Patricia Potter (18 page)

“And what can I do for you, Marisa?” he finally said.

A great deal. A kiss would be a nice start.
But she suppressed the words. “I want to help Willow,” she blurted out.

Surprised, Sullivan studied her more carefully. He had always been attracted to Marisa, although she was much younger than he was. She had so much spirit, so much liveliness. A room brightened when she entered it. But he was thirty-six, nearly twice her age, and he had seen more death and destruction than anyone should. He had also caught malaria in Louisiana, and he was determined he’d never inflict the results of that disease on a wife. But now, as he looked at her, part of him wavered, the part where his heart resided.

He had not realized how much she had grown up. Her expressive brown eyes glowed as she returned his gaze. Her dark brown hair, almost black, was tied back with a blue ribbon that matched the color of her silk shirt. A dark brown riding skirt rode over slightly rounded hips, and slender ankles were encased in fine leather boots. Alex Newton never stinted when it came to his daughter, and Sullivan knew it must be difficult for her to go against her father.

“Are you sure you want to oppose your father in this? He may never forgive you.”

“He’s wrong,” she said simply. “And I’m afraid for Willow. But if the whole town supports her, he’ll have to leave her alone.”

“I don’t think so,” Sullivan said. “It’s gone too far now. He’ll just hire more men.”

“I’ve met one of them,” she said, and Sullivan noted the slightest shaking of her shoulders, as if she were trying to shed fear.

“Who?” he replied sharply.

“The man they call Lobo.”

Sullivan’s face tightened. “Tell me about him.”

“He’s frightening and mean. He has the coldest eyes I’ve ever seen. I asked him to leave and he…sneered at me.” Marisa shivered. Any illusions she’d had about gunslingers were destroyed Saturday night when one had so coldly killed her father’s man.

Sullivan saw her eyes cloud and knew she was remembering the killing at the dance. He couldn’t restrain himself any longer. He held out his arms, and Marisa went into them, her body still trembling with memories.

He held her tightly, his hand soothing the hair that smelled like flowers. The trembling stopped, and then she turned her eyes up to him, a tear hovering in one corner. He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t resist catching the tear with his lips. Then his mouth moved downward, nuzzling soft white skin until their lips met.

There was an instant conflagration, and the kiss erupted into blue-hot splendor. First gentle, his lips caressed and explored, but then grew more demanding as she responded, her body inching closer to his. He had wanted this for so long, and now he knew she wanted it too. Denial had only served to build the pressure and need until he felt like a bottle ready to explode.

She opened her mouth instinctively, invitingly, and his tongue entered, probing sensitive nerves until her trembling started again from an altogether different cause. Sullivan’s arms went tighter around her, wanting, needing, craving the warmth she offered. It had been a long time since he’d felt this kind of belonging, this kind of gentle yet fierce heat.

But Marisa deserved more than a man who never knew when the malaria would strike next, who needed to be cared for like a child during those sieges, who may not live a full life. She deserved much more.

With a groan of agony he moved away from her, his gaze finding her passion-flecked eyes and wonder-filled face. Fear slowly replaced the wonder as she saw the sudden denial in his eyes, in his face.

“Sullivan,” she whispered. “Don’t go away from me.”

“It won’t work, Marisa,” Sullivan said slowly. “I have nothing to offer you.”

“I don’t want anything but you.”

“I’m damaged, Marisa. I have an illness that won’t ever go away. I won’t inflict that on you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she replied desperately.

“But it does. To me it does. I don’t ever want you to see me that way.”

“But…I…” She wanted to say she loved him, but her pride prevented it.

He took her chin and cupped it. “I’m a great deal older than you are, Marisa, and I’ve seen things that no man ever should.” He paused for a moment, then continued. “Your father would never approve, and no matter how you feel now, you would regret the loss of him.”

“Must you always be so noble,” she said, suddenly furious with him. None of his reasons meant anything now, not after that heart-shattering kiss, not after the expression in his face that made her believe that he possibly loved her too.

Sullivan tried to smile, but he feared it was more a grimace. “I thought it was reason, not nobility.”

“It’s not reason at all,” she retorted. “It’s excuses. You’re just hiding behind them.”

Sullivan was silent, wondering whether she was right. Perhaps he had been hiding ever since his family and fiancee were killed during the war. But it was a self-imposed exile he wasn’t sure he could break.

“Then there’s all the more reason for you to stay away from me, Marisa. You need someone who can give you a whole heart.”

There was a finality in his words that frightened her.

“I don’t give up easily,” she said.

He smiled for the first time since the kiss. “I know you don’t.”

She hesitated a moment, then decided it best to leave and concoct a new plan of attack. “You’ll be at the barn raising?”

He nodded.

“Me too.” She grinned. “I’m even going to make some chicken.”

His eyebrows rose in surprise.

“I’m quite a good cook,” she added, the light of combat in her eyes.

“I imagine you’re good at a great many things,” he said.

“You’ll find out just how many,” she said impishly, and then rushed out the door before he could say anything more.

It wasn’t until she was halfway back to the ranch that she remembered she’d meant to ask him more about the feud between her father and Gar Morrow.

T
HERE WAS, AS
Marisa guessed, indeed a gathering of the good folks of Newton that evening. It wasn’t exactly a town meeting, for the organizers did not want certain people to attend.

It was, instead, a poker game in Bob MacIntyre’s general store.

Mayor Stillwater was there, along with the Reverend Massey, banker Amos Folley, Sheriff Carrol Posey, Bob MacIntyre, Dr. Sullivan Barkley, and the gunsmith, Al Lewis.

Al Lewis was all for leaving things alone. His business had increased tenfold in the past two weeks.

His opinion was ignored by all but the reverend, who sent him a glare that promised heavenly retribution someday. And then the good man focused his attention back on the two pairs in his hand.

“We have to make some kind of decision,” the mayor said as he asked for two cards. “Are we or are we not going to help Miss Willow?”

“Three dollars to stay in,” the banker said, and the money was promptly produced by four of the seven players. Sullivan, Al Lewis, and the mayor dropped out with moans of disgust.

“Raise you another dollar,” the reverend said, adding, “It’s the Christian thing to do.”

“But is it the wise thing to do?” Folley chimed in. “Mr. Newton, after all, is the biggest man in the territory.”

“Newton’s own daughter is coming,” Sullivan interjected.

“That’s what I heard. Raise you again,” MacIntyre stated. “Wonder what old Alex thinks about that.”

“Girl always was independent.”

“Gotta give it to her, takes spunk to stand up to Alex,” the gunsmith said. “Wish more of this town had some.”

“So you could sell more guns and ammunition,” Stillwater charged. “You’d be happy if we had a gunfight every day.”

“Be mighty interestin’, bring more people here,” Lewis retorted mildly. “More business for us all.”

“I raise another dollar and call,” the reverend said as he cast another baleful look at the gunsmith. “Most people just want our peaceful little town back.”

“Full house,” MacIntyre said.

A disgusted reverend threw his cards in.

“Your deal, Sully,” the mayor reminded Sullivan.

“We still haven’t decided what to do.”

“I promised my wife I’d go. Miss Willow’s done a lot for my boy,” MacIntyre said bravely. “I sure as hell won’t let Alex scare me out of doing what’s right.”

Silence greeted that line of thought.

“What about you, Sully?”

“You know the way I feel about it,” Sullivan said. “It’s our town, not Alex’s or Gar Morrow’s, dammit. Now, who’s got the guts to go, to do what’s right?”

“Give me three cards,” Lewis said. “I gotta keep my shop open Saturday, lots of business. So I can’t come.”

August Stillwater grumped. Al Lewis had run for mayor against him, had almost beaten him. If Lewis wasn’t going, well, he’d show the town Mayor Stillwater had some backbone.

“Count me in,” August said.

“Good for you,” Sullivan said. “Sheriff?”

“Well…mebbe I should just kinda keep an eye on things here….”

“Reverend?”

“Well, if Miss Newton’s going, I suppose her pa can’t be too unhappy. He’s a big contributor to the church, you know.”

“Cecil, don’t temporize. The Lord won’t like it.” Sullivan chuckled as the reverend looked offended.

“I said I would go,” he sputtered.

“Amos?”

“Can’t take sides. Hurt the bank, and that would hurt the town,” the banker said self-righteously.

“What should we tell the other folks should they ask?” This came from a still-nervous August.

“Follow their conscience,” the reverend said reverently.

“Cockfeathers,” MacIntyre muttered.

“I call,” Sullivan said.

“Call what?”

“The hand, you idiot,” MacIntyre told the sheriff.

“Well, I can’t figure out iffen we’re talking about the game or Miss Willow.”

“Three kings,” Sullivan crowed.

“Got me beat.”

“Me too.”

“So we’re all agreed.”

“On what?”

“That we’ll all follow our conscience.”

“Hell, that’s no agreement.”

“Well, it’s the best we can do,” August said. “And I’m cleaned out. Mrs. Stillwater will be madder than a wet hen.”

“Tell her it’s your mayoral duty.”

“I tried that before.”

“So MacIntyre, the reverend, August, and myself will go to the barn raising,” Sullivan said, trying to bring the important issue back into the disjointed conversation.

“Yep,” MacIntyre said disdainfully. “The others can hide from old Alex.”

“And his hired gun. Don’t forget him,” Al Lewis interjected, and the conversation quieted somewhat.

“Anyone seen him yet?”

“Naw. Maybe old Alex’s just talking.”

Sullivan kept his mouth quiet. Better they think that. Better for the barn raising in the morning.

On that note the divided group of town fathers gathered their winnings, mourned their losses, and departed.

11

O
n Saturday Lobo watched as the wagons wended their way to the Taylor ranch from the hill overlooking the trail.

There weren’t enough, he thought. Not nearly enough to do the job. But there were more than he had anticipated.

He’d made another venture into town the day before and had bought bacon, coffee, and flour. He’d ignored the questions directed at him.

Lobo had heard all the news in those few minutes at the mercantile. Everyone in town was wondering who would cross Alex Newton and go to the barn raising. He’d even heard the wriggling tongues say Newton’s daughter was going to openly defy him. That was surprising news.

She had even more gumption than he’d thought. He’d been sure only morbid curiosity had brought her to him that day last week, but apparently she really did care about Willow Taylor. A number of people cared enough to risk their lives about Willow Taylor.

Only briefly did he wonder how it would feel to be liked enough that people would risk their lives and livelihoods for you. But he quickly dismissed the thought as both stupid and indulgent. It was far better, he knew, not to have to depend on others for anything, better to be completely self-reliant, to live free of obligations or responsibilities.

He bit off a curse and turned toward his camp. His hands were almost fit again. He didn’t know exactly why he continued to stay. He had failed, and now he could never convince the woman to leave, especially with a new barn going up.

He knew Newton was hiring additional guns. He had seen them on the ranch and in town. There was no mistaking the breed, not if you were one of them.

And the Taylor brood was sitting there like a bunch of lambs surrounded by wolves. Damn him, but he had apparently discovered a secret but powerful partiality to lambs.

Lobo didn’t particularly understand his sudden protective instincts, and he liked them even less. But they were undeniable and compelling as well as damned confusing.