"I'm sorry. I really am." To his amazement, she sounded sincere. "I know this is going to take time away from your business—from all the other plans you have for your life. I wish there was another way."
"I've never been one to make plans, angel. Don't worry about it. I just like to stay on the move." He came back toward her, studying her closely as she bent her head and stared at the floor.
"You're not going to start bawling again, are you?" he asked, suddenly uneasy.
"No, of course not. Why should I cry? Everything is going to be fine," she said softly, but she didn't look at him.
Quinn took his seat opposite her and raked a hand through his hair. "What about you?" he asked, trying to distract her from starting up with a fresh bout of tears. "Reckon you must have had other plans, Maura."
At that she did look up. Golden-brown eyes met his. A rueful smile touched her lips. "I was intending to leave Knotsville one way or another," she said slowly. "But I thought I'd go to San Francisco and work in a dress shop. I'd hoped that one day I might open my own—" She broke off suddenly, shaking her head. "You don't want to hear this."
"Sure I do." Surprisingly, against his will, he was interested. She was going to do all that, go so far, all on her own—this itty-bitty thing? "Didn't you have ties in Knotsville—family?" he asked.
"No family. Not really. I do have two adoptive brothers." A shadow flickered across her face. "And you probably should know—they may come looking for me."
"Sounds like you're not too pleased at the idea."
"They're violent men," she said quietly, meeting his gaze hesitantly. "I'm sorry. I should have warned you before. If they do come after me, if they find me...us...there could be trouble."
His eyes narrowed. "Are you saying they might try to force you to go back with them?"
She moistened her lips. "Yes. If they come after me, if they find me ... I should have told you—"
"You're afraid of them."
"Everyone in Knotsville is afraid of Judd and Homer."
"Don't be."
"You don't know them—"
"I know them." For a man who'd just been told that trouble in the form of two angry, violent men might be following them, he looked remarkably at ease.
"You know Judd and Homer?" Maura asked, confused.
"I know men like them. I've come across them nearly every day of my life, in one town or another. They're nothing. Nothing for you to worry about ever again. I may not be able to give you much as my wife, Maura, but I can give you that."
He sounded so cool, so confident. Maura drew in a breath as he stood up.
"You'd best get some shut-eye."
She stared as he started toward the door.
"Quinn." She came off the edge of the bed in one swift motion. "What about you? Where are you going?"
"I've got a room down the hall."
"Oh. Oh, yes. Room 206."
Quinn's gaze settled on her pretty, composed face, trying to find some clue as to what she must be feeling.
"Do you want me to stay here?" He turned and took a step back toward her then. Only one step, but he saw her entire slender body go rigid. "Somehow I thought you'd rest easier," he drawled, "if I gave you some breathing room."
"Yes. Yes, I would. I mean, I will. That's very considerate of you."
He came toward her then, slowly, lazily, but with a deliberation that made her heart squeeze into her throat.
His hand came up suddenly and pushed into her hair. His other hand gripped her hip firmly. "Don't think I don't know my rights, Maura. I'm not likely to forget 'em."
"But...we have a...business arrangement—" His rough laugh cut off her words. For one heart-stopping moment she thought he was going to kiss her. His head dipped down toward hers, lower, lower still, his eyes gleamed into hers with an intense light that had her blood sizzling. She drew in her breath, inhaling the pleasant tobacco-and-pine scent of him, absorbing the nearness of him, and her hands rose like fluttering butterflies and encircled his neck. But at that precise moment he released her, sucked in his breath, and stepped back.
"So we do." He forced himself to clamp down on the desire jolting through him. Damn if he wasn't distracted by the wide-eyed confusion with which she was watching him, by the alluring way that blue gown fit her curves, by the sweet feminine scent of her skin and the way her upswept curls tantalized him. Don't get drawn in any further, he warned himself. Get away from her.
"For your sake and the baby's, get some sleep," he said tersely. "I'm putting you on the stage at eight o'clock sharp. So rest while you can. Tomorrow's going to be a long day."
And with that, he turned and left her standing in a pool of golden lamplight on her wedding night.
Chapter 12
Maura's first glimpse of the town that was to be her new home came on an unusually mild March afternoon, when the light gleamed like pewter in the huge, endless sky and the air blowing down from the mountains smelled of rain.
Quinn, who'd ridden his bay horse, Thunder, alongside the stagecoach during their six-day journey from Whisper Valley, was there when the steps were let down. He helped her to alight and led her a little away from the commotion of horses, disembarking passengers, and trunks being tossed unceremoniously into the mud.
"Hope, Wyoming!" the stagecoach driver had boomed as they'd galloped into town.
Hope. She'd been encouraged that her new home was in a town called Hope.
But as she scanned her surroundings that afternoon, she felt only doubt. The place looked decidedly unhopeful.
Smaller than Whisper Valley and more desolate, the town boasted only one real street, a dusty, narrow avenue flanked on both sides by a row of storefronts badly in need of paint. Forlorn was the way she would describe it, every bit as dull and gray and unpromising as Knotsville.
Her heart sank, but she tried to smile at Quinn as she moved up the street a few paces, scanning this way and that, looking for something about which she could make a cheerful comment.
The distant mountain peaks, the clear, luminous air, the cotton-puff clouds? The latter were huge, translucent, glorious to behold above the dreariness of huddled buildings squatting on treeless land. And in every direction, as far and deep as the eye could see, stretched beautiful purple sage, or golden prairie, or mountains glistening with snow. But mostly the town was dominated by a sky so rich and majestic a blue, it would put the sea to shame.
"What beautiful country," she murmured. Quinn didn't answer.
He was staring along the street, his face shadowed by the gray brim of his Stetson. There were few people about, few horses or wagons. But the passersby who were walking along the street or scurrying in or out of stores appeared tense and almost furtive.
Several glanced worriedly at Quinn, Maura noticed, as he turned back toward the coach and lifted her satchel, which the driver had set down at the edge of the boardwalk.
He did make an imposing figure, dressed all in black, with his commanding height and tight-lipped expression, but when a woman in a bonnet sashayed out of Hicks Mercantile, saw him, shrieked, and dashed back inside, Maura felt her throat tighten.
"What was that about?" she asked, glancing uneasily toward the store.
Quinn frowned, obviously at a loss. "Something's spooked this town," he muttered. "I wonder what."
At that moment there was a blur of movement and a shout.
"Hold it right there, mister! State your name and your business!"
A man stood at the open second-story window above the general store, cradling a shotgun that was leveled straight at Quinn.
"Get out of here, Maura," Quinn said softly. "Take cover on that porch down the street. Now."
"I'm not leaving you."
"You damn well are—"
"Answer me, mister, pretty dam quick or you'll be pushin' up daisies before the sun goes down!" the man with the shotgun yelled, but there was a decided quaver in his voice.
Quinn swore under his breath and squinted against the glare of the
sun as all around them the other stagecoach passengers and the driver scattered in different directions, leaving the coach, horses, and trunks in the street.
"You the sheriff?" Quinn asked in a tone so clear and cold, it could have frozen a dish of warm butter.
He sounded so calm that Maura couldn't help staring at him. Her hands were trembling, but Quinn looked every bit as steady and solid as those mountains framing the horizon. Yet she sensed the tension humming in him and knew it was on her behalf.
"I'm asking the questions, mister," the man hollered back. "Who are you and what do you want with us?"
"I'm a stranger in town," Quinn called out evenly.
"And I'm not looking too kindly on Wyoming hospitality."
"Quinn, just tell him who you are," Maura urged, her heart pounding.
No one and nothing moved on the street.
"I reckon someone had better start explaining." Quinn's deep, hard voice carried along the deserted boardwalk. Hope might have been a ghost town for all the response his words brought. In a softer but deadly serious tone he said, "Maura, don't argue. Go down the street until you reach that porch with the rocker. Sit down in the shade and keep quiet. Do it. Now."
She followed the direction of his glance. The rocker was on the front porch of a small neat frame house near the end of the street. The small sign hanging over the door proclaimed walsh boardinghouse.
It was well out of range of any gunfire that might take place here in the street.
"I'm not going anywhere and leaving you all alone." Fear clawed at her, but she hooked her arm through Quinn's, never mind that her hands were shaking. "Not a very hospitable place you've picked for our new home, Mr. Lassiter," she whispered.
Amusement sparked for a moment in his ice-gray eyes, then disappeared. "I told you twice now to scoot."
"I told you twice now to forget it. They might think twice about shooting you if there's a woman in the way."
"I damn well don't need you to protect me."
"And I don't need you getting yourself killed before the baby and I are set up on our ranch. Why don't you just answer the man and explain that we're about to become upstanding members of the community—"
She was interrupted by a woman's cool, clear voice tinged with a southern accent. Her words rang across the open street. "You can put that gun down, John Hicks!" she said commandingly. "This isn't the leader of the Campbell gang. It's someone a hell of a lot more dangerous!"
"Who?" the man yelped, and as Maura jerked her head to locate the woman who had spoken, she heard the faint clicks of doors and windows opening and saw, here and there, curious faces peeking out.
The woman who'd spoken had apparently just emerged from Eliza Peabody's Millinery Shop across the street. There was a package tied with purple ribbon under her arm.
"He's someone who could blow your fool head off before you even think about pulling that trigger!" she responded, and started toward Quinn and Maura with unhurried, graceful steps.
"Who in tarnation is it?" the man on the landing croaked out, but the shotgun remained steady.
The woman laughed. "Don't panic now. He's not going to shoot you unless you force him to. Just come down and say hello to Quinn Lassiter."
"Son of a bitch." The man jerked the shotgun down.
The woman chuckled again and kept walking.
"Come along and say howdy properly, John," she invited, and there was just a tinge of mocking humor in her tone.
Maura glanced at Quinn and saw that he, too, was watching the woman approach. A handful of other people appeared on the boardwalk and in doorways now as well, following discreetly behind her, wary, uncertain, yet obviously reassured that Quinn was not who they had feared he might be.
The leader of the Campbell gang.
What in heaven's name is going on here in Hope? Maura wondered, but she had no more time to ponder their strange welcome for she was caught up in studying the woman who sidled up to them.
She was of medium height, but there was nothing else ordinary about her. Her face was exceptionally beautiful—oval-shaped with porcelain-white skin and vibrant even features. Her eyes were a darker, more intense shade of blue than the sky, her nose long and sculpted, her lips rosy red and shaped like a perfect bow.
Maura felt dowdy as a dandelion beside her. The woman wore a smart lavender hat perched atop glistening gold hair that was swept into a sophisticated knot—a knot so impeccable that Maura knew not a single strand of hair would dare to stray from it. The hat matched the lavender dress that rustled as she walked, and around her shoulders was a lovely and stylish crimson cape. She looked to be in her middle to late twenties—and gave off a strong impression of boldness, beauty, and sophistication.
"Well, Quinn Lassiter, as I live and breathe. It is you, isn't it? I'm sure I'd know that handsome profile anywhere." Her voice was husky, tinged with southern charm, intimacy, and a trace of amusement. But her eyes were not amused as she paused before Quinn and Maura and stared into the gunfighter's face.
No, her eyes were intent, alert, and eager. As if she were drinking in the sight of him, Maura realized.
Her heart skipped a beat. When he told her they'd be settling in Hope, Wyoming, he hadn't mentioned being acquainted with any of the town's inhabitants. She glanced hesitantly at Quinn, waiting to be introduced to this woman.
"Serena." Quinn's voice was as easy as always. He might have been speaking to a shop clerk about purchasing a can of beans. "I'd like you to meet my wife. Maura Lassiter."
He showed no emotion as Serena physically flinched at the word wife.
"Maura, this is Serena Walsh. An old friend."
Now the woman's lustrous blue eyes swept over Maura like a cool breeze. In her gingham gown, simple bonnet, and threadbare shawl, Maura felt decidedly frumpy. But she managed to muster up a tentative smile, telling herself that the sensations of jealousy rising in her were just plain ridiculous.
Serena Walsh is an old friend. You're his wife.
For whatever that was worth. He'd barely spoken to her and hadn't once touched her during the journey across Wyoming. When they'd stayed overnight at way stations or hotels along the route, he'd shared her room, even the bed, but had remained downstairs until she was asleep and then had taken up space on the mattress without once brushing against her.
Not that she'd wanted him to. After all, that's how she'd gotten herself into this situation in the first place.
"How do you do, Miss Walsh?"
"That's missus. I'm a widow, dear. Twice widowed, to be plain." Serena nodded, but didn't smile. Her gaze shifted sharply back to Quinn.
"You've surprised me. And that's not easy to do."
"You're surprised because we're married?" Maura piped up. "Now why is that?" she asked as calmly and pleasantly as she could manage.
The woman's brows rose, and she shot Quinn a quick look. His face remained impassive.
"Why, only because I never thought Quinn Lassiter would take himself a wife. Seems to me you said that same thing yourself once, honey, didn't you?"
He answered dryly, "Reckon you can see I've changed my mind."
"Oh, I do see that all right. But what brings you two to Hope? Oh, that land." Serena smiled knowingly. "Don't tell me you're finally planning to settle down at last—on that pretty little parcel on Sage Creek."
"Looks like you've got it all figured out, Serena." Quinn met her gaze evenly. "Now you tell me something. What's wrong here? Hope looks a hell of a lot worse off than the last time I passed through. And what's all this about the Campbell gang?"
"Well, if you're looking to tangle with those boys again, you've come to the right place."
A deadly glitter entered Quinn's eyes. "Go on."
"Because of them, the whole town's going to hell in a handbasket." Serena gestured toward the nearly deserted street, the crumbling storefronts. From the corner of her eye Maura saw the man with the shotgun approaching, his thin, sallow face wary, and behind him, a slim young gir
l striding in a blue-checked shirt and denim pants. Behind them bustled a stout woman with a basket of eggs on one arm and a hopeful gleam in her deep-set eyes, and farther back still, a tall man who looked to be a rancher accompanied by a petite, sunbonneted woman. All approached cautiously, all eyeing the gunfighter in black with an odd mixture of curiosity, fear, and hope.
"A dozen families have packed up and moved in the past few months," Serena continued as the others joined them. "Most folks are afraid to go out and about these days. You never know when the Campbell gang will be back."
"And we heard that Luke Campbell, their cousin— he's the leader of 'em and the worst of the lot—escaped from prison not too long ago." The shopkeeper, Hicks, spoke quickly as he drew up before Quinn. In his nervousness, his words all ran together. "We think he's headed here to join up with the rest of those sons of bitches. They're hiding out somewhere in the mountains between here and Casper." He waved a hand vaguely, then suddenly stuck it out toward Quinn.
"My apologies, Mr. Lassiter. When Hattie Phipps ran into my store plumb hysterical, she thought you was him. Luke Campbell, that is. And so did I. Last time those Campbell boys came to town, they shot up my store and near ran off with my daughter Nell here."
"He's telling the truth, mister." The young girl nodded vigorously, sending the black braid down her back swinging. She hooked her arm through her father's. "I spat in Lee Campbell's eye when he tried to rob our store. He knocked me down and dragged me out to his horse. I got away thanks to Sheriff Owen. But he said he'd be back for me." Her lime-green eyes darkened with both anger and a trace of fear. "Pa said they'd get me over his dead body."
"It's true, Mr. Lassiter. John Hicks was just trying to protect his family. We've been expectin' Luke Campbell to show up any day—like the devil himself." The stout woman carrying the basket blew out a sigh.
"In that case, no hard feelings." Quinn's gaze scanned the street. "Where's your sheriff? You'd expect all the ruckus to bring him running."
"Ray Owen's dead," the tall man answered, shaking his head. "The Campbells killed him as they hightailed it out of town, right after he stopped 'em from running off with Nell."
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