Never Marry a Cowboy (23 page)

Her face fell as she stood and looked at the money in her hand. “You're one of them fellas who's faithful to his wife, ain't you?”

“Apparently so.”

She lifted a shoulder to her ear. “Reckon I'm glad. I wouldn't have liked you as much iffen you weren't.”

He watched her saunter away, flirting with the men she passed. He turned his attention to the full glass of whiskey Harry shoved toward him. He downed it in one swallow and waited patiently while Harry refilled the glass.

“So what did happen?” Harry asked.

Kit wrapped his fingers around the glass. “Remember the man shooting your floor?”

“He wasn't an easy character to forget.”

“He's also a thief. Robs stagecoaches. He attempted—succeeded, actually—in robbing the one in which Ashton and I were traveling. A bullet grazed my temple and knocked me unconscious. I don't know how Ashton managed to do it, but she hid me from them and nursed me back to health.”

“Quite an accomplishment for a dying woman.”

“Indeed. She is remarkable.” Kit took a long, slow swallow of whiskey, relishing the burning along his throat. He lowered the glass and met Harry's gaze. “Ashton knows about Clarisse.”

In the process of tipping the bottle, Harry stilled. “What exactly does she know?”

“Everything.” Harry was the only person Kit had
ever confided in entirely. “It seems the bullet jarred my conscience and loosened my tongue. Unfortunately, she was not the dispassionate confidant that you were. She loathes me.”

“Although I can see it troubles you, perhaps her knowing is for the best. You were bound to lose her sooner or later. Sooner is better, before your feelings for her deepened.”

Kit shook his head. “I love her, Harry. I never thought it would be possible to love any woman as much as I loved Clarisse.” He leaned forward. “The bitter truth is that I love Ashton more, and she looks at me as though she fears at any moment I will take her life.”

“Perhaps she doesn't understand the extent to which Clarisse suffered.”

“I told her. I tried to explain. How can I expect her to understand when I have regretted my actions these many years all the while knowing that I would do them again.”

“I wish I were a man of wisdom who could offer you some sage advice.”

Kit chuckled. “You did give me some wise advice. I simply failed to heed it, and you were right. I have dropped more deeply into the bowels of hell.”

“Well, if it ain't the marshal that don't wear a gun.”

Kit jerked his gaze past Harry to see Jasper and several of his men standing nearby.

“Heard you was back in town,” Jasper said with a sneer, his gun leveled at Kit's chest. “We got some unfinished business.”

“Harry, move away from the table,” Kit said in a
calm voice that did not reflect the turmoil churning within him.

“Not bloody likely. Guns are not allowed in my saloon, gentlemen, as the marshal has told you before.”

“Think I give a damn?” Jasper asked.

“You would if you knew my wife.”

“I'm getting damned tired of hearing about your wife. Maybe I'll just make her a widow.”

Kit held up his hands. “We're both unarmed. Shoot us now and you will have committed coldblooded murder in front of over a dozen witnesses. You
will
hang.”

Much to Kit's surprise, Jasper nodded and holstered his gun. “I'm all in favor of a fair fight. Tomorrow at noon. South end of town. You don't show, and we burn every building to the ground.”

Kit watched the man saunter across the saloon, his spurs jangling. At the door, he scraped his rowel across the floor, leaving a deep scar. “See how your wife likes that.”

He walked out, followed by his men, the door swinging in their wake.

“He's the type of man Jessye would love to kill,” Harry said quietly before turning to Kit. “You'll need to send a telegram and get reinforcements—”

“No,” Kit said succinctly. “I have no confidence in the abilities of the State Police. Besides, if we call them in, they are liable to put the town under martial law, which was the very reason the citizens asked me to become the marshal. So we would not have to deal with the corruption and ineptitude that often accompanies the State Police.”

Kit rose and addressed the slack-jawed customers. “You all heard Mr. Jasper's announcement. I believe his quarrel is more of a personal nature against me rather than against the town. I shall meet him on his terms. No buildings will be burned, but I need you all to get the word out that no one is to be on the streets tomorrow at noon.”

Among stares, mumbling, and whispers, Kit sat and picked up his glass of whiskey, surprised to notice the steadiness of his hand. “He said he'd heard that I'd returned. One of his men must have seen Christopher and mistaken him for me. I shudder to think what might have happened had I not returned tonight.”

Harry leaned forward. “You are not serious about meeting him tomorrow.”

Kit lifted his glass in a mock salute. “Believe it or not, Harry, the man has solved a great many dilemmas for me.”

U
nable to sleep, Ashton slipped on the wrap Kit had purchased at the mercantile and walked out of her room. The man had thought of everything, which came as no surprise to her. He was incredibly gifted at taking care of the details.

The boardinghouse was dark. She made her way quietly down the stairs. She saw a pale light spilling out from beneath the kitchen door. Mrs. Gurney always seemed to be cooking, day or night. Little wonder Kit ate here even though he didn't live here.

She stepped into the kitchen and came to an abrupt halt at the sight of burnished hair. Sitting at the table, the man glanced up from the book he was reading, smiled at her, and stood. Her heart settled into its normal pace as she recognized Christopher and shoved aside the immediate disappointment that it wasn't Kit.

She waved her hand. “Please don't get up. I didn't mean to disturb you. I thought Mrs. Gurney was here, and I just wanted some warm milk.”

He held up his cup. “I have a weakness for cocoa. I made a bit extra, if you'd care for some.”

She gave him a tentative smile. “Yes, thank you.”

“But you can't run back to your room with it. You'll have to sit and talk with me.”

Obediently, she sat while he poured the cocoa into a cup for her. The resemblance between him and Kit was striking, and yet there were as many differences. He was more slender. Responsibility had carved lines within the noble planes of his face, but they did not run as deep as those within his brother's face. Just like Kit, he carried himself as though he were a man who not only knew, but completely understood, his position in the world.

He placed the china cup in front of her before returning to his chair.

“Kit mentioned that you had a fondness for chocolate.” She brought the cup to her lips and sipped the warm brew, savoring the flavor and the mist tickling her nose.

“My brother has a gift for understatement.”

“He purchased me a lot of chocolate when we were in Galveston,” she said inanely, wishing she'd stayed in her room. “What are you reading?”

He lifted the book. “A dime novel. Not very literary, but extremely entertaining. It helps me to relax. The hero in this particular story reminds me a great deal of Kit.”

“He never mentioned that someone was writing a book about him.”

“Modesty would prevent his making such an announcement, I'm sure. Perhaps the character isn't based upon him, although I've heard rumors since
I've been here that he doesn't wear a gun, which apparently is quite unusual for a marshal.”

She shrugged. “Most men in Texas wear guns whether they're marshals or not.”

“So I've noticed. It's still quite the frontier, isn't it?”

“I suppose so.” She took another sip of cocoa.

“I take it that your marriage to Kit is in name only,” Christopher said quietly.

Ashton's fingers tightened around the cup handle. “Why would you think that?”

“Because Father saw Kit climb down the beam that supports the roof over the porch, and since your room is above ours, we both assumed you weren't sharing a bed.”

She felt the heat flame her cheeks. “Currently, we're not sharing a bed. No.”

Christopher tilted his head as though to consider possibilities. “But you were for a while? So you've had a quarrel.”

Deliberately, she set down the cup. “I don't see that where we sleep or if we've quarreled is any of your business.”

“I would agree if I did not love Kit as much as I do.”

She wondered how much his love would diminish if he knew what Kit had done to Christopher's wife.

“Kit desperately wanted to hold your hand while he was in our room learning of Father's secret.”

Ashton felt her chest tighten. “Why do you think that?”

“Because I could see it in his eyes, in the way he looked at you, wanting, but fearful. Come to think of it, he didn't touch you when he introduced you to me
in the foyer, so your quarrel must have occurred before you arrived tonight.”

“We did not have a disagreement,” she snapped. She didn't like knowing that Kit had wanted to touch her but hadn't because she'd asked him not to. She was always thinking of her needs and not his. She should have realized how hard visiting with his father would be, should have put aside her disgust with him for a short time. Lent him her strength instead of her weakness, after all he'd given her.

“Are you unhappy at the prospect of moving to England?” he asked.

“I will not be going anywhere with Kit. Our marriage is temporary—”

“Because of your health?”

“Yes.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “All marriages are temporary. Eventually, one spouse dies. The marriage is over. 'Tis only the love that remains.”

She furrowed her brow. “I'm not sure if you're being morbid or romantic.”

“Realistic. But I apologize. I'm in a pensive mood. Did Kit mention to you that he loved my wife?”

Her mouth suddenly dry, Ashton could only nod.

“Sometime tonight,” Christopher said, “it shall dawn on him that he should have married Clarisse.” He lowered his gaze to the table and touched his finger to his mouth. “Life is full of ironies.”

“But you loved her, too. And she loved you. Kit told me she died with your name on her lips.”

“While lying within his arms.”

A secretive smile played upon Christopher's lips as
he pointed his finger at her and raised a brow. “That was a guess upon my part, but the expression in your eyes confirms it. He never told me that, you see. He no doubt told you a great many things that he never confided in me.”

“If you have questions about her death, you'll need to ask him.” She started to rise.

“Stay.”

“I don't think I should.”

“Afraid you'll confess my brother's sins? I am well aware of his sins, Ashton.”

“Then you don't need me to stay.”

“Tell me what you quarreled about.”

She slid back into the chair. “I told you that we didn't quarrel.”

He nodded his head toward her. “Your cocoa is growing cold.”

She brought the cup to her lips. It was cooler, but still enjoyable, if she could just force it past the lump in her throat.

“Clarisse was in such agony,” Christopher said as though he'd drifted out of the room. “Her cancerous disease showed her no mercy. Twice, nay, three times, I prepared a brew that would end her suffering for all time, but I could not bring myself to carry it to her lips. So I sent for Kit. He has always been the stronger, you see. Even in the beginning, when he was scrawny, he possessed the strength of spirit that put mine to shame. I knew he would find the will to do what needed to be done. He never told me what had transpired within the room while he was with Clarisse, but when he said, ‘It matters not where my body is,
I
shall be in hell,' I knew. I knew he had granted her wish.”

Staring at him, she slowly set her cup down. “She wanted to die, and you sent him to her knowing that he would kill her?”

She watched a tear roll down Christopher's face. “Pain was all that remained in her life. Death was the only thing she ever asked of me that I could not give her, but I knew Kit would deny her nothing, regardless of the cost to himself. And he has suffered greatly for it.”

 

Details. So many details to be considered.

Sitting at his desk, Kit glanced momentarily at the room in which he slept. He knew if he were smart, he'd stretch out on the cot and catch a few hours of sleep before his meeting with destiny.

But as he'd learned of late, he was not a smart man.

And the details were staggering.

Jasper had planned that stagecoach robbery so Kit knew he, too, was a man who understood the concept of leaving nothing to chance.

Kit had already oiled and cleaned his rifle and loaded it. He would not need extra bullets. If the fourteen that his Henry rifle held didn't do the job, he seriously doubted he'd be alive to reload and finish the job.

Still…he placed spare bullets beside his rifle. Leave nothing to chance.

He had to determine exactly when to step out onto the street. He did not want to seem overeager, but neither did he want to be standing there with the wind whistling by and his palms growing sweaty.

So many damned details, and they were all unimportant. All except the ones he now worked on. Ones that revolved around Ashton.

He had considered climbing to the window of her room and slipping into bed with her. His arms ached to hold her, his shoulder longed to again feel the little nodding motion she made as she worked her way into a comfortable position against him.

He dipped his pen into the inkwell and made a notation on the paper in front of him. He had considered writing her a letter of farewell, but what was there to say? He thought about thanking her for the time she'd shared with him, but the words made what he truly felt seem trite. He contemplated writing a letter of explanation regarding his sin, but if spoken words could not sway her, he doubted that written pleas would.

So the only thing he would work on tonight was a missive that he would hand to Christopher tomorrow. It was best this way.

He picked up the black book that Christopher had given him. He studied the cover and wondered at all his father might have written inside. Thoughts he'd never meant for another soul to read.

He looked up as the door opened, and Christopher stepped in. His brother glanced around. “I have yet to understand why you bothered to lock this dreary place.”

“Because I have weapons, and I didn't want anyone to take them.”

Christopher nodded thoughtfully. Kit turned over the paper on which he'd been making notations. He didn't know how he was going to explain all that
would transpire tomorrow, but he thought doing it on short notice would serve him best, so Christopher would have little time to try and persuade him to travel a different path.

“What are you doing here anyway?” Kit asked.

“I saw you leave the boardinghouse.” Christopher raised a brow. “The building does have a front door, you know.”

“I'm aware of that fact, but I prefer to live dangerously.”

“That explains the reasoning behind your taking this position as marshal then, doesn't it? Your life must be at constant risk.”

“Hardly. Mostly I escort drunken cowboys out of Harry's saloon,” Kit said.

Christopher looked into the room where Kit slept. “It's a far cry from the grandeur of Ravenleigh.”

“It suits me,” Kit said quietly.

With a sigh, Christopher sat in the chair that David Robertson had occupied several weeks earlier. A lifetime ago.

“Why didn't you write me when Father had his first stroke?” Kit asked.

“I did,” Christopher said. “I assume the letter hasn't arrived.”

Kit glanced around his desk. “Not that I've seen, but then, there seems to be no pattern to how long it takes a letter to reach me.”

Christopher jerked his head toward the book Kit held. “Have you read it?”

“No.”

“Ah, what a tangled web we weave, heh?” Christo
pher asked, intertwining his fingers and placing them over his flat stomach.

“Father's web seemed fairly straightforward.” Kit set the book aside. “You could have kept this discovery to yourself, you know.”

Christopher nodded slightly. “I considered it and not because of greed, avarice, or hunger for a title. But who am I if not the heir to Ravenleigh?”

“You're Christopher Montgomery.”

He scoffed. “But who is that, Kit? Who I am has always been defined by what I would be. When I read Father's journal, I felt as though someone had tossed me carelessly into a tempest. I have yet to find my anchor in this storm of deceptions.”

Kit remembered the vivid dream he'd had the night when the fog rolled in. Now that it made sense, he sympathized immensely with his brother's frustrations. “Under the circumstances, I should think any man would feel doubts and confusion. Still, you could have burned the journal.”

Chuckling softly, Christopher shook his head. “I was tempted, so tempted. I even built the fire, but in the end, I knew I could not live with myself, nor would I ever be able to look you in the eye if I were not honest with you, if I did not share my discovery.”

Kit leaned forward to voice the concerns that had been bothering him. “You risked Father's life bringing him here. You could have waited—”

“I had not intended to bring him, but he insisted. I did not realize that he wished to come so he could use the time to try to convince me to hold my tongue. I'm angry with him. Furious, in fact. All these years, he
deceived us. He made me into someone I was not meant to be.”

“He made you into who he
wanted you
to be.”

Christopher pounded his fist on the desk, surprising Kit by the unusual display of rage. “English law does not work in that manner. The aristocracy does not select its heirs. God does.” Briskly rubbing the side of his hand, Christopher sighed. “I apologize for my outburst.”

“No need to apologize. You have every right to be upset.”

“You don't seem bothered by this turn of events.”

Kit stroked the scar beneath his chin. “I suppose it hasn't all sunk in. Besides, I believe that I've made a small contribution while I've been here. You have to understand, Christopher, that I have found a measure of contentment.”

“Father warned me that would be the case, that you would not find this revelation as enticing as I envisioned you would. I'm surprised to discover him right.”

“As difficult as it is to admit, Father knows us well—both our strengths and our weaknesses,” Kit said, willing to admit to himself at least that his father had done him a service in raising him as he had. By never giving him an inch, he had prepared him to stand on his own.