Beyond Betrayal

by Christine Michels

  They came to the edge of the boardwalk and Matt gripped her elbow more firmly as though to support her when she stepped off to cross the street. Heavens! One might assume her completely incapable of navigating the vast distance between boardwalks without the assistance of a man! A tart statement to that affect hovered on the edge of her tongue, but she merely tugged her arm from his grasp and quickened her step in the hope that he'd get the message.

  "Is something wrong, Delilah?” The humor underlying his tone suggested a combination of intimacy and banter.

  "Wrong? What could be wrong, Sheriff? You know how very much I enjoy your company."

  "'Bout as much as that dog of yours enjoys rain?" he ventured.

  Delilah had to bite her lip to keep from smiling. Blast the man! He did have a certain appeal. "Less," she said. "Much less."

  "I aim to change that."

  "Really?" she asked. "I didn't know you knew any magic?"

  "Magic?"

  "Of course, Sheriff. If I remember my mother's Irish tales of enchantment correctly, there are only two ways to change my opinion of you. Either you become someone else, or you use sorcery on me. Both options require magic."

  "I see.” Samson considered the woman at his side. Even in the moonlight, she was beautiful. His eyes slowly tracked over her, touching upon her face, her very kissable lips, moving over the fat sausage curl that fell artfully from the crown of curls upon her head to rest upon her right shoulder, down to her breasts. Perfect breasts, neither too small nor too large. "Well, I think I might know some sorcery," he murmured.

  They halted in front of the hotel, and Delilah looked up at him. There was a slight frown between her brows. "What kind of sorcery?” Samson was staggered by the innocence in her eyes.

  How could a married woman be so innocent of the ways of men? Of the courting rituals and sexual innuendo? Of kissing?

  "Why don't you let me accompany you to the church social on Wednesday night, and perhaps I'll tell you," he said.

  Delilah stared up at him. "You never give up do you?"

  He shook his head. "Never was a quitter.” Especially when it came to something he wanted as much as he wanted Delilah. "We're meant for each other."

  "What you mean is that you think I'm meant to be your mistress, isn't it?"

  Samson wasn't stepping into that mess again, so he stayed silent. It didn't seem to matter though. Just the memory of that conversation seemed to make her mad as a wet hen all over again. Her lips thinned. Her eyes flashed. And, even in the moonlight, he could see the color in her cheeks deepen. She sure was pretty.

  "No answer, Sheriff? Well, I guess it doesn't matter since you made it perfectly clear the other day what you thought. So my answer is: no, thank you, Sheriff Chambers. I have no desire to be insulted again. Neither do I have any desire to listen to another of your lectures on the evils of my gambling life. I'm here to make the money my sister needs to keep her ranch out of the hands of the bank, and then I'm moving on."

  Samson filed away that piece of information for future reference. It seemed that the ranch wasn't as financially sound as Tom had believed when he'd given Samson the money to hire Colton. But, the money was already in an account at the bank in Colton's name, so there wasn't much he could do about it now. He returned his attention to the woman at his side and the goal he had in mind.

  "Will you go with me if I give you my word I won't lecture you or insult you in any way?"

  Delilah gave a rather indelicate snort. "I don't believe you."

  "Blast it all woman!" Samson said, losing his patience. He didn't know how to woo her let alone win her. "I can't be that bad."

  "On the contrary, Sheriff, I find you insufferable. You profess to admire independence in a woman, yet you say a lady should not gamble while at the same time you have no such strictures against gentlemen. That's an unfair and rather old-fashioned double-standard for this modern age, wouldn't you say?"

  "Old-fashioned!” Samson couldn't believe his ears. Damnation! He wasn't yet thirty years old. How in blazes could he be old-fashioned. "You think I'm old-fashioned?"

  Delilah nodded. "Most definitely. And a bit of a hypocrite as well, I believe. You see nothing wrong in telling me exactly what is required of me to be an acceptable lady, when you yourself fail entirely to act as a gentleman should. In fact, as I believe I once told you, your manners are more suited to the bordellos, sir."

  Damn the woman had a tart tongue! "Anything else?" he asked quietly, warningly. Delilah, however, did not know him well enough yet to take heed.

  "Yes, sir, as a matter of fact there is. I not only have no desire to accompany you to the social, but I am completely indifferent to your presence in my life. Were I to choose a male companion to accompany me to the church social, I would choose a gentleman. So, please leave me alone."

  "Indifferent!” Now that hurt. The blamed woman had about as much snap and sting in her tongue as a bullwhip! But if there was one thing she was not, it was indifferent to him. And he intended to prove it. Before she could protest, he pulled her into his arms. Whether from surprise or because this time she knew what to expect, her mouth was open; ready for his invasion. He took it without hesitation.

  Remembering his determination to overcome her fear of men, Samson immediately gentled his embrace, simply holding her against him as his hands roamed the contours of her slender back, memorizing it even as he committed to memory the shape of her mouth. The way her lips clung to his. The way she tasted. Just holding her was heaven. But it wasn't enough. His sex began to strain demandingly against the confines of his denim trousers. But he maintained rigid control. Until. . . oh-oh.

  Lost in sensation, knowing only that she wanted, needed more, Delilah raised her arms to his shoulders. His too-long hair brushed the backs of her hands with a warm, subtle caress. Heated satin against night-chilled skin. It felt so good. Turning her fingers up, she ran them through the soft hair at the nape of his neck, learning its texture. He groaned deep in his throat, an animalistic needy rumble, and everything within her went still as she strove to interpret the sound.

  Had it been a response to her simple touch?

  What would happen if. . . Slowly, cautiously, she began to kiss him back, guiding her tongue forward to stroke his as he'd been stroking the insides of her mouth. She was rewarded by a reflexive tightening of his embrace and another deep male rumble, almost a growl.

  For the first time in her life, Delilah examined the possibility that, in male-female relationships, women, too, had power: The power to give pleasure or withhold it. It was a concept she'd never imagined, and wasn't yet sure she believed.

  He lifted his mouth from hers for a fraction of a second as he sprinkled kisses over her forehead and temples, and Delilah was vaguely aware that they were moving. In the next instant, she felt the firmness of the hotel wall against her back and realized that he had moved more deeply into the shadows. Upon the heels of that observation came the realization that she was allowing herself to be kissed, very thoroughly, on a public street. No matter that it was after midnight and almost everybody was abed. Someone might see them. But before she could even form the words of a protest, his mouth was back on hers and the brief flash of reason fled.

  At that moment in time, there was nothing Delilah wanted more than the masterful possession of his mouth on hers. Nothing she cared about more than the intoxicating sensation of feeling the fluid steel of his big muscular body beneath her hands. Nothing she needed more than that brief moment of feeling her heart beat in unison with another—just this once no longer alone. Her breasts swelled and tingled, aching with a peculiar heaviness she didn't understand. Instinctively, she moved closer to him, pressing her throbbing bosom more firmly against his hard chest, snuggling closer to the furnace-like heat of his big body. It felt so good to be held in his firm, but gentle embrace. So good. . .

  And then, she froze as she felt something else. Its hardness pressed insistently against the soft flesh of her abdomen. Fea
r poured in upon her and she wrenched her mouth from his. Oh, God! How could she have forgotten? "Let me go, please.” Her words were little more than a whisper. He didn't respond. "Please!" she begged a little more desperately.

  As though he sensed the source of her sudden fear, he tried to comfort her. "I won't hurt you, Delilah," he murmured as he rubbed her back with soothingly warm hands. "You have my word on that.” She made no response. Could find no words to say. "You believe me, don't you?" he asked.

  Hesitantly, because she thought it might make him release her more quickly, she nodded. But, in truth, she didn't believe him. He might not plan to hurt her—not the way Jacob Sterne had—but he would hurt her. How could he help it? The size of. . . that part of him made it incomprehensible that it could be otherwise. How she wished that she could accept that fact as other women seemed to. Perhaps it was the warmth and gentleness they found in their husbands arms that made the other part of lovemaking bearable. She didn't know. But she did know that she simply couldn't accept it. Everything within her rebelled at the mere thought of that horrible invasion of her body. All she could think of was escape.

  "I have to go, Matt," she said as she slowly, unsteadily stepped out of his embrace. Oh, Lord, she had to get away. Away from this man. Away from this town. Away from. . . the horrible conflicting emotions that threatened to tear her apart. "Goodnight," she managed to whisper.

  "Goodnight, Delilah.” His smooth baritone was so gentle, so seductive that tears stung her eyes as she forced herself to turn away. Her knees trembled, but somehow she found the strength to walk toward the hotel doors. She half expected him to say something to stay her, but he didn't, and a moment later she shut the hotel door behind her with a sense of relief. . . and despair.

  Slowly, with renewed exhaustion weighing down her limbs, she climbed the stairs to her room.

  * * *

  The next morning, Samson was in the process of washing up before breakfast when there was a knock at his door. Turning he frowned at it. After a near sleepless night, he'd slept a little later than usual. The result was that he'd missed the church service—which he usually attended. Still, it was early for callers.

  Continuing to frown with a combination of curiosity and impatience, he shrugged into the shirt he'd discarded over the back of a chair the previous night before falling into bed and, while buttoning the garment, answered the door. Mrs. Williamson, one of the town’s most prominent matrons, stood on the stoop with one of her marriageable daughters, Honoria, at her side and a bevy of four or five slightly less forthright examples of Red Rock's ladies arrayed at her back.

  "Good morning, ladies," Samson said.

  Mrs. Williamson tensed slightly upon catching sight of his partially exposed chest, but did not allow herself to be deterred from her course. Fixing her gaze firmly upon his face, she said, "Good day to you, Sheriff Chambers. We were wondering if we might have a word with you?"

  Samson glanced at the sparsely furnished interior of the log cabin the town had provided for his use. Not only was it untidy at the moment, but there were only three ladder-back chairs to be had. "Now's really not a good time, Mrs. Williamson. I'm afraid I don't have enough chairs."

  "It won't take long," she persisted. "And we're quite willing to stand."

  Reluctantly, Samson stepped back. "Then by all means, come in," he said drily.

  He observed their expressions as they stepped into his humble home, trying to see it through their eyes. It was quite obviously the home of a bachelor. Mrs. Williamson noted yesterday's unwashed dishes still stacked in the basin on the table and raised her nose a fraction of an inch. After briefly making eye contact with him, Honoria Williamson's cheeks flamed and her gaze dropped to the rough planking of the floorboards, where it seemed permanently fixed. Mrs. Osbourne's examination found the open door of his bedroom where his unmade bed was in plain sight and her cheeks took on a flush—doubtlessly caused by the direction of her own thoughts. The other ladies centered their attention on him unwaveringly.

  He leaned against the wall and tucked his thumbs into the outside edges of his pant's pockets. "So ladies," he said with a nod as they stood in a semi-circle around him. "What can I do for you?"

  Mrs. Williamson seemed to be their self-appointed spokesperson. "Sir, it has come to our attention that you seem to be spending an unsuitable amount of time in, shall we say, pursuits inappropriate to one of your position in the community."

  "You don't say," he managed to return mildly as he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. The rasp of his calloused palm across his unshaven jaw was the only sound in the room. If there was one thing he didn't like, it was other people telling him what was acceptable for him. Abruptly he recalled Delilah's words of the night before and felt a twinge of guilt. Okay, so he could admit that he understood Delilah's feelings on the subject a bit better.

  Meeting his gaze, Mrs. Williamson took a hasty step back, and Samson realized he must not have controlled the evidence of his irritation as completely as he had supposed. Nevertheless, it soon became obvious that Mrs. Williamson wasn't about to be deterred so easily. "I do say, sir."

  "And what pursuits exactly are we talking about?"

  Mrs. Williamson's thin lips narrowed even further. "Why the pursuit of that little trollop. . .” Samson's gaze sharpened and Mrs. Williamson hastily amended, ". . . er, widow that has taken up residence at the saloon, of all places. She is a lady of questionable character, Sheriff."

  "I believe she has taken up residence at the hotel, not the saloon, madam," Samson corrected her in a deceptively mild tone. "Now let me get this straight. You ladies feel that it is inappropriate for me, as a fine upstanding member of this community," unfortunately his sarcasm seemed to be lost on them, "to pursue a lady of Mrs. Sterne's. . . um, questionable character?" he raised a brow to confirm her wording and when she nodded, he repeated, "Mrs. Sterne's questionable character. Is that about it?"

  "Yes, Sheriff, it is," Mrs. Williamson responded, emboldened once again. "Why she gambles, sir! And the Lord knows she associates with riffraff of every sort in that. . . that saloon.” The way she said the final word left no doubt in his mind exactly what she thought of such places. "It's unseemly. We had expected you to run her out of town long before now. Instead you're. . ."

  "I can't run her out of town for being a gambler, ma'am," he interrupted. "It's a legal profession."

  "But Sheriff, . . . ," Mrs. Osbourne sputtered in defense of her friend.

  Samson held up a hand to forestall her. "If Mrs. Sterne cheats, I can run her out. But so far ladies, she has proved to be the first honest dealer this town has seen in some time."

  "So we just have to put up with this. . . this woman luring decent menfolk into that saloon to lose their hard-earned money," Mrs. Gage spoke from the background, the apparent failure of their cause giving her the courage to speak up.

  Samson made a mental note to check to see if Larry Gage was spending a bit too much time at the gaming table. "From what I can see, ma'am, she's not doing much in the way of luring.” Certainly not where I'm concerned. "And, there isn't a man in there that has a gun to his head. Least none that I noticed."

  "But surely, sir, just because we have to allow her to work here does not mean that you have to. . . to consort with her.” Mrs. Williamson returned to the essence of her purpose. She, after all, had five marriageable daughters as she'd pointed out to Samson on a number of occasions.

  Inwardly, Samson grimaced. He had hoped that he'd deflected that course of questioning by focusing on the gambling aspect of the conversation. But he had an advantage in having been raised by a very Christian mother. "Mrs. Williamson, if you saw a lost sheep, would you not consider it your Christian duty to return it to the flock?"

  Perceiving the direction his question was about to take her, she frowned, but could apparently think of no way to answer the question without seeming uncharitable. "Of course, but. . ."

  "Mrs. Sterne is a lady with a Christian upbringing, ma'am. When
her husband died leaving her penniless,"—he was embroidering, for he had no idea what financial state her husband had left her in—"she was forced to make her way with the only skill she had. Would you do less?"

  She stared at him, not prepared to give up hope yet in snaring him for Honoria. And he knew she certainly wasn't prepared to accept Delilah. But he hadn't left her much maneuvering room. "So your intentions are honorable, Sheriff? And you intend to put a stop to her gambling?"

  Samson nodded as inspiration struck. The question had given him an opening to escape unwanted attentions. "Completely honorable," he assured her.

  Mrs. Osbourne sighed in obvious relief and nudged her neighbor. "There Eliza, what did I tell you. No man would permit his wife to gamble."

  Samson stared at her. His wife? Somehow the words sounded distressingly appealing when associated with his mental picture of Delilah. His wife?

  Uh-oh.

  ~~~* * *~~~

  CHAPTER 10

  ________________________

  Delilah had spent the night pacing her room, only dropping into bed, fully clothed, and falling into a fitful sleep as dawn began to lighten the eastern sky. Now, as sunlight poured into the room and over her face, she woke and groggily blinked at the clock on the nightstand. Good heavens! It was nearly noon. She couldn't remember ever having slept that late in her life. With a groan, she rose to wash her face and make an attempt at pulling herself together. It didn't help. Once again, Matt Chambers invaded her thoughts. Damn the man! Why wasn't he discouraged in the face of her widowhood as other men were?

  Tears stung her eyes. She was too tired to deal with this. Too tired to find the answers she needed.

  All she knew was that she had to get away. Away from Matt and his overpowering, seductive presence. Away from his town. Away from her own confused emotions concerning him. Simply away. But she couldn't go because Eve still needed her. And if she didn't soon start earning some decent money with her gambling, she wouldn't have a hope of helping Eve make the mortgage payment on the ranch. In fact, it was almost too late already. She'd have to win a considerable sum every night from now until the date the mortgage was due to help as she'd promised she would.