One-Click Buy: September 2010 Harlequin Blaze

by Lori Wilde

  “I had good teachers. Now sleep.”

  He lay down, but she didn’t believe he’d conceded so easily. He sensed she hadn’t told him everything. She wanted to stay, but she had to take supplies to the mine.

  If anyone was spotted from the top of the pass, she figured they would have about an hour. She’d already taken pains to wash or burn anything with bloodstains. Hopefully the rain would continue and wipe away their tracks. If not, well, she knew a few tricks.

  And the marshal? They could just leave him chained to the bed. Let him believe they had left the valley.

  Blast the man.

  She went down to the bar and checked the bundles she’d prepared. She added candles, turpentine and moss, along with a few pans. They might need supplies for a week or longer. By the time she finished, she had filled four large flour sacks.

  Keep busy. Keep away from the marshal. He’s nothing but trouble.

  She couldn’t help glance at his room, though. Maybe he needed some breakfast.

  Then the door opened, and Archie came out. He closed the door behind him but didn’t lock it.

  “How is the marshal?” she asked.

  Archie shrugged. “He’ll live to hunt again. Too bad.” He paused, then added, “He’s getting better too quick. Constitution of a damned horse. I chained him to the bed with his cuffs. If he got past you, I wouldn’t be surprised if he crawled up them stairs.”

  Sam agreed. She knew exactly how strong he was. “Did you take him any breakfast?”

  “Took some hardtack. He doesn’t need anything fancy. Ornery bastard.”

  “You always said good food speeds healing.”

  “You want ’im to heal fast?”

  She had no answer to that. “I saw Mac. He’s better.”

  “Not as much as he thinks,” Archie grumped.

  “I talked him into staying put for a while.”

  Archie pointed to the sacks on the table. “Got everything there?”

  She nodded. “Blankets. Bacon, beans, coffee, lots of hardtack and jerky. I tore up another sheet for bandages, and I added a bottle of whiskey. Some jars of preserves and cans of fruit. I think my horse and your mule can take it all in one trip.”

  He nodded. “I’ll take Mac’s horse and pick up Burley. We’ll meet Jake at the pass. Best Burley don’t see you going toward the mines. A drink of whiskey, and he’ll talk forever.”

  “Mac might try to come downstairs with neither of us here.”

  “I don’t think he can get out of bed yet.” He hesitated, then added, “If you go in that room, Sam, be careful. There’s something in that man’s eyes…. He ain’t gonna give up.”

  She hoped her face hadn’t flamed again. He didn’t know how careful she needed to be. She felt Archie’s eyes on her. They seemed to see everything.

  He shifted on his feet and grumbled again. “The marshal’s still in a lot of pain, and it should be a few days before he can put weight on that leg, but…” His voice trailed off. “I warned him. He tries anything with you, and I’ll whip the skin from his hide. Don’t care who or what he is.”

  She waited as Archie found some oilcloth and helped her wrap up the filled flour sacks. “Leave after you see me ride out with Burley,” he said.

  When they finished to his satisfaction, he gave her a long look. “If this Benson or more law comes,” he said slowly, “we’ll have a problem with the marshal.”

  She stiffened. “What do you mean?”

  “I might have to kill him,” Archie said flatly. “We can’t take him with us to the mine—he’d be too much trouble with that leg. If we leave him here, he would tell anyone who came that we’d just left and that’d start an extensive search.”

  “But…”

  “It’s simple, Sam. The marshal’s gaining strength. How long could we keep him silent in a mine?”

  He looked her straight in the eyes. “If he’s right and Benson brings an army of gunmen, it’ll come down to Mac or the marshal.”

  THE WORDS CHILLED HER, but she tried not to let it show. She knew Archie meant what he said. He and Mac went way back.

  He’d spoken the words so easily. Yet they stabbed her like a knife in the stomach. Her reaction was ridiculous, she knew. She could have killed the marshal the day he came looking for Mac. She’d taken that risk. Now the possibility of his death was excruciating.

  Maybe Archie was testing her. Or maybe he was preparing her. Worry haunted his eyes when he looked at her now. She was still a child to him. It was as if he was testing her, weighing what she would do. Then he nodded. “You’ll do okay, girl.” He left without another word.

  She wondered whether he sensed what had happened between her and the marshal yesterday. Did he suspect how much faster her heart beat when she was around their captive? How her body was experiencing totally new feelings and needs?

  Maybe she could make a deal with the marshal. They would let him go, and he would forget about Mac.

  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 a
gain. 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.