Gregory, Jill

by Warm Stranger Cold Night

  She broke off suddenly, her color deepening. "How silly it must sound to you. You must have gone to a hundred dances."

  "I'm not much for dancing, but I've been to my share."

  She nodded.

  A silence fell. Maura plucked her gown from the sofa and returned to the armchair with it. She picked up the needle and this time threaded it. She made a stitch at the sleeve.

  Quinn thought of the dances he'd attended, where he'd felt so apart from all the festivities. Once in a while he'd invited a woman to dance, but not usually, because though he sensed their pleasure when he approached them, he also sensed their trepidation. They were afraid of him—fascinated, attracted, yes, he could sense that much in the way they looked at him and spoke to him and slipped eagerly into his arms—but at the same time, they were afraid.

  Only Maura wasn't afraid. He wondered what it would be like to dance with her.

  Dangerous, he decided. She stirred up too many feelings in him as it was—no telling what would happen if they started in dancing. "Reckon then we should just stay home." He spoke curtly. "Then you won't have to dance and I won't have to stand around listening to a bunch of jabbering folks all duded up in fancy duds."

  "All right. If you don't wish to go," Maura said, regarding him sweetly from the armchair, "there's no need to trouble yourself."

  "Good." Pleased, Quinn walked to the mantel and leaned a shoulder against it. "Then it's settled. We'll both just..."

  "Both? Oh, no, Quinn, I didn't mean I wouldn't go. Is that what you thought?" She smiled at him, and gave her head a tiny shake, sending her auburn curls flying. "I am going to that dance," she said softly. "According to our arrangement, you are free to come and go as you please and, of course, so am I."

  His face tightened. "I don't recall we ever agreed that you would go gallivanting off alone to—"

  "Well, when you're off gun-fighting and roaming and sleeping under the stars, you don't expect me to stay at home doing chores and knitting every moment, do you?"

  "You'll do as you damn well please." He scowled. "But..."

  "Lucky already mentioned he'd like a dance with me." She made a careful stitch. "And Bill Saunders, come to think of it, asked me to save him a waltz. And I ran into Tex in town the other day and he most particularly wondered if he might claim my hand for a do-si-do, so you needn't worry that I'll lack for partners."

  "Hell and damnation, woman, are you going to dance with every man in town?"

  She laughed up at him from beneath her lashes. "Don't be silly, Quinn. Only the ones who ask me."

  He strode to her and stared down at her innocently upturned face. "The hell you are."

  "Quinn." The needle stilled. "Why shouldn't I?"

  Glaring down into her expressive golden-brown eyes, he could think of a dozen reasons, but none that he wanted to say out loud. "Because you don't know how to dance," he grated at last.

  "I know," she murmured sadly. "That's why I was wondering—"

  "Yeah?"

  "Will you teach me?"

  Every muscle clenched. "I'm no teacher."

  "But you do know how?" She studied him hopefully, and Quinn felt desire clench in his gut.

  "I've been to enough dances over the years that I've picked up the basics. But—"

  "Then please? Teach me how."

  "I told you—I'm no teacher!"

  She held his gaze a moment, then glanced back down at the fabric in her lap. Her shoulders lifted in a shrug. "I suppose then I'll just have to ask Lucky to teach me."

  "Like hell!" he exploded. "Come on."

  "You mean... you will teach me?"

  "Can't have the whole damn town laughing at my wife," he growled. "And that includes that mongrel pup Lucky Johnson."

  He gritted his teeth, stalked to the center of the room, and held out his arms. Maura laid the sewing aside and rose. Slowly, she walked toward him, her heart pounding with both triumph and trepidation.

  She hadn't been touched by him, held by him, since that night when passion had overcome good sense. Since then they'd scrupulously kept to the sleeping arrangements they'd agreed upon: Quinn stayed on the sofa, she slept in the bed.

  The very thought of having his arms around her again made her tremble. But she wouldn't let him see how he affected her—she mustn't! Concentrate only on learning the steps, she told herself, yet as she went into his arms a thrilling excitement shot through her, and it was a struggle to keep her breathing even and her face composed.

  Quinn fought the urge to turn and run. He, Quinn Lassiter, who'd tracked down as many cold-blooded killers and outlaws as any man this side of the Missouri, who'd faced mountain lions and snakes and grizzlies, Apache and Sioux, rustlers and gunmen far more fond of killing than he was, wanted to run from this slender red-haired girl who placed her hand in his with the light touch of an angel, and tilted her head up to study him with a seriousness that made him ache.

  "I'm ready, Quinn. How do we begin?"

  He wanted to sweep her into his arms then and there and carry her off to their bed as he had that other time, but he fought down the urge and instead cupped his hand at her waist. With the other he clasped her slender fingers, holding them carefully. An electricity seemed to flow between them, burning his callused palm. Her hair smelled of lilac soap and her eyes, fixed on his with eager attention, were the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen, beating the sunset all to shame.

  "There's no music." He tensed as she inched closer and her breasts brushed softly against his chest. He felt himself start to sweat.

  "Oh, but there is. Don't you hear it, Quinn?" She tilted her head back and smiled at him, a delicious, enticing, and wholly entrancing smile that made him burn with the longing to taste that ripe mouth of hers.

  Instead he listened as she began to hum, her voice soft and melodic and pleasing. When he could no longer hold back a reluctant grin, she stopped.

  "Let's start with the two-step. Show me, Quinn, please."

  He wanted to show her how damned irresistible he found her, but instead he forced himself to show her the rudiments of the country two-step, then a jig, a do-si-do, and finally a waltz.

  For a graceful woman, she was a remarkably clumsy dancer. She stepped on his feet. She tripped over her own. She giggled, she hummed, she counted. And she sparkled like the sun.

  She was light as gossamer in his arms.

  "Ouch," he grunted when she trod on his toe once again. "I quit."

  "Quinn Lassiter quitting? I'd have thought better of you."

  "Then you'd be wrong." He'd noticed with concern that she was out of breath. Her hair tumbled carelessly across her cheeks, her eyes were overbright. Enough was enough—he didn't need her dancing till she dropped. "You know enough to get by. I can't take any more pain."

  Her smile faded and she sighed. "You just think it's hopeless. I'll never learn."

  "Sounds like you're the one giving up."

  "Me?" Maura tossed her head and met his gaze squarely, looking more delectable than ever. "I never give up."

  He swung her around into his arms again, and held her close for a moment. "Let's go then, sweetheart. Nice and easy, one more time."

  Sweetheart. Her feet might have seemed glued to the floor, but her heart soared. He called me sweetheart.

  It didn't mean anything. She knew that. But her spirits lifted and she hummed louder.

  They whirled across the cabin floor, bumping the arm of the sofa, kicking over the sewing basket, nearly toppling into the fireplace. Her laughter rang out from every gleaming, spotless corner. She was dancing with her hus- band and she heard music. Even if he couldn't hear it, if no one else could, she did. It sang in her heart and echoed in her soul every time she gazed into Quinn's eyes.

  Suddenly her concentration faltered just as Quinn whirled her around. Taken by surprise, her feet twisted up in each other and she tumbled. He caught her, but they both swerved off-balance and fell against the arm of the sofa. Quinn toppled over, and she was dragged
over on top of him.

  "My goodness—I'm sorry!" she gasped as she landed with a thump and a jolt across him. They lay across the cushions and she could feel the washboard-hard length of him beneath her.

  Her heart racing, she started to squirm off him, but his arms locked around her and held her fast.

  "I'm not." He should have released her at once, but he didn't.

  "I suppose you're cursing the day you married such a clumsy woman," she said breathlessly, but he shook his head.

  "You're not clumsy. You just can't dance worth a plug nickel. Now stop squirming and hold still. I want to look at you."

  But he did more than look. As she gazed into his eyes he swept a hand to her nape and drew her downward. His lips closed over hers. Warmth and pleasure stole through her, then a sizzling heat as he slipped an arm around her waist and the curves of her body were pressed even more intimately against his.

  "Maura." The single word seemed to her to hold a tenderness and a yearning welling up from deep inside him. Yet even as her heart lurched with hope, she felt him draw back, muttering a half curse.

  He shifted and settled her on the sofa, even as he came off it. "We're not going to do this again."

  "Do... what?"

  His eyes glinted at her. "Make any more mistakes."

  "Maybe... it isn't as much of a mistake as you think," she said softly, trying to sound light, offhand, even though her heart was filled with longing.

  He didn't answer for a moment, just continued to stare at her as if he would see clear through to her soul.

  He wheeled away from the heart-rending temptation of that soft, beautiful face and stalked toward the mantel. "There's something you should know. I'm leaving tomorrow."

  "L-leaving?" She pushed herself to a sitting position on the sofa and smoothed her hair with an unsteady hand. All the happiness she'd felt only a few moments ago vanished. "Don't tell me—the gunfighting job."

  He nodded and turned back to face her, steeling himself. "I'm riding to Laramie to find out the particulars. That's it. I'll be back in a day or so—in plenty of time for the dance."

  "I see. Then I guess I'd better finish my dress." Slowly she rose from the sofa and went to the armchair. She knelt down and began putting back the scraps of fabric and thread that had spilled out of the sewing basket.

  "Maura," he said warily, as if concerned that she was going to weep or beg or plead. "You've known all along about this job. We have an agreement—"

  "I know all about our agreement, Quinn." She spoke wearily. Pain filled her heart as she stood, clasping the basket in one hand and scooping the dress into the other. "I know every limitation and condition we've negotiated into this marriage. I know exactly what it is—and what it isn't. There's no need to remind me again."

  Heaviness settled in his chest. The flushed, happy glow was gone from her face. Maura was pale now—composed, yes—but there was no mistaking the pain in her eyes. It cut through him to the core, but there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. Things were the way they were—the way they had to be—and it would only make things worse if he led her to think it could be any different between them.

  "Just so you know." He cleared his throat. Why did she have to look so damned beautiful, as touchable as a flower, as delicate as glass? "I'm leaving at first light."

  She nodded and went to the door of the bedroom, pausing at the threshold, her hair atumble, a small, sad smile on her lips. "Just so you know," she said softly. "I'll miss you."

  Without another word, she went into the bedroom and closed the door, leaving him as stunned as if she'd picked up a poker and hit him over the head.

  Chapter 23

  For Maura, the next few days crawled by. The dance at the Crooked T ranch house was supposed to be held the following evening, but she'd had no word from Quinn, and as the hours passed she began to wonder if he would return from Laramie in time.

  If anything had happened to him...

  "Please, no," she whispered to herself late in the afternoon as she gathered berries near the glimmering silver-green creek. She missed Quinn more than she could have imagined. And she feared for him.

  Maybe tonight he'll be back, she thought as she tossed the last handful of berries into her basket and started toward the cabin. He had promised he'd be here for the dance—and she'd never known him to break a promise.

  A strange silence enveloped the clearing where the cabin stood amidst cottonwoods and waving grasses. Bill Saunders and Lucky had gone to town for supplies, and Slim and Orville had begun rounding up cattle for branding. But it wasn't only that none of the men were around—the air had changed. The golden April sun had whisked behind a bank of clouds, and as she glanced up at the sky, which had darkened to an ominous shade of blue, she realized that rain threatened. It hung in the still, heavy air, even as the wind picked up, blowing tumble-weed toward the barn and moaning through the branches.

  She quickened her pace toward the cabin, thinking of the fire she would build in the hearth, the pie she would bake, the stew she would prepare for Quinn in case he should return sometime this evening. Somehow the little cabin with the old, creaky furniture, the narrow bed covered by a simple quilt, the plain dishes, and the lace curtains that she herself had sewn with such care had become more of a home to her than the Duncan Hotel had ever been. Not that she wasn't grateful to Ma Duncan for all she had done—or tried to do—for her. If not for her schooling, and her insistence on manners and well-bred behavior, the women of Hope might not have accepted her as cordially as they had. She owed Ma Duncan for that, and for giving her a roof over her head, and whatever kindness she could.

  But this cabin on Sage Creek was the place where she belonged. If only she and Quinn could both belong here—together.

  She was rounding the back of the cabin when she heard the sound of horses' hooves. Startled, Maura hurried forward. The first raindrops struck her cheeks as she made out two riders in the distance, coming fast.

  Had Quinn taken the rifle with him—or was it still in the cabin? She hadn't paid attention before now. But with the Campbells still on the loose, it wouldn't do to take chances.

  She pushed open the cabin door and raced inside. Relief swept her when she found the rifle propped against the wall in the kitchen, and she grabbed it thankfully.

  Her heart hammering, she hurried back outside and lifted the rifle to her shoulder as Judd had taught her so many years ago.

  "Hold it right there..."

  The words died away on her lips.

  Homer and Judd reined in among the weeds and sat their mounts, staring at her.

  "If it ain't our own little sister." Judd leaned back in the saddle, his eyes colder than the rain that had begun to pelt her cheeks. "Stickin' a rifle in our faces after all we've done for you, Maura Jane? Now, that just ain't polite."

  "Judd. Homer..."

  "Hey, she remembers our names." Homer swung out of the saddle and loped toward her. "That's something, ain't it?"

  "Don't come any closer." Maura found her voice after the first shock of seeing them. "Stop right there."

  "Aw, Maura Jane, ain't you happy to see us? We come all this way looking for you."

  "Why?"

  "Can't we come in out of the rain to talk? We're tired, and wet, and awful hungry. How's about you fix us some coffee and we'll have us a chat."

  Her knees were shaking but the rifle remained remarkably steady. She looked from Judd to Homer, studying their round, leering faces, and she felt only fear. They meant no good.

  Did they intend to drag her back to Knotsville? Or to beat her to punish her for running away?

  She couldn't believe that after all this time they'd shown up, that they would have put so much effort and time into finding her. Why?

  "Maura Jane, it's mighty damp out here." There was an ominous rumble beneath Judd's patient tone.

  But she was the one holding the rifle. They were waiting for her.

  "You can come in," she said. "But I'
m warning you right now that I'll be watching you. If you make one move to get this rifle away from me, I'll fire it."

  "Anything you say, runt."

  "We just want to talk to you," Homer put in, spreading his hands expansively. "Then step inside."

  If they felt surprise that the docile girl they'd known now spoke with a crisp, no-nonsense air, they didn't show it. She edged aside and made room for them to precede her into the cabin as the first rumble of thunder shook the sky.

  "Now, Maura Jane, what's got into you? You don't seem the least bit glad to see us." Homer regarded her reproachfully, and something in his smirk made Maura's skin crawl.

  Even though he and Judd were lounging on the sofa, their hands in clear view at their sides, she still stood a good few feet back, and still kept the rifle leveled at them.

  "You're not angry that I ran off?" Of course they were, but she wanted to see if they'd admit to it. She had no idea what to expect from them—the fact that they'd actually tracked her all the way to Sage Creek was still sinking in.

  "We was hurt, Maura, that's all," Judd said. "If you wanted to leave, well, fine. But you could have waited to say goodbye."

  "You'd have let me go?"

  "When did we ever stop you from doing anything you wanted to do?"

  She snorted at that, and Judd glared at her. "You've changed, girl."

  "Maybe I have. I'm married now and no matter what you say, I'm not going back with you."

  "Married, huh? That's what we heard. So where is mis husband of yours?" Homer demanded. "Why are you here in the middle of nowhere all alone? Don't he care about you?"

  "Just tell me what you want. I have work to do."

  "Well, that's fine and dandy, girl." Judd tugged at the corners of his lank brown mustache, giving her a half smile. "Could you make us some coffee first? We're awful parched and tuckered out and gettin' kind of a chill from that there rain."

  "Make it yourself." Maura gestured toward the kitchen. She tightened her grip on the rifle, growing more and more uneasy. "Then you can leave."

  As Judd heaved himself off the sofa and started to move toward the kitchen, Maura tensed and took a step back. But he didn't come toward her at all. He was glancing toward the armchair, where her sewing basket sat on the floor and the enamel jewel box peeked out from a bed of fabric scraps, thimbles, and thread.