Just Her Type (12 page)

“He was planning to take her for a ride?” Seeing his amusement, she turned away. That, on more than one occasion, she had found fault with his daughter was, in his opinion, a crime. If he could make her pay for that at the same time he obtained his daughter a husband, he would be delighted.

“Why shouldn't a man want the prettiest maiden in town?”

Again the temptation to retort heatedly was almost too much to ignore. “Someone will show you out.”

Mackenzie stored her unhappiness deep within her as the hours plodded past. She was two people, the one who spoke with her friends, and the other who writhed with jealousy. She did not want Luke to hold Lacey as he had her and share those body-melting kisses.

When the sheriff and Hap took their leave, she thanked them. Horace told her he would stop by in the morning. Promising to send news of Luke's recovery to Hap, she was glad to close the door.

Glancing at the loft, she listened for Douglas's snores. She blew out the candle and walked into the bedroom. Luke's arm was flung across the covers, which were twisted around his legs. She tried to smooth them out, but could do little without waking him.

Going to the sofa, she scooped up the extra blanket and Luke's pillow. She spread the blanket in the narrow space between the bed and the wall and pulled it around her like a bedroll. She hid her face in the thin pillow, wishing she could escape the trouble barreling down on Bentonville like a runaway train.

“Mackenzie?”

The soft call of her name came a second time before she lurched to her feet. Light flowed through the window. It was just past dawn. Luke's face was a pattern of bruises. They stretched along one cheek and into his dark hair.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“I know you wanted to be rid of me, but why didn't you put me on the train instead of under it?”

His wry humor filled her with relief. “You came looking for the real West, remember? We do things differently out here.”

He put a hand to his head and plucked away the cloth. As it fell from his weak fingers, she caught it. “Where are we?”

“My bedroom. I thought you'd rest easier in here.”

“This isn't how I imagined it would be in your bed.”

She flushed, but said, “Horace wants to speak to you later.”

“I'll bet he does.” Luke turned to look at her, and she realized he could see through only one eye. The other was swollen shut. “Don't just stand there gawking as if I were a sideshow attraction. Help me sit up.”

“Luke, I don't think you should do that yet.”

“Help me, or leave so I don't embarrass myself doing it by myself.”

Slipping her arms under his shoulders, she clenched her teeth. “You're impossible!” When he groaned, she asked, “Are you happy? You've hurt yourself again.”

“I'd be happier if you hopped in here with me.”

Mackenzie chuckled at his attempt to leer at her. Plumping the pillow behind him, she said, “If the truth be told, I slept here with you last night.”

“You did?”

“Don't fret, Luke. Your virtue—whatever of it's left—is intact. I slept on the floor. I thought you should have someone nearby.”

He caught her hand in his. “I'd better be careful what I say in my sleep.”

“If you're planning to dream about your sweetheart, you needn't worry about me repeating her name.”

“Even if her name is Mackenzie Smith?”

Because she had expected a joke instead of an intense question, she could not answer. She drew her hand away and pretended to rearrange the blanket. “You should be thinking about resting that head instead of … other things.”

“Then you may be just a fantasy.”

“Possibly.”

“You're a poor excuse for a fantasy when you just stand there and eye me.”

She took a deep breath and whispered, “Luke, both Douglas and I are sorry.”

“You weren't the only pigheaded ones, sweetheart.”

Her heart contracted with joy at the simple endearment. “Do you want some breakfast?”

“Nothing I have to chew.” He touched his jaw and winced.

“I can bring you coffee and reheat some of the scrambled eggs Hap made.”

“Sounds perfect, as long as you keep me company.”

“It's a deal.”

Mackenzie's steps were lightened by her delight with Luke's acceptance of the apology which a week ago would have been thrown back in her face. Enjoying breakfast with him, she told him about bringing him home. He grimaced when she spoke of how the storm added a touch of melodrama to the whole episode.

“At least, it'll be a great column,” he said wryly.

“Luke—”

“Don't worry, Mackenzie. I won't name names. Not that anyone here reads
The Albany Independent
anyhow.”

“Just be careful.”

Douglas's footsteps in the other room kept Luke from answering. The boy's attempts at an apology were accepted as kindly as Mackenzie's had been. Getting his own breakfast, he sat with them until he had to leave for school.

“Douglas?” Mackenzie said quietly as she placed the dirty dishes on the table.

“What is it, Ma?”

Dampening her lips, she said, “Just let the kids at school think Luke had an accident.”

“It wasn't. I—”

She put her hands on his shoulders. “Douglas, knocking him off the horse wouldn't cause all those injuries. Horace agrees me about this.”

“Then …” His eyes widened. “Who'd want to hurt Luke like that?”

“That's what we must figure out before—”

“Luke dies like Pa?”

Terror strangled her. “How did you know about that?”

“Can I tell you after school?” he asked as a shout ricocheted up the stairs. “That's Parker. I'm supposed to walk to school with him.”

“Go ahead. Just keep your mouth buttoned. This isn't a game, Douglas.”

“I understand, Ma. I can keep a secret.”

“Obviously,” she whispered as he raced down the stairs. If what her son was suggesting was true, he knew more about his father's death than she had guessed.

Luke winced at the thud of Douglas's steps on the stairs. Leaning against the headboard, he tried to ride out each wave of pain. Although Mackenzie did not hover about him, he knew she was concerned by the number of times she came in and out on flimsy excuses.

He thought about lying down, but to move meant more agony. He stared at the uneven joints in the ceiling. Prying into his unreliable memory, he tried to remember what had happened. Shadowy forms flitted through his brain. He could remember rising from the ground to see Douglas riding off. The curses he had spoken then rang through his head clearly. After that, he had heard other footsteps.

He swore as the images became indistinct. Nobody had to tell him this was the important part. Although he could not identify the faceless bodies surrounding him as he lost consciousness, he could recall their cruel laughter as they left him for dead.

A soft voice swept away his impotent fury. Looking up, he managed to focus on Mackenzie. He started to say something which would guarantee her cheeks becoming as rosy as her soft lips. Only a groan emerged. She surged across the room.

“I'm fine,” he muttered, hating his weakness.

“Are you sure?”

“I said so, didn't I?” He held up his hand when she began to apologize. “You're right. I feel horrible.”

“Then I'll send your guest away.”

“Guest?”

“Yes,” she said stiffly, “
you
have a guest, Luke.”

Her tone warned him who was calling. When a be-feathered gown decorated with too many green ruffles brushed through the door with the whisper of taffeta, he realized that the doctor's daughter would not be kept waiting. He also realized how little he wanted to see Lacey.

“Oh, Luke, when Father told me you were hurt, I swear I was beside myself with grief.” She dabbed at her eyes with a gold handkerchief. “I cried all night long.”

“Did you?” He nearly laughed.
What a performance
! “May I say that you seem to be enduring the trauma quite well?”

Flouncing to the bed, she bent and kissed him on the mouth. He shoved her away and looked at Mackenzie, who was watching without expression. His smile tightened as Lacey flashed a furious glare at her.

“Will you join us, Mackenzie?” Luke asked.

“No, thank you. I have work to do. Lacey, there's coffee on the stove. Help yourself.”

Mackenzie looked back to see the blonde sitting on the bed. Luke looked past Lacey to her. Her gaze was imprisoned in the warmth of his eyes once again. She was unsure what emotions played across his battered face.

Hurrying down the stairs, she stopped to lean against the wall. Luke had made it clear from the beginning that he was in town only temporarily. Only a fool would let her life become mixed up with his.

Only a fool like Lacey Langhorne.

Or Mackenzie Smith.

NINE

After a week, the worst of Luke's pain had left, the purple bruises had lightened. Mackenzie was not surprised that he joined her in the print shop within days. He could do little other than talk, and she suspected he made the effort to put a stop to Lacey's unwanted visits.

She had not known how much she had come to depend on Luke's help. Although Horace suggested she put out only one issue of the
Bugle
until Luke was healed, she knew that was impossible. With impending statehood only weeks away, she had more announcements to put in than four pages could hold. When, on Saturday shortly before midday, she finished that morning's edition, a sense of serenity surrounded her. Luke was healing. The paper was done. From outside, she could hear Douglas and his friends playing baseball.

She smiled as Luke came out of the bedroom. Doc Langhorne had insisted he rest, and, with reluctance, he took a nap every afternoon. “Just like a mewling baby,” he had complained more than once.

“Did the boys wake you?” she asked when he rubbed sleep from his eyes, taking care not to touch the greenish bruises.

“It was time to get up anyhow.”

“Douglas was talking about some maneuver you were going to teach them.” She laughed. “I never guessed a game played with a stick and a ball could be so complicated.”

Squeezing past her, he reached for the coffeepot. Her half-voiced warning was eclipsed by his profanity as he pulled back from the hot handle.

“Luke!”

He took a pot holder and poured himself a brimming cup. Some of the coffee splashed on his hand. He snarled another curse. “Don't give me that reproving frown. I'm sick and tired of being sick.” He flung out his other hand. “I lay in that room and think about what I should be doing instead of lying there like—”

“A mewling baby?” she interrupted with a laugh.

“Very funny.” He stamped to the table and set the cup on it with a crash. “You can joke. You're not about to lose your job. Carter accepts one excuse for missing a deadline. Death. Your own, and you'd better have your obituary written. He's going to cut my heart out for missing my deadlines for a full week.”

“You didn't miss any deadlines. You've been sending an article every other day as you promised.”

Balancing his spoon between his fingers, he smiled coldly. “Let me guess. You've been writing them for me.”

“Yes, and it wouldn't hurt you to sound a little more grateful.”

“Grateful? For what? You've probably cost me my job.”

With a laugh, she filled a cup for herself. “That's possible. Maybe he'll hire me to replace you.”

He caught her wrist and pinned it to the table. “This isn't funny. If the
Independent
doesn't pay my doctor bills, you're going to be hard-pressed to do so.”

“I got a message from your esteemed editor just this morning.” Pulling it from her pocket, she placed it by his cup. She sat and sipped her coffee.

He read the few words while she held her breath. “How much did you pay Zared to write this?”

“You don't think your editor would compliment me?”

“‘Last two articles about cattle rustlers and competition on range excellent. Like new style. Real Western flavor. Keep up good work.' Why didn't you give me a raise at the same time?”

“You ungrateful cur!” She jumped to her feet and raced down the stairs.

Luke heard sounds that told him she was searching for something. Wearily he rose. He should not have shouted at her. If only his bruised head would stop aching with every thought …

Mackenzie bounded up the steps before he reached the door. She shoved some pages at him. “I shouldn't have bothered to save your job. If you think it's fun to take care of you all day while I try to keep my business going, then sit up all night to write these, you're more stupid than I thought!”

“Mackenzie—”

“If you're hungry, help yourself to some supper. I'm not eating. Something has tainted my appetite.”

Luke sighed as she went down to the shop. Curiosity taunted him, for, if Mackenzie had not been joshing, Carter had been impressed with her work.

Sitting, he leaned his elbows on the table as he began to read. She had written about rustlers and range wars, two topics close to the editorial heart of the
Bugle
. He did not hurry through the pages, enjoying them first as a reader, then with a writer's critical eye.

He lowered the last page to the table and folded his arms in front of him. Carter had not been generous. These were excellent. That she could pen these articles for the
Independent
told him that her talent was larger than the
Bugle
. Maybe he should be honest with Carter and suggest that he hire Mackenzie. Then she could move east and … He was not sure what would happen then, but he was not ready to say good-bye to her. Not until he convinced her to join him in her bed and share those fiery passions in her eyes. He would peel away her clothes and savor her soft flesh, cradling her in his arms and …