The Dove

by Kristy McCaffrey

  Not until Molly.

  During their time together, Claire came to see that her new friend had also lived in the gray areas of life—Molly understood how survival bred hard choices and recognized the necessity of holding onto dreams of a better tomorrow. Claire did have aspirations for the future, but the harsh reality of her life often dragged those dreams back to the ground. So her longings remained unattainable goals—fantasies—not unlike the mythical tales of knights and princesses she would tell Jimmy at bedtime.

  To envision a future with a man like Logan was surely the most whimsical wish she’d ever entertained. A woman could give her body easily—her mama had demonstrated that—but the heart was another matter. Claire would never give her body or heart, not unless she was absolutely certain of the outcome; and what man would hang around long enough for her to decide?

  They rode hard until they passed Fort Union, the buildings and men noticeable in the distance, situated as it was in the middle of a flat, open plain. Near the shade of a tree they stopped, and let the horses take a rest while Logan distributed some of the water he carried with him.

  “Are you always so prepared?” Claire asked. She placed the large Mexican hat onto her head to shield the sun from her eyes.

  “There’s always a minimum you should carry,” he said. “Water, rations, blankets.” He looked her square in the eye. “Weapons.”

  It almost sounded as if he scolded her. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

  Logan started to speak, then stopped and blew out a breath. Turning to face her, he planted hands casually on his lean hips and watched her. “Do you even know how to defend yourself?”

  Claire squinted and pressed her lips together. “Well, there’s a gun kept at the saloon. It’s used to control unruly customers.”

  “You’ve handled it?”

  “Mmm, no. We don’t keep any bullets in it, but I’ve touched it once or twice.” Claire realized how pathetic her statement sounded. “Mama always felt it was too dangerous to keep it loaded, one of the girls could be shot. And while business was usually good, she didn’t want to waste money on a better firearm or ammunition. It was bad enough that the merchants overcharged her for liquor and food. And then there were the monthly fines when the girls were dragged to jail for solicitation. Not much rhyme or reason to it, but it always seemed worse when the more upstanding citizens in town complained too much.”

  “Would that include Señora Chavez?”

  Surprised, Claire nodded. “Do you know her?”

  “Briefly acquainted, yes.”

  Señora Chavez had always been a vocal opponent of all saloons, gambling establishments, and dance halls in town. Claire had wondered how it was possible for one woman to stick her nose into so many people’s business and still have time to raise a family.

  “The woman enjoys making trouble,” Claire said. “Maggie always had high standards when it came to hiring the girls, but none were familiar with handling a gun. Men didn’t come to the saloon looking for a woman who could shoot anyhow—their minds were elsewhere.”

  She instantly regretted the rush of words. Logan watched her, his gaze penetrating, unrelenting. Unreadable. His jaw flexed, and she had a wild thought that maybe he was thinking of her as a man would when his mind was elsewhere. That she even wanted him to think that way made her a little lightheaded.

  “You should at least have a basic understanding. I’ll teach you.” He withdrew his gun and moved beside her. “This is a .44 Colt Army revolver, sometimes called a Peacemaker or M1873.”

  “What does the forty-four mean?” She eyed the long barrel.

  “It’s the size of the cartridge. I can use forty-fours in my Winchester rifle as well. Makes it a little easier, not having to carry two different types of bullets.

  “There’s a six barrel cylinder,” he continued. His fingers efficiently released a hinged gate on the side of the gun. “This is part of the recoil shield, but you have to move it aside to load the cartridges.” He made fast work ejecting the bullets that were already in the gun. “There’s a spring-loaded ejector rod that helps you remove unused cartridges or spent casings.” Logan dropped the bullets into his shirt pocket. He flipped the gate back into place and handed the gun to Claire. “Let’s lose the hat,” he added softly, and tossed the large round contraption to the ground.

  “Be careful with that.” She tried to grab the sombrero from him. She also tried to ignore his close proximity. “That was a gift.”

  “I’m relieved. I thought I might have to school you in the proper attire for a lady. You’re too pretty to keep hiding behind all these disguises.”

  “I’m not a lady,” she murmured.

  “Could’ve fooled me.” He grinned at her. For a moment, his eyes flashed with more than amusement. Or had she imagined it?

  She concentrated on the heavy weapon in her hand before she got herself into trouble by saying something silly.

  “Cock the hammer like this.” His arms moved around her from behind and their fingers touched as his thumb pulled the hammer back, clicking it into place. “You sight your target by lining up the groove here.” He ran a finger along the top, indicating the slot cut into the rear part of the gun. “Then match it with the sight here.” He pointed to the raised notch at the tip of the barrel.

  Claire tried her best to ignore the man and concentrate on the gun, but it proved difficult. The lingering odor of coffee and the morning cook fire mixed with the more appealing scent of the man himself. She paused to regain her composure.

  Logan guided her other hand to the firearm and straightened her arms. “This gun is heavy so it’s probably best if you use both hands. I’ll get you something smaller next chance I get. Line up your sights, but if you’re in a mad rush just aim for a man’s chest. You’ll likely hit something, slowing him down. Why don’t you take some practice clicks.” He stepped away from her and she immediately missed his touch, however impersonal it may have been.

  After she did his exercise, he took the gun and inserted two bullets. “When it’s loaded, it’ll have a kick so be prepared. You’re not that petite, so as long as you hold your ground you should be all right.”

  Claire wondered if he preferred petite women.

  “Let’s get away from the horses,” he continued. “Mine won’t spook, but I doubt yours is used to gunfire.”

  She followed behind as he led them about an eighth mile toward the foothills. He pointed at a pine tree with a wide trunk and said, “Let’s use that one as a target.”

  She raised the gun and spread her legs as she cocked the hammer, trying to sight on the tree. When she pulled the trigger, the force of the discharge pushed her into the firmness of Logan’s chest.

  Surprisingly, he laughed, his hands coming to rest on her hips. “That wasn’t bad. You held your ground pretty good. Let’s try it again.”

  Logan let her shoot several rounds, and by the end she had hit the target seven times. “You’ve got a good eye,” he said as they walked back toward camp. “You sure you’ve never shot a gun before?”

  “You’re my first.” Appalled by what she’d just said, she struggled to hide her embarrassment. This is what happens when you spend your life around fancy girls.

  “I’m not sure I remember my first.”

  Uncertain she heard him correctly, her voice was barely a squeak as she said, “Pardon?”

  She caught the twinkle in his eye and realized he teased her. A slight smile tugged at her mouth.

  “The first time I shot a gun,” he said. “I suppose I was seven or eight.”

  “That seems terribly young.” She lost her smile at the thought of giving Jimmy a gun.

  “Not really. Boys’ll be boys—guns, horses, fights. My pa figured it was better to teach us the right way than have us learn the wrong way on our own. Of course, he wasn’t so forthcoming when it came to members of the opposite sex.”

  Claire gaped at him then snapped her mouth shut. The girls at the White Dove h
ad often joked about a young kid coming in for his first time. Ellie claimed she’d done a fourteen-year-old once. The image had honestly turned Claire’s stomach. What parent would let their child learn about sex at such a young age, and from a woman who was as old as his mother?

  Despite the education Claire had received at the hands of the women who worked for her mama, she was still terribly naïve about what occurred between men and women, and what she saw only led her to believe that men needed sex and nothing more. Men could choose and women couldn’t. It didn’t seem right, it didn’t seem fair, and Claire hadn’t understood what was so compelling about it all.

  A glance at Logan, however, gave her a clue.

  “I think your pa was right to shelter you,” she responded after sidestepping a patch of prickly pear.

  Logan laughed. “Yeah, I suppose I’ll feel that way about my offspring one day.”

  “Especially if they’re girls,” Claire said, mostly to herself. She was determined to give her children a life completely unlike her own. If she was ever blessed with any.

  “Daughters,” Logan said. “I never thought of that. I hope I’m up for it.”

  “I think you’ll be a fine father one day.”

  He looked at her, an amused expression on his face. “Why Claire, I think you might actually like me.”

  “Because I just paid you a compliment? I’m just returning the favor.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You said I looked better as a blonde.” She felt her face burn and was certain she must be quite red in the cheeks. She would never forget his comment and now he knew it as well.

  “You do…I always tell it like it is.”

  She stopped, and her eyes met his. “Always?”

  “Yeah, always.”

  Looking into his blue-green gaze, the same enriching color as a blue spruce pine, Claire felt time fall away. She was caught in a web created by the two of them. The urge to go to him, to touch him in some way, even if only to hold his hand, pushed at her rigid control. The sheer intensity of the craving stunned her—she had never felt this way with any man. Every inch of her skin that had been exposed to Logan’s hands when he’d taught her how to handle his gun felt inflamed. God, she wanted him to touch her again.

  Her face betrayed her—she could see it in his eyes. Immediately his awareness of her was impossible to miss. Her body responded to his dark gaze, to the hungry desire she knew was all too physical, but a brief flash of shock in his expression brought her up short. Logan didn’t want this any more than she did. It was a complication neither of them needed.

  With effort, she broke the mood by shifting her focus to the ground and striding resolutely back to the horses.

  They continued to ride north, slowly for a time so as not to tire the horses under the heat from a cloudless turquoise sky. The wind wafted off the mountains from their left, pushing past them onto the flat expanse.

  “Have you always wanted to be a rancher?” she asked, hoping small talk would ease the awkwardness of their unspoken attraction.

  “No. I only just returned to Texas last year to help out my pa.”

  “Where were you before that?”

  “I did odd jobs here and there; when I was nineteen I drove cattle in Montana, then worked as a scout for the army. After that, I moved freight in Kansas then lumberjacked outside of Denver. Once I got older and wiser, I became a deputy in Virginia City, Nevada.”

  “You’ve seen so much, been so many places.” Claire was more than a little envious.

  “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” he replied. “My ma thinks I wandered around too much. She’s probably right.”

  “She’s your mother. She’s supposed to worry about you.”

  “I suppose. But now that Matt’s gotten hitched, the old man is talkin’ about dividing up the SR. He wants me to take a chunk.”

  “You’re very fortunate. Your folks obviously worked hard to make that ranch successful.”

  “Yeah,” Logan said, glancing at her. “What about you? You can’t spend the rest of your life living in a saloon.”

  “No.” She shifted the reins from one hand to the other. “But it’s not that easy. I have no way to support myself.”

  “Isn’t there something you’d like to do? Something you’re good at?” His eyes met hers.

  She rarely confided her dream to other people. It never seemed worth the effort. Was Logan worth the effort? The thought came out of nowhere. Somewhere in the back of her mind a voice screamed, yes.

  “You don’t want to tell me?” He smiled. “I’m not gonna bite you. I’m really a nice fella, when you get down to it. I’ve never once laughed at a woman’s dreams.”

  She glared at him and shook her head. “Quit teasing me. You think life is simple? You’re a man. Everything’s simple for a man.” She was unable to restrain the sharp edge in her voice.

  He pretended to look for his gun. “Wait, let me make sure my gun’s not loaded, or else you might shoot me. You learned faster than I thought you would anyhow.”

  She nailed him with an annoyed look, but he just laughed.

  “Claire, you gotta lighten up. Tell me what you want to be when you grow up.”

  She turned her head away from him. The yellow grama grass swayed in the wind and she felt as important as an ant clinging to one of the wavering stalks. “If you must know, I want to be a doctor,” she uttered quietly.

  He whistled in response. “You can’t be accused of shooting too low. You don’t think this could happen?”

  She looked at him like he hadn’t the sense of a prairie dog. “I've no money, there’s hardly a school in the country that takes women, and if you’ve already forgotten, I live in a whorehouse.” She yelled the last part, her own frustrations bursting forth.

  Logan raised an eyebrow. “I guess I must’ve forgot. Thanks for reminding me.” His eyes still held that damn twinkle.

  Discouraged, Claire kicked Reverend into a canter. She no longer wanted to talk about the state of her life; what pulled at her more than anything was that she’d end up selling herself eventually simply to survive. If that happened, she'd surely have to abandon any hope of something better.

  They continued north, passing through Ocate Crossing and watering the horses at Rayado, a stagecoach stop with only a handful of buildings. The Sangre de Cristos flanked their progress, a protective barrier as the sun moved to a steady descent behind the hills. By late afternoon, they rode into Cimarron.

  The town was located in the foothills, the mountains on the left a looming reminder of the mining hopes of the many men who ventured into the interior. Struck by the allure of the immense slopes, strongly outlined by the setting sun, Claire couldn’t take her eyes off the promise of anonymity and peace the high country represented. Would losing herself in those hills give clarity to her life? Make all of the struggles disappear? It was an enticing thought, and an entirely unrealistic one, but she tucked the image away to revisit when needed.

  They rode past the jail, the structure surrounded by a ten-foot-high stone wall, and guided their horses behind the Barlow, Sanderson & Company stage office. On the opposite side of the road Claire noticed Schwenk’s Hall, and beyond was a three-story square building with a sign that read Aztec Grist Mill.

  Glancing in the direction of Schwenk's again, Claire knew that soon women would start peddling their bodies to any man willing to pay for it. She wondered if her mama would be there. More than likely she was at the St. James—if she was here at all. She had frequently mentioned that saloon in the past.

  They approached the Old National Hotel, situated across from a hardware and livery stable. Next to it sat a gazebo that covered a well. Having been here once before, Claire noted that not much had changed.

  “I’m going to check the registry,” she said and climbed down from Reverend, giving a tug on her skirt when it caught on the sombrero tied behind the saddle. “I’ll be right back.”

  Logan nodded.

&n
bsp; It didn’t take long to learn that her mama’s name wasn’t in the hotel’s logbook. She stewed over that while she returned to the porch and stared at several men to her right. One in particular caught her eye—a tall Mexican with a splotchy, scarred face shaded by the brim of his hat. He walked toward them. Fear slammed through her. She struggled to breathe as her heart pounded at twice its speed.

  Sandoval.

  Having tied the horses off, Logan climbed the porch to join her. Their eyes met and without thought she closed the distance between them in one rapid movement. She brought her body into full contact with his, and kissed him.

  His lips were warm, but Claire was too tense to do anything other than stand there, her hands clutching his shoulders for dear life.

  Logan’s arms came around her.

  It was seldom life threw the unexpected at him, but Logan was surprised as hell by this woman suddenly all over him. It wasn’t that the thought of kissing Claire had never crossed his mind or that her determined lip-lock undoubtedly had little to do with him, what astounded him most was her total lack of expertise in the task. As he broke the highly unromantic mating of their mouths, he said quietly, “I’m not a piece of wood, Claire.”

  He shifted so his body shielded her from anyone on the street, and pushed her up against the hotel exterior. If it was a show she wanted, he’d teach her a thing or two about kissing a man while at it. Taking control of the situation, he brought his hands to the sides of her head and took her lips with his. She was a temptation he hadn’t planned to indulge, but now he gave himself to the task with a focused tenacity. He would enjoy Claire like he’d wanted to since the first moment he laid eyes on her, months ago at the SR.

  She hardly moved. And her eyes were wide open. “Relax,” he murmured, and covered her mouth fully with his. Tentative, yes, but she wasn’t completely unwilling. Slowly she yielded, her lips surrendering in small increments, teasing him with the promise of so much more.