They rode in silence for a time. . . until Delilah's stomach growled rather loudly. "What was that?" Matt asked.
Delilah flushed. "Don't concern yourself, Sheriff. It seems that my stomach is protesting the lack of a decent supper."
"What did you have to eat today?"
Delilah thought back. She'd left before breakfast had been served. "I had some pastries around lunch time."
"That's it?"
"Don't worry yourself, Sheriff. I'll have something at the restaurant when I get to the hotel."
"I don't think so."
She regarded the back of his head quizzically. "Why do you say that?"
"The restaurant is closed. It's after eight."
"Oh.” She hadn't realized it was that late. "Well," she said, after a moment's thought, "I'm certain I shall survive until morning. I'm not exactly undernourished."
No, she was nicely rounded in all the right places, Samson concurred silently. The sensation of her nicely rounded breasts pressed up against his back was one that would no doubt invade his dreams for nights to come. Still there was no need for her to go hungry when he had a larder full of food at his place.
"Or perhaps I can get something from Miss Cora's kitchen," Delilah continued, unaware of the direction of his thoughts.
"I told Cora that you might not be in tonight."
There was a second of stunned silence. "Whyever did you do that?"
"When you were so late getting back to town, I thought something might have happened to you. Since I remembered that you'd used the last of my saddlebag whiskey on those cougar scratches, I stopped at the saloon to get another bottle. And, well, it just kind of came out.” He paused, waiting for an angry response, but there wasn't one. That made him even more uncomfortable because he didn't know what in blazes she was thinking. "Are you upset?" he asked, wishing he could see her face.
"No actually, I'm a bit relieved. I'm quite tired and the idea of sitting in that smoky saloon until midnight did not appeal to me. However, I do not want you to think that gives you free rein to interfere in my life whenever the inclination takes you. Is that understood?"
There she went with her school teacher voice again. Samson grinned. "Yes, ma'am."
They were on the outskirts of Red Rock before they finally came upon Jackpot, who was grazing at the side of the road. Rather than dismounting and allowing Delilah to ride her own horse, Samson simply gathered Jackpot's reins, wrapped them around the pommel of his saddle, and kept going.
"I'd like to ride my own horse now," Delilah protested.
"No, ma'am," he said, knowing that should he allow her to ride her own horse she would refuse to accompany him to his home. "You can ride later."
"Why. . . but. . . this is . . . ," Delilah sputtered. "Well, this is very high-handed of you, Sheriff."
"Yes, ma'am."
She didn't seem to know what to say when he agreed with her. Silence prevailed for a moment. Until she noticed he had turned off of main street and was not heading toward the hotel. "Where are we going?"
"I thought I'd take you to my place and cook you an omelet.” Thank goodness he'd taken an hour to clean the place up after the visit he'd received the other day.
"Oh, no! I don't think that's a good idea!"
"You don't like omelettes?" he asked, purposely mistaking her meaning.
"Of course I like omelettes. I just don't think. . ."
"Then don't think. For a change, just do."
A pause. "I'm not sure I can do that," she said quietly.
"Trust me, you can. All I'm going to do is feed you."
Fifteen minutes later, Delilah sat tensely at his table, looking around his spartan cabin as though she'd bolt for the exit at the slightest noise. Samson set about stoking up the fire in the wood stove. "My coffee isn't the greatest, but it hasn't killed anybody yet either, so I figure it can't be all that bad. You want some?" he asked.
She looked at him with blue eyes as big as saucers in her pale face and nodded. "Yes, please. I feel a little chilled all of a sudden."
Samson nodded and took a couple of cups off of the hooks set into the battered sideboard that had come with the house. He wished he knew how to start a conversation that would relax her. But he didn't. Truth was, he wasn't very relaxed himself at the moment.
He'd had an ulterior motive in bringing her here, one he hadn't admitted even to himself until a short time ago. He wanted to tell her about himself. No, he didn't want to, but he needed to. He needed to know how she'd react, how she'd feel about his past before he got himself ensnared any more deeply in this so far one-sided relationship. But now that he'd have her undivided attention, he felt awkward and didn't know how to begin.
Considering the problem, he set about making the omelette he'd promised her, slicing bits of onion and ham into the egg mixture. He supposed he could just ask her if she recalled the name Samson Towers—which of course she had because she'd mentioned Pike showing her his poster—but somehow that seemed a little sudden. He was so deep in thought that when Delilah spoke, he didn't hear her words. "Pardon?" he asked, turning to face her.
"I asked if there is anything I can do?"
He nodded toward the sideboard. "You can set a couple of plates out, if you want. Other than that, I think I've got everything pretty much under control.” He watched her as she moved about the cabin, finding the plates and utensils they would need and setting them on the table. It sure felt good having a woman around. Now, if only he could convince her that she belonged with him, they might have a future. He hadn't decided how long he wanted that future to be as of yet. But he did know he wanted one with her.
But, when the omelette and coffee were ready, he still hadn't decided how to go about talking to her. With the exception of the occasional comment about the weather or the Wilkes's new baby, they ate in silence. Finally, Samson could wait no longer. Once they were finished eating, he'd have no reason to keep her from returning to the hotel.
"Delilah—” She looked up and waited. "I wanted to talk to you about something."
A hint of wariness might have entered her eyes, but she nodded. "All right."
He plunged ahead before he could change his mind. "I. . . I'm not the person you think I am. My name is Samson Towers, not Matt Chambers."
Her eyes widened though he couldn't quite read the expression they held. "I see.” She looked down at her plate. "So why are you going under an assumed name?"
He shrugged. "It's a long story.” Sipping at the dregs of his coffee, he rose to pour another cup for each of them as he sought the words to continue. "I told you that my father was a sheriff, didn't I?” She nodded and he went on. "Well, one of the things my father disliked about being a sheriff was that his hands were sometimes tied by the very law he was supposed to uphold. There were cases where what was morally right was not necessarily what was legally right. He told me never to let myself become the tool of rich and powerful men who knew how to make the law work for them. So, rather than following in my father's footsteps, I chose to become a hired gun. That way, I figured I could choose my fights and what side I wanted to be on.” He shrugged. "I didn't make a heck of a lot of money, of course, 'cause the side I picked was usually poor as church-mice, but at least, unlike my father, I could live without regrets.” He fell silent, remembering. "For a while," he added in a murmur.
"What happened," she asked softly, as though she didn't want to disturb his thoughts.
He shook his head. "Something I never figured on. See, I was good at my job. I watched the way the wind was blowin', picked my battles real careful, and hardly ever lost a fight. And because of that, I started to get a name as a fast gun.” He shook his head again, still unable to believe it. "I just about keeled over from surprise the first time one o' those young guns lookin' for a reputation called me out.
"I managed to avoid killin' him. Heck I beat him to the draw by a mile. He was still tryin' to get his gun out of its holster when I asked him if he wanted me to pull
the trigger or not. Scared the daylights out of him. He ran off and I never saw him again.” Samson looked at her. "I was more prepared after that and usually found a way to avoid the kids."
Delilah nodded, waiting for him to continue, but the next part was going to be the hardest to put into words. Rising, cup in hand, he walked to the window and stood looking out at the darkened streets of Red Rock. The town had become his home. He liked it here. It was quiet—leastways it was now that he'd cleaned it up. He liked the people—most of them anyway. And he didn't want to lose the life he had here. Was he doing the right thing in confiding in her? Yet this conversation had become irrevocable in its conclusion the moment that he'd admitted he was Samson Towers.
"I guess I should have figured that my luck wouldn't last forever and that I'd have to face down some kid eventually. But I didn't. And I was in a little town called Cedar Crossing in Wyoming when I came across a kid that wouldn't bow out. His name was Boyd Telford. 'Course I didn't know at the time that his last name was Telford, or that his daddy was Paul Telford, or that Telford owed the whole blamed town. The young fool was callin' himself Kid Boyd and aimin' to make a reputation for himself no matter what. The first time he came gunnin' for me, I made the mistake of embarrassing him in front of the townfolk by takin' his gun away and kickin' his butt into a water trough to cool him off. He came back the next day, just as I was about to leave town."
Samson stared at the blackness beyond the window, not seeing it or the town or anything but the scene in his mind. God, he hated remembering.
"What happened?" Delilah's voice prompted from the room at his back.
"He was about to shoot me in the back, but I heard the click of the hammer. I drew, turned, saw a man with a gun aimed at me, and fired. It was pure instinct. The same instinct that had kept me alive in my line of work.
"I didn't realize until he lay dead on the ground that it was the kid.” Samson shook his head, swallowing the lump of regret that still lodged there. "Aw, heck, Delilah, he was just seventeen. A kid. But with a Colt six-shooter in his hand, he could kill like a man, and he was bound and determined to do just that.” Samson shrugged. "I wasn't ready to die."
"So, if it was a fair fight, why have you changed your name?"
Samson shrugged. "It was in the minutes following the kid's death that I found out Kid Boyd was Paul Telford's only son. The kid had been spoiled since the day he was born. Paul Telford was one of the most influential men in the territory—had the biggest cattle spread for miles around—and, like I said, he owned that blamed dirtwater town. So, what it came down to was my word against his. A gunfighter against a respected businessman."
He turned to look at Delilah over his shoulder, but she was staring down at the table. "Who would you believe?"
She lifted her gaze to his and he was surprised by the depths of the sorrow he read there. She shook her head. "Weren't there any witnesses?"
"A few. But none that couldn't be bought.” He shrugged. "I'd killed Telford's only son, and he wanted revenge. He was willin' to use the law to get it.
"You know what's really funny is that I've never even met the man. I wouldn't know him if he passed me in the street."
"So, how did you get to be Matt Chambers?" Delilah asked, her tone scarcely above a whisper.
"Telford had men tracking me all over Wyoming territory—it was getting harder and harder to avoid them—so I headed up into Montana. I was travelin' one day when I noticed something in the distance that looked like it could be a downed man. I found Matt Chambers. He'd been on his way to Red Rock to take the job as sheriff when he'd had a run-in with some horse thieves that shot him, stolen his horse and left him for dead. He was gut shot, so there wasn't anything I could do for him except stay with him. And since he was dyin' and not likely to try to arrest me, I told him my story. It was him that suggested that I take his identity and come to Red Rock. Said that that way I'd be able to keep anybody from seein' the WANTED posters Telford was sending everywhere. I figured it was worth a shot, so I took the job. Even swore an oath of office on Chambers' bible.
"After Chambers passed on, I buried him, shaved my mustache, took his spectacles and badge, and came on to Red Rock where I took his identity.” He stared thoughtfully at the streets for a time, remembering, then murmured, "I never could get the hang of wearin' those spectacles. They made me trip over my own feet."
"How long have you been here?" Delilah asked a moment later.
"Goin' on three years I guess. Took the whole first year to clean the place up."
The silence stretched after that, and Samson waited. What was she thinking? Did she hold him responsible for the kid's murder because he'd chosen to live by the gun? Did she understand?
"Samson—”
He closed his eyes. God, it was good to be addressed by his own name. It had been a long time. "Yeah."
"Why have you told me this?"
He turned to face her. God, she was beautiful—even in the yellow lamp light. "Because I like you Delilah. I like you a lot. And I wanted you to know who I am. Who I really am. You know what I mean?"
She considered him silently for a moment. "I think so," she whispered. Then, "Why haven't you tried to clear your name?"
He shook his head. "As long as Telford is alive, it isn't possible. He's too rich and too powerful, and there are too many people out there who can be bought."
Like me, Delilah thought, staring at the big obdurate male whom, only a few hours ago, she'd wanted so badly to get out of her life. For to be blunt with herself, she had to admit that she'd been bought by the reward offered for this man. This man, who had one of the finest characters of any she'd ever known, with the exception of her father. The thought of the wheels she'd set in motion made her want to vomit, and she sought desperately for some thread of hope that what she'd done could work out for the best. "Surely not all the judges are corrupt?"
He shrugged. "Maybe not. But knowing Telford's reputation, I doubt that I'd live long enough to stand trial."
Oh, God! "So you just live another man's life, always afraid that your past will catch up with you? There has to be something you can do? Some way to clear you name?"
He didn't respond and finally Delilah rose from the table to approach him. He must have heard her footsteps but, even as she stopped directly behind him, he didn't turn to face her. Finally, she placed her hand gently on his shoulder. The tense muscle beneath her hand leaped in response. "Matt—?”
He turned, and she reeled beneath the force of the pain in his eyes. "So tell me what you would have me do, Mrs. Sterne."
And as he spoke the name she'd appropriated for her own, Delilah realized with sudden startling clarity that they were not so very different, she and Samson Towers. She too had assumed an identity to protect herself. Only she had been protecting herself, not from a rich man's vengeance or a hangman's noose, but from the ostracism of so-called polite society. Society had insisted on telling her what was acceptable for one in her position, so she had altered her position in the eyes of society and in so doing had found the freedom to live.
"What would you have done?" Samson asked now, in the face of her silence.
Delilah gazed up into his handsome face, into the dark charcoal-grey eyes that, against her will, she'd learned to read, and shook her head. "I don't know.” Probably the same thing you did, she admitted silently, as shame threatened to choke her. She stared into storm-dark eyes burning with pain and need, and felt something within her respond to that elemental call. "Oh, Matt, I'm so sorry."
He frowned slightly, as though not understanding. "Delilah, I . . .” But whatever he'd been about to say faded into oblivion as Delilah, heeding impulse, placed her hands on his broad shoulders and rose onto her toes to place her lips against his. She sensed his surprise as, for a brief moment, he failed to respond. Not knowing quite how to proceed, she was about to break away when, groaning deep in his throat, he swept her into his embrace and deepened the kiss.
His tong
ue invaded her mouth, stroking and coaxing, and Delilah's toes curled. He caressed the soft interior of her mouth, stoking a passion she was only just learning, and her pulse roared in her ears. His hands crept downward to grip the twin cheeks of her bottom, and Delilah's heart fluttered wildly in her chest. More confidently this time, she sent her own tongue forward to explore the mysterious recesses of his mouth, to do erotic battle, and was once again rewarded for her efforts by a very masculine growl.
He broke off the kiss then to feather soft little kisses along her hairline and over her temples. "Damnation woman," he murmured in her ear. "Do you have any idea how much I want you?"
With her eyes still closed, the better to bask in the sensations he bestowed by tracing the whorls of her ear with his tongue, Delilah gasped and shook her head slightly.
"As much as I want my life back," he murmured.
Delilah moaned as a tangled combination of passion and guilt, impossible to separate, rose in her throat.
"Do you have any idea how much I need you?" he whispered.
"No," she murmured as she too sought his ear and lightly nipped the lobe before soothing it with her tongue.
"As much as my next breath," he murmured before slanting his mouth across hers in another consuming kiss.
Tears of self-reproach burned Delilah's eyes as the memory of what she'd done that afternoon intruded on the moment, and she responded to him almost desperately, seeking forgetfulness in the passion he spawned with his caresses. His hand closed over her breast, testing its weight, inflaming the nipple with his thumb through the fabric of her shirtwaist, until Delilah could do nothing but clutch him to her. For he was suddenly the only stability that existed in a dizzying world of pure sensation.
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