by Carole Howey
"But I think I'll reserve further articles of surrender until I've seen whether or not I can trust you. After all, I've been managing quite nicely on my own for a long time. You cannot begrudge me prudence, Mr.Flynn."
How nice it felt to say his name aloud! She wanted to say it over and over again like a chant, or a song. What a lovely name it was. And oh, what a dangerous feeling it engendered within her.
"That's fine, Missy," he said, so softly that the words scarcely bridged the narrow gap between them. "I can accept that, for now. And I intend to prove myself to you. That'll be a lot easier to do if you at least seem to trust me, too."
Perhaps too easy, a naughty voice inside her scolded. Probably her common sense.
Flynn glanced at Gideon again on the bed.
"I think he's asleep," he whispered. "Why don't you stay here with him and I'll get Lucy to rustle him up some broth? You look like you could use some rest, too. Then when I come up, you can go, uh, freshen up for dinner, if you like. It's nice not to have to think about making it yourself, isn't it?"
Missy could only nod. She felt as if she were strangling on a host of raw emotions. She found herself wondering about this Lucy. She didn't know anyone named Lucy in the area. She wondered if Flynn Muldaur had imported the woman from somewhere and hired her strictly for her culinary skills. Lucy liked to be teased, he'd said earlier, when they were still contending with one another. Staring at Flynn, she saw a line of tears form along her eyelashes. She dared not blink, lest they fall from her eyes and betray her feelings to him.
What had she allowed him to do to her?
What had she done to herself?
She waited until Flynn closed the door behind him before she blinked away her tears. It was too late to cry. The damage was already done. Damn it, women just didn't blush anymore. Not the women he knew. Not like Missy Cannon did.
Flynn descended the stairs slowly, afraid he might fall ass over teakettle if he tried to take them at his usual brisk pace. He was shaking, and he knew why, and both facts bothered the hell out of him. He'd wanted to be in complete control of that interview. He'd needed to be. Hell, he had been. Then Missy Cannon had looked up at him and blushed like a schoolgirl. . . .
Flynn shook his head as he gained the first floor. Nothing had gone right the whole blessed afternoon, from the time Bill Boland had ridden up on his sharp, fast gelding. Then the scene multiple scenes, really with Missy. And finding out she'd taken in that stray, Gideon, who'd knocked him on the head with a bucket in Louisville.
Not that he had anything against orphans; far from it. He wasn't much more than one himself, him and Seamus. But except for their own foster mother, who had died far too young, he could not recall another woman in his experience who so gamely took on challenges like the Missys of the world. Or of running a ranch.
Or of making wary pacts with devils like Flynn Muldaur.
Hell and damn, he should have tried harder to sell his half of the ranch when he'd had the chance. He should have guessed he'd be too softhearted, when push came to shove, to use a woman like Missy the way he and Seamus needed to. But how could he have known such a thing? he demanded of himself, massaging his chin. After all, the only women he'd known as an adult male were women like Madeleine and her viperous mother.
And her daughter.
Damn them. Damn them all!
God, he'd come down here to do something. What was it? If he couldn't remember, Missy would surely think him an idiot, which, he knew, would not be the worst she must think of him at the moment.
But how she longed to trust him! It was so obvious in her eyes. Her eyes longed for so many things. And Flynn found himself, to his alarm, wanting to be the one to give her those things, and more, in abundant measure.
Dusty, breathing hard, Micah Watts slipped into the small foyer, dragging his gray hat from his head as he did so. Flynn bit off an urge to chew the foreman out for coming in the front door, but Micah wasn't to blame for his sudden foul humor. It wasn't fair to take it out on him.
''Oh! Uh, howdy, Mr. Flynn." Micah always called him that, and it always annoyed Flynn. "I wuz justuh, them mares is here. The fellas took 'em on out back. I come in to ask Lucy for a cuppa coffee from a fresh pot. That trail has me parched."
Lucy. The broth for Gideon. Thank you, Micah, Flynn thought, stifling a sigh of relief.
"Well, go on, then." He waved the foreman ahead.
Micah stood there scratching his head of thinning, dull hair. He looked like a confused prairie dog. Flynn wanted to laugh.
"Is there something else?" he inquired with forced patience.
"Well, I followed the wagon, and I noticed from about a mile back there was a trail, like as if somethin' was leakin' from the wagon," Micah mused, as if to himself. "I had to stop once to check a shoe, and them mares found it right tasty. Seems it was molasses."
Flynn frowned. Molasses? But Gideon . . . The stomachache . . .
He didn't know whether to laugh or to box the boy's ears. What was that scamp up to?
"Oh, there's somethin' else." Micah struck each of his various pockets as if he were killing lice. Finally one crackled. He pulled out a folded piece of paper with his thumb and two fingers. "A telegraph message come for you. From New Orleans. Dick Wyman said it came in just this mornin', or he'd have had it brought out here straightaway."
Chapter Twelve
A telegraph message from New Orleans could not be good news. Flynn's heart, which had felt oddly swollen and tight in his chest moments before, suddenly plunged to some area below his belt. He eyed the paper in Micah's fingers, wishing he could use it to light a cigar and blow away the ashes.
Seamus, he reminded himself, straightening. The "good" Muldaur brother. The one Ma and Pa would have been proud of. For Seamus, he took the paper from Micah and unfolded it.
Micah shifted his weight to one foot. Flynn arched an eyebrow at him.
"Weren't you going to get some coffee?"
"Yeah. Oh. Yes sir." Micah bobbed his head and ambled by him, back toward the kitchen.
"Tell Lucy I need some kind of broth, or something to cosset a sick stomach," Flynn called after him, remembering Gideon again. By God, if the boy was going to pull stunts like spilling molasses out of wagons and pretending to be sick from having overindulged for God alone knew what reason, he, Flynn, would quickly teach him the folly of his ways. He hoped Lucy could rustle up something suitably awful for the little liar.
Micah made a sound of acknowledgment as he ambled off. Flynn took his telegraph message and went into the parlor, sliding the oaken door shut behind him. He carried the paper over to the window and squinted at Dick Wyman's neat but cramped handwriting.
Deauville asks five thousand, he read. Says you are greatly in arrears.
It was signed S. Muldaur.
What the hell was Seamus doing in New Orleans? Flynn fumed inwardly, crumpling the paper in his fist. And why was he telegraphing him? They had agreed from the very beginning that it was best for Seamus and his career that he have no direct contact with his younger, more reckless brother, Flynn. Why had Seamus broken that pledge now, after nearly a dozen years of silence? Surely he knew what a calamity he was inviting by doing so!
Flynn drew in several steadying breaths and tried to think. Seamus, a Harvard graduate, was not an idiot. A fool at times, perhaps, but what man was not, particularly when a beautiful woman was involved? Seamus had been impetuous in his youth Madeleine and her daughter were proof enough of that but never stupid. Not even when he'd fallen in with that nest of smugglers in his early days as a congressman. He'd been desperately in debt and in need of funds. Besides, he'd been in love then, not stupid.
But maybe the two were not so very far removed from one another.
Flynn, filled with anger he could not unleash, expelled a hard breath. Seamus had not sent that telegram, he realized suddenly. It had come from Madeleine herself. It was her not-too-subtle way of telling him that she had waited long enough for promised
funds, and that she had precisely the correct wedge to shove beneath his wheels if he thought he was going to escape her clutches. Damn her!
This was doing no one any good, he reflected, jamming the note into his vest pocket with two forceful fingers.
"You were going to bring up some broth." Missy's voice, behind him, was accusing. "What happened?"
"And you were going to rest." He congratulated himself on the ease of his reply despite her ambush. "Why have you come down?" He faced her, hoping to see her blush again. He was pleased to see that she obliged him, even if she did look quickly away.
"As weary as I get from travel, I always seem to revive when I return home," she answered. There was a snow globe on the table before her. She picked it up with surprisingly graceful fingers, shook it, then watched the white flakes slowly descend on the tiny house, tree, and horse-drawn sleigh inside. Flynn was sure she did it only to avoid looking at him. The thought made him feel sad in a way he did not fully understand.
"I've never had a home I felt that way about," he heard himself say softly. "You're very lucky."
How was it, he wondered, watching her, that Missy had such a way of making the harsh world vanish for him? It was as if her sphere existed in one of those glass bubbles, untouched by the wicked realities of day-to-day living that made a hell on earth for other people.
A shudder went through him. Whether she knew it or not, and he very much doubted she did, he had brought those ugly realities to Missy Cannon's doorstep. How long, he wondered, swallowing a bitter mass in his throat, until they forced their way inside?
Missy put down the globe as if she'd made a momentous decision about something. He wondered what that decision might be, and how it might affect him. Trailing her fingers along the lace table skirt, she turned to him. Her pale, silvery eyes pierced him with their innocent, frankly hopeful expression.
"Perhaps," she ventured, in a voice as soft as the late-afternoon sunlight warming the room, "you have found such a home right here. As disturbing as this’ll of this is to me, I can only think it would be a good thing for a man of your type."
Flynn closed his eyes against the emotions her words, and her tone, inspired within him. As guileless as Missy was, even she would surely find him out if he allowed her to look. He could not afford the luxury of sharing himself with anyone, least of all Missy Cannon.
Or was she truly as guileless as she seemed?
He opened one eye.
"A man of my type?" he inquired, opening the other eye. "I'm not sure I know what you mean."
The blush that flooded her face told him she had no wish to be any more specific.
"And you'll forgive my skepticism," Flynn went on, feeling an anger which was not her fault, "but that seems an odd sentiment from someone who'd just as soon see me gone from the C-Bar-C."
Missy looked stricken.
"You would like to see me gone, wouldn't you, Missy?" he prodded, unable to stop the anger he was aiming at her as if it were Madeleine Deauville standing before him instead of Missy Cannon. "At least, that's what you've been telling me all along."
"I . . ."
She was silent after that one strangled word. Flynn's hands fell to his sides. There wasn't much distance between them, but he closed that, stalking her until the lapels of his vest brushed the snow-white front of her shirtwaist. Her eyes grew wide with fright, and Flynn relished that fright even as he loathed himself for having caused it.
"Well?" he demanded, taking hold of her arms. "It's the truth, isn't it? You'd rather I just packed up and left, wouldn't you? Why stand here with me now and pretend I'm another helpless, homeless stray, like the conniving little brat in the bed upstairs? Why pretend you want to mother me as you will him, and like you do your stock, because you haven't a husband or any real children of your own to shower your affections on?"
Her iridescent eyes blinked once, and the blink washed away the surprise and hurt he'd first seen in them, leaving only cold steel fury in their wake. She's going to strike me, he thought, with an odd sense of detachment. And I deserve it.
"Take your hands off me, Mr. Muldaur." There was a January blizzard in the room despite the warm May sunshine from the windows. "At once."
But he did not want to take his hands off her. The flesh of her arms yielded enticingly to his grip and he knew he wasn't hurting her. Not physically, in any event. Missy Cannon was a hardy woman, more than capable of dealing him a blow that would at least smart, and at worst send him to the floor, unconscious. He was certain of it. Staring into her cold platinum gaze, though, he saw that his verbal blow had struck much deeper than mere physical hurt. And he thoroughly hated himself for it.
He hated himself so much that he suddenly wanted to kiss her to take the hurt away.
She was panting. Each outraged breath she drew pressed her breasts against the soft calfskin of his vest. He wondered if she could feel his own heart hammering in his chest even as he felt the soft heat of her womanliness before him.
Damn, he wanted her.
He leaned forward, intending to capture her lips with his own. Her breasts pressed against the pocket of his vest with a resulting crackling sound as the note inside was crushed. The noise brought him abruptly to his senses.
"I'm sorry," he growled, releasing her at last, turning away lest she perceive the heat in his face. "Christ, I'm sorry, Missy. I'm . . ."
He flexed his hands, longing to punch something. How could he explain to her, without compromising either himself or Seamus, the reason for his behavior, which must seem odd to her in the extreme? The answer was devastatingly simple: He couldn't. Not now. Probably not ever.
And why would Missy care, anyway? The Deauvilles were his problem, his and his brother's. Long ago he had made a pact with Seamus, then already a promising freshman congressman, before his own life had any sort of shape or definition beyond government Secret Service. It had seemed perfectly logical at the time, even though he'd liked his somewhat unconventional job and was good at it. But of the two of them, Seamus was the one with more education and a far better chance at succeeding in the world, thanks to the friendships he'd cultivated at the university. Little had Flynn dreamed then that he might someday meet a woman who would make him question everything he thought he knew of the sex.
A woman with just enough sass to make him wonder if her lower lip might taste like lemons . . .
His legs weakened treacherously.
"I'm sorry," he said again, although this time his tone, he knew, was flat. He felt as if he'd been sucker-punched and had the breath knocked out of him. He could only imagine what his cruel words had done to her.
"You mustn't be sorry." Her voice was tight. Caustic as lye. "At last I know what you truly think of me. It's actually a relief to have it out in the open, to have no more uncertainly about it. I've always thought of myself as a plainspoken woman, I guess I can hardly take offense when someone speaks so plainly to me in turn. Perhaps I should even thank you for it, although I expect you'll forgive me if I don't."
"Jesus, Missy"
"I will, however, thank you not to blaspheme in my in the house." She cut him off as if she wielded a well-honed knife. "I'm trying to teach Gideon better manners and language and though I may not be his mother, as you and he have both so kindly pointed out to me in your own charming ways, I do have a responsibility, as his guardian, for his moral upbringing."
Wiping all emotion from his face, Flynn forced himself to look at her again. Missy's features were equally composed, although she looked pale as a corpse. She was putting a barrier between them, as surely as if she were drawing a line or building a wall. As bad as that made him feel, he could not deny a sense of relief that she was doing it, for he knew it had to be done, and he possessed neither the strength nor the wisdom to do it himself.
Still, in order to make her do it, he had hurt her. And for that he would never forgive himself.
One more sin to the epic tally of Flynn Muldaur, he told himself. He opened his mou
th to try to defend himself, but he was spared by the opening of the parlor door.
"Broth don't cure what rotgut causes!" A cheerful feminine voice preceded the ripe young form of Lucy Battle into the room. Bearing a bowl on a tray, the cook took three steps forward before she looked up, spied
Missy, and stopped as if she'd been shot. Muldaur heard a hammering sound in the distance. He dismissed it, deciding it was probably nothing more than the final nail in his coffin.
Faced with the merry young cook, Missy could no longer deceive herself as to the reasons for Muldaur's hiring of her. As reality crushed her, she tried to speak in a normal tone of voice.
"You must be Lucy." She sounded almost too normal. She cleared her throat. "I'm Missy Miss Cannon. Surely Mr. Muldaur told you about me."