Gregory, Jill

by Warm Stranger Cold Night

  "Of course not! This has nothing to do with you," she cried, then bit her lip. In truth, it did. Everything she'd done for weeks now had to do with him—planning her escape from Knotsville, searching for him in Helena, traveling here to Whisper Valley. Everything.

  "Just leave me alone," she gasped. She pushed away from the wall in despair. She whirled abruptly—too abruptly—-and started back toward the hotel, but the damned dizziness returned at that unfortunate moment, and she swayed dangerously. She tried to clutch at the wall to keep from falling, but before her fingers could brush the whitewashed wood, Lassiter's arm snaked around her waist.

  "Hold on a minute," he said quickly. "Are you all right?" Then his tone sharpened. "This better not be an act."

  Maura closed her eyes and waited for the dizziness to pass.

  It didn't. Once more she swayed, this time against him, and his other arm slipped around her to steady her.

  Her cheeks were pale but with a slightly greenish hue. For one wild moment he wondered if she really might be pregnant.

  "Leave me... alone." Her voice sounded weak, distant. She drew in a deep unsteady breath. "I d-don't need you. I don't need anything... from you."

  And then she fainted. Straight into his arms.

  Quinn swept her up, his face tight. He felt a bit green himself. "Like hell you don't, sweetheart," he muttered, and stalked through the darkness toward the hotel.

  Chapter 8

  "Land sakes, what in heaven's name did you do to that poor little thing?"

  Mabel Barnes rushed out from behind the counter of the Whisper Valley Grand Hotel, her brown eyes bulging with shock. "You didn't shoot her, did you?" she breathed in horror.

  "Get out of my way." Quinn started toward the stairs. At that moment, Maura's eyes fluttered and she moaned.

  "Honey, you all right?" Mabel scurried over for a closer look as the gunfighter paused, frowning down at the girl in his arms. "Don't you worry about a thing, I won't let anyone hurt you—not even him." She threw a nervous glance at the tall, dark-haired gunman who glared at her as though he'd like to chop her up into little pieces and throw her off the nearest cliff.

  "Do what you will to me," the woman exclaimed, straightening her shoulders with fierce determination, "but I'm going to look out for this young lady. She's a guest in my hotel, the finest hotel in Montana, and my husband and I didn't work our fingers to the bone to let just any old scum and outlaws and gunfighters come in and molest our innocent paying guests... not that I'm calling you scum, Mr. Lassiter," she added hastily, growing almost as pale as the young woman cradled against the gunfighter's chest. "That's not what I meant at all. I only meant that—"

  "Please, Mrs. Barnes," the girl whispered desperately, her golden-brown eyes fixed pleadingly on the other woman's face. "I think...I'm going to be sick."

  The gunfighter stared uneasily down at her. "Now just hold on—"

  "Get her upstairs—Room 204—quick!" Mabel was already scurrying down the hallway, her broad hips swaying from side to side. "I'll get a bucket!"

  Moments later Quinn found himself out in the hallway, alone, pacing. His gut twisted as he stared at the closed door.

  Could it be that the damned girl really was pregnant? But not with his baby, he told himself. It couldn't be his baby.

  Why not? The question sprang into his mind and wouldn't disappear. You did sleep with her. Even if it was only one night...

  "To hell with this," he muttered suddenly, and charged down the stairs two at a time. He had to get out of here. Maura what's-her-name wasn't his responsibility. And he needed a drink.

  But he'd no sooner pushed out the hotel door and headed toward the saloon than he spun around and went back. He'd never run from trouble in his life and he wasn't about to start now.

  He'd stay and get to the bottom of this once and for all.

  He rapped hard on the door of Room 204 and frowned when Mrs. Barnes called out, "Come in."

  The woman was propping pillows behind the girl's head, fussing over her as she lay pale and silent on the yellow coverlet spread over the bed. Pale lamplight shone on the auburn-haired girl's waxen complexion, making her look even more fragile than she had before.

  Mrs. Barnes threw him a swift glance over her shoulder. "So it's you," she hmmphed. "Well, the young lady told me you didn't shoot her or anything, that she just fainted, so I suppose I shouldn't have been so hard on you, Mr. Lassiter. You did a good turn by bringing her here. And the good news is, she didn't actually need the bucket after all," she rattled on, patting the girl's arm.

  "That's a mercy, anyway. When I was in the family way, I felt sick every single day for months but never once actually—" She broke off, seeing Maura flush. "Pardon me, honey," she said kindly. "I certainly didn't mean to embarrass you, but it's plain as day that you're in a delicate condition and why you're traveling in these parts all alone like this I just can't understand. Not that I haven't seen it before—goodness knows, running a hotel like this my husband and I have seen all kinds of things, but I'll never for the life of me figure out what kind of a man leaves a woman to fend for herself at a time like this—"

  "Mrs. Barnes. Please."

  "What's wrong, dear?" Mabel Barnes peered into her face. "You think you're going to be sick?" She grabbed the bucket she'd set down beside the bed, and held it level with Maura's chest.

  "No...it's not that." Maura sat up, swung her legs to the floor, and set the bucket down alongside the bedside table. She didn't trust her strength enough yet to try to stand, but she forced herself to glance squarely first at Mrs. Barnes, then at Quinn Lassiter, lounging with his shoulders against the mantel.

  "I do appreciate all your kindness." She shifted her gaze back to Mrs. Barnes and kept it there with rigid determination. "But I'd like to be left alone now—to rest."

  "Don't you fret, honey. I understand. Women in your conditon do need their rest." Mrs. Barnes nodded vigorously. "You lie here a spell and take it easy while I go downstairs and fetch you a nice hot cup of tea."

  "Please don't trouble yourself."

  "Why, it's no trouble. None at all. Matter of fact, I—"

  "You heard the lady." Quinn pushed away from the mantel and strode forward. He grasped Mrs. Barnes by the arm and propelled her toward the door. "She wants to be left alone."

  "But—but—aren't you leaving too?" Mabel Barnes sputtered as the gunfighter pushed her through the door. "It wouldn't be proper for me to go and leave you here alone with her!"

  "Afraid I'm going to shoot her?" he asked dryly. "Reckon I haven't shot any ladies who were in a delicate condition since last month."

  "That's not what I meant, Mr. Lassiter! My word! I'm thinking of her reputation!"

  "Seems a little late to be worried about that." Before she could say another word, or do more than stare at him in openmouthed astonishment, Quinn closed the door in her face.

  "Alone at last," he growled, stalking over to where Maura perched on the edge of the bed.

  Maura half expected to hear Mrs. Barnes banging on the door, but when that didn't happen, she knew the woman's awe of the gunfighter had gotten the better of her.

  She swallowed. She'd have to get rid of Quinn Lassiter herself.

  "Our business is finished." Firmly, she pushed herself up from the bed. If only this awful light-headedness would ease. Facing Lassiter was a formidable enough challenge without feeling dizzy and weak. "You made that clear enough in the saloon."

  "Could be I was wrong."

  "What would make you think so?" she asked tightly, regarding him through wary eyes.

  Instead of answering, he studied her in turn, taking his time, his gaze hard and appraising, his eyes unreadable. The silence lengthened and Maura felt her tension increasing, stretching her nerves taut. She fought the urge to fidget beneath that relentless hawk's gaze, to smooth her hair or straighten her skirt.

  "I'm waiting, Mr. Lassiter," she said at last.

  "I need to ask you a few questions."


  "What sort of questions?"

  He took a step closer, not touching her, but near enough that Maura felt panic coil in the pit of her stomach. This powerful nearness threatened her—it threatened her composure, her ability to think clearly, to keep her emotions in check. It would be so much easier if she could just forget everything that had happened between them that night.

  But she couldn't. Each time she looked into his face she remembered how that grim mouth had felt scraping over her throat, she remembered the warmth and gentleness of his touch, the way his thumbs had tormented the peaks of her breasts, and the thick texture of his dark hair sliding between her fingers as that superbly muscled body fitted itself against hers.

  "If you're really carrying a child," he began, but he got no further for Maura gasped.

  "You think I'm lying? Still?"

  The black brows drew together. "I didn't say that."

  "What are you saying?"

  "If it's true—how do you know it's mine?"

  Her cheeks blazed crimson. Sparks burned golden in the depths of her eyes as she struggled for words.

  "How dare you." Her voice was low, nearly a whisper, but it shook with outrage.

  He seemed neither to notice nor to care. "How many men have you been with in the past month?"

  "How many..."

  Maura couldn't speak another word. Without thinking, she lifted her hand and drew back to slap him.

  He grasped her wrist before the blow could connect and he held it firmly.

  "Just tell me how many."

  "Goodness, who knows? A dozen. Two dozen. Perhaps even a hundred," she replied, meeting his eyes with a blazing defiance she hadn't even known she possessed, a defiance she'd never dared show her adoptive brothers but that seemed to be kindled effortlessly by this far more dangerous gunfighter. "A girl can hardly keep track of such things. After all, we get so many fascinating, irresistible men passing through Knotsville, what's a girl to—ohhhh!"

  She gasped as he hauled her against him, one hand cupping her chin, forcing her head up so that she had no choice but to meet his eyes.

  "How many?" Something deadly in his tone made her gulp and then moisten her lips. "I'll ask you once more."

  "And if I refuse to answer—what are you going to do? Shoot me?" But she felt far less confident than she sounded as she fought for calm.

  "Trust me, sweetheart, you don't want to find out."

  Maura wrenched free. "No one else," she muttered, whirling away from him, sweeping toward the window. "Only you."

  She stared out at the night, listening to the pounding of her own heartbeat.

  Quinn stared at her rigid back, the soft curves of her hips and buttocks beneath that faded gown. He suddenly wondered...

  No. She wasn't. That hadn't been her first time—had it? Alarmed, he struggled to remember something beyond the heat and the pleasure.

  "Only me?" he demanded. "Is that the truth?"

  "Who would lie about something like that?" Maura turned from the window, her hands clenched in the folds of her skirt.

  "You'd be surprised what people will lie about." She shook her head. "Don't you trust anyone?"

  "Yeah. I trust myself. What about you, lady, who do you trust?"

  "No one," she whispered back, realizing that it was true.

  "Not even yourself?"

  "I thought I did. But not after that night. When I...when we...I've never done anything that rash and stupid and ill-thought-out before."

  "Must've been my charm," he commented dryly.

  "No, it wasn't that." Maura spoke bitterly. "It was me. Being silly and foolish and not looking before I leaped. And now..."

  He frowned as her voice trailed off dejectedly. She looked so lost that he had to fight a sudden urge to wrap an arm around her shoulders and tell her everything would be all right. There was something sweet about her that wrenched at him—but he fought the protective instinct. Lassiter knew better than to take anything or anyone on appearances. This girl could be a master con artist, an actress of the first order. She probably was.

  Except that he had slept with her. And enjoyed it too. He remembered that soft, lush body, the bright velvety curls—and those lustrous eyes that had penetrated even his whiskey haze.

  And from what he'd seen tonight—and heard from Mrs. Barnes—it looked a hell of a lot like she was in that so-called delicate condition.

  Hell. Scowling, he took a turn around the room. He needed to think, needed to figure all this out.

  "Get some rest," he ordered at last, yanking open the door. "We'll talk again in the morning."

  "There's nothing to talk about."

  "If there's a baby—if it's mine..."

  She held her breath. "You'd be willing to do the right thing? To give the baby your name?"

  Quinn Lassiter spoke tightly. "Don't go jumping to any conclusions. Just get some shut-eye."

  He stalked out, slamming the door behind him.

  Silence filled the air around her.

  Maura didn't know whether to feel hopeful—or afraid.

  She fought the urge to sneak out of town on the first stagecoach and raise the child alone, without any help from the all too reluctant Quinn Lassiter. But she owed her baby a chance at a good start in life—and the gun-fighter owed her baby a name.

  When morning comes, she thought, sinking wearily down on the bed, we'll see.

  It was going to be a long night.

  Chapter 9

  Sleep eluded Quinn Lassiter that night.

  He emerged from the hotel after downing three cups of coffee and a plate of eggs and immediately spotted Maura standing before Kent's Mercantile. She was clutching her shawl around her shoulders against the March wind while she gazed into the window of the store.

  His mouth tightened as he watched her. He remembered how she'd fainted, the green tinge of her skin, the concerned, knowing words of Mabel Barnes.

  And everything Maura had told him in the saloon flooded back.

  I'm going to have your baby. I thought you might want to do the right thing.

  Fury and resignation struggled within him. He wanted to believe she was lying. But the events of last night—and his gut—told him she wasn't.

  Damn it all to hell.

  Some ready-made ribbon-trimmed dresses were displayed in the general store's front window, along with several hats and bonnets, several barrels of potatoes, a stack of pots and pans, and an assortment of tins brimming with peppermint candy. As Quinn approached Maura, watching her from beneath the brim of his hat, he noticed that she seemed fascinated by the lot of it.

  "Come on." He placed a hand on her elbow to draw her away. He had no way of knowing she was seeing nothing but the yawning uncertainty of her own future.

  "Where..." she began warily, lifting her gaze to his face.

  "To the church. You want to get hitched, we'll get hitched."

  "I beg your pardon." Maura wrenched her elbow free. "You can't just walk up to me and tell me we're getting married."

  "Why not?" he countered, his face hard as a tombstone. "Because it isn't romantic? Well, neither is going to bed with a man who comes into your hotel only to get out of a blizzard."

  She gasped and turned ten shades of red. Too overcome to speak, she backed away from him but he advanced on her and seized her arm.

  "You wanted me to marry you, didn't you? You wanted me to give the kid a name."

  "I don't want to have this discussion in the street," she hissed. A woman in gray gingham passing by with two children clinging to her skirts stared for a moment and then continued briskly on her way.

  "Fine, then we'll have it in the alley."

  Without giving her a chance to protest, he dragged her off the boardwalk and behind the mercantile. The alley was narrow with patches of ice remaining from the last snow. It was also deserted. When Quinn backed her against the cold frame of the building, Maura knew she wasn't going to get out of here until he was good and ready.

  S
he braced her hands against the wall behind her. Her shawl fluttered in the wind, and a wayward curl wisped from her chignon to blow across her eyes. "This isn't a very romantic place for a proposal."

  "I've already told you, this has nothing to do with romance."

  Of course not. Romance was not for Maura Reed. She stared at him hollowly, trying to keep her lips pursed in a semblance of defiance even though the wind whipping through the alley was making her shiver. She wished she were sitting before a fire, snug and warm and drinking tea. Or even crowded on a stagecoach, crammed between other sore bodies, weary from traveling but sheltered from the mountain wind—and from the deadly chill in his eyes. She wished she were anywhere, anywhere but here—with him.

  "Then what does it have to do with, Mr. Lassiter?" she asked with as much verve as she could muster.

  "Responsibility, Miss Reed. Yours—and mine."

  "For the baby?" She stared at him, then shook her head. "You surprise me. I'd just about decided men like you didn't possess a sense of responsibility."

  He edged even closer, hemming her in. It was all Maura could do not to run. She knew he would only grab her.

  "You don't know a damned thing about men like me."

  "I know that you kill people for a living. That you pride yourself on how many men you kill—"

  "And women? How do you know I don't kill women too?" he demanded, then suddenly some emotion she couldn't decipher flashed across his eyes, and Quinn Lassiter actually turned ashen. As she searched his face, wondering at the terrible grim stillness that had come over him, Maura could only draw one conclusion and it filled her with fear.

  "You...have killed a woman, haven't you?"

  "Only one," he grated so harshly she recoiled, squeezing against the wall of the mercantile as if trying to sink into it and escape. "But don't push me, lady, or I swear it could be two."

  Her knees sagged. She felt them giving out on her and reached blindly out, but before she could fall, Lassiter had snaked an arm around her waist, supporting her. She wanted to resist his help, but her legs were too weak and she found herself leaning against him, allowing him to hold her up.