Ashes and Memories (20 page)

Emma began to writhe in bed again, and Reece realized he still held her hand. She clasped it as if her very life depended on it, the gesture causing a catch in the vicinity of his heart.

“Stop,” she pleaded, her words slurred in sleep. “No, don’t.... Stay back or I’ll shoot, I swear it.”

“Emma,” Reece whispered. “It’s all right, Emma. You’re safe.”

He closed his eyes in an attempt to block the flood of longing that flowed through him. He’d tried to leave her alone. Ever since that night in her room when he’d come upon her crying, he’d tried to stay as far from her as possible, for his own sake. And yet he hadn’t been able to do the one thing that would have insured that he would never have to deal with her again. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to send her packing.

He knew he would pay the price for his failure. He could almost hear the metal doors closing around his peace of mind, almost feel the ordered world he’d created crumbling bit by bit. And the reason for his destruction lay in his bed now, softness and purity and all the things he’d lost so many years ago.

She still believed that good triumphed over evil, that integrity counted for something. Well, Reece believed in integrity, too, but he’d learned that integrity, like anything else, could be bent under certain circumstances. Emma was uncompromising in her integrity as he had once been, as his grandfather had taught him to be.

“
You needn’t worry that I’ll be killed
,” that young man’s voice, Reece’s voice, haunted him from the past. “
I am the better shot ten times over
.”
 

His grandfather’s voice had been soft and filled with sadness. “
Even if you survive, a part of you will have died.”
 

How right he had been. A part of Emma had died tonight, and she would never be able to reclaim it. At least she’d killed for something beyond pride. She’d killed in self-defense, and he didn’t want to think what would have happened had she not.

Would he have been there in time to stop the outlaw from ravishing her? There was no way of knowing and no reason to torment himself with what might have been. Reality was enough of a burden without nursing imagination.

With a self-deprecating laugh and a last glance at Emma, he left the room. He needed rest as much as Emma did. Tomorrow would be a busy day filled with hard decisions and perhaps more bad news.

No, what he needed was a drink. He crossed to the sideboard and poured a glass of whiskey from the bottle he’d opened earlier. The first drink warmed him, the second calmed his nerves, and the third spread an insidious languor over his body.

He sat on the edge of the sofa to remove his boots, trying to imagine what could have prevented Stanton from returning to town.

Garrett’s men couldn’t have killed or captured Stanton and all the men he had with him and then staged an attack on Providence such as the one tonight. Perhaps Stanton hadn’t received word that the town was under attack, but that would mean that Grady had failed to do his job as lookout, which seemed highly unlikely. Grady had never failed him before.

Unless someone had gotten to him....

No sense dwelling on speculation, Reece decided. He reached over to turn the lamp down before stretching out on the sofa. His hands behind his head, he lay on his back, listening to the quiet. Order had been restored, but he wondered if this were only a temporary peace.

He needed to send a real posse after that gang and put an end to this once and for all, but everything depended on Stanton and whether or not he’d sustained losses. Without Stanton and his men, he had only enough men to protect the town. Tomorrow would tell.

Right now all he could do was try and rest a few hours before he had to deal with the aftermath of tonight’s violence.

At least Emma was safe -- and Ralphy. Ralphy always worked late at the mine on Thursdays and spent the night at the camp. Reece had sent enough men to guard the mine that he they were in no danger.

As for Emma, Reece didn’t like the idea of her returning to her room tomorrow, not until this thing was settled. But he doubted he could convince her to stay here, and he wasn’t sure he could withstand the strain of having her so near for any length of time. It was hard enough to rest tonight knowing she was just beyond the door, sleeping in his bed....

According to Wilson, the hotel had been turned into a hospital, but there should be rooms available there. He’d offer to pay for her to stay there. After all, the newspaper office was his property, and he couldn’t expect a tenant to stay in a building that wasn’t secure or to suffer while he made necessary repairs, repairs that might take several days to complete.

Even a stubborn, prideful woman like Emma shouldn’t object to that, he decided, turning onto his side and succumbing to fatigue.

CHAPTER TEN

Emma floated on a cloud, suspended in air over a soft void. She didn’t want to open her eyes, and she wasn’t sure why, only that what she was experiencing couldn’t be reality. Reality had never been so sweet.

In her dream, she was rescued by a darkly handsome hero who swept her into his arms and promised to love her forever. She gazed into his amber eyes to find that the darkness was gone and there was nothing in their depths but devotion for her.

He had come after her. He’d vowed that he would not, but he’d come for her all the same.

She lifted her lips toward his, and his head came down to meet her as he crushed her to him. She could feel his breath on her mouth, but just as his lips moved to claim hers, a gunshot pierced the air. She jerked awake with a gasp.

Emma gazed around her at the still, silent room, her heart pounding in the aftermath of the dream. Sunlight filtered in through a window to her left. To her right stood a tall chest, and beside it a bureau over which hung a small mirror. A rich gold and maroon wallpaper covered the walls, and heavy maroon drapes framed the windows.

The furnishings appeared expensive, out of place in a rugged frontier town, and the room smelled of beeswax and the musky male scent of shaving tonic. To her right stood a clothes rack from which hung several expensive-looking men’s suits, suits she’d seen before.

She sat up, clutching the covers to her. She was in Reece MacBride’s bed.

A shiver ran over her nerve endings. Warmth suffused her face, her throat, her body at the very idea of lying in his bed, of feeling the warmth of the same covers that had recently covered him.

Tentatively she lay back down on the soft pillows, imagining things she shouldn’t be imagining, like what it would be like to lie beside him, to have him kiss her and hold her and... and she almost wished she could be the kind of woman who could do such a thing. The kind of woman Reece would want to make love to.

He had been so tender last night, so concerned.

He’d come after her. He hadn’t even sent one of his men, he’d come himself. And he’d brought her to the saloon where he’d cared for her and comforted her with such gentle skill that she’d found herself leaning on his strength, depending on him despite the hurt he’d caused her the last time she’d trusted him.

And then with a suddenness that took her breath away, the rest of what had happened last night rushed back into her mind. She’d killed a man. She’d pulled the trigger and taken a life.

Her stomach lurched, and she fought the bile that rose in her throat as she jumped out of bed and ran to the bureau. Frantically she poured water into the bowl and scooped it up, splashing her hot face to chase away the remnants of horror and stop the nausea from overwhelming her.

She stood, head bowed, her hands braced on the bureau, for a long time as she fought for control.

When she closed her eyes, the man’s face rose in her mind, the man she’d killed. He’d grabbed her, he’d slapped her. Her body trembled convulsively as she thought of his eyes so devoid of pity or anything else but lust, as she thought of what he’d meant to do to her.

Reece was right. She hadn’t had a choice. If she’d hesitated, if she hadn’t pulled that trigger, the man would have raped her, maybe he would have killed her. Probably he would have killed her.

She might be dead right now, or worse.

With an effort, Emma stopped the train of her thoughts. She had to get out of here, but she couldn’t very well leave in her nightgown. Her gaze came to rest on the back of an armchair, and she walked over to make sure her eyes weren’t deceiving her.

Her clothes were there, the shirt, vest and pants she’d worn yesterday. Someone had gone to her room and gotten them last night or this morning. Reece? Or had he sent someone? Not that it mattered. What mattered was that they were here, and she dressed quickly, sitting in the chair a few minutes later to pull on her boots.

Resolutely she marched from the bedroom through the office to the door and stopped, her hand faltering on the knob, her heart in her throat. She couldn’t leave. She wanted to leave, needed to leave, but she couldn’t. Here she felt safe. But out there... .

Emma shuddered and took a step back, her hands clenched into fists at her sides as she struggled for calm, struggled to understand what had happened to her. She’d never been afraid before, not like this, not so afraid that the very notion of walking through that door filled her with terror.

What she needed was a few minutes to gather her courage. Last night had been traumatic for her. She’d nearly been raped and she’d killed a man, and this was the one place where she’d felt safe. And even though Reece wasn’t here right now, being surrounded by his things gave her much the same sense of safety.

Emma looked around her at his office, searching for something to take her mind off her fear, something to help her forget.

For a man with so much wealth, Reece owned very few possessions, and the ones he did own were either starkly functional or richly extravagant like the carpet she stood upon and the enameled cigar box on his desk.

She glanced around the room at the mish-mash of items, wondering how he had come to choose each one. Did they have significance for him or had he picked them at random for their serviceability? That certainly seemed to be the case with the functional pine desk and swivel chair.

A large globe in a mahogany stand commanded a place on the desk. It served to remind her that he hadn’t always lived in these austere rooms over a saloon in a muddy mining town. Had he traveled once, seen exotic places she’d only dreamed of? He seemed to be a man who could have lived anywhere. He could have spun that globe and picked any spot on it by pointing to it. Why had he chosen Providence?

He couldn’t have picked a place more different from the plantation South. There was nothing here to stir memories of a lost empire and nothing to stop him from rebuilding that empire, she realized. Dakota Territory remained a lawless frontier where a man like Reece could make his own rules and answer to no one but himself.

She remembered the offhand comment he’d made soon after she’d arrived in Providence that he liked lawlessness, corruption and isolation, and she wondered if there wasn’t a grain of truth in that assertion.

He’d had a home once, she reminded herself, gazing at the painting of the plantation house over the desk. He still dressed as if he lived in that house. And she couldn’t help wondering why he took such pains with his appearance in a place like this.

“
I prefer to change the environment to suit me rather than allowing the environment to change me
,” he’d told her, and although she still maintained that the environment had changed him more than he wanted to admit, he did manage to hold onto a certain refinement.
 

Like the desk, the sofa in this room was uniquely serviceable, unlike the elegant four-poster mahogany bed she’d slept in last night. It was as if he allowed himself that one extravagance, an elegantly furnished bedroom, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to explore his reasons.

Emma went to the rough-hewn desk to her right. With a twinge of guilt that the reporter in her easily suppressed, she pulled the top drawer open and peered inside. A very attractive woman of about forty stared back at her from a small portrait. Lifting it out, she studied the heart-shaped face. Reece’s mother perhaps? She had the same dark hair, the same dramatic brows. Where was she now?

She started to return the picture to its place when something caught her eye. A book. A large Bible. One corner of the cover was gone, the surrounding leather blackened and charred.

She laid the portrait in the drawer and slowly lifted the Bible out. Her throat tightened as she ran a hand over the faded leather. What was Reece MacBride doing with a Bible? She couldn’t imagine that he would read it. Maybe it was a keepsake, but she never would have thought of Reece as sentimental either.

The damage to the beautiful book saddened her, and she wasn’t sure why. How had it happened? Had someone placed it too close to the fire or laid something on top of it? Or had the fire that had damaged the Bible been more catastrophic?

Slowly, almost reluctantly, she laid the Bible on the desk and opened it to the front.

Names leaped up at her.
Thomas MacBride, 1811-1862. Priscilla Drummond MacBride, 1820
. Parents. There were other names listed on the family page, perhaps Reece’s among them, but Emma couldn’t make them out for the mist of tears that blurred his vision and the confusion that blurred her mind.
 

Her eyes misting with unshed tears, she closed the book and returned it to its place. Her heart stopped at the sight of something else in the desk drawer. The familiar medal drew her eye, and caused her heart to stop. It was identical to her father’s -- perhaps it
was
her father’s. She picked it up with a trembling hand and turned it over, but the name engraved there was not her father’s.
 

For a moment, she could only stare in stunned disbelief. Reece MacBride had been more than a soldier, he’d been an exceptional soldier, a soldier who had distinguished himself on the battlefield.

Something inside her shifted and settled again, leaving a warmth deep in her soul. He was a hero, damn him.