"Is somethin' the matter?"
Delilah opened her eyes and forced a smile. "Matter? No, of course not, sir. Whatever could possibly be the matter?"
Didsworth frowned and pondered her. "You've got the tone of a woman what's got her bloomers in a knot about somethin'."
Delilah opened her mouth, a ready retort on her tongue, but never got the chance to voice it for Tyler tugged insistently at his father's shirt sleeve. "Pa, I think she's a bit like ma."
"What are you talkin' about boy?"
Tyler grimaced and tried to lower his voice in an attempt to prevent Delilah from hearing. It didn't work. "I think she's mad cause you made her ask so many questions to get to the answer, jus' like ma gets mad atcha."
Didsworth considered his son's words. Then with a sigh of disgust he muttered, "Wimmen!” Ignoring Delilah now, he grasped his son's shoulder. "Son, you climb on up in the wagon and start shoving some of the heavier stuff to me so's we can be ready for gettin' that wheel on."
Tyler complied, and in short order the two had much of the wagon's contents piled neatly at the side of the road. Having had her offer of assistance declined, Delilah walked up and down the road with Poopsy on her leash.
Didsworth removed his hat, wiped the sweat from his brow with his shirtsleeve, and uttered a heartfelt, "Whew!" before turning to Tyler. "You done good, boy. I think we can leave the rest. It ain't heavy. Now how 'bout you jump on up in that wagon an' open the basket your ma gave us.” He looked around. "Don't look like there's no place to sit 'round here.” That observation voiced, Didsworth wordlessly offered his assistance to Delilah to aid her back onto the canted seat of the buckboard before walking around and resuming his own seat.
"What we got in there for lunch, son?" he asked, looking back at Tyler.
"Two ham sandwiches, two egg sandwiches, some pickles, some o' that chicken we had for supper las' night and a big jar of lemonade."
Didsworth looked over at Delilah. "Care for anythin'?"
"Some lemonade will be fine, thank you. I have a sandwich."
Didsworth gave her a sidelong look. "Still miffed are ya?" he asked. The question was obviously rhetorical since, without giving her an opportunity to respond, he turned to direct Tyler in the pouring of the lemonade.
In actuality, Delilah had begun to forget her irritation until Didsworth had reminded her of it. Now, taking the glass of lemonade from his hand, she nodded tersely. "Thank you."
She had just finished the roast beef sandwich, half of which she'd given to Poopsy, when the sound of hoof-beats broke the stillness. "Someone's coming," she said.
"Yes'm, it sounds that way.” Didsworth peered along the trail behind them waiting for the horse and rider to come into view. When they did, he flashed a wide smile that showed most of his discolored and decayed teeth. "Well, if that don't beat all. It's Sheriff Chambers, Tyler. Don't your ma always say that the good Lord will provide."
"She surely does, pa."
Delilah caught a glimpse of a huge black horse carrying a man dressed in a blue shirt, buckskin vest and buff-colored Stetson hat before Tyler stood to observe the man's approach, blocking her vision. It was only a moment, however, before the stranger came back into view as he reined his horse to a halt next to the wagon.
"Ronnie.” He greeted Mr. Didsworth with an abrupt nod before his gaze skimmed the listing wagon and its occupants. His hard dark-eyed gaze stopped when it encountered Delilah, clinging without so much as a flicker of expression. "Looks like you could use a hand, Ronnie," he said, even as his powerful stare seemed to bare Delilah's soul for his impassive perusal.
"Yessir, Sheriff. I surely could."
"Let's have a look.” The sheriff's steely gaze shifted and Delilah began to breathe again. As he dismounted and moved around the wagon with Didsworth in his wake, Delilah couldn't take her eyes from him.
There had been not the slightest glimmer of appreciation for her physical attributes in his eyes when he’d looked at her. Despite her determined avoidance of any kind of association with men, she'd grown accustomed to seeing that appreciation. Yet there had been. . . something there, for why else had he stared. And, if not appreciation, what was it? She didn't think she'd ever encountered a man who hadn't found her attractive. Even more unsettling to Delilah, however, was the realization that, for the first time in her life, she herself found a man disturbingly compelling.
Why?
The sheriff was attractive in a very rugged manner she supposed, though she'd seen many men in her travels whom she would consider more handsome. This man wore an aura of danger like a cloak. He was too rough-cut and too menacing to be handsome. His mahogany-brown hair had not seen a pair of scissors in too long. His complexion bordered on swarthiness, and the shadow of what would have been a full beard, had he allowed it to grow, lay darkly beneath the skin of his strong jaw. And his eyes. . . They were chilling eyes. The kind of eyes that could stop a person in their tracks. Somewhere between blue and black, his eyes were the color of old steel, a deep charcoal grey.
"Ma'am, may I help you down from there so that we can try to get this wagon on its way?” The sheriff's deep baritone voice attracted her attention, and Delilah stared at his full-lipped mouth. Unable to move. Trying to remember what it was she'd heard him say a half second earlier. "Ma'am?"
She blinked and found her voice. "Yes?"
"Can I help you down?"
"Oh. Yes, certainly. I should take my dog for another walk anyway.” Rising, she held out her hand expecting him to simply support her while she descended. Instead, she found herself grasped about the waist in a pair of very large hands and lifted bodily from the seat. Instinctively, her hands sought his shoulders for equilibrium. The muscles there flexed, warm fluid steel beneath her palms. The heat of his hands penetrated the fabric of the clothing at her waist. The scent of him, a combination of horse, leather, soap and perspiration reached her, disturbingly enticing. And then, her feet touched the ground.
Forced to look up in order to thank him, for her own five foot six inch height reached only to his chin, Delilah found herself looking directly into dark eyes that seemed veiled in shadow. "Thank you, sir," she managed to murmur.
"My pleasure, ma'am," he responded. Yet no smile touched his lips as he turned back to Didsworth and the crippled wagon.
In that instant, Delilah's instincts told her this man was dangerous. For there was a part of her that wanted to try to lift the shadows in his eyes. A part of her that wanted to see him smile—for her. A part of her that wanted to make him. . . want her.
Insanity! Pure lunacy! If there was one thing Delilah Sinclair did not need and would never need, it was a man.
~~~* * *~~~
CHAPTER 2
________________________
Despite the logic of her thoughts, however, Delilah found her eyes drifting to Sheriff Chambers again and again as she put Poopsy on her leash and walked the small dog up and down the narrow road. She still didn't know his full name, she realized, for he and Didsworth had forgotten the courtesy of an introduction in the face of the more pressing problem of the wagon wheel. But what was it about him that she found so. . . compelling? He wore denim trousers and boots that added a good inch or more to his already impressive height. The seams of his blue shirt seemed strained to the point of bursting whenever he bent his arm. His longish mahogany hair curled at the nape of his neck. In point of fact though, she could see nothing unusual about him save for his size, and even that was not entirely unique—she'd seen a pair of lumberjacks once who had been the sheriff's match in proportion. And yet there was something . . . almost familiar about him.
Ridiculous! She'd certainly remember if she'd ever met the man.
Walking back toward the wagon now, she paused to observe the repair process. "I'll lift the wagon," the sheriff was saying, "and you and the boy can slide that wheel onto the hub.” He looked toward Tyler where he knelt with a pail next to the axle. "You got that hub greased up and ready son?"
Delilah allowed her attention to wander to the dense forest surrounding them while the sheriff rolled up his shirt sleeves. The landscape was quite beautiful. Full of the scent of rich soil and cedar. Green with moss and ferns and heavy tree boughs. The sound of trickling water came from somewhere near. More distantly came the muted roar of a waterfall.
"Holy cow! I ain't never seen muscles like that!” Tyler's exclamation as he observed Sheriff Chambers drew Delilah's attention back to the men and the work on the wagon.
Her eyes widened and she almost echoed the boy's sentiment. Rather than simply rolling up his sleeves as she'd expected, the sheriff had removed his shirt and vest to drape them over the side of the wagon. For an instant, she gaped at the massive bronzed chest and muscular arms thus revealed. And then, remembering herself, she averted her gaze.
It did little good, for the picture was seared into her mind.
She'd seen men without their shirts before. Her father on numerous occasions as he washed up for supper, and other men a couple of times. But never had she seen a man like the sheriff. It was obvious that he went shirtless often, for the v-shaped line of demarcation at his throat was very faint, and his entire upper body was quite brown from the sun.
She’d encountered few men who had bared themselves so readily. In fact, she'd been told that some men wore long underwear year round, even going so far as to bathe in it. Personally, she'd always doubted the veracity of that assertion, but there was no getting around the fact that she was unaccustomed to the sight of half-naked men. And she'd never seen a man with quite as impressive a form as the sheriff's.
"Holy . . . !"
"Quit yer gapin', boy," Ronnie Didsworth's admonition interrupted Tyler's second exclamation. "Get yerself over here an' help me get this wheel on."
Despite herself, Delilah looked back. Her jaw dropped.
Squatting at the side of the wagon, the sheriff put his back against it while he braced it with his hands. Then, he slowly straightened his legs, lifting the heavy wagon single-handedly while Ronnie and Tyler quickly slid the new wheel into place.
"Impossible!" Delilah whispered to herself, denying the sight.
Only it wasn't because in the next instant the wheel was in place and Sheriff Chambers was donning his shirt and vest. "That should get you to Red Rock and home again."
Ronnie extended his hand. "Can't thank you enough sheriff. If there's somethin' I can do for you, you jes' let me know."
"I'll do that."
At that moment, there was a slight tug and Poopsy's leash slid out of Delilah's hand. She whirled in time to see the small dog dashing for the forest. "Poochie! Come back here this instant.” But the little miscreant simply ran faster.
Blast! If she'd only been paying more attention to what she was doing instead of gaping at the sheriff's naked chest, she wouldn't be in this situation. Delilah picked up her skirts and raced after the small dog, knowing that she had to catch the little beggar before she got too far.
"Ma'am, come back!"
Samson Towers alias Sheriff Matthew Chambers looked over his shoulder at Didsworth's shout in time to see Ronnie's lady passenger tearing off into the dense forest. "Damnation!" he muttered. Didn't the woman know better than to go dashing into a strange forest like that? He had a sudden and disturbing mental picture of that pretty lady sprawled at the bottom of one of the hidden canyons that laced their way through the dense forest, and knew he had to go after her.
Leaving the buttoning of his shirt for later, he loped toward the edge of the forest. "Ma'am!" he bellowed, and then looking back at Ronnie demanded, "What's her name?"
"Mrs. Sterne.” Didsworth looked worried.
Samson plunged into the forest. "Mrs. Sterne, stop!"
The lady's dark widow's garb tended to blend into the shadow, making it difficult for him to see her clearly. He heard her shout "Poochie?" again and pin-pointed her position as she paused to search for some sign of the dog in the intense gloom of the forest. It would be nearly impossible to see the small creature in the dense undergrowth.
"Ma'am," he called as he followed the widow more deeply into the gloom.
Either ignoring him, or not hearing him, Mrs. Sterne hollered, "Here Poochie," once more before taking off at a run. This time, however, she only made it about three steps before she tripped, probably over an exposed root, and went flying in a jumble of white petticoats and black skirts, headlong into a copse of dense brush. Samson fleetingly wished that he'd been close enough to get a better view of the shapely white calf that was briefly exposed before the widow was on her feet again.
Blast! Would he never catch up with her? Switchback Ravine was close. Too damn close, he feared.
"Mrs. Sterne, stop!"
Delilah heard the sheriff's voice quite clearly, but whatever he had to say to her would just have to wait. If she didn't keep after Poopsy, she'd lose her because they wouldn't have time to wait around for the small dog to find her way back to the road and the wagon.
She was just about to plunge into a thick copse of undergrowth when she felt her arm gripped in a vise-like hold that jerked her back against a rock solid form. "No, please . . . ," she protested breathlessly and then froze as she found herself confronting a massive expanse of bare bronzed chest. Jerking her fingers away from the disturbing contact, gasping slightly, Delilah slowly raised her eyes past the sheriff's shadowed jaw and bold blade of a nose to his eyes. Hard, dark eyes. Impassive, unreadable eyes. "I have to catch my dog," she explained weakly.
Without a word, the sheriff released his grasp on one of her arms to reach out a hand and part the brush. Then, with a nod in that direction he said one word, "Look."
Slowly, Delilah turned her head. Her eyes widened. On the other side of the wall of underbrush the ground disappeared. A narrow, but very deep chasm slashed its way through the forest, its rock walls moist with the water that trickled its way down to the stream bed far below. Trees, perched precariously on the edge of the canyon, had a conspicuous lean and seemed about to lose their balance at any moment. High overhead an eagle screamed.
"Oh, my!" Delilah said weakly. Had the sheriff not halted her when he had, she would have plunged to almost certain death. Dizziness assailed her at that thought, and she swayed. Then, without warning, the world tilted as the sheriff swept her up into his arms as though she weighed no more than a child.
She was about to protest that she could walk, but he only took a couple of steps before setting her down on the trunk of a huge cedar felled by the passage of time. "Stay here," he directed.
"But, Poochie . . . ," Delilah found her tongue only to have her words quelled by a single glance from those intense charcoal eyes.
"I'll look for her."
Delilah didn't begin to breath normally until the sheriff's very large form faded into the dense shadows. She told herself that her breathlessness had been entirely due to exertion, but she suspected she was lying to herself. The man had a very potent and rather overpowering presence, intriguing and disturbing at the same time.
A few moments later, the sheriff materialized out of the shadows carrying a small furball in the crook of his arm. At some point in time he had apparently taken the time to fasten his shirt, for that disturbing expanse of wide male chest was now concealed. As he neared Delilah he said simply, "Her leash got caught on a branch.” Extending a hand to Delilah, he aided her to her feet.
Delilah looked up at him, expecting him to hand Poopsy to her, but he simply stared at her, his dispassionate gaze clinging to her features and doing strange things to her heart. Then, suddenly he reached toward her face. Instinctively, Delilah flinched away from the gesture, her subconscious mind protecting her from potential violence at the hands of a stranger.
He frowned slightly. "It's okay," he murmured. "You have some dirt on your cheek."
Feeling foolish, Delil
ah stood immobile as his warm calloused fingers brushed at the spot and then plucked a small leafy twig from her hair before dropping to her elbow to turn her wordlessly in the direction of the road.
As they walked through the cool, shadowy forest, Delilah couldn't help casting sidelong glances at her companion. She didn't understand how she could feel both safe and threatened at the same time when in his presence, but she did. And it had something to do with the fact that he still looked vaguely familiar.
Something told her that she would be wise to spend as little time as possible in his company. If he wasn't from Red Rock, that shouldn't present a problem. If he was. . . Well, maybe she should just find out. "Sheriff Chambers . . . ?"
He looked down at her. "Ma'am?"
"I don't believe we've been properly introduced, sir. My name is Mrs. Delilah Sterne."
The sheriff reached up with one hand to tip his Stetson slightly. "Pleased to meet you, ma'am. I'm Matt Chambers."
Did the man never smile? Most people automatically smiled when meeting or being introduced to someone, but not the sheriff. "And in what town are you the sheriff, Mr. Chambers?"
"Red Rock, ma'am. Ronnie tells me that's where you're headed."
"Yes.” Well, shoot! Why couldn't the sheriff have been from Butte or someplace?
A moment later they stepped out onto the narrow road and their brief conversation ended. Didsworth was walking back and forth next to his wagon, impatience evident in every line of his body as he slapped his battered hat against his thigh. Spying them, he came rushing forward. "I was startin' to think I'd have to go on without ya, ma'am. Daylight's awastin', an' I don't know nobody who'd try drivin' a wagon over these roads after dark."
Delilah nodded. "Well, I'm here Mr. Didsworth, thanks to Sheriff Chambers.” She turned to the dark enigmatic man at her side. "Thank you, Sheriff."
"Don't mention it, ma'am."
A moment later, Sheriff Chambers mounted his huge black horse. "See you later, Ron. . . Ty.” He tipped his hat in Delilah's direction. "Ma'am.” Then with a light touch of his heels to his horse's flanks and the sound of hoof-beats, he was gone.
Beyond Betrayal Page 3