Never Love a Cowboy (21 page)

T
he pitifully small man tipped the bottle
,
poured himself another glass of whiskey, and cursed his brilliant ideas.

He’d been right. Tonight the saloon was packed—men stood, backs against the walls, because every chair was occupied. Barely keeping pace with the customers’ demands, Jessye looked like a rag doll, ready to fall into a heap at any moment. He’d need to hire another serving girl, perhaps two.

Men were doing what they’d never before done as she served their drinks: trailed their fingers over her bare arm, slapped her on the rump, leered at the small swells of her breasts revealed by the low cut of the dress.

The rage surged through him because he’d placed her in this embarrassing predicament and was in no position to protect her. What in God’s name had possessed his mind when he’d ordered the damn thing?

He’d wanted control, to feel like a man again, whole and complete.

Instead, he felt like cow dung.

The last thing he’d ever wanted was to harm her,
but since the encounter with Milton, he’d taken all his frustration out on her…he’d tried to force her into hating him because he thought only then would he stop loving her.

He squeezed his eyes closed. Oh, God, he wanted her, but how could he expect her to accept him: a man crippled of body and, more, crippled of heart?

Opening his eyes, he grabbed the bottle and slammed it against the wall, spewing liquor and glass. The saloon fell into an eerie hush, and all eyes turned on him. At least they no longer were focused on her breasts.

Her brow furrowed, she rushed over, and the pain of regret stabbed him deeply.

“Harry, what are you doing?” She sank to the floor and picked up shards of glass.

“Leave that for Billy,” he ordered. “Bring me another bottle of whiskey, then go change out of that damnably annoying dress.”

Defiance and victory shot into her eyes as she slowly rose. “Thought you wanted me to wear this dress.”

“I changed my mind.” He arched a brow. “That is not a prerogative limited to women, you know.”

He watched her raging battle: defying him, against running upstairs to rip off the hated garment.

“Please,” he offered with genuine contriteness, “go change into something better suited to your…temperament.”

As though recognizing that she may have won more than a battle, she gave a slight nod. She went to the bar, grabbed a bottle of whiskey, and returned it to his table before stomping up the stairs.

With a weary sigh, Jessye closed the saloon doors and locked them. Habit forced her to place the key into her skirt pocket. Tightening her fingers around the metal, she withdrew it, charged across the saloon, and tossed it onto the table where Harry sat. She pivoted.

“Sit down,” he commanded.

She spun around. “Harry, I’m tired and I got cleaning to do.”

“Billy will handle the cleaning.”

As though waiting for a summons, the young man emerged from the back, on hand stuffed in his coat pocket as he carried a bucket of water. “Thought I’d get the floor done first, then them dishes.”

“Whatever works best for you,” Harry said. “Now, Jessye, sit.”

“I’m not a dog to follow commands—”

He sighed in exasperation. “Please.”

She angled her chin. “Pretty please?”

She watched his jaw tighten. “Pretty please with sugar on it.”

She dragged back a chair and plopped down, relishing the small victory.

Leaning over, he grabbed her calf. She jerked free, suspicion lurking. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I am going to remove your shoes and rub your feet. As much as you ran around tonight, they must hurt.”

The man was gifted with understatement, but the impropriety…

She glanced over her shoulder at Billy, who was on his knees scrubbing tobacco juice stains from the floor.

“He’s too busy to notice,” Harry said quietly.

“I oughta show him how it’s done. He’s gonna be here all night. He needs to scrub the floor with both hands—”

“I rather imagine he would if he had two hands to use.”

She snapped her gaze to his. “I thought—”

He shook his head. “He prefers to keep his lack of a hand hidden so it appears he has it shoved in his pocket. In truth, he left it on some battlefield. This bloody war your country fought seems to have left few men whole.”

An image of Gerald Milton flashed through her mind.

“Don’t think of Milton—”

“How did you know?”

“The sadness, the regret that touches your eyes. Did you purchase the doll?”

She nodded. “Haven’t found the gumption to mail it yet.”

“You will in time.”

“I’m just not sure it’s the right thing to do. Madeline invited me to visit them anytime, but I told her I couldn’t. It about killed me to say good-bye.”

Harry leaned forward. “When you said good-bye before, in both cases, you thought it was forever. You’ve been handed a gift, Jessye my love. The chance to say good-bye, knowing another day will come when you can again say hello.”

The temptation to visit her daughter was greater than anything she’d ever experienced. Just a time or two. To watch her grow, to see her happy. Harry was right. She had been handed a gift. She’d given her
daughter over to strangers, and two Englishmen had crossed an ocean, and their paths had brought her past back into the present. Fate was an intertwined tapestry that she should accept rather than question. She nodded. “I’ll send the doll and see what happens.”

“Good.” He patted his thigh. “Now, give me your feet. You’ve rubbed more than mine. Let me return the favor by easing your hurt.”

The heat suffused her face as she studied him carefully. “Give me your word that your hands won’t wander above my ankles.”

He placed a hand over his heart. “You wound me with your distrust—”

“Your word.”

He smiled slightly. “You have it.”

Lifting her feet, she carefully placed them in his lap, grateful she sat to his left. She didn’t know if his right hip could bear the weight. She watched, mesmerized, as his deft fingers untied the laces to her shoes and slipped them off. When those fingers kneaded the soles of her feet, she thought she might turn into a pool of hot wax and slide to the floor. Closing her eyes, she dropped her head back. “This is gonna go a long way toward earning my forgiveness.”

“What do you have to forgive me for?”

She squinted at him. “Stealing the saloon, making me wear that gawdawful dress.”

He grimaced. “Regarding that dress…I’m going to say something to you that I have never said to anyone else in my entire life.”

She angled her head thoughtfully, waiting expectantly. She watched him swallow.

“I apologize profusely for treating you badly.” The raspy words sounded as though he’d pushed them through clenched teeth. He pressed his fingers into her feet, then relaxed.

“Why did you do it?” she asked.

“Stupidity. Arrogance. A gamble.”

“What were you gambling on?”

“That you would leave.”

“Who did you make the wager with?”

“My heart.”

Her chest tightened as he looked away, but his fingers never ceased their movements. She imagined his tender kneading making its way up her calf, to her thigh…she had been no stranger to pleasures of the flesh, but Harry had taught her things she’d never dared to dream.

She heard the shuffling gait and tried to pull her feet from Harry’s lap. With a wicked glint in his eyes, he held fast. Her father stepped out from the back.

“Books are done. We had a hell of a night.”

Harry nodded. “Gray should have the faro table finished in another week or so. Business should improve considerably once we get it set up.”

“Well, I always knew the old girl would do good,” he murmured, patting Jessye’s shoulder. She watched him amble slowly toward the stairs and climb them as though he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

She jerked her feet from Harry’s lap before he could grab her ankles. “I’ll forgive you for the dress, but never for taking the saloon from him.” She started to rise.

“Care to win it back?” he asked, his offer a low, seductive caress.

She sank into the chair. “What?”

He shuffled a deck of cards, his gaze holding hers. “A small game of chance, and I’ll give you the opportunity to win back the saloon.”

Her heart pounded as she scrutinized him. “You’re gonna put the saloon in the pot?”

He slapped the deck onto the table, right in its center. “Yes. Two cuts of the deck. You first. Me second. High card takes the stakes.”

“So if I cut to the higher card, I get the saloon back?”

“That’s right.”

“And if you cut to the high card?”

“You spend the night in my bed.”

Blood rushed through her head, pounding between her temples. She grew hot on the outside, cold on the inside. She desperately wanted to tell him to go to hell, but the haunting memories of the years her father had struggled to keep this place going, the look on his face the night he signed the papers over, the regret in his eyes tonight—

“You’ll cheat.”

He rolled up his sleeves and held out his hands, palms up, fingers splayed. “How can I cheat when I’m not holding the deck? You don’t even have to show me your card until after I’ve cut for my card.”

Her mouth went dry, her gaze darting between him and the deck. She’d lost her virtue at the age of seventeen. Its value was nothing. But her body. She’d given it to Gerald out of love. To Harry once out of desperate feelings that confused her even now.

That he would consider making this offer made her feel sordid and dirty. A saloon in exchange for her body. It was more than soiled doves were offered. And in the end, she knew it wasn’t the saloon she wanted, but her father’s pride.

She snatched up a portion of the deck, pressed the cards to her chest, and slowly angled them to reveal the top card. A jack of hearts.

“I assume you’re accepting the terms of the wager?” Harry asked.

She glared at him. “Just cut to a card.”

With a smooth fluid flick of the wrist, he tossed the top card onto the table. A queen.

Her heart sank to the floor as she fought to draw in a breath and set her cards on the table face up.

“I realize you might have some concerns over your reputation. You need not come to my room until after Billy retires.”

She stood, shaking so badly that she was surprised her teeth stayed rooted. “You’re so considerate.”

She spun on her heel.

“Jessye?”

She glanced over her shoulder.

“Be sure to wear your softest nightgown.”

Jessye stared at the door that led into Harry’s room, a room that had once been hers. Strange how she no longer considered it her room.

Pride had forced her to bathe, brush her hair to a sheen, and slip into her cotton nightgown. She would endure the night, but derive no pleasure from it, and in the end, in some warped manner, she’d be able to claim the victory as hers.

She’d prayed that Billy would take all night to finish cleaning the saloon, but she’d heard him enter his room shortly after she’d entered hers. Instinctively, she knew Harry had sent him to bed without finishing up his duties. He’d probably justified excusing him early because it was his first night to work.

It would be her last. Tomorrow she would leave. Kit could send the money from the cattle drive to her. Meanwhile, she’d survive on the pittance she had and be glad of it.

She took a deep, unsteady breath, hating the jitters that cascaded through her. She rapped lightly on the door.

Harry’s low, deep voice bid her to enter.

She opened the door. Harry sat on the edge of the bed wearing nothing but trousers, his bare feet enhancing the intimacy of seeing his chest bare. Her toes curled against the floor.

He gripped one of the bed’s four posters and slowly, painstakingly, pulled himself to his feet. His knuckles turned white, and she saw within the harsh lines of his face what it cost him to remain standing, the shame he felt because he could not come to her. She would have to go to him.

Her heart melted.

She quietly closed the door and padded across the room. She watched his throat work as he swallowed. With his free hand, he cradled her cheek with such tenderness that she thought she might weep. His gaze swept across her face like a lover’s caress.

“Do you remember the exact words of the wager?” he asked quietly.

She furrowed her brow. “I’m to spend the night in your bed.”

His thumb stroked the corner of her mouth. “Listen carefully to the words, Jessye, for they are the key to your deliverance. Spend the night in my bed. That is
all
that we wagered. I expect nothing more.” He held her gaze. “Nothing more.”

Her stomach felt as though a noose had just been loosened. “You mean you just want me to sleep in your bed?”

He gave her a devilish grin. “What I
want
does not enter into the wager. You need not touch me. You need not invite me to touch you. Although I shall no doubt attempt to persuade you that you want more than a night simply lying in my bed.”

She knew it would take little to persuade her.

Releasing a groan, he closed his eyes and sank to the bed. She dropped to her knees and placed her hand against his right hip. “You’re in pain. Do you want me to get the salve and work it in—”

“No,” he growled. He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and lifted her gaze to his. “For tonight, I do not want you to view me as a cripple.”

Her heart very nearly shattered. “Harry, you’re not—”

He pressed his finger to her lips, silencing her words. “Get into bed.”

She glanced past him to the head of the bed, where he’d turned down the covers. She wondered at the effort he must have exerted to make the bed appear welcoming. She rose, walked a short distance away from where he sat, and slipped between the sheets. She scooted over, making room for him to join her.
She became aware of an edginess about him, a wariness, and she wondered if he was as nervous with tonight’s arrangement as she was. “I’d forgotten how comfortable my bed is,” she said softly, hoping to ease the tension.