Kit Gardner (23 page)

“Dinner?” he heard himself say. He spread his teeth into a smile he didn’t feel one damn bit. Perhaps Christian wouldn’t hear anything, after all. Perhaps for once he could set consequences from his mind with this woman. Dammit, only a noble fool would give consequences more consideration than the insistent, swollen pulse in his groin, and the torture he would endure to deny it...again. “Uh...biscuits and...uh...beets.”

Her lips parted, almost hopefully. “Beets?”

“Why not? You left a whole damned pot of them in the sink. They were delicious.” Her tiny pink tongue appeared between her teeth. He gnashed his and struggled to keep his gaze from wandering again to those pale orbs so gloriously displayed. “Soft,” he heard himself say hoarsely. “They were very soft. And sweet on the tongue. Round and full and—”

Her lips spread into a smile that took his breath. “You mean you liked the beets?”

His brows dived into their comfortable scowl. “Of course I liked them. Christian and I both ate two bowls full.”

“You did? Two full bowls?”

The other strap slipped unheeded from her shoulder and slid down one slender arm as she leaned forward with eagerness. One more breath...just one...and that flimsy camisole would sag away altogether.

“Put this on.” He snatched her robe from the hook on the back of the door and tossed it to her.

She gathered the cotton robe close to her belly, eyes still wide and expectant. Rance knew a man could lose every noble aspiration he’d ever possessed in those languid sapphire pools. “They weren’t overcooked?” she asked softly.

“What?”

“The beets. They weren’t overcooked?”

Rance heard his teeth click. Here he stood, a prisoner of his desires, all but salivating with raw need for this woman, and doing a right miserable job of concealing all this, when all Jess needed to spark that glitter in her eyes was a veritable gush of praise for her damned beets. Then again, he’d do just about anything for another smile like that.

“They were perfect,” he said.

“They were perfect,” she repeated, her lips tipping upward in a whimsical smile. She drew the robe over her shoulders and began to work one arm into a sleeve, shimmying her shoulders to accomplish this. This motion, of course, set her breasts to swaying, and Rance, confronted with the sight, decided even the most foolish of the noble would remove himself at this point. Even noble men had their limits.

He returned bearing a tray with beets, biscuits, a jar of honey and a large glass of water. Whatever relief he gained from her having donned the robe sputtered and died when she licked her lips and dribbled honey on the biscuit. Watching her eat could prove the end of him, yet.

With hands on his hips, he stood at the side of the bed, glaring down at her. Yes, he could glare. The woman looked like something sent from hell to plague him. All tumbled blond curls and soft white skin, she looked every inch a woman made for ravishing and little else. He could almost believe she’d orchestrated the whole damned thing to torment him.

“Christian and I are going down to the stream.”

She took a bite of biscuit, her tongue darting out to catch a dab of honey at the corner of her mouth. “Mmm...” was all she replied. “Thank you, Stark. You’re a marvelous cook.”

“I need a cold swim,” he grumbled, decidedly uncaring of his culinary skill at the moment.

She nodded as though she didn’t much care for his reasons for needing a cold swim, then directed herself once more to the honey and biscuits, all but dismissing him.

“When you’re finished, sleep. I don’t want you all weak-kneed tonight from lack of rest.”

“Tonight?” she said, lifting her eyes.

“The town social. We’re going.”

“There’s the small matter of Avram. I told him that I cannot possibly marry him.”

“I’ll take care of Halsey.”

“You already did, last night, when he came here so late. Why didn’t you tell me what happened?”

“He tried to bribe me to leave.”

“I guessed as much. But I suppose I already knew I wouldn’t marry him.”

“So did I, Jess. Halsey dug his own grave with you. He didn’t need my help.”

“Do be gentle with him, Stark. He seems bent upon revenge. What about the sheriff?”

What about Black Jack Bartlett?
He lifted a thick blond curl from her shoulder and watched it spill like the finest silk through his fingers. “Lady, I’m beginning to think you’re taking a liking to me.”

She lowered her eyes, but the flush mounting from her throat spoke volumes.

“Eat. And then rest.”

Her voice followed him to the door. “I may have succumbed to the heat, Stark, but I’ve never been weak-kneed over anything.”

He paused and gave her a deeply wicked look. “You will be.”

* * *

Jessica concentrated on relaxing each of her toes. The slow, even breaths she took at any moment would lull her into a gentle slumber. Or so Miss Beecher had advised. The house lay still, silent, the perfect cocoon for a late-afternoon nap.

So what the devil was wrong with her?

Her eyes snapped open. A vibrant pulse beat in her ears. She hadn’t napped since she was a babe. Even when she carried Christian, she’d gotten through her days without extra sleep. The heat and her intolerance for it were pitiful reasons to lounge the day away.

Sweeping the coverlet aside, she slipped from the bed, then threw up the shades. Late-afternoon sunlight flooded the room, bringing with it the promise of dusk and the evening to follow.

Despite the heat, a shiver whispered through her, and she hugged her arms close. Tonight she would dance in Stark’s arms, without the burden of reservation adding the slightest weight to her skirts. And as for Avram and all his talk of getting Stark driven from town, somehow she couldn’t imagine Stark allowing another man to tell him what to do. Why she’d felt so convinced only she could right the thing...

Then again, she could imagine even the most sensible of women resorting to all sorts of illogical behavior when confronted with the thought of losing that which meant everything to her. That she hadn’t paused in her mayhem to think only attested to the depth of her feelings for the man...and perhaps proved the final, irrefutable damning evidence she had hoped to deny.

That ache gripped at her soul, like a man’s fist clamping possessively about it. Love shouldn’t gnaw like this, should it? Love shouldn’t send a woman into desertlike prairie on some foolish quest...or should it? Perhaps love made the illogical perfectly understandable. What else could explain the supreme sense of peace enveloping her like a lover’s embrace? What else could account for the wanton recklessness of her thoughts, the bubbling anticipation in her belly at what the night would hold for her? What but love could banish every doubt, every reason she might have for holding her emotions at bay?

“I love him,” she whispered, blinking, unseeing, at the lace curtains. She turned from the windows, her gaze drawn to the framed photograph upon her dressing table. The man she had called husband. Miss Beecher spoke of “mutual affection growing over time.” No, she never would have loved Frank Wynne, not in twelve lifetimes. Miss Beecher should have spoken of love instead. Of the joy that burst within a woman’s breast like flower petals at that glorious moment of realization. Perhaps then Miss Beecher wouldn’t have felt compelled to describe a wife’s conjugal duties in terms one might use to prepare a woman for the firing squad. A woman needn’t bear the shackles of duty in her husband’s bed. She should give of herself freely, out of love, and for no other reason.

Jessica wrapped her fingers about the photograph and then, in one swift motion, shoved it into the dressing-table drawer and slammed the drawer shut. And then she saw it, reflected in the dressing-table mirror. A flash of deep, lustrous sapphire blue from the corner chair, tucked deep in shadows at her back.

Slowly, she turned about. Her breath caught as a ray of sunlight slanted over the shimmering silken folds of a sweeping skirt flounced at the hem. Her feet barely touched the planked floor, and then her fingers reverently brushed over the smooth silk of an exquisitely finished bodice. With trembling hands, she held up the tiny capped sleeves, and the skirt tumbled to the floor in a rustling whisper, cascading across tiny silk slippers of the same shade. A dress—so simply cut, yet so finely made any woman would quiver with joy to call it hers.

Without another thought, she laid the dress across her bed, then dashed from the house, her robe billowing about her, bare feet flying over the baked earth.

“Stark!” she cried as she ran into the barn. She glanced hurriedly about, then dashed to the back, where he kept his trunk and cot. “Stark!” Silence greeted her. Emptiness, thick, musty air...and a careless pile of his clothes lying at the end of his cot.

She knelt and sank her fingers into the damp shirt lying atop the heap. Even now, the cloth emitted a clean, heady, masculine scent that stirred her. She drew it into her arms, then spied the dusty denims beneath. All in need of a thorough washing. Gathering up the clothes, she rose, but paused when something cool spilled from a pocket and slid over her foot.

Instantly dismissing the thought of a mouse or some atrocious insect with scurrying legs, she brushed her fingers over her foot. She touched something—not an insect, thank God—squeezed her fingers about it, and lifted it from the floor.

The locket spun slowly from its delicate chain, flashing brilliantly as sunlight winked off its burnished surface. Jessica ignored the clamoring in her ears, the sudden hammering of her heart against the compressed walls of her chest. She let the clothes slide to the floor and pressed the locket into her palm, where it seemed to burn with forbidden secrets. With icy fingers, she released the tiny catch and opened the locket.

R
ance poked out his jaw, angled his head and drew the blade once more through the thick foam covering the cleft in his chin. He peered closer into the cracked looking glass he’d wedged into a furrow in the barn wall, still not satisfied. Damned cleft was too deep. Besides that, his beard was too heavy. In just a handful of hours, he’d need another shave or Jessica Wynne would be chafed and sore come morning.

Everywhere.

His mouth set into a grim line as he rubbed his face clean of the remaining foam. He turned his head from side to side, swiped a thick brush through his damp hair, springing in loose waves down his neck, and wondered why the hell he could look himself in the eye and find himself...somehow lacking. A breath expanded in his chest, and he awaited that certain satisfaction as his bare torso stretched taut as the toughest leather over rigid sinew. He flexed a heavily muscled arm, drew in his belly, shoved his chin again at the mirror...still waiting. And then listened to a breath hissing through his white teeth.

He’d be damned if he lost her now. And if he held onto her through sheer will and physical strength, then so be it. It had taken him half a lifetime to realize a man needed to feel needed, needed to know that he stood between someone and trouble. And that that someone wanted him there.

He’d do whatever it took, but by God, he wasn’t going to face Cameron Spotz and every bounty hunter between here and Wichita without knowing that Jessica Wynne was his.

Something tugged on his balled hand. “Do me now.”

Rance hunkered down on one knee and dabbed the lathered shaving brush over Christian’s smooth cheeks. Twin blue saucers peered through poker-straight bangs at him, his expression a mixture of excitement and awe.

“I’m shaving, too, aren’t I, Logan?”

Rance lifted important brows and made a great show of wielding the razor with due consideration. “Hold still, now.”

The boy stiffened, his tiny palms pressing against Rance’s chest, blue eyes widening as Rance drew the closed razor slowly over his cheek. The boy trusted him implicitly, and with an abandon that plunged to Rance’s core. Again he drew the razor through the foam and felt those tiny palms slowly brushing back and forth through his chest hair like faint whispers.

“When I grow up, I’m gonna be like you, Logan. All hairy.”

Despite the lump that had begun to lodge itself in his throat, Rance cocked a dubious brow. “Thanks. I think.”

“And we’ll shave together every morning like this and swim in the stream every day and fish and hunt antelope. Logan, you can be my pa. But that means you’ll have to marry my mama.”

Rance wiped the last of the foam from the downy cheeks, then ruffled the blond bangs. “I suppose I would. What do you think of that idea—me marrying your mama?”

Christian scrunched up his mouth and puckered his brow, as though the idea suddenly required deep thought. “Are you sure you want to? She can’t cook very good.”

A deep, generous laugh rumbled through Rance’s chest, catching him off guard. He stared at the small boy smiling up at him, so like his mother his heart twisted and curled around itself. And then the boy was in his arms, his entire fragile little body pressed against Rance.

“I love you, Logan Stark,” Christian whispered.

Physical strength be damned. His arms trembled as he gathered the boy’s warmth closer and inhaled of his sweet scent in one shuddering breath. His soul lay bare and gaping. He could feel it yawning wide in his chest, like a wound that would never heal. Vulnerable. Like a newborn calf.

“I love you, too, Christian.”

For one solitary moment, the child seemed content to remain there, as content as Rance was to hold him close. And then he squirmed and wiggled free. “Should we tell Mama that you’re gonna marry her?”

Rance blinked into the child’s eager face. Yes, if that was what it took, he’d
tell
her. Not a half-bad idea. He wouldn’t give her the chance to refuse him. “Why don’t we wait until later on? You know women. She’ll want to show off her new dress to all the other ladies at the social.”

Christian rolled his eyes, as though entirely understanding of the burden men endured in putting up with vain females. Rance shrugged into the finest, crispest white linen shirt he owned, tucking it neatly into his cleanest pair of Levi’s. He checked his freshly polished boots again, shoved a hand through his hair and grimaced one last time at his reflection. And then he reached for his six-gun, lying atop his cot.

“Why do you need your gun?” Christian asked quietly.

Because I feel naked without it...because wanted men don’t wander around unarmed...because Black Jack Bartlett might find himself within my sights.

“To protect your mama from all the other men who’ll want to dance with her,” he replied, shoving cold steel into the back of his waistband.

“Like Reverend Halsey?” Christian asked with a mischievous grin.

“Yeah,” Rance muttered. Halsey was the least of his troubles at the moment. “You ready?”

Christian licked his palms, wiped both over his bangs, gave a boisterous nod, then followed Rance from the barn. Rance paused to rub Jack’s muzzle, tested his harness for the tenth time, and rubbed a hand over the buckboard’s tufted seat. He glanced at the sun settling low upon the western horizon, then stared at the house. No sign of her.

“Maybe she’s waiting for us to come get her,” he said, half to himself. Again, he waited, listening to the wooden windmill creaking its woebegone song. “Ah, hell. I’m acting like some damned greenhorn who’s never been with a woman.”

“What did you say, Logan?”

“Nothing.” With hands planted on his hips, he squinted against the sun at the kitchen curtains, swaying in the warm breeze. “Yep. I’d say she’s waiting for us. Come on.”

He reached the house in five strides, shoved the door wide, placed one boot on the doorstep and stopped cold. She stood just beyond the kitchen, in the slanting rays of golden sunlight filtering through the hall.

In his mind’s eye, Rance had seen her just like this, a dozen or more times, but even his most lusty imaginings could never have done her justice.

The door thudded against the wall, echoing through the heavy stillness. His mouth went bone-dry. His breath was crushed in his lungs. And he stared at her, like a man intent upon possessing every sapphire-silk inch of her, body and soul.

She turned her head slightly, and sunlight played over her lips as they curved into a faint, tremulous smile. Artless ringlets tumbled from high atop her head, and his eyes followed one curl where it came to rest upon the generous swell of her breasts above the scooped neckline. Her fingertips suddenly wavered there, as though she grew highly uncomfortable with such a display, and his obvious appreciation. Fine. He’d content himself with waiting. But not for long.

His eyes met hers. Again, that tremulous smile, as if she weren’t quite sure of anything, least of all him. She had a look about her as though she were on the verge of tears.

“Mama—look at you.”

Her chin quivered, and she glanced at her son and smiled, but only briefly. Her eyes followed Rance as he moved toward her, in one telling sweep from thighs to chest filling him with all the reassurance he would ever need from this woman. He caught her hand fidgeting at her waist and drew it to his lips.

He breathed warmth onto her chilled fingertips, and again allowed his gaze to dip provocatively when her eyelids drooped slightly.

“Thank you, Stark. The dress—it’s lovely.”

“You’re never wearing gray muslin again,” he murmured huskily.

She stared at the buttons of his shirt. “You’re looking at me like you wish to make a meal out of me.”

“From appetizer to dessert, and that’s just the beginning.”

Her slender shoulders shrugged above the tiny capped sleeves, as though she knew very well what the warm sunlight would do to such luminescent skin. “If you’re hungry, I believe there’s more beets...somewhere.”

He ran his tongue over his bared teeth. “Actually, I have a taste tonight for flesh, my dear,” he muttered silkily. “Succulent, sweet, female flesh. I’ll settle for nothing but the best.”

She closed her eyes and flushed clear to her hairline. “Stark, you’re seducing me in my kitchen.”

“That was my intent.”

Her eyes swept open. Again he got the odd feeling she was close to tears. Something in her face, the faint trembling of her fingertips upon his sleeve. He covered her hand with his, feeling the quivering of her pulse.

“You’re far too beautiful to be nervous,” he said softly.

Faintly, she shook her head. “No, I’m—well, yes, I suppose I am. I’ve never owned anything so beautiful. It’s not that. I just—” She couldn’t seem to find her words, her lips parting, then compressing as the thoughts were left unspoken. Beneath his hand, her palm turned upward, and her fingers intertwined with his. “I love you, Logan Stark,” she whispered. “It’s that simple, really.”

Simple. Nothing about any of this was simple.

An ache burgeoned in the center of his chest. “Jess, listen—”

“Shh...” Her fingertips pressed against his mouth. “Take me to the social now, Stark, before I lose my courage.”

“I’ve enough courage for both of us.”

She stared up at him. “Yes, I know you do.”

* * *

Dusk had just settled over Twilight’s Main Street when Logan Stark drew the buckboard to a halt before the town square. A large wooden pavilion occupied the center of the square, brightly lit by hanging oil lanterns. All manner of buggies and wagons clogged the surrounding streets, the annual event drawing most anyone who called Twilight home. A trio of fiddlers accompanied by harmonicas filled the warm evening air with a lively tune and set many bustled skirts to swishing across the dance floor. Children dashed about, frolicking in unchaperoned play, while their parents clustered about tables bursting with food and drink.

Jessica wrapped her fingers about Stark’s, drawing strength from his towering presence as he assisted her from the buckboard. He held her there against him a moment longer than was necessary, perhaps to assure himself that her legs were beneath her. Yes, a woman such as she required great courage to display herself in such a gown. Standing before her mirror, she’d wondered if she possessed the will to do it. But then Stark had looked at her in that wildly possessive manner, and all doubts had fled her.

She loved him. Simple as that. Even though he’d carried Frank’s locket with him. Whatever the future held for her, she knew only that she wanted this one night with him. One solitary, magical night, before reality crushed in on her from all sides. She could no more deny herself this than she could her love for him. Recriminations were for the faint of heart, and those who’d never known the recklessness that comes with love.

“Come on!” Christian urged, tugging at Jessica’s skirts. “I’m hungry!”

“You go on,” Stark said, and Christian scampered off with a hoot. “I don’t know,” Stark murmured, his voice warmly hushed near Jessica’s ear. “I think I like it right here.”

“Yes.” She breathed in the warmed scents of this summer’s evening, feeling his broad hands spanning her ribs in a slow caress. His thumbs traced the full, heavy undersides of her breasts, rousing that joyous ache in her belly. She gave herself up to it, incapable of anything else, swaying against him like a slender sapling when he pressed his mouth to her neck. Time hung suspended, trapping them in a dusky cocoon where movement went unhurried, and feeling sapped all will.

Stark’s teeth grazed the top of her bare shoulder.

“Let’s go home.”

Jessica smiled and closed her eyes upon the starry sky overhead, smoothing her palms over the length of his arms. “We have all night.”

“And it still won’t be enough.”

“I thought you wanted to dance.”

“Yes, let’s talk about what I want. It’s all right here, under this dress. Did you know your skin is softer than silk...here...” His mouth left a quivering trail over her shoulder, then the base of her throat. “And here, your pulse is beating warm and fast. And here...” His breath came hot against the high curves of her breasts. “Here, you’re like ripe, sweet fruit.”

She gulped, and her eyes swept open. “Stark, we’re standing on Main Street.”

“No one can see us.”

True. With the buckboard at her back, and Stark’s broad-shouldered bulk against her, she was well shielded from even the most prying eyes. And he was being most persuasive—

“Logan.”
Beneath his thumbs and taut silk, her nipples swelled and thrust into the center of his palms. She arched her back, curving into his touch with a sweet, desperate longing.

And then, from out of the night—

“Jessica? Is that you?”

Jessica stiffened, her palms flattening against broad shoulders, then couldn’t resist a muffled giggle when Logan Stark reared up with the look of the devil himself.

“I’m beginning to think these interruptions are strategically planned,” he said through his teeth. “Some sort of damned female conspiracy. Trust me, a man has never been more tortured, and tonight...” His thumb brushed over her bottom lip. “Tonight, I only have myself to blame, dammit. I should never have taken you anywhere looking like that.”

“It’s Louise,” Jessica offered, smoothing her hands over her bodice.

“I know who the hell it is.” He scowled furiously. “Damned woman should be at home, in her condition. Not disrupting
my
evening, and she damned well knows what she’s doing. She’ll have that little grin on her face. Nothing worse than a woman with too little to do. Listen to me, woman, you’ll be home knitting bootees when you carry my child. Not out frustrating some poor fellow.”

Jessica looked sharply at him. “What did you say?”

“Jessica?” The rustling of taffeta skirts drew nearer, and then Louise French’s feathered hat poked from around the back of the buckboard. “Why, hullo, Logan Stark. And, of course, Jessica. My, but you’re both looking rather well...out here all alone in the dark.” Louise French’s grin spread from ear to ear.

Stark muttered something under his breath.