Ropin' the Moon

by Deborah Camp

  The stamp of her mouth against his floated back to him, heating his blood. He took another drag on the cigarette and blew blue smoke at the stars. He wished he hadn’t been caught flat-footed. He would have liked to have curved his arm around her and deepened the kiss so that he could taste her on his tongue. She would have probably slapped his face, but it would have been worth it.

  By the time he finished the cigarette, he was wound as tight as a pocket watch. He stood and stamped out the remains of his smoke and removed his gun belt.

  “You stay here, Thumper,” he told the dog, who was curled up near the stove. “Stay.”

  After locking his weapon in his desk drawer, he set out with a determined gait and a sense of defeat, heading in the direction of the All Souls Church.

  The four-piece band on the makeshift stage stuck mainly to waltzes and a few “called” dances. Lacy and Ben Atkins, her escort for the evening, stood near one of the long refreshment tables set along the side of the big tent that had been erected beside the All Souls Church. Lacy accepted another mug of cider from the church ladies as she brushed curling wisps of hair from her forehead.

  “Thank you. I do need something cool to drink after that dance,” she said to the lady handing her the cider.

  It appeared that the social had attracted nearly everyone in town, she thought, surveying the crush of people. A dance floor was cordoned off in front of the stage. Several large sheets of canvas had been pegged to the ground to make a suitable space so that ladies’ shoes and skirt hems wouldn’t be dragged through the dirt. She and Ben had partaken of a couple of “called” quadrilles, which had left her breathless. She smiled at Ben. He was the banker’s son and at the age that he was ready to wed. He’d been overjoyed when she’d told him that she’d allow him to be her escort. It had made her feel unworthy because her feelings for him were merely friendly.

  “Would you like to take a stroll around town?” Ben asked, leaning closer so that he could be heard above the music and crowd noise.

  Lacy shook her head. “Stroll around town” meant holding hands and stealing a kiss or two in the shadows. She didn’t want to encourage Ben by spooning with him under the stars. “I’m enjoying myself,” she assured him, bestowing a smile, although he looked crestfallen. She sipped her drink and devoted her attention to the dresses the girls wore and who they’d chosen as their escorts. There were few surprises. She knew nearly every girl in and around Far Creek and the bachelor men. She didn’t see any of the ranch hands from the Pullman Ranch and that troubled her. She could only guess that they’d decided to ride to a different town for the evening or they were at one of the saloons.

  “I thought that Whit and Forrest would be here,” she said to Ben.

  “Me, too,” Ben agreed. “I saw Sam Louder ride into town right before I called for you.”

  Sam was one of the older Pullman ranch hands. “Maybe they’re at the saloon.”

  “Could be. You’re friendly with Forrest, aren’t you? And Whit?”

  She chose her answer carefully, not wanting to leave the wrong impression. “I’ve accepted invitations from them, so I suppose you could say we’re friends. But not any closer friends than I am with you, Ben.”

  He smiled, liking that answer. “Did I tell you that you look pretty tonight in that pink frock? Like a rose.”

  “Yes, you did, and thank you.” She drank some of the cider, allowing it to sooth her parched throat. The frock was one of her favorites. She liked the pale pink lace that edged the overskirts and the high collar. Vertical stripes of deep rose velvet decorated the back and bustle and a crimson velvet band circled her waist.

  “Would you mind if I stepped outside for a smoke with some of the men?”

  She shook her head. “You go on. I’ll wait right here for you and chat with the ladies.”

  “Thank you. I won’t be long.” He touched her arm lightly, blushed, and then turned and made his way toward the front of the church. She spotted Bobbie Sue dancing with her uncle. They looked so happy together. Bobbie Sue’s yellow dress contrasted prettily with her raven and silver hair that she’d braided and wound around her head. She was all smiles as she and Otis followed the caller’s instructions, high-stepping and handing each other off to the next dancer in the daisy chain, then winding back to each other.

  “It’s him!”

  “Oh, my goodness! You’re right!”

  The excited voices of two women near her snatched Lacy’s attention from the dancing couples. Several ladies near her were looking wide-eyed toward the front of the tent. Swinging about, she stumbled as she recognized the man shouldering through the crowd. Taller than most men, Dalton Moon was easy to spot. He nodded politely to people who greeted him, but didn’t pause, walking past them, his gaze sweeping from side to side as if he were looking for someone.

  For her?

  Lacy held her breath even as she told herself that she was a vain ninny to think even for one second that Dalton would be searching for . . . he was! He located her and his eyes widened as his lips stretched into a smile. Her heart bucked almost painfully and she realized she was gripping the cup in her hands so tightly that her knuckles were white. She lifted the cup to her lips again and took a drink of the tangy cider, but she couldn’t look away from him as he approached her with sure, long strides. He was dressed all in black. Hatless, the ends of his ebony hair curled at his collar and over the tops of his ears. She assumed he’d shaved that morning, but the lower half of his face was already shadowed with dark whiskers. He stopped inches from her.

  “Good evening, Miss Tyrell.” His voice poured through her like a fine brandy, putting the cider to shame.

  “Good evening, Marshal Moon. I thought you weren’t attending tonight.”

  “I changed my mind.”

  She sipped a bit more cider and then looked to the right of him and then the left. “You came alone?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I did.”

  “Ah, well. I’m here with Ben Adkins. He’s outside having a smoke, but he’ll be back any—what are you doing?” she asked as he plucked the cup from her grasp and set it on the table behind her. His fingers laced with hers.

  “Dance with me.”

  “No, I can’t. I’m—that is, thank you, but no.” She was talking to herself because he most assuredly was paying her no mind as he tugged her with him to the dance floor. She gripped his wrist with her other hand to keep herself from tripping over her own feet. He swung her about to face him. His gaze swept her from the top of her blond hair to her pink, high buttoned boots. “Marshal Moon!” she said, squaring her shoulders as she fought to even her breathing. “A gentleman is supposed to ask for a dance. Not demand it!”

  He leaned forward at the waist and his eyes were full of merriment if not outright deviltry. “And a lady is supposed to wait for a gentleman to kiss her. Not steal one from him. So, I suppose that means I’m not a gentleman and you’re not a lady. Now that that’s settled, let’s dance.” Still holding her hand, he curved his other one at her waist.

  The four musicians played a waltz and Dalton stepped into it with her following his lead. She gathered the side of her skirt with her free hand to keep it from wrapping around her ankles and encumbering her. He was light on his feet. His gaze never left her face and his smile never slipped from his lips. As they moved to the music, she caught a faint scent of cigarette smoke mixed with something woodsy. Not unpleasant. In fact, it added to his masculinity. She found it effortless to dance with him, but not exactly comfortable. His hand at her waist burned through the fabric. She could feel his fingertips pressing against her spine and his palm flush against her side. Her hand, resting loosely in his, felt fragile. Standing a good six inches above five feet, she was often the tallest women in the room, but he made her feel delicate. Every so often, his thigh pressed against her skirts or his fingers moved against hers and a thrill coursed through her. She’d felt nothing close to this when she’d danced with Ben Adkins, she thought, looking deepl
y into Dalton’s burnt umber eyes. She could get lost in those dark pools, she thought. She could drown in them.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said, breaking into her musings. “I would like to kiss you right now.”

  She blinked and tensed. “You won’t!”

  “No, but I’d like to.”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw her uncle watching them with a deep frown on his face. She glanced around and realized that Uncle Otis wasn’t the only one. She and the marshal were being gawked at as if they were on exhibit!

  “People are staring at us,” she whispered, feeling panic bubble inside her even as she tried to smile politely at him.

  “Yes.”

  Yes? Just yes? She kept smiling as she murmured, “We’ve danced enough. Let me go.”

  “No.”

  No? Just no? She missed a step and his hand on her waist pressed closer to steady her. His fingertips brushed up and down the velvet stripes on the back of her dress. She thought she might burst into flames. With a long, final note, the song ended and Dalton released her. He bowed at the waist.

  “Thank you for the dance, Miss Tyrell.”

  “You’re . . . you’re welcome,” she managed. She needed a drink. Something stouter than cider. “You’re a fine dancer, Marshal Moon.”

  “I have my sisters to thank for that.” He stood before her, his hands clasped behind his back, his dark eyes devouring her every expression. “I’m a fool for not asking to be your escort this evening.”

  She hadn’t expected his bold admission and it brought a gasp from her, but no suitable response. A smile touched her lips and her breathing shallowed. Suddenly, she didn’t care that they were the center of attention. All she cared about was that he wanted to be with her and he’d come here to tell her. His gaze finally lifted fractionally to look behind her.

  “She’s all yours, Adkins,” he said, giving a nod as he retreated a few steps, his gaze lingering on her face, her throat, and then slipping like a lover’s hand down the front of her dress before he pivoted and left the dance floor.

  “Miss Tyrell? Lacy?” Ben stood in front of her to block her view of Dalton. “You want to dance?” He held out his hands as the band let loose with a frisky tune.

  “Uh, no. No, thank you.” She fanned her face with her hands. “I need to sit down for a bit, if you don’t mind.”

  “No, of course not.” He motioned for her to precede him. “Outside or inside?”

  “In here.” She made her way to a row of benches and perched on one. Her insides trembled and she realized she was still smiling when Ben smiled back at her. But she hadn’t been smiling at him, but at the memory of Dalton Moon’s titillating attentions. She had never felt so mesmerized by a man. He fascinated her as much as he frazzled her.

  Ben sat next to her. “Why did you dance with the marshal? I thought you wanted to sit one out.”

  “I didn’t want to be rude,” she said with a helpless shrug. She drew in a breath and released it in a happy sigh. Her head swam and she felt a little giddy. He’d come to the social just to dance with her, she realized, looking around for him. “Did he leave?”

  “Yes. I thought you didn’t like him. You sounded cross when you spoke about him coming here and taking over your uncle’s position.”

  “I don’t dislike him. I barely know him.”

  “He’s a rough sort. A hired gun.”

  “He’s a marshal, so I suppose that makes him and my uncle hired guns.” She fluffed her skirt, aware that she was defending him even though Ben was right. She had made disparaging remarks about Dalton Moon to anyone who would listen. Cigarette smoke wafted from Ben’s clothing as he shifted beside her and she wrinkled her nose. Then she recalled smelling it on Dalton too, and it hadn’t offended her. Not in the least.

  Ben angled closer, peering at her with a grin. “You’re smiling again. I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. We should see each other more often.”

  She bit her lip to keep from giggling at the absurdity of the situation. Yes, the evening was remarkable and it had absolutely nothing to do with her oblivious escort.

  Chapter 4

  Back at the jail, Dalton slipped on his gun belt again and slammed his hat back onto his head. He felt like a damned fool, but he felt good about it, too. People would be flapping their tongues tomorrow about him showing up at the dance and heading straight for Lacy Tyrell. He’d endure smirks, ribald remarks, and other tomfoolery. But it was worth it, he thought, recalling how she’d felt in his arms. Like dancing with a goddess. Those big, blue eyes of hers had stayed locked with his and he swore that he could feel every beat of her heart. The way she looked at him – really saw him – worked on him like a potion. No silly batting of her lashes or staring down at her shoes. No fluttering laughter and coquettish smiles. She needed none of those feminine wiles and she damn well knew it.

  God, she was a beauty. And not just a mirror beauty, either. No. She possessed a beautiful spirit. She reminded him of a vixen – quick, clever, and wild. He thought he could handle her, but then in the next moment he knew it was her handling him. His plan had been to wander into the dance, take a whirl with a few gals, and then ask her to take the floor with him. But then he’d seen her in that pink frock that hugged her curves and made her skin glow and her eyes sparkle like sun struck ocean waves. He’d seen her and his plan had crumbled. All he could think about was her. No other woman existed in that tent.

  Dalton smacked his lips and pried his tongue from the roof of his mouth. He needed a drink. Maybe even a splash of cold water on his face to bring him back to himself and make him forget the feel of her, the smell of her, and the desire she aroused in him. He stepped out onto the boardwalk and stood for a minute before he heard shouting down the street in the direction of the Holland Saloon. Thumper barked behind him.

  “Stay here, boy,” he flung over his shoulder as he trotted toward the sounds. He was almost at the hotel and saloon when Dutch burst through the bat wing doors. He stumbled to a halt when he saw Dalton. His eyes were wide and his mouth twisted in a half snarl, half grimace.

  “What’s going on?” Dalton asked.

  “One of my saloon girls got beat on, okay? Beat on by a Pullman snake.”

  “Which snake?”

  “Louder. Sam Louder. He snuck down the stairs and out the back door. I’m gonna find him and kick his guts up through his nostrils.”

  “No. Let me.” Dalton placed a hand on Dutch’s shoulder. “You see to the girl. Does she need a doctor?”

  “Maybe.” He swept a hand over his red-rimmed eyes. “Louder gets mean when he’s drunk. I think she’s hurt bad, okay?”

  “I’ll find him and arrest him. Do you know what horse he was riding? Any of these?” He indicated the animals tied to the hitching post. Dutch examined them and shook his shaggy head.

  “He’s on a black gelding with white socks on three of its legs. He’s already heading back to the ranch, the skunk.”

  “I’ll handle this, Dutch.”

  After saddling Soldier, Dalton hopped on and headed for the Pullman Ranch. A quarter moon rode with him from its heavenly perch. He was less than a mile outside of town when he spotted a dark horse and rider. The rider sat slumped in the saddle, his hat pulled low. Dalton was nearly on top of him when he roused from his drunken stupor and raised his head. Dalton reached out and grabbed the slack reins of the black horse with three white stockings.

  “What in hell are you doing?” The drunk sputtered and almost fell sideways out of the saddle. “Let go of my hoss!”

  In the pale light of the moon, Dalton recognized him from his visit at the Pullman Ranch. “You’re Sam Louder.” He took stock of the man, who looked to be close to Junior Pullman’s age. “You were at the Holland Saloon earlier.”

  “What if I was?”

  “You’re under arrest.” He yanked the reins out of the man’s hands.

  “You’re crazy!” Louder shoved at Dalton’s shoulder with a rough hand, but he went
still when he saw the business end of Dalton’s six shooter inches from his face.

  “You’re going to jail. You can come peacefully or bloody. Your choice.”

  “You can’t arrest me for drinking whiskey.”

  “I’m arresting you for assault.”

  “Ass what?”

  “You did bodily harm to a woman at the Holland Saloon. That’s why you’re slinking out of town like a mangy coyote. You thought you wouldn’t have to answer for hurting that lady.”

  “Lady!” He laughed and wheezed. “I ain’t seen no lady tonight.”

  Dalton noticed a long scratch on Louder’s cheek, still oozing bloody droplets that stained his whiskey-colored beard. He stank of old sweat and cheap alcohol. “Hand over your gun.” When Louder only glared at him, Dalton aimed his revolver at the man’s knee. “Do it now or I’ll cripple you.”

  “You’re a damned fool,” Louder groused, but he unholstered his weapon and gave it to Dalton. “When the boss hears about this, he’ll hang your balls on his fence post.”

  “I’m quaking in my boots.” Dalton shoved the gun under his belt.

  Louder sat on his horse like a puffed up toad. Hatred burned in his beady eyes as he glared at Dalton, but he kept his mouth shut the rest of the way back to town. Dalton suspected that he was halfway unconscious from too much whiskey. Several people stood along the street, watching the strange procession as they entered Far Creek proper. Otis Gentry ran out from the jail, all wide-eyed and breathless.

  “I heard what happened at the Holland!” He looked at Louder and his eyes rounded even more. “What’s going on?”

  Dalton bobbed his chin toward the other rider. “I arrested him. Do me a favor and see to his horse. Put him in the stable.” Dalton flung the horse’s reins to Otis and he caught them. Dismounting, Dalton waited for Louder to do the same. When he didn’t, Dalton grabbed him by the sleeve and yanked him out of the saddle. The husky man grunted, listed, but managed not to fall on his butt. Dalton checked him over and found a knife wedged in the top of his boot. He shoved him toward the jail, keeping his gun trained on him. Otis stood, staring.