get on out of here and stop takin’ up my time, you fancy-talkin’ man!”
Steven laughed and left the room, his boot heels making a steady sound on the hallway and the front stairs. Crossing the entry hall, he opened the front door and was met by a rush of fresh, spring-scented air. Being outside again was even better than he’d thought it would be.
His first stop was the livery stable, where he paid for the care of his horse, a gelded paint named Cherokee. He left both the horse and his coat with the stablemaster and walked the short distance to the Stardust Saloonp>
Out of the corner of one eye, he saw Emma standing on the wooden sidewalk in front of what must be the lending library, but he pretended he hadn’t noticed her. Emma had made her feelings plain enough by staying away.
The Stardust was jumping with laughter and piano music, and Chloe’s girls, in their bright dresses, were everywhere. There was a redhead in a skimpy yellow gown seated on top of the piano, and a brunette in royal blue perched at one end of the bar. Various other birds of paradise graced the laps of the men drinking at tables, and a few hovered around the pool table, cheering on favored patrons.
Steven couldn’t suppress a slight shudder, remembering what had happened to him the last time he’d ventured into a saloon; it was enough to turn a man off drinking and wild women forever.
When Steven’s eyes had swept the room carefully, making sure Macon and his men weren’t waiting there for him, he approached the bar and spoke to the brunette in blue. “Where can I find Chloe Reese?”
The pretty young woman took his hat off and resettled it on his head. “You don’t need Chloe, cowboy. What you need is right here.”
Steven grinned. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but it’s Chloe I have to see, all right.”
The brunette thrust out her moist red lower lip in a pretty pout. “Okay, but you’re going to find out she don’t turn tricks, not even for lookers like you. Big John Lenahan’s the only man ever touches Chloe.”
“Thanks for the warning,” Steven replied. He took a folded bill from his pocket and laid it on the lady’s bare knee, and she brightened instantly. “Now,” he said softly, “where’s Chloe?”
“Upstairs in the parlor,” was the pert answer. “You can’t miss it.” The bill disappeared down her bodice. As Steven headed toward the stairs, she called after him, “If you change your mind, honey, I’ll be right here.”
Steven touched his hat brim in acknowledgment and climbed the stairs.
He found Chloe holding court in a parlor filled with red velvet, gilt, and tassels, beads, and braids. There were paintings of nudes in various interesting positions on the wall, and Chloe herself was resplendent in an elegant purple velvet dress.
“Well,” she said when Steven entered her parlor. Then, with a flutter of her fingers, she dismissed the unoccupied girls who’d been seated around her, chattering.
Steven took off his hat. “Hello, Chloe,” he said quietly.
Chloe smiled and gestured toward a nearby chair. “Sit down, Mr. Fairfax.”
He lowered himself carefully into the chair.
“Still a little stiff, I see,” Chloe commented, fluttering a pearl-studded fan in front of her face.
“I’ll be all right,” Steven assured her, “thanks to you. What do I owe you?”
Chloe looked benignly insulted. “That’s a rude question, Mr. Fairfax. Don’t people take in unded strangers down south?”
He smiled. “Not in my family, they don’t.”
Before Chloe could make a comment on that, a door opened and a tall, heavyset blond customer came out, derby hat askew, fingers clumsily buttoning his vest as he moved. Not one, but two women followed moments later.
Some instinct told Steven who the ladies’ man was even before Chloe spoke. “You’ve been so curious about Mr. Fairfax, Fulton,” she said, in an idle tone. “Here he is.”
The banker. Steven got to his feet, not as a gesture of courtesy, but so the man couldn’t look down on him.
“Fulton Whitney,” the banker said by way of introduction. His tone was grudging.
Steven didn’t put out his hand, or speak. He was wondering what kind of polecat would cozy up to a woman like Emma, then spend a sunny April morning rolling in the sheets with a couple of floozies.
Whitney cleared his throat and shifted awkwardly on his feet, while Chloe left the sofa where she’d been sitting, her fan still fluttering.
“I’d better see how things are going downstairs,” she said, and then she was gone.
“So you’ll be leaving now, I suppose,” the banker said, breaking the strained silence. “I don’t imagine a man like you cares to stay in one place too long.”
Steven folded his arms. “Until just a few minutes ago, I figured on riding out,” he answered. “Now I’m not so sure.”
Color blossomed in Whitney’s pasty cheeks. “What possible reason could you have to stay?”
“Just one. Her name is Emma.”
The banker stared at him with undisguised contempt, and Steven figured he must look pretty seedy, all things considered. It had been days since he’d shaved, and two months since he’d had a haircut. “You aren’t good enough to lick her shoes.”
Steven indulged in a slow, obnoxious smile. “Let me understand this,” he drawled. “I’m not good enough for Emma, but you, her fiancé, just crawled out of bed with two whores?”
Again, Whitney’s face flooded with blustery color. “I don’t have to explain anything to you,” he rasped. And then he started to walk away.
Steven was possessed of a rage nobody but Macon had been able to arouse in him before. He grasped the banker by the arm, whirled him around, and threw his fist into the middle of the bastard’s face.
Fulton gave a startled yelp as he struck the wall, then slowly slid down it, one hand to his bleeding mouth.
“Now,” Steven said calmly, “we know exactly where we stand, you and I.” With that, he turned and left the whorehouse parlor, moving steadily down the stairs.
Until he’d seen Fulton Whitney walk out of that room upstairs, he’d fully intended to get on Cherokee and ride out, heading for California, maybe, or Oregon. Sooner or later, given enough whiskeheard work, and women, he’d have been able to put Emma Chalmers out of his mind.
Now everything had changed. He couldn’t leave her to that fool of a hypocrite she planned to marry; if he did, the blue fire in her eyes would falter and die one day in the not too distant future.
Outside in the fresh air, he crossed the street to the general store. If he was going to stay in Whitneyville for a time, he’d need money. Since he didn’t dare wire his grandfather in New Orleans—Macon’s people would be watching for just such a message—he’d ask around about a job. The mercantile seemed to be as good a place to start as any, since storekeepers usually knew everybody for miles around.
Emma bit her lower lip and dove into the cool, shaded privacy of the library. Just seeing Steven again had shaken her, but watching him stroll into the Stardust Saloon nearly destroyed her composure.
She lingered inside the empty library for only a moment before a need to know drove her back out onto the sidewalk and down the street to the swinging doors of Chloe’s saloon. She watched in horror as Steven strolled away from a trollop in a blue dress and up the stairs to the infamous second floor.
Emma drew in her breath and spread one hand over her pounding heart, as if to slow its furious beat. It was all she could do not to follo
w Steven up those stairs and demand to know what he thought he was doing.
Pride and jealousy warred within Emma, and pride finally prevailed. Biting her lower lip to keep from crying, she forced herself back down the sidewalk to the library.
Over the coming hour she was aware of every tick of the clock and every beat of her heart. She stiffened in relief and shock when the door opened and Steven walked in.
He actually had the audacity to grin at her as he swept off his hat. “Hello, Miss Emma,” he said.
Emma felt heat surge from her breasts to her cheeks. A full sixty minutes had passed since she’d seen him go up Chloe’s stairs, and it was plain enough what he’d been doing.
When she didn’t speak, Steven walked over to the counter she was standing behind and laid his hat down on it. “Aren’t you going to say hello?”
She glared at him. “I think ‘good-bye’ would be more suitable to the situation, don’t you?”
He reached out, bold as could be, and grasped her braid lightly in one hand. “It’s like spun fire,” he mused. “You’re a very beautiful woman, Miss Emma.”
“Am I?” Emma countered sweetly. “Tell me, Mr. Fairfax—how do I measure up against the girls over at the Stardust?”
His grin was maddening. “If what we did a week ago was any indication, you can definitely hold your own.”
Emma flushed at the reminder and turned her head away, but Steven caught her chin in one hand and forced her to look at him again.
“Is that why you’ve been avoiding me, Emma? Because of what happened?”
All her life Emma had wanted to be decent and respectable. And what had she done? Shewid;d let the first gunslinger who rode into town make her act like a strumpet within a matter of days. “Yes, damn you!” she blurted out, her eyes filling with angry tears.
Still holding her chin in his hand, Steven rounded the counter. “You’d better get used to seeing me,” he said huskily. “Because I’m going to be around a while.”
Emma swallowed hard. “You said someone was after you—”
“Maybe it’s time I let him find me,” Steven said, his lips only a fraction of an inch from hers.
His kiss jolted Emma through and through, and she wasn’t able to push him away, no matter how badly she wanted to. She submitted, as she always did with Steven, and a few more kisses stole her reason and fairly stopped her breathing.
She found herself crushed between Steven and the library counter, and the very hardness and strength of him made her lightheaded enough to swoon. Emma closed her eyes and gave herself up to the storm of sensation his touch aroused in her.
The moment he released her and stepped back, however, she was wild with fury. After all, someone might have walked in and caught her kissing Mr. Fairfax—and had that happened, Emma would have been completely ruined.
“I see things haven’t changed much,” he drawled, resettling his hat. “Good day, Miss Emma.”
Emma gave a strangled cry and would have stomped on his instep if she hadn’t been afraid she’d break his foot. She didn’t mind hurting him, but there was always the chance that Chloe would take him back into the house again Color stung her cheeks. “Get out.”
Steven’s hazel eyes danced. “I guess I’d better. The way you were clinging to me just now… well, you might not be above taking advantage of a man.”
Emma longed for a heavy book to clout him with, but she’d long since put them all away. She pointed toward the door with a trembling index finger and tried to look fierce.
He chuckled and, without another word, rounded Emma and walked out of the library, whistling.
Emma was so undone, she couldn’t stand still for another moment. As soon as she saw Steven disappear into the barber shop, she bustled over to make sure the encyclopedias were in proper order. After that, she rearranged the card file. There was still too much time left in the day.
A flurry of late-afternoon visitors was Emma’s salvation, and at five o’clock exactly she locked the place up and marched out the front door.
As she passed the bank’s window she saw Fulton. He was sitting at his desk, head bent over a ledger, but he must have sensed Emma’s passing, even though she was trying to hurry by unseen, for he looked up and smiled sadly.
Emma nodded a distant greeting—simple politeness decreed that she could do no less—and hastened along the sidewalk.
Alas, Fulton pursued her, shouting her name from the doorway of the bank, so that she was forced to stop and turn. Her arms tightened around the book she’d selected for that night’s reading.
“I’d like you to have supper with me this evening,” he called out, in jovial expectation of her ready agreement.
Emma walked circumspectly toward him, so that she wouldn’t be forced to shout her refusal for the entire town to hear. “Fulton,” she said in a moderate tone, “we have already discussed this matter. And I’ve told you that I think you and I have spent entirely too much time together.”
He looked more annoyed than disappointed. “I would have thought you’d be over that nonsense by now. I’ll come by for you at seven, and we’ll dine at the hotel.”
Although she could feel her color rising, Emma kept her temper. “Please do not trouble yourself, Mr. Whitney. I will be dining alone and retiring early.” With that, she turned to walk briskly away.
Fulton’s fingers bit into her upper arm, hard enough to leave bruises, and when Emma looked up into his eyes in furious surprise, she was frightened by the cold anger she saw there. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking I’ll give you up so easily, Emma,” he breathed, “because I won’t.”
She rubbed her arm as she walked away, torn between puzzlement and outrage. Uneasiness quivered in the pit of her stomach.
When Emma arrived at home, however, all thoughts of Fulton were driven from her mind, for she found Steven Fairfax waiting in the large parlor. He’d been barbered and shaved, his shirt and trousers were new, and he looked so handsome that Emma’s knees weakened.
“You are no longer welcome in this house,” she said pleasantly.
His smile didn’t waver, but he took off his disreputable old hat. “Is that any way to treat a law-abiding citizen of Whitneyville, Miss Emma?”
“If I should encounter one,” Emma said stiffly, “I’ll be sure and deal with him kindly.”
Steven chuckled. “You’re a saucy little hellcat,” he said, strolling toward her. “And I’ve got half a mind to kiss you again.”
Emma’s palms went moist at the memory of their last kiss. “Doesn’t it bother you at all that I belong to another man?”
He came to a stop not a foot away, turning his hat in his hands. It was a gesture of habit, Emma discerned, rather than of nervousness, as it was with most men. “You don’t belong to anybody but me,” he replied, in a low, steady voice, “and I’ve proved that more than once.”
“Why are you here?” Emma bit out the words, frustrated beyond all bearing.
“Because I forgot to thank you for looking after me when I was hurt, for one thing,” Steven answered.
Emma knew there was more. She folded her arms and snapped, “And for another?”
He reached out and traced the outline of her lips with his fingertip. “For another, Miss Emma,” he went on, his eyes laughing even though his mouth was serious, “I wanted to let you know you’re going to be keeping company with me from now on, not the banker.”
You can’t be serious,” Emma said. “We have absolutely nothing in common.”
His gaze drifted lazily over her, igniting a fire under Emma’s skin. The heat was suffocating, as if her clothes were burning. “Oh, but we do,” he argued reasonably, glancing in an idle fashion at the piano, the bookshelves, the silk-upholstered furniture and clutter of bric-a-brac. “Some very good marriages have been built on passion.”
Emma struggled to keep her equanimity. Suddenly, she didn’t want Steven to know she had any doubts at all where Fulton was concerned. “I believe that’s w
hat Mr. Whitney is offering me,” she said evenly. “You recall Mr. Fulton Whitney, I presume? He’s the man you always refer to as ‘the banker.’ He is a solid, steady sort, too, with excellent prospects and a good home.” There was no need to point out that expectations for a gunslinger could not possibly compare; the message got through as efficiently as if it had been sent by Western Union.
Emma knew that by the way the muscle tightened in Steven’s smoothly shaven jawline.
“The banker isn’t good enough for you,” he said, carefully inspecting one of Chloe’s china shepherdesses as he spoke.
His blithe confidence nettled Emma, and so did the tantalizing scent of bay rum he’d brought with him. He was completely disrupting the sanctity of that parlor where Emma had always felt so safe.
“But you are?” she inquired, raising one eyebrow.
“Yes.”
“You’re a drifter—an outlaw!”
Steven’s gaze never left hers. “Until now I didn’t have a reason to stay in one place. And I’m not an outlaw.”
“You’re wanted—you admitted yourself that someone is looking to kill you.”
He gave a ragged sigh. “All right, it’s true—I’m wanted in the state of Louisiana. But I’m innocent.”
“Criminals always declare their innocence,” Emma said stubbornly, even though, deep inside, she knew Steven would not have deliberately broken the law. Still, she longed to know what he’d been accused of.
That maddening grin was back. “You’re wasting your breath trying to discourage me, Miss Emma. Once I decide I want something, I don’t ever give up on it. If it takes from now till the crack of doom, I’ll bed you properly, and I’ll prove you were born to love me.”
Emma’s hands flew to her hips. “If you aren’t the most arrogant and impossible man I’ve ever met—”
Before Emma could finish the sentence, Chloe arrived home.
“Hello, Emma,” she said warmly, flowing across the room in a graceful motion of silk and bright green feathers to pour herself a drink. “Mr. Fairfax,” she said, in a cooler, slightly questioning tone.
Emma and the Outlaw Page 9