Memory Whispers

by Angel Smits

  “Now’s as good a time as any to learn.” His big, warm hand cupped her elbow, distracting her. Gently, he guided her to the table, and she leaned against the wooden rail as she’d seen the others do. She stared at the grid of numbers painted on the green felt.

  “Name’s Cord Burke.” His voice rose as the din of the crowd grew. “What’s yours?”

  She stared a moment. Cord? As in whipcord tight muscles? As in corded abs? She was losing it now. Tearing her gaze from his big, solid body, she looked into his eyes. “Faith McCoy.” She automatically reached for her business card then realized she’d left her purse in her room.

  “Nice to meet you,” he said, his hand engulfing hers in a warm shake.

  “I don’t have any money with me.” Relief washed over her, and she turned to leave, but no such luck. His long, tanned fingers curled around hers, gentle but solid. The hands of a working man used to control and self-assurance. She tried to step back, but he held firm.

  “Luke, give us a stack.” His voice was too close to her ear. Too close to her heart. She pulled away from his grasp, and he let her go, but she didn’t step away. Intrigued, she stayed to watch.

  The man behind the wheel slid a stack of green chips across the table with a wooden stick. Cord tossed a chip onto a square in the grid. The wheel spun around before she could think, and her mind spun with it.

  “Black four,” the man behind the wheel called.

  “Looks like you won,” Cord said. Laughter built tiny lines around his eyes.

  “I did?” She stared at the two stacks placed next to the previous one. She had no clue what the black and green chips were worth, but laughter bubbled in her throat. This was fun.

  “Wanna let ‘em ride?”

  She shook her head, knowing there was no way the same number would come up again. A chuckle escaped Cord’s chest, a rich hearty sound, and he scooted half the stack to a red square.

  “The lady’ll go another round.”

  The little white ball bounced in and out of several slots before coming to rest on red twenty-three. Faith stared in dismay at the new stack of chips. “Oh, my.” She looked over at her gambling partner. He wasn’t even looking at the chips. Instead, his gaze nearly burned a hole through her.

  She swallowed the tightness in her throat. Had she imagined the flare of awareness in his eyes? Her breath came in shallow gulps as she tried to clear her mind. What was she doing? She glanced at the gamblers around her. Cigarette smoke drifted to the ceiling, and in the distance coins hit metal and bells rang out to form a deafening roar.

  Suddenly, Cord Burke’s features filled her view. He seemed to be moving closer. Her gaze riveted on his lips. Wide and firm . . . and warm. She met his gaze, deep and blue, and his eyes lost their distance. She found herself staring into a soul filled with anger and pain.

  “What do you want from me?”

  His words startled her. She pulled away from him—from his disturbing touch and the realization that she wanted him to lean closer and place his lips on hers.

  Tearing her gaze from his, she looked down at the floor—anywhere but into his questioning eyes. Two large, boot-clad feet were planted close to her bare ones. Dark leather boots . . . threatening and powerful, yet sexy. She suddenly felt very small and out of her element.

  She turned and hurried outside, away from him and away from her own uncertainties. The night felt cool in comparison to the warm casino. Sharp edges of the sidewalk and stones poked her feet, but she didn’t care. He didn’t follow, and she pretended she wasn’t disappointed.

  That man. Those eyes. That look told her everything she didn’t want to know. Recognition and passionate memories stared back at her.

  Who was he? And how had he gotten inside her head?

  THE CASINO overflowed with life as the continuous clank of coins dropping into the slots filled the air around Cord. As he stood staring after her, two jackpots rang out.

  Normally, he looked up to see how much he was giving away. Not tonight. Not with her image filling his mind. Not with the feel of her skin against his. Usually, the sounds comforted him, reassured him it was all his.

  It was his, all right. His to give away. Even to beautiful damsels in distress with no money and a dream face. Would he never learn? Stop tryin’ to save ever’ body. His father’s old line came back to him, and he cringed. Even from the grave the old man grated on his nerves.

  Cord’s long stride took him across the room to the bar. His thoughts jumbled together, and he had to do something to clear them. “Doug, pour me a couple fingers of whiskey,” he demanded.

  The younger man stared at him. “But Boss, you don’t drink.”

  “Just pour,” he growled. When the tumbler sat in front of him, he stared into the amber liquid. Doug was right. Cord didn’t drink. He’d seen too much of the ravages of alcohol, but tonight something deep inside begged for release, for oblivion. Something he refused to analyze.

  Vague, distant images swirled in his mind. Images he’d met before but only in the deep of night. Images that had plagued him since he was fifteen.

  Purposefully, he brought the dream to mind, making himself face it. The sights and sounds around him faded away.

  He stood in the narrow hallway of a house. A whisper of memory tugged at him, but he knew he’d never been here before. The sound of laughter and old-fashioned music drifted up a stairwell to his left, but the hallway itself was silent except for the sound of his own breathing.

  There was a window in front of him. Odd place for a window, in an interior wall, looking into another room.

  The cool, solid feel of the tumbler against his fingers made him look down. As if he had no control, he lifted the drink to his lips and sipped. The liquid slid down his throat in a smooth burn. Tennessee bourbon. His favorite.

  Wait . . . he didn’t have a favorite. He didn’t drink.

  Confusion and cigar smoke drifted around him, and he noticed the long taper resting between his fingers. Lifting the cigar, he tasted sweet Cuban tobacco and felt the unfamiliar brush of a mustache against his fingers.

  Suddenly, the light from an oil lamp filtered through the window glass. A woman stood on the other side. She wore a blue dress, and her hair was curled on top of her head.

  “Well, Mr. Cumberland?” A voice startled him. “Does she meet your approval?” He turned to see an older woman, the madam, standing a few feet away. She wore a low cut dress and a secretive smile.

  Cumberland? She must have him confused with someone else.

  The woman behind the glass unbuttoned her dress, and he couldn’t tear his gaze away. Fire heated his blood as she slid the blue fabric down and slipped out of the old-fashioned underwear. She stood there in all her beautiful, naked glory, and he gulped the remainder of his drink.

  “Yes,” he groaned. If only for a little while. To forget for a short time that she wasn’t the woman he really loved. The woman who was no longer his.

  Madame reached into her pocket and produced a key, using it to open the door separating him from the beauty behind the glass.

  “She’s all yours—for tonight.” Without another word, she turned and went back down the stairs, the key ring jingling in her pocket.

  The beauty behind the glass turned to face him. The full glow of the light washed over her without the distortion of the window between them. How could he not have recognized her? How could the bright gold ring suspended around her neck have slipped past his gaze? He was such a fool. Damn her, and damn all deceitful women.

  “So,” he said, words that were like a well-rehearsed script. “This is what you’ve become . . . wife.”

  She stood staring at him as if the world crashed in around her. She clasped her arms protectively across her bare breasts. “Wh . . . what are you doing here?” She backed up and bumped against the wal
l with a start.

  “What does it look like?” He tossed the empty tumbler toward the couch. And missed. The sound of shattering glass rattled around the room. “Looking for what I couldn’t get at home. What are you doing here?”

  “I couldn’t live like you wanted me to, not anymore, not after T . . . Timmy.”

  “Don’t ever say that name again,” he yelled, and she flinched.

  “Why not? He was your son, too.” Suddenly, tears streamed down her face. She turned to leave. Before she could get through the doorway and away from him, he grabbed hold of her arm. His grip bit into her tender flesh.

  The feel of her bare skin against his hand was a spark to dry tinder. Without thinking, without wanting to think, he hauled her into his arms. Trapped between the hard wall and his body, every inch of her pressed against him. God, she felt good. His fingers burrowed in the dark copper curls of her hair, holding her still so his mouth could find hers. The soft fragility of her lips was his undoing. He feasted on them, never wanting to stop.

  “You’re mine. But rather than live with me, you lower yourself to this?” He pulled back on her hair until her gaze met his. “I’ll kill every man who has ever touched you.”

  “No!” She pulled free from him, leaving several long strands of red hair wrapped around his fingers. “Heaven help us both,” she whispered. Turning away, she ran past him and down the hall as if all the demons in hell were at her heels.

  He turned to run after her, surprised when cool liquid splashed across his hand. What the . . . ? He’d thrown the glass, hadn’t he? Cord stopped, staring at the tumbler in his hand. The vision faded away, leaving him aching and empty.

  Where had the anger come from? Always before he’d hauled her into his arms without a word and the dream ended with that kiss.

  A kiss he could still taste.

  The sights and sounds of the casino filtered back into focus. He set the glass down, his fingers shaking enough to slosh more of the liquor over his hand. Damn her. Damn the dream.

  “Dump it,” he ordered Doug as he slid the drink across the bar. He’d sworn off alcohol years ago and cursed himself for even considering it now.

  His father’s face floated in his mind, bloodshot eyes filled with tears for a woman he’d loved and lost. Cord remembered all too clearly the day he and his father stood on the front porch of their small frame house. Despising his mother and her lover as they drove away, Cord had vowed never to let a woman have that much control over him.

  Never.

  And Cord Burke refused to break his word—especially to himself.

  Three

  FAITH CLIMBED BACK into bed and huddled beneath the covers. What was wrong with her, running around town at all hours of the night? What made it worse was the realization that twice today she’d turned tail and run and that left a bad taste in her mouth.

  Here in this room she felt safe and let herself relax. Tomorrow she’d get back to her work then head home. Enough of this silliness about dreams and familiar strangers.

  She closed her eyes and sank into the oblivion of sleep, but rest eluded her. Even in her dreams, he came back. This time he smiled.

  Loving warmth lived in his eyes.

  The house was different. Smaller. Outside the window she saw a thick forest of pines and aspen.

  His now familiar voice came from the doorway. “There you are.” She turned to see his tall frame fill the opening. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  She smiled in response to the love on his lips and in his eyes.

  “I’ve got a surprise for you.” He stepped closer and pulled his hands from behind his back. The sweet scent of a single wild rose filled the air. In full bloom, the red flower was beautiful, and she noticed he’d removed the thorns.

  “I love you.” His voice grew soft and husky with emotion. “I’m so happy about the baby.”

  His lips met hers in a sweet, loving kiss. Strong arms circled her waist, pulling her against the length of his body. The scent of the crushed rose danced on the air between them.

  She returned his passion with her own kiss, allowing her fingers to slide over the expanse of his chest and to the nape of his neck. The silky curls of his hair teased her fingertips.

  Lifting her in his arms, he walked to the brass bed in the corner. He laid her down on top of the beautiful handmade wedding ring quilt.

  “My baby,” he whispered as his fingers blazed a trail toward the buttons of her bodice. “The first of many. If it’s a boy I want to name him Timothy, after my father.”

  She sighed, giving in to his touch, relishing the desire racing through her. She opened the buttons of his shirt to reveal hard muscles to her seeking fingers.

  Somewhere in the distance a door slammed.

  Faith awoke with a start. Cool morning air chilled her sweat-dampened skin. It took several minutes before the blood stopped hammering through her veins, before the dream-induced desires faded.

  Memories of last night joined her dream.

  What was happening to her? Faith sat up and shoved tangled hair out of her eyes. The dreams had always been strong, but this had been so real. She still felt the warmth of his lips on hers. No real man had ever touched her like that. She wished one had.

  Nonsense. Time to get up and get to work. She’d financed this whole trip with the first half of her advance and still had to earn the other half to pay her bills. She had less than two months to get it done and lying in bed all day wasn’t an option.

  After she’d showered and dressed, she pulled papers from her pack and reviewed her notes and lists. Technically, she was finished with the initial shots and had planned to leave today. If all the photographs developed as she’d designed them, the assignment list was complete so there was no reason for her to stay. The compiling and text were all that remained.

  But what about the brothel? And the casinos? It seemed odd that a historical association would commission an incomplete book. Then she reminded herself who was on the governing board. They were only interested in “appropriate” history.

  She bit down on her lip in indecision.

  Maybe she could convince them if she already had the pictures taken and if she was careful what she put in the text.

  The possibilities intrigued and excited her. She wasn’t foolish enough to consider turning in a totally different book, but she could put her stamp on this one. The appeal was too strong.

  She glanced out the window. The light was perfect today, and for the first time in a long time, her job felt like more than just a job. The enthusiasm was back. She grabbed her camera and headed out the door. A few hours, that’s all it would take, and she could spare that.

  Outside, the high mountain sun shone bright, and she slid her sunglasses onto her nose and her camera over her shoulder. She headed toward the brothel but stopped at the corner, snared by the sight of the Double Barrel Saloon.

  It occupied one of the older buildings at the end of the street. Even from here it was impressive. Someone had paid a pretty penny for the renovations. An air of authenticity clung to its façade with the false front giving the illusion of lofty height. Large, plate glass windows beckoned even the most casual onlooker to peek inside.

  Just like last night.

  And just like last night, she wondered about the man she’d met. Obviously she’d met him somewhere before, but where? The question and lack of an answer nagged at her. He didn’t seem like someone she’d have met through her father’s church, but it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility. She knew she hadn’t met him here in Cripple Creek. On both of her other trips, Johnny had explained that he was out of town, once on vacation, the other on business.

  What could Johnny tell her about him? Caught in her uncertainty, she stared, then stopped and aimed her camera. The charm of the building came through the viewfinder.
She hoped it showed in the final prints.

  The casino was Cord’s property. Was he there now? Surely not after working last night. If Johnny were there, maybe he could answer her questions, and she wouldn’t have to face the disturbing casino owner. Before she changed her mind, she crossed the street and stepped inside.

  There was already activity in the casino. The clank of coins and the gentle whir of slots spinning into action seemed loud in the thin mountain air. She briefly glanced at the silent roulette wheel. Had she really gambled last night, or was that part of the dream, too? She swallowed and mentally shook herself.

  Enough with the dreams.

  Johnny sat at the bar, and she headed straight toward him. Hunched over a cup of steaming coffee, he looked near death. She tried not to smile. Recalling his state last night, she knew his head had to be killing him.

  “Morning, Faith,” Johnny whispered, sipping his coffee. “I’d offer you a cup, but I need all the help I can get.” A painful smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

  Faith climbed onto the barstool next to him. Laying her camera on the bar’s smooth surface, she pulled her sunglasses off. “You don’t look so good.”

  “Don’t feel it. Damn.” Johnny rubbed his eyes. “Some people get to sleep off a hangover. Not me. My boss makes me come to work anyway. I’ll bet alcohol couldn’t break through to that black soul.”

  “I heard that.”

  The deep voice came from a doorway on the other side of the bar. The bass drum went off in Faith’s chest again. No. Not him. Not yet. She hadn’t had a chance to question Johnny.

  The tall, all-too-familiar man emerged from the doorway. Her dreams took human form and heat sliced through her.

  Damp ringlets of dark hair clung to his forehead. As he moved closer, she caught the faint whiff of his clean, masculine scent. The T-shirt he’d worn last night had been replaced with a plaid work shirt that did little to hide the muscles of his arms and chest.