Beyond Betrayal

by Christine Michels

  Suddenly he spoke again, tugging her gratefully from the dangerous direction of her musings. "Actually, size is a family trait. My father was a big man too, as are my uncles. We have contests to see who's the strongest whenever the clan gets together.” He looked up at Delilah, and she thought he almost smiled. "I won last time for the first time," he said. "It wasn't easy. Took a lot of practice."

  Delilah began to remove the binding she'd put on his ribs earlier in the day. Blood had soaked through in a number of places. "And how does one practice for a contest of strength?" she asked, purposely focusing on the conversation rather than on the man.

  "By lifting tree trunks, dragging stone-beds and the like."

  "I see.” Delilah dropped the soiled bandages into a pile on the floor. "It sounds like an awful lot of work. Is there a prize for the winner of this contest?"

  "It wouldn't be a contest without a prize."

  "So what did you win?"

  "Let's see. I got one of Aunt Mazie's prize-winning crab apple pies. A fancy embroidered shirt from Aunt Carlotta. A bowie knife from Uncle Dustin. And a real nice hand-carved leather belt from Pa.” He sounded a bit wistful.

  "You miss them?" she asked.

  He nodded. "My father was killed shortly after that."

  Delilah dipped a cloth in warm water and knelt at his side to begin cleaning some of the gouges marking his midriff. Then, pouring some of Fong's whiskey onto a clean dry cloth, she repeated the process. Samson sucked in air through his teeth as he felt the sting, but made no comment.

  "How did it happen?" Delilah asked.

  Silence.

  She looked up into his face, saw a new tension settle in the lines around his mouth. Pain? Grief? "Forgive me. I shouldn't have asked," she said. "I didn't mean to stir painful memories."

  He nodded. Then, when Delilah had begun to think he would say nothing more, he said, "He was killed by a gambler in Green River.” Delilah's hands froze in mid motion, but Matt didn't seem to notice. "He stepped in when a young, newly married farmer called the dealer on cheating and was about to be killed for his trouble. Of course the young fool shouldn't have been gamblin' in the first place, and if the dealer hadn't cheated, Pa wouldn't have stepped in. But he was never been able to abide cheats and swindlers."

  "Was your father a lawman, too?"

  "Yes."

  She didn't know what to say, so she said the only thing she could. "I'm sorry."

  He made no reply. The only sounds in the room were the crackling of the logs in the stove and the more subtle hissing of the coals in the fireplace. Delilah felt judged in that silence. Judged and condemned without benefit of trial.

  "Listen, Sheriff, I can understand how that experience could affect your view of gamblers, but, just as all lawmen are not created equal, gambling is a profession chosen by many different types of people. Some good, some bad. I neither cheat nor steal, Sheriff, and I would never kill anyone over a game of cards."

  He looked at her, looking deep into her eyes as though to see her soul. Finally he asked, "Do you lie?"

  Confused, Delilah looked at him. "Pardon me?"

  "People usually say they don't lie, cheat or steal. You left out the lyin' part. So. . . do you lie?" he reiterated.

  Delilah shrugged. "I think we all lie when it suits us, don't you? I'd be very surprised indeed if I met a person who could swear they had never uttered a single prevarication."

  Matt nodded and silence fell for a few moments as Delilah worked. It was Matt who broke that silence first. "You might think you'll never cheat, but, given the right set of circumstances, you will. You're a gambler.” He shrugged. "When you feel it's necessary to cheat, you'll simply gamble on not getting caught. But. . . ” Extending a finger, he lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze again. “But," he continued, "do it in my town, and you will be."

  "Is that a threat, Sheriff?” To Delilah's chagrin, the words she'd meant to sound challenging, emerged huskily, almost breathlessly.

  "Yes."

  Delilah jerked her chin from his grasp. "I don't like threats, Sheriff Chambers."

  He shrugged. "I don't think I've met anybody who does," he returned casually. The message was clear. "And don't you think it's about time you started calling me Matt."

  "Why?" she asked. "It smacks of familiarity. And I really don't want to know you any better, Sheriff."

  For an endless moment, he looked at her, holding her gaze. Then he murmured, "Liar."

  Managing finally to tear her gaze away, Delilah inadvertently poured an excessive amount of Fong's potent whisky onto the deepest scratches. Nevertheless she felt a certain gratification to hear Matt suck in another breath through his teeth. Served him right!

  But he was like a dog with a bone once on a particular topic of conversation, and he pursued it relentlessly. "I think you do want to know me better."

  "And I think you're presuming a lot."

  "Really? Well, regardless, I'm going to call you Delilah," he said. "Somehow Mrs. Sterne just doesn't suit you."

  "And you think Delilah does?” She'd always disliked her name. Neither she nor Eve had been able to understand why they'd been named after the two women in the bible most famous for their fallibility. But, it seemed that their mother had simply liked the names and no connotation had been intended. "I would have thought you might find my name a bit off-putting considering the less-than-honorable character associated with the biblical personage."

  There was a brief pause, imbued with a significance that Delilah failed to grasp and then he said, "I had thought of that actually."

  She looked up at him. "And?"

  He shrugged. "Well, you know the saying: Forewarned is forearmed."

  "This is going to hurt," Delilah advised, just a fraction of a second before poking the small needle through the edge of one of the wounds. His stomach muscles contracted in reaction, but he said nothing. Curiously stimulated by their verbal sparring, Delilah returned to their previous conversation. "Does that mean that you think I'm capable of betraying you should the opportunity arise?"

  He considered her for a moment with his hard, charcoal eyes. Finally, he said, "Capable? Oh, yeah. But I would hope, not willing."

  She glanced up at him. "You don't have a very high opinion of me, do you?"

  "Actually, I have a higher opinion of you than of most people. You're resourceful, independent, ambitious, and beautiful.” He frowned for a fraction of a second and added, "A mite misguided maybe. Still, that's not a combination often seen in a woman."

  He does find me attractive! The words sang through Delilah's brain before she remembered that she didn't care a fig whether he found her beautiful or not. "Well, Sheriff, I'm hardly going to thank you for such a backhanded compliment. Nevertheless, I am gratified to learn that a man can appreciate my independence. Few do."

  "Matt," he reminded her. "And sure, I admire independence in women. An ambitious and independent woman can go far. A bit of firm guidance from a supportive husband is all that's needed to—” Delilah's hand froze, and this time he seemed to sense it.

  "To what, Sheriff?" she asked in a deceptively quiet voice.

  He cleared his throat. "Could you maybe. . . uh, just finish that stitch?" he asked.

  Delilah looked down and noticed that she'd halted in mid stitch, with the needle imbedded in his flesh. She finished the stitch and then realized that the other gash that needed stitching, being more centered on Matt's abdomen, was beyond her comfortable reach for stitching. She could try to accomplish the task anyway, by extending her arms and doing the best she could from the side, but she'd be unable to see it properly. The best position was to move between his sprawled knees and accomplish the task from that position. Such a situation, however, suggested a degree of intimacy that immobilized Delilah.

  He sensed her hesitation. "Is something wrong?"

  Delilah jumped as though she'd been scalded. "No, of course not," she said quickly. Too quickly? He stared at her strangely. "I. . . I'm j
ust tired.” The excuse was weak, but it was the best she could come up with. "Could I get you to turn to the side?” Perhaps if she worked from his other side, it would be less awkward.

  "Sure thing.” He swung his legs to the side as per her request.

  If only the gouge was not so near. . . the center of his waistband. There was no help for it; she had to finish this and she wouldn't get it done from here.

  Before she could change her mind, she extended her arms to begin working on the injury and desperately sought the cord of their conversation. "Now then," she said, "do you want to continue with what you were saying?"

  He considered. "Actually," he said. "I think that discussion might be best left for another time."

  "Just when you'd managed to get my undivided attention."

  "Well. . . maybe I'll reconsider," he murmured. His voice held a note that Delilah hadn't heard before. A husky, suggestive note, slightly tight. "I think I like the idea of having your undivided attention."

  Oh, Lord! He sounded. . . provocative! Her hands trembled as an impossible combination of dread and excitement swept through her.

  ~~~* * *~~~

  CHAPTER 7

  ________________________

  Samson looked down at the woman kneeling at his side and damn near choked. Though he could tell from her expression that the position she'd adopted was completely innocent on her part, and was simply necessary for providing the medical care he needed, he couldn't help finding her posture extremely erotic. Her hand was scant inches from a certain part of him. And that certain part was definitely taking notice, reminding him of just how long it had been since he'd been with a woman.

  "Delilah . . . "

  "Yes?” Her concentration remained on the stitch she was tying.

  "Look at me," he whispered, reaching out to lift her chin again. It seemed he was always doing that for she seemed curiously reluctant to meet his gaze. But this time, even though he raised her chin, she kept her eyes averted. "Look at me," he said again.

  In an almost imperceptible motion, she shook her head.

  "Why?" he asked, subtly stroking the soft skin beneath his fingers. He hoped she was getting used to contact with him. That she would stop fearing him.

  "I think it's best if I finish your dressing and we say goodnight."

  Samson studied her face for an endless moment, from her flawless creamy complexion to the exotic arch of her midnight-black brows. From her slightly uptilted eyes to her rosy pink lips. From the delicate shell of her ear to the corkscrew strand of hair that brushed the rosy slant of her cheekbone. "All right," he said finally, releasing her, though the words cost him. He didn't think he'd ever wanted anything quite so badly as he wanted to taste Delilah's oh-so-kissable mouth.

  He sensed more than heard her sigh of relief. Damnation! How was she ever going to get over her fear of men if she didn't let one touch her? Preferably him.

  He watched as she quickly completed the last few stitches and then rose. She scooped up the soiled dressing that had once been her petticoat, throwing it into the stove fire and then put away the needle. The more he observed her, evaluated her reactions, the more he realized that Delilah was a woman of contradictions. She'd been married, yet she was obviously quite discomfited by the sight of his naked torso—though she had disguised it well by talking incessantly. She feared the touch of a man, yet she claimed her husband had not abused her. According to what she'd said earlier in the day, she resented the unpaid servitude of being a wife in a loveless marriage, yet she evinced to have been so happily married that she could not stop mourning her husband.

  "If you'll stand up now," Delilah said, "we can get a clean bandage on and we'll be finished."

  "Sure thing, ma'am.” He stood and moved a bit away from the chair.

  Delilah pushed the whiskey out of her way as she collected a couple of padded dressings. Realizing for the first time that the whiskey had a strange greenish tinge to it, Samson frowned. "What exactly is that stuff," he asked.

  She looked to see what he was pointing at. "It's Fong's homemade whiskey. Apparently he makes it especially for disinfecting injuries."

  Pressing a wadded dressing over the worst of the scratches, she directed him to hold it while she prepared a strip to tie it in place. As Samson looked down at her, at the vulnerable nape of her neck as she worked on him, he knew he could not. . . would not keep his word.

  Finished securing the bandage, she tightened the last knot and said, "There, that should hold until you get a chance to have the doctor look at it."

  "Thank you," he said quietly. He'd hoped that she'd look up to respond, but she only nodded and began to turn away. Instinctively, he reached out to halt her and then stared down in surprise at his own hand where it gripped her shoulder. "Delilah—"

  "Yes?” The word came out in a whisper.

  But he couldn't remember what it was he'd wanted to say, so he simply grasped her other shoulder and turned her toward him. Then, wordlessly, he once again lifted her chin, bringing her gaze up to meet his. The apprehension he saw shining from those beautiful blue eyes was like a kick in the gut. He wanted to hold her and protect her from her fear. But he couldn't protect her from himself so he lowered his gaze to her pouty mouth. Her full lips trembled. The tip of her tongue darted out to moisten them, leaving them glistening and he groaned deep in his throat, knowing he was lost. He'd simply have to prove to her that she had nothing to fear from him.

  Lowering his head, he captured her lips with his. She stood frozen in his grasp, neither responding nor pulling away. Confused, he gently drew her into an embrace, reveling in the sensation of holding her soft woman's body next to his even as he sought the clues he needed to tell him how she felt. But there were none. Lingeringly, deliberately, he stroked her full lips with his tongue. He felt her tremble. Heard her breathing quicken.

  Yes! But still she didn't open to him.

  Slowly he drew back to look down into her face. Her eyes were closed, the midnight lashes fanning against her flushed cheeks. Her lips gleamed from his kiss. And yet her arms hung at her sides.

  Baffled by the mixed signals he was receiving, but resolved not to give up on this yet, Samson let his hands slide down her arms to her hands which he lifted and placed on his shoulders. She opened her eyes then to stare at him dazedly. "Open your lips for me, darlin'," he murmured.

  "Wha. . ." but she didn't get any further because he captured her lips again, plunging his tongue into the moist warm hollow of her mouth. Damnation, she tasted good. Sweet. He’d always had a sweet tooth.

  He caressed her tongue with his, expecting her to reciprocate, to show some kind of response, but again he was disappointed. She stood passive in his embrace, her breathing suggested that she was as aroused as he, but she did not react overtly in any way. His frustration grew. What in blazes? Did she want this, or didn't she? Where was the experienced lover he'd expected to find?

  Finally, his patience snapped and he released her mouth. "Goldarnit woman!" he exclaimed in a tone scarcely above a whisper, ever mindful of those who might be listening from behind closed doors. "Will you quit kissin' me like a blamed virgin."

  He regretted the words the instant Delilah opened her eyes and he saw the hurt flare in those brilliant blue depths.

  "Ah, heck. I'm sorry . . . "

  But it was too late. The hurt transformed to anger so swiftly that, had he blinked, he might not have seen it at all, and she pulled from his embrace, turning toward the table. "I apologize if my lack of expertise prevented you from enjoying the kiss, Sheriff," she said. Her words, although low, were clipped. "But I've never . . . ” She broke off.

  Samson studied the tense lines of her slender back. A vague suspicion began to come to life in his mind. "Never what?"

  "I've never before met a man boorish enough to comment on it," she concluded. Samson was almost positive, though, that was not what she'd been about to say. "Perhaps your own tastes are more suited to the bordellos, Sheriff.” She bega
n bustling about putting away the remaining bandages and whiskey.

  Samson put his shirt back on, not bothering to button it. He was still trying to figure out what to say, how to negate the effect of his unruly tongue when Delilah began to walk toward her bedroom door saying, "Goodnight, Sheriff," over her shoulder without so much as glancing in his direction.

  "Delilah . . . "

  She halted, but did not turn.

  "I didn't say that I didn't enjoy the kiss. I enjoyed it. Very much."

  Without a word, she opened the bedroom door, stepped inside, and closed it again. Samson clenched his fists in frustration and muttered a very foul word under his breath. She'd probably never let him kiss her again.

  * * *

  Delilah leaned against the door, closed her burning eyes against the sting of tears, and pressed a shaking hand to her throat. She'd just experienced her first real kiss, and it had been a disaster. Not only had Matt made it crystal clear that he was sadly disappointed by her lack of expertise, but he'd then compounded her mortification by claiming that he'd enjoyed it anyway. But why hadn't he felt the same things she'd felt?

  She'd been completely unprepared for such a carnal exchange. Hadn't even conceived that such kisses existed. It had been absolutely unlike the chaste meeting of lips she'd shared with the neighbor boy she'd thought to marry once long ago—in another life, it seemed. This kiss had been. . . exhilarating in a strange way. It had been warm, exciting, and very, very pleasant to be held in Matt's strong arms. To be cradled so gently against that big body. To finally experience the kiss that, despite all her fears, she'd been wondering about. It had been almost frighteningly foreign, and yet delicious at the same time. She'd never before experienced that strange melting sensation inside. Or the peculiar sense of light-headedness that should have been unpleasant, but was not in the least. And now that she had, she was more than simply afraid. She was terrified.