She lifted her head and she listened. At first, she heard nothing.
Then she heard it. The knob was twisting. Slowly. Some weight came against the door. Then the knob twisted and turned again and again. Someone was trying to be quiet; stealthy.
She rose, biting into her lower lip.
It was Malachi, at last.
She leaped out of bed and ran to the Haywoods' lovely little German porcelain clock. She brought it close to her eyes and looked at the time.
It was almost three in the morning.
She spun around. The knob was twisting…
Malachi. Damn him! He had finished with his whore, and now he wanted to come back to her to sleep! On her wedding day!
Oh, granted, it was no normal wedding day!
But still…
She hated him! She hated him with a vengeance! With everything inside her. How could he? How could he drag her—force her!—into this horrid mockery of marriage, and then spend the day with a harlot. After last night…
It was foolish to give in to him, ever.
She hadn't meant to give in to him.
Ever.
She had simply wanted him, and therefore, it had never been so much a matter of giving, it had been a matter of wanting. Of longing to touch, and to be touched in turn. Of needing his arms. Of needing his very height, and his strength. Of hearing his voice with the deep Southern drawl, of feeling his muscled nakedness close to her…
She had loved once.
And she loved now, again. Perhaps he could never understand. And if she valued not only her pride but her soul and her sanity, he could not know.
Not that it mattered. She could never let him in; she could never let him touch her again. He couldn't come straight from his whore to her. Whether emotion entered into it or not. He just couldn't do it, and that was the way that it was.
Her eyes narrowed; she was ready for battle.
But the doorknob twisted one last time, and then she heard footsteps—soft, soft footsteps!—moving away from her, down the hall and then down the stairs, fading away into the night.
"Malachi!" she murmured in misery.
So there would be no fight, and no words spoken. She could not go to battle, and she could not give of herself or take, for he was gone, leaving her again.
She lay down and cast her head against the pillow in misery. She stared straight ahead and ached for what seemed like hours and hours.
He had gone back to her. Back to his old friend. Back to the red-haired harlot.
She could not sleep. She could only lie there and hurt.
At three in the morning, the last of the locals threw down their cards, finished off their beers or their whiskeys and grunted out their good-nights to Matey and to Reba, the golden blonde who played the piano at the Haywood saloon.
Reba started collecting glasses. Matey washed them, telling Joe, his helper, to go on and clear out for the night. Joe had a wife and new baby, and was grateful to get out early for the evening.
Reba tucked a straying tendril of her one natural beauty, her hair, back into the French knot she wore twisted at her nape. She looked across the saloon to the dark shadows and paused.
They had both forgotten the stranger. It was peculiar; she had thought that he had left earlier.
But he had not. He was still there, watching her now. She could feel it.
He raised his face, tilting back his hat.
He was a decent-looking fellow, Reba thought. Sexy, in a way. He was tall and wiry and lean, with dark hair and strange, compelling light eyes. The way he looked at her made her shiver. There was something cold in that look. But it made her grow hot all over, too, and there weren't many men who could make her feel anything at all anymore.
This one made her skin crawl. He also made her want to get a little closer to him. There was something dangerous about him. It was exciting, too.
"Mister," she called to him. "We're closing up for the night. Can I get you anything else?"
He smiled. The smile was as chilling as his eyes.
"Sure, pretty thing. I'll take me a shot and a chaser…" His voice trailed away. "A shot and a chaser and a room— and you."
"You hear that, Matey?" Reba called.
"Got it," Matey replied with a shrug. The drinks were his responsibility. It was Reba's choice, if she wanted to take on the drifter this time of night.
Reba brought the shot and the beer over to his table. He grasped her wrist so hard that she almost cried out and pulled her down beside him. She rubbed her wrist, but thought little of the pain. Lots of men liked to play rough. She didn't care too much. Just as long as they didn't get carried away and mar the flesh. If he wanted to be a tough guy, though, he could pay a little more.
"You got a room?" he asked her.
"That depends," she said.
"On what?"
He was a blunt one, Reba decided. She flashed him a beautiful smile, draping one long leg over the other, and displaying a long length of black-stockinged thigh. She ran a finger over the planes of his face, and found herself shivering inside again. His eyes were strange. They were so cold they might have been dead. They calculated every second. They were filled with something. She didn't quite recognize what it was.
Cruelty, maybe…
She shook away the thought. A lot of men looked at women that way. It made them feel big and important. Still…
She started to pull away from him. She almost forgot that she made her living as a whore, and that she didn't mind it too much, and that the pay was much better than what she bad been making as a backwoods schoolteacher on the outskirts of Springfield.
Should she? She was tired; she wasn't in any desperate need for money. She should just tell him that it was too darned late for her to take a man in for the night.
"I got gold," he told her. "Is that what it depends on?"
Gold. He wasn't going to try to pawn off any of that worthless Southern currency, and he wasn't even going to try to pay her with Union paper. He had gold.
"All right," she told him at last.
And unknowingly sealed her fate.
He stroked her cheek softly, and looked toward the stairs. He smiled at her, and Reba silently determined that she had been mistaken—he was just a tough guy, not a cruel one. And he was handsome. Not nearly as handsome as Iris's friend Sloan, but he had all his teeth, all his hair and all his limbs. And that wasn't so common these days.
A working girl could always use a little extra cash.
"Where's your friend?" he asked her.
"Who?"
"The redhead."
Strange, he was talking about Iris. Reba started to answer, but then she paused, stroking his arm. "Iris is occupied for the evening." She smiled.
The stranger lifted his glass toward the saloon doors. "The husband, eh? That the blushing little bride was looking for."
Reba chuckled. "It's a good thing the groom is occupied. The maid over at the Haywoods' told Curly—Curly's the barber—that Mrs. Gabriel has bolted down for the night. Sloan Gabriel would need four horses to ram the door down."
"Is that a fact?"
"'Course, Iris says he'll do it. When he—when he's good and ready, he'll go over and break right in. Determined type. He doesn't take nothing off of her."
"Doesn't he, now?"
"Not Sloan Gabriel."
The stranger's lip curled. "Sloan Gabriel, eh?"
"That's right. That's the man's name. Why?"
"No matter. It's just a good story. I watched the woman earlier. She needs a lot of taming." He paused, sipping at his whiskey. "You think Mr. Gabriel will just break the door on down to get to her, eh?"
"To teach her a lesson."
"And he's here now. Right here in this fine establishment."
"Ain't that a laugh."
"Yeah. It's a laugh. But, hey, now…" He swallowed the whiskey in a gulp, then drained his beer. He set the glass down on the table hard. "No matter at all. What matters now is you and
me. Let's find that room of yours, all right?"
Reba nodded swiftly, coming to her feet. She took the stranger's hand and called good night to Matey as they walked up the stairs. She passed by Iris's doorway and hid her smile of secret delight.
Sloan Gabriel was in there, all right. Still sleeping away, after consuming his own bottle of whiskey. Iris had asked her to look in on him now and then, and she had been glad to comply. He was still sleeping peacefully, and his golden wife assumed he was enjoying the daylights out of himself. She didn't know why she didn't tell the stranger. It was a funny story. It was great.
But Iris had acted as if she didn't want too many people to know where she was going.
Reba shrugged and hurried to her own door.
When they entered her room, the stranger closed the door. Reba turned around, smiling at him. "Want to help me with a few buttons, honey?" she asked. She sat down at the foot of the bed, a woman practiced with her craft, and slipped off her shoes. When that was done she slowly slid off her garters and started peeling away her stockings one by one. He watched her, standing by the door. Reba smiled with pleasure, certain that she had this drifter well in hand.
"What's your name, honey?" she asked him.
"Justin," he said.
"Justin what?"
"Justin is all that matters."
"All right, Justin, honey." She smiled and licked her tongue slowly over her lips, as if she gave grave attention to her stockings. He was quiet, then he spoke suddenly, pushing away from the door.
"Turn over," he told her.
"Now, honey, no funny stuff," she said. He didn't smile. She added nervously. "Honey, any deviation—any slight, slight deviation—will cost you a fortune." Little pricks of unease swept along her spine, but she kept smiling anyway.
Her smile faded when he suddenly strode across the room and jerked her around by the arm, pressing her down into the bed, face first. He tore at her chemise and petticoats, ripping them from her with a vengeance. Gasping, smothering, she tried to protest.
"Shut up," he warned her.
"No! No, please—"
Reba tried to twist around. He slapped her hard on the cheek, sending her head flying against the bedpost. Stunned, she still tried to resist. She hadn't the power. He shoved her over and down.
A scream rose in her throat when he sadistically drove into her. But her scream went unheard, muffled by her pillow.
In time, either the pain dulled, or she passed out cold.
When she awoke, it was morning. She felt the sun coming in through the window.
She tried to move, but everything about her hurt. Her cheek and eye were swollen where he had beaten her. She hurt inside, deep inside. She would have to see the doctor, and pray that nothing was busted up too bad. God, she was in agony.
She was afraid to open her eyes; he might still be there. She didn't feel him, though. She lifted her lashes just slightly. Then she dared to twist around.
He was out of the bed. He was dressed, and he was staring out her window, toward the Haywoods' store and hotel across the street.
Suddenly, he stiffened and straightened. She saw him set his hand on his gun at his hip.
"There he goes," he murmured. He swung around, as if sensing that Reba was awake. She closed her eyes, but not fast enough. He came over to her, wrenching her up. "You shut up, bitch!"
"I didn't say—"
He slapped her again. Reba gasped, screaming for all that she was worth. Matey would be up and about; someone would hear.
"Oh, no you don't!" He slammed her pillow down on her face, pressing hard. Reba twisted and gasped, and the pain entered her lungs as she could draw no air. He kept talking. As she grew dizzy, she could hear him. "You ain't ruinin' it for me, honey." He started to laugh. "What's one little whore, when the golden girl is right across the street? If you're right, Slater is in there, getting through to her for me right now. I tried to get to her last night, but I was afraid to bust the door down myself. I might have had the whole town down on me. I slipped out, and I slipped back in, and nobody knew it at all. I came back to the saloon…and to you, too, honey. I'm gonna kill Slater, and I'm gonna make her wish that she was dead. You can imagine how good I am at that, huh, honey?" Dimly, she heard him laugh. "You can imagine. You can just imagine." He pressed harder and harder upon the pillow.
Her struggles ceased.
Finally, he tossed the pillow aside. She was still and silent. "I wouldn't have had to kill you if you'd just known how to keep that whore's mouth of yours closed." He tipped his hat to her. "It's closed now, honey. Sure am sorry. It's just that you don't compare. No, ma'am, no way, you just don't compare. I'm gonna have me that girl, and I'm gonna kill that man."
He looked outside. Malachi Slater was heading across to the livery stable. Looked like time to take a walk himself.
"Shannon!"
She had awoken, hearing him call out her name in annoyance. He banged on the door. She pressed her fingers against her temple and ignored him.
"Shannon, open this door."
"No!"
"Don't give me a hard time now, Shannon McCahy. I've got to get in."
"It isn't McCahy anymore, is it?" she demanded bitterly through the door. "Get away from here!"
She waited. There was silence for a moment. "Shannon, open the door. Now."
"You arrogant Reb bastard!" she hissed at him. "Go away. I'll never open the door."
She heard his sigh even through the door. "Shannon, I am going to try not to fight with you. I am going to do my best to get along with you, Shannon, because—"
"Your best! Malachi, go!"
"Shannon, I really am trying. Now, open the door and—"
"You're an ass, Malachi. A complete ass!"
"Shannon, I am trying—darlin'. But keep it up, and you'll pay. I promise," he said very softly.
"Go away!"
"Shannon, I'm giving you ten seconds. One—"
"You should have knocked when you came last night."
"I didn't come here last night. You're dreaming."
"Nightmare, Mr. Slater. If I was dreaming, it was a nightmare." She paused, then said with disgust, "You liar!"
"I didn't come near you last night, Shannon. But so help me, I'll come near you now!"
It was a threat. A definite threat. After everything that he had done!
She spat out exactly what he should do with himself.
He slammed into the door. The noise brought her flying up in panic, searching for the Colt. The wood splintered and sheared around the lock, and the door soared open.
Malachi stood in the doorway, looking much the worse for wear. His clothing was rumpled, his eyes were red, and his temper hadn't improved a hair.
Not that the night had done much for Shannon's.
She lifted the Colt and aimed it straight at his heart. "What do you think you're doing here?" she demanded huskily. She couldn't quite find her voice.
He eyed the Colt but ignored it. He stepped into the room, kicking the door shut behind him. "Shannon, I am going to try and talk reasonably. I—"
"Malachi, get out of here. Or else I will shoot you. I will not kill you. I will aim—"
'"Don't you dare say it!" he snapped at her.
"Say what?"
"You know what!"
"All right! I'll shoot at—"
"Shannon!"
"Malachi, I don't want you here. I married you to save your damn neck and you can't even stay with me for two seconds."
"I had to beg you to—"
"You forced me to say those words."
"You know, I'm remembering right now just how bad it was. Dropping down on my knees to beg you to—"
"Beg! You get out, now! Or I will put a bullet right where it might count the most!"
"Why, darlin'," he drawled. "You are my beloved wife, and I can come to you whenever I choose."
"The hell you can."
"The law says I can," he told her softly.
"Th
e law plans on stringing you up—darlin'. Maybe we ought not tempt fate."
"Well, then, Mrs. Slater, I say that I can." He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back against the broken door. His lashes fell with a lazy nonchalance over his eyes, but she could see the slit of blue beneath them, wary and hard.
She was trembling. She couldn't let him see it. She kept her hand as steady as she could manage on the Colt.
"You chose your bed, captain. You just go on back to it."
"Darlin', I'm tired of you spying on me, and I'm damned tired of your being a brat. I didn't come to fight—"
"You shouldn't have come at all."
"Put the gun away, Shannon."
"Get out!"
"I can't, not now—"
"Malachi, get away from me, now!"
"Put the gun away, Shannon. Put it away now! I'm warning you as nicely as I can, but I mean it." It sounded as if he was growling at her. She gritted her teeth and smiled sweetly.
"Malachi, since I am the one with the gun, I'm warning you."
"You'll be damned sorry when you don't have the gun."
"Don't threaten me."
"You vowed to obey me."
"You vowed to cherish me. It was all lies. So no, captain, you go on back across the street to your whore. You're not going to touch me."
"You're one Yank I do intend to touch, my love."
She pulled back the trigger on the Colt, letting him hear the deadly click. "Get out. You know that I can aim."
"I haven't come to do anything to you. I've come because this is my room, and you are my wife. Put the gun down. I have every right here, and you won't shoot me."
"You have no rights here, and I will shoot you!"
He took a step toward her. She fired, with deadly accuracy. The bullet whizzed by his face, so close that it clipped his beard before embedding itself into the thick wood of the door behind him. He stopped, staring at her, the muscles in his jaw working. He was surprised, but he was not afraid. "You shot at me!" he said, his voice harsh and low. "You actually shot at me!" He took another step toward her.
"You fool!" Shannon warned him, backing away. She fired again, and drew blood this time, nicking his ear.
But it did no good. He was upon her, wrenching the Colt from her hand. His fingers dug around her upper arms with a trembling force, and he picked her up and tossed her like a sack of wheat upon the bed. She struggled to rise, but he caught her and pushed her back. He straddled her, pinning her down, and she saw the naked amazement and wrath in his eyes. "You little bitch! You really would have killed me!"
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