Carole Howey - Sheik's Glory

by Carole Howey

  "What happens to the rest of the money?" she could not help asking, although she suspected she would not get an answer. "You're supposed to have made and lost several fortunes, which is no small accomplishment for a relatively young man such as yourself."

  "Young?" he echoed with a small, bitter laugh, glancing at her. "I'm thirty-seven years old, Missy. Not young by any yardstick. And I haven't been young since I was twenty-one."

  "Do you mean to evade my question?" she asked when he offered nothing more.

  His handsome features went smooth and cold as stone, and he stared at nothing somewhere between them. "Yes."

  "Does it go to that woman in Louisville? Antoinette Deauville?" She couldn't stop herself.

  Flynn rolled to his feet beside the bed in a clean motion.

  "This isn't going to work after all, I guess," he muttered, rebuttoning his collar. "And God, I really hoped it would. We could be good together, Missy. But we could also end up hating each other, and I don't want that. I guess I'm just not strong enough for this kind of a relationship. I thought I was. I'm sorry."

  He headed for the door.

  "Flynn, wait." The words leapt from her throat.

  He stopped but did not turn around.

  Missy didn't want a marriage of convenience or of civility any more than she wanted one of deceit, but she realized that if she allowed Flynn to walk out of her room, she was watching any chance she had for happiness go with him. She felt something die inside her, and she wondered if it was merely her pride.

  "If I expect honesty from you, then I think it only fair that I give my full measure in return," she said to his back, glad that he had not turned to face her. "Almost from the moment we met, I've hoped that you could love me, and we might be married, even after I learned about the ranch deed, and what I know of your past. I've told myself time and again that I'm a fool, that a man like you would never give me a second thought. After all, I'm not rich, accomplished, or even pretty"

  "Missy, you don't have to"

  "No, let me finish," she pleaded, although her chest had begun to ache with the confession. "This isn't easy for me, God knows. Let me finish, Flynn."

  He said nothing. She took his silence for assent.

  "There you were in Louisville," she went on quietly. "Looking at me the way no other man had ever looked at me before: like a woman. Like aa desirable woman. Just when I'd decided it would never happen to me, there you were. I know now that it was little more than a schoolgirl crush on my part at first, although God knows at twenty-seven I'm hardly a child. But now that I've known you, lived with you, worked by your side for these three months, I realize that the feeling is different. Deeper. You were a pleasant daydream for me in Louisville, but it's the reality of you that I fell in love with: the way you raced into town behind Bill Boland the day I came back. How you took Lucy in. How patient you are with Gideon, and the way you sometimes tease me to the point of madness.

  "I lived at the C-Bar-C for ten years before you came, Flynn Muldaur, and the fact is I can't remember what it was like here before you came four months ago. I'm dreadfully afraid of finding out what it will be like if when you leave. I think the only thing I can't live with is knowing that I'm the one who's driven you away."

  Missy felt empty, as if she were a pitcher that had poured herself out onto barren ground. She had no idea how much time passed after her last word faded to silence. It might have been a moment or a lifetime. She'd told Flynn everything, virtually stripped herself naked before him. Why didn't she feel better? Why didn't he say something, or at least have the grace to leave without looking back?

  It took him three slow steps to turn around in place. Missy forced herself to look into his oceanic eyes. She saw a bewildering combination of gladness and profound sorrow in his naked gaze.

  "It would take a far harder man than myself to walk away from you, Missy Cannon," he said in half a voice. "And one hell of a lot less in love."

  It had never felt so right to be in his arms.

  "What do you suppose Gideon will say to this?" she murmured to his shirtfront, snuggling closer.

  Flynn kissed the top of her head and squeezed her shoulder.

  "I think he's been hoping for it," he replied, and she could hear the smile in his gentle baritone. "He asks me some of the damnedest questions."

  "Me, too." Missy sighed, realizing that if she never had any more of Flynn than what she had at that moment, it would be more than enough.

  "I have an idea. Suppose we tell him you're going to marry Bill after all?"

  "Oh, Flynn, it's cruel to tease him that way."

  "Of course it is. That's why I want to do it. You don't know what that little imp put me through just to tag along with you and Bill on that surrey ride yesterday."

  "You said he'd bargained for you to do his chores. What else?"

  "Never you mind what else," he told her grumpily. "It was a gentleman's agreement."

  Missy felt a twinge in her stomach that she tried to ignore. She could not prevent herself from wondering, as Flynn held her close, if it was a gentleman's agreement that kept him from revealing his secrets to her, or perhaps something far worse.

  Chapter Twenty

  Allyn

  Marrying Flynn Muldaur on Thursday Stop Sorry you will not be here Stop Sorry have not answered last three letters Stop Will write soon Stop Hope you Joshua Albertine and baby Joshua are well Stop Don’t worry I am fine Stop Have not lost mind Stop

  Missy reread the message several times, especially the closing line, while Dick Wyman waited with his knobby hands flat on the counter.

  ''I close up at four, Miss."

  Wyman's remark was more of a teasing prod than an informative statement: it was only noon, Missy knew. She guessed part of her hesitation was due to the fact that the telegraph message would make Dick Wyman the first person in Rapid City to know about her and Flynn's upcoming marriage a scant two days away. Dick wasn't a hound for gossip like some people she knew, but this kind of news was a tinderbox waiting to be struck. She and Flynn would be lucky to make it out of town with the supplies before they were inundated by curious acquaintances and their well-meaning but invasive interrogations.

  " . . . thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty. Forty words, Dick," she told the telegraph operator. "To Annapolis, Maryland. How much?"

  Wyman squinted at her.

  "Ain't you goin' to let me read it? It'll be a mite tough to send it, 'less I can."

  She held the clipboard and paper in her hand.

  "You'll see it soon enough," she told him, hoping she sounded severe even though she felt more than a little foolish. "How much?"

  He consulted his book.

  "Three dollars and fifteen cents. Forty words, huh? Must be pretty important. You don't usually send Miz Allyn above fifteen at a stretch."

  Missy knew Wyman was just making conversation but she felt a scowl distort her features nonetheless. She fumbled in the pocket of her riding skirt for the money, still holding the clipboard with the message in one hand.

  "Oh, by the way, I hear congratulations are in order."

  "What?"

  Wyman thumbed his striped suspenders with a smug look.

  "I heard you and that Muldaur feller is gettin' married after all."

  Missy nearly dropped the clipboard. "Where did How could you have" Further words deserted her. Wyman looked abashed.

  "Oh, maybe I misspoke," he said quickly. "Bill Boland was to town yesterday, and he said that I mean"

  It was Wyman's turn to stammer himself into silence, and Missy looked at him sharply.

  "What did Bill say?" she inquired, trying to keep a sharp edge out of her voice, not at all sure she succeeded in doing so. "And who did he say it to?"

  "II guess I misspoke." Wyman industriously shuffled the few bills in his money box. "Don't pay me no mind, Missy. You gonna send that thing?"

  Missy debated tearing the thing up unsent, but decided it was more important that she tell Allyn a
nd Joshua her news rather than attempt to fight a blaze that had already consumed half the town. She took some acid satisfaction from the fact that Wyman seemed unable to meet her gaze as she set her coins on the counter.

  "Yes," she said in a tone far cooler than she felt. "Here." She thrust the clipboard at him. "And thank you for your good wishes, Mr. Wyman. Good day."

  She would have paid an extra dollar to see the expression on Wyman's face as he read the message, but she thought a swift exit the most fitting end to the exchange.

  Flynn pulled the loaded buckboard up outside just as she left the office. His brown hat shielded his eyes from the midday sun. He grinned at her, although she perceived the expression to be somewhat forced.

  "You sent your message?"

  She nodded. Her neck felt as stiff as six starched collars.

  Flynn jumped down from the driver's seat and took her elbow gently. If she weren't so furious, she realized, she would probably have enjoyed his courtesy.

  "What's the matter?" He seemed to notice her tension as soon as he touched her.

  "Nothing. Where's Gideon?"

  "I gave him a quarter and left him at the store; told him I'd stop back for him after I fetched you," he reported, scrutinizing her. "What's wrong, Missy?"

  "Never mind. Let's go home."

  "I thought you wanted to stop at the dressmaker's shop."

  Missy gritted her teeth and prayed for patience.

  "I do. I did. I mean, I've changed my mind. I want to go home."

  "Changed your mind, hell," Flynn pronounced succinctly, releasing her arm to hook his thumbs in his belt. He eyed a passerby who seemed a shade too interested in their discussion and the fellow hurried off, averting his gaze. "What happened between the store and here, Missy? Did somebody say something to you?"

  He was giving her a queer look that she might have called anxious if she didn't know Flynn better. There was darned little that jarred Flynn Muldaur's composure. She met his gaze until he broke away and glanced up the street in a very telling manner.

  "You heard something, too, I take it?"

  This time he looked down, and he did it just long enough to confirm her suspicion.

  "Let's go get Gideon."

  That he did not want to answer her made her more uneasy than she had already been.

  The noise, the crowd, and the cloud of dust outside of the general store did nothing to alleviate those feelings.

  Flynn pulled the heavy-laden wagon to a slow, rolling halt.

  "What the"

  He didn't finish his question, but there was no need. It was obvious that there was an altercation going on. There were two boys wrestling in the dirt of the street, and they'd already attracted quite a crowd. Missy, standing in the wagon, could not see the combatants clearly

  but she had a sinking feeling that she knew at least one of them. Flynn vaulted from the wagon and plowed his way through the hollering spectators. Obviously he'd come to the same conclusion as her, only a little sooner.

  The bystanders cleared a path and watched Flynn collar both boys. Gideon was a good head shorter than his opponent, but he struggled mightily against Flynn's restraint despite the ugly swelling of his cheek near his eye. The other fellow, whom Missy vaguely recognized as Tobias Horton, the son of a nodding acquaintance from church, was unmarked, but his shirtsleeve was torn at the shoulder and he appeared to be tiring from the contest.

  "Lemme go, Flynn! I'm gonna make him eat dirt for what he said about Missy!" Gideon's outburst was passionate, but Missy was certain only she could hear the hurt it masked.

  "Stop it. Stop it! Both of you!" Flynn lifted both boys by the backs of their shirts and shook them like rag dolls until their arms flapped at their sides. He held tight to Gideon while he addressed Tobias.

  "Go on back to your folks, wherever they are," he ordered with a stern look.

  "I guess they're in hell!" Gideon was like a fierce wild animal.

  "Guttersnipe!" the other boy jibed.

  "That's enough!" Flynn roared. Both boys, and the spectators, who were mostly other children, fell silent. "Gideon, don't open your mouth again. You're in enough trouble. And as for you"he directed a long, piercing look at Gideon's tormentor” I expect your ma and pa won't be too pleased to hear you were fighting in the street. You'd best be on your way." He let Tobias go and, with a sullen, backward look at Gideon, the bigger boy shuffled off, hands in his pockets.

  Flynn let go of Gideon as well, but he did so too

  trustingly and too soon. Gideon was after Tobias in a wink, landing on his back like an angry beetle, sending the bigger boy face first into the dust. Gideon pressed both hands against the back of his adversary's head, seemingly grinding Tobias's face into the street. The boys watching whistled and cheered.

  "Gideon!"

  Flynn gripped Gideon's arms just below his shoulders and wrenched him away again, lifting him in the air and setting him down some feet away. His victim was slow to get up, and his face, thanks to blending of sweat and dirt, was brown with mud. Flynn held on to Gideon this time, but Gideon showed no intention of escaping again. Apparently he had achieved his goal and was content. Missy was mortified.

  "Sideshow's over," Flynn announced to those gathered, still holding Gideon by one arm. "There's nothing else to see. Go along home."

  Flynn was panting, although Missy knew it was not from the exertion. His blue eyes glimmered like uncut sapphires and there was a tension in his jaw that spoke volumes. Gideon was in for at least a scolding, at worst a tanning. Flynn had paddled Gideon once before a few weeks earlier for worrying the cows. He'd been fair, but firm. Six strokes on the backside with the rug beater. No doubt Gideon's pride had been hurt more than anything, but the boy hadn't spoken to either of them for a day and a half afterward. Neither had he worried the cows again.

  "Get in the wagon." Flynn was curt.

  "I whupped him, Flynn," Gideon crowed, oblivious, it seemed, to the swelling, varicolored bruise on his cheek and to Flynn's humor. "I whupped him good! 'Dja see?"

  "Get in the wagon."

  "He started it! He called Missy a"

  "Gideon!"

  Flynn's bellow drew the attention of several ladies emerging from the store. Missy quickly sat down in the wagon and looked straight ahead, her face doing a slow, steady burn. Gideon clambered into the back of the wagon and wisely did not speak again.

  "We'll talk about this when we get home," Flynn promised him in a low tone that made Missy glad he wasn't speaking to her. "Gentlemen settle their differences in more civilized ways. And they never, ever sucker-punch people."

  "What's a sucker punch?" Gideon sounded subdued, as if the gravity of his offense had finally occurred to him.

  "Hitting someone when they're not looking." Flynn climbed to his seat and picked up the reins. "It's like shooting a man in the back. You don't do it, unless you want a reputation as a coward."

  Missy did not look at Flynn as he clucked to the ponies, but she sensed that he was deliberately avoiding her. She was more relieved than offended. The air was so tense between them that it seemed to crackle and hiss, although it might only have been the heat.

  "Well, you’d’ a done what I did, if somebody said what he said," Gideon defended himself in a mutter.

  "What did he say?" Missy did not really want to know, she realized, but something made her ask.

  "Gideon, you've got to learn that it doesn't matter what people say!" Flynn overrode her question, and Missy had the feeling he'd done so on purpose. "As long as a man can make you mad enough to hit him because of something he says, that man has power over you as sure as if he held a gun to your head. That makes you weak, not strong. Strong is knowing you can beat the tar out of somebody but not doing it. Strong is using your head instead of your fists. Strong is"

  "Hey, Muldaur!" Missy looked up and was surprised to see Bill Boland standing like a stone monolith in the street, blocking their path. He did not look at her. He was staring straight at Flynn, not
moving, obliging Flynn to pull the buckboard to a halt. Missy saw Flynn's grip tighten on the reins, and her stomach clenched. Looking about, she saw perhaps two dozen pedestrians about the long, wide street. Some of them had apparently already noticed the confrontation.

  Missy placed a hand on Flynn's arm and murmured his name. The muscles of his forearm tightened beneath the sleeve of his blue chambray shirt.

  "What do you want, Boland?" Flynn's reply was quiet but equal to the challenge in the older man's address.

  "Wanna talk to you."

  Missy realized at once that Bill was drunk, or at least several drinks beyond what was good for him. He never drank to excess, that she knew, and she grew alarmed for him. And for Flynn. Drunk or sober, Bill Boland was a formidable challenger.