Beyond Betrayal (5 page)

She was just about to plunge into a thick copse of undergrowth when she felt her arm gripped in a vise-like hold that jerked her back against a rock solid form. "No, please . . . ," she protested breathlessly and then froze as she found herself confronting a massive expanse of
bare
bronzed chest. Jerking her fingers away from the disturbing contact, gasping slightly, Delilah slowly raised her eyes past the sheriff's shadowed jaw and bold blade of a nose to his eyes. Hard, dark eyes. Impassive, unreadable eyes. "I have to catch my dog," she explained weakly.

Without a word, the sheriff released his grasp on one of her arms to reach out a hand and part the brush. Then, with a nod in that direction he said one word, "Look."

Slowly, Delilah turned her head. Her eyes widened. On the other side of the wall of underbrush the ground disappeared. A narrow, but very deep chasm slashed its way through the forest, its rock walls moist with the water that trickled its way down to the stream bed far below. Trees, perched precariously on the edge of the canyon, had a conspicuous lean and seemed about to lose their balance at any moment. High overhead an eagle screamed.

"Oh, my!" Delilah said weakly. Had the sheriff not halted her when he had, she would have plunged to almost certain death. Dizziness assailed her at that thought, and she swayed. Then, without warning, the world tilted as the sheriff swept her up into his arms as though she weighed no more than a child.

She was about to protest that she could walk, but he only took a couple of steps before setting her down on the trunk of a huge cedar felled by the passage of time. "Stay here," he directed.

"But, Poochie . . . ," Delilah found her tongue only to have her words quelled by a single glance from those intense charcoal eyes.

"I'll look for her."

Delilah didn't begin to breath normally until the sheriff's very large form faded into the dense shadows. She told herself that her breathlessness had been entirely due to exertion, but she suspected she was lying to herself. The man had a very potent and rather overpowering presence, intriguing and disturbing at the same time.

A few moments later, the sheriff materialized out of the shadows carrying a small furball in the crook of his arm. At some point in time he had apparently taken the time to fasten his shirt, for that disturbing expanse of wide male chest was now concealed. As he neared Delilah he said simply, "Her leash got caught on a branch.” Extending a hand to Delilah, he aided her to her feet.

Delilah looked up at him, expecting him to hand Poopsy to her, but he simply stared at her, his dispassionate gaze clinging to her features and doing strange things to her heart. Then, suddenly he reached toward her face. Instinctively, Delilah flinched away from the gesture, her subconscious mind protecting her from potential violence at the hands of a stranger.

He frowned slightly. "It's okay," he murmured. "You have some dirt on your cheek."

Feeling foolish, Delilah stood immobile as his warm calloused fingers brushed at the spot and then plucked a small leafy twig from her hair before dropping to her elbow to turn her wordlessly in the direction of the road.

As they walked through the cool, shadowy forest, Delilah couldn't help casting sidelong glances at her companion. She didn't understand how she could feel both safe and threatened at the same time when in his presence, but she did. And it had something to do with the fact that he still looked vaguely familiar.

Something told her that she would be wise to spend as little time as possible in his company. If he wasn't from Red Rock, that shouldn't present a problem. If he was. . . Well, maybe she should just find out. "Sheriff Chambers . . . ?"

He looked down at her. "Ma'am?"

"I don't believe we've been properly introduced, sir. My name is Mrs. Delilah Sterne."

The sheriff reached up with one hand to tip his Stetson slightly. "Pleased to meet you, ma'am. I'm Matt Chambers."

Did the man never smile? Most people automatically smiled when meeting or being introduced to someone, but not the sheriff. "And in what town are you the sheriff, Mr. Chambers?"

"Red Rock, ma'am. Ronnie tells me that's where you're headed."

"Yes.” Well, shoot! Why couldn't the sheriff have been from Butte or someplace?

A moment later they stepped out onto the narrow road and their brief conversation ended. Didsworth was walking back and forth next to his wagon, impatience evident in every line of his body as he slapped his battered hat against his thigh. Spying them, he came rushing forward. "I was startin' to think I'd have to go on without ya, ma'am. Daylight's awastin', an' I don't know nobody who'd try drivin' a wagon over these roads after dark."

Delilah nodded. "Well, I'm here Mr. Didsworth, thanks to Sheriff Chambers.” She turned to the dark enigmatic man at her side. "Thank you, Sheriff."

"Don't mention it, ma'am."

A moment later, Sheriff Chambers mounted his huge black horse. "See you later, Ron. . . Ty.” He tipped his hat in Delilah's direction. "Ma'am.” Then with a light touch of his heels to his horse's flanks and the sound of hoof-beats, he was gone.

"He called me Ty. Did ya hear that Pa?"

"I heard."

"I think I like that.” The boy's eyes glowed with hero worship.

Didsworth reached over and gripped his son's shoulder. "Has kind of a manly ring to it, don't it?” Then he turned to Delilah. "We'd best be on the move, ma'am. Lost us a couple of hours as it is."

As Delilah took her seat on the wagon once more, she was struck by the realization that, if Sheriff Matt Chambers was the sheriff of Red Rock, then he was doubtlessly also the sheriff investigating the rustling. And, Eve's letter implied, doing a pretty poor job of it, too. Much as Delilah would prefer to avoid the man in future, she might have to talk to him about that.

*   *   *

It was late afternoon by the time Ronnie Didsworth finally guided his four-horse team and buckboard into Red Rock. "Well, now, lookee there," old Jeb Potter exclaimed in a low voice. "Didsworth done brung a purdy new filly to town."

His conversation with Potter thus interrupted, Samson straightened from his leaning position against the wall of Lowden’s Mercantile and flexed a kink out of his broad shoulders. Potter was right about one thing: The woman with Ronnie was pretty. Downright beautiful some might say. He'd noticed that this morning.

Widow's weeds or not, any man with eyes in his head could see she couldn't have been a widow for long. She had hair as black and shiny as new coal, skin as white and rich as the fresh cream Samson had poured into his coffee that morning, and eyes as blue as. . . well, hell, he couldn't think of anything quite as blue as her eyes.

"Seein' that purdy lady affect yer ears, Matt?" Jeb Potter demanded in a querulous tone.

Samson looked down at the old man with a cold-eyed gaze that had cowed more than one recalcitrant drover bent on raising hell.

"An' don't bother turnin' that look on me. I ain't yet seen the day that I'd be afeard of a young pup like you."

His gaze didn't deviate. "What was it you said, Jeb?"

"I asked ya if ya knowed her?"

"Nope. Never saw her before today.” He looked back at the woman. Didsworth was helping her down from the buckboard in front of Mrs. Swartz’s Bakery.

"Thought you didn't have no use for wimmin?" Potter asked.

Samson gave an almost imperceptible shrug. In actuality fact he liked women quite a bit, but since he neither wanted nor could afford an entanglement with one who might have expectations for the future, he tended to avoid them. Except, of course, Lil. Lil was a widow in Butte City for whom the widowed state had been a boon. She liked variety in men and didn't like them to hang around too long. Sam's periodic friendship with her had been more of a convenience for both of them than anything else. Still, it had been a long time since he'd seen her.

"I like women well enough," he said finally, almost musingly as he observed Mrs. Sterne. "There's just certain kinds I prefer to avoid."

"An' what kinds would those be?"

Matt narrowed his eyes as he watched the pretty young widow step up onto the boardwalk and pause to study the town. "The marrying kind that the good church-going ladies keep trying to foist off on me, and whores. Whores can be downright deadly.” He was only half-joking.

Potter shook his head. "Where in tarnation did you get an idea like that? Some of the best women I've knowed were whores. 'Sides, if you leave them out, there ain't nothin' left."

"There's widows," Samson murmured, wondering what in the hell he was saying. The last thing he needed was an entanglement with a woman.
Any
woman. With a past that shadowed him like a stalking wolf, he couldn't afford to let anybody get too close to him. But, damn, it had been a long time.

Potter followed his gaze. The lady was looking into the window of the Red Rock Savings and Loan. "I guess," he conceded. "But there ain't a whole lot of widders."

"I only need one.” One that wouldn't need permanence. Marriage was not in the cards for a man like him. The trouble was he hadn't quite stopped dreaming about having kids of his own someday. He'd always liked kids. And, unfortunately, you couldn't have the one without the other. At least not to his way of thinking. Nope. A nice cozy relationship with a beautiful widow would be about as perfect as he could get.

Potter frowned. "I still want to know where you got the idea that whores is deadly. Here all the time I've knowed you, I thought you didn't like wimmen. I swear, you an' Mayor Jack are the only fellas in town that ain't visited Cora's girls."

"I have an uncle who almost bled to death after catching the clap from a whore in Wyoming once."

Potter snorted. "Now that's a stretcher if I ever hear'd one. Ain't nobody can bleed to death from catchin' the clap."

Samson looked down at him. "They can if they give it to their wives."

Potter stared at him as though he'd lost his mind. "You wanna run that horse by me agin."

"When my aunt found out that Uncle Harry had been visiting whores when he went to town for supplies and then comin' home to her like nothin' had happened, she was so blamed mad she blasted him with the bear rifle when he came in off the range. He blame near bled to death before she could patch him up."

Potter looked up at him incredulously. "Why in blazes she shoot 'im in the first place if she was gonna try to patch 'im up?"

Sam shrugged and lifted his eyes to seek out the widow. She was making her way down the street past Doc Hale's office. "Damned if I know. Aunt Mazie always did love Uncle Harry something fierce. I guess she figured she didn't want to lose him after all. I was only about thirteen or fourteen at the time, but I've been real leery of catching the clap and giving it to another woman ever since.” Not to mention the fact that he was just naturally fastidious. He didn't like the idea of being with a whore any more than he'd like the idea of putting on a pair of underwear or socks that had been worn by half a dozen men before him.

Potter frowned. "I can see how that could color a boy's view of whores a tetch. But it jest ain't healthy for a fella to go without a woman."

Samson was not about to tell old Jeb about his occasional visits with Lil—it was none of his business. So, he said nothing.

"I think in your place I mightn't be so set agin marryin'."

Samson snorted. "No thanks.” He had more than one reason for avoiding that exalted state.

There was a moment of silence. When Samson looked down at Potter it was to see the old miner looking up at him with a strange, knowing glint in his eye. "What?" Samson demanded.

"I know the sound of a man who's had his tail feathers singed when I hear one."

"Singed, hell!” Samson bit off a piece of the red and white striped hard candy that was in his shirt pocket and replaced the remainder to be savored later.

"Well now, sonny, I know you ain't gonna believe this, but all wimmin ain't like the one that done you in. My Anna would'a walked to hell and back for me. Never saw a woman work so hard to keep her man happy. I never thought 'bout visitin' a whore when Anna was alive.” He wiped his faded old blue eyes with a handkerchief that may have once been white or beige, but was now of indeterminate color and stuffed it back in his pocket. "Damnation, I miss that woman. Don't know why the good Lord hasn't took me to join her yet. Hain't got nothin' left to do on this earth that I can think of."

But Samson wasn't listening anymore. His thoughts were on the one woman he'd ever loved. Melissa Corrigan had been sweet, young and innocent. Hell, they'd both been young, but they'd loved each other passionately nonetheless. He'd been a different person then, had even worn his own name. Somehow, unfailing optimist that he'd been, he had found the courage to ask Pete Corrigan for his daughter's hand in marriage, and the man had agreed. . . at first. Then, the wealthy railroad owner, seeking more power and prestige, had begun to demand things of his future son-in-law. Things that were not only morally wrong, but on the wrong side of the law. Things like sabotaging his competitor's lines or creating a scandal concerning his rival's family. When Samson had refused, Corrigan had revoked his permission for him to wed Melissa. Then, after having Samson thrown bodily off of his property by a number of his men, Corrigan had hastily arranged a marriage for Melissa to a man more amenable to performing the kinds of favors he needed. A man double Melissa's age who needed a wife because he'd lost his own and still had a young son to raise. Samson had never learned his name, but he was a man who wouldn't have known the meaning of the word
tenderness
if had reached out and touched him. Or so Mrs. Corrigan had said when Samson had asked about him. Mrs. Corrigan hadn't wanted to see her daughter married to the man but, having never stood up to her husband, she didn't know how to begin.