Schulze, Dallas (33 page)

“I’ll live,” Bishop told her. “Next time, I’ll move faster.”

“I think that would be a good idea.”

As she leaned forward to circle the bandage around his waist, her
braid tumbled over her shoulder, falling in the way of her hands. Before she
could toss it back, Bishop’s fingers closed over it. Lila froze in place, her
arms half around him. She could see his hand wrapped around the thick length of
her braided hair. There was something strangely erotic about the sight of his
tanned fingers against her hair. His hand shifted and the heavy braid curved
across around his wrist in a thick auburn bracelet.

Lila was chained to him, her own hair the shackle that bound her.
Hardly breathing, she lifted her eyes to his. His eyes were a pure, clear blue,
heavy-lidded and hungry, stealing what little breath she had left. She felt an
echo of that hunger deep inside her, a pulsing heat low in her belly. His thumb
stroked across the braid he held, and Lila seemed to feel the caress as if it
were against her skin.

For the space of several heartbeats, they stood together, their
eyes locked, their hearts beating in rhythm. Lila felt spellbound, aware of
nothing but Bishop and the sharp hunger in his eyes.

It was Bishop who broke the spell by taking her braid and easing
it over her shoulder so that it lay across her back. “It’s late. Maybe you’d
better finish up and get back to bed,” he said quietly.

“Yes.” The word was hardly more than a sigh. Her fingers were not
quite steady as she turned her attention back to the task of bandaging his
side.

In those few, still moments, she’d been forced to admit, if only
to herself, that she wanted her husband on a purely carnal level that had
nothing to do with the sweet, tender emotion she knew love to be.

By the end of a week, Bishop’s wound had healed to the point where
it was no longer necessary for Lila to change the bandage. Though he’d carry a
scar, he’d actually been very lucky. Despite what he’d said about not moving
fast enough, his speed had been enough to keep him alive. Lila was furious when
she found out that the man who’d tried to kill him had received no punishment
other than spending a couple of nights in jail.

“He tried to kill you!” she protested, when Bishop told her he’d
already released the man.

“It wasn’t personal. He was liquored up and looking for a fight. I
just happened to get in the way. Jack’s not a bad sort unless he’s drinking.”

“He’s a menace to society and should be locked up,” Lila snapped.
Bishop had come too close to death for her to be in a forgiving mood. If this
was an example of the ways in which things were different in the West, she much
preferred the more civilized East, at least in this one area.

Bishop’s injury served to shift the balance of their marriage in
ways neither he nor Lila could have anticipated. It created new bonds and
fostered a new intimacy between them. Each time Lila changed the bandage for
him, she was forced to acknowledge her attraction to him. And each time, when
the task was done and she stepped away from him, she found herself questioning
her decision to keep him at a distance.

It was true that
The Lady’s Journal of Home & Hearth
said that it was a woman’s duty to help a man control his baser instincts. But
they hadn’t made any mention of her own baser instincts. And did not having
relations with one’s husband fall under controlling baser instincts, or was it
in the category of refusing to do one’s marital duty—a sin of mammoth
proportions, according to the editors of the magazine?

Lila wrestled with her conscience, seeing questions in every
direction and no clear answers. If she were to tell Bishop that she’d changed
her mind—and she couldn’t even begin to imagine how she’d go about doing
that
—would
she be doing it because it was the right thing to do or because of the wicked
desire he made her feel? And did marriage, even without love, justify the sin
of lust?

On Bishop’s part, not even the discomfort of his injury could mask
the sweet torture of having Lila touching him. Each time it was an exercise in self-control
for him. He wanted to reach for her and pull her into his arms, knife wound be
damned. He wanted to feel her mouth soften for him, feel her body melt beneath
him.

The damnable part of it was that he could have her without a
whisper of protest on her part and they both knew it. She wanted him as much as
he wanted her. It was in her eyes when she looked at him, in her touch as she
smoothed the bandage around his waist. He could all but smell the hunger in
her.

Maybe she was even hoping he’d make the first move. Then she could
submit gracefully and not have to answer to her own conscience. But he was
damned if he’d give her that out. If she wanted to change the terms of their
marriage, she was going to have to say so.

With neither of them willing to make the first move, everything
remained status quo, much to their mutual frustration.

***

Bishop wondered if there was another woman alive who could make
kneading bread look seductive. He stopped in the kitchen doorway, feeling the
familiar clench of hunger in his gut. Unaware of him, Lila continued with her
task, leaning her upper body into the job, her hands working the mound of dough
in a rhythmic motion that made Bishop think all kinds of thoughts he’d be
better off not having.

She was wearing a plain cotton dress in a dusty shade of rose, the
sleeves pushed up halfway to her elbows and a white apron wrapped around her
waist. With her hair caught up in a heavy knot at the back of her head and a
smear of flour across one cheek, she was the picture of domestic endeavor. And
he wanted her.

Though he made no sound, Lila seemed to sense his presence because
her head came up abruptly and her eyes met his. They stared at each other,
awareness strung between them like a tautly drawn rope. It was for a moment only
and then Lila looked away.

“I’m making bread,” she said, as if he might not have noticed.
“Bridget gave me the recipe.”

“Did she?” He walked farther into the room. He hung his hat on the
back of one of the chairs and ran his fingers through his hair. He was aware of
a feeling of homecoming, an unfamiliar sense of belonging.

“Bridget says yeast bread is easier to make than biscuits,” Lila
said as she continued kneading the dough. “You should be glad of that.”

“Should I?” Bishop cast her a cautious look. He hadn’t said a word
about her biscuits, which were either rock-hard lumps or doughy lumps with
nothing in between.

“I know perfectly well that my biscuits aren’t always quite
right,” she said. She glanced at him out the corner of her eyes. “You and Gavin
have both been kind enough to eat them anyway. Angel isn’t old enough to have
developed that much diplomacy. She very kindly informed me that she didn’t
think she liked biscuits anymore and that I didn’t have to make them for her
sake.”

Bishop brushed one hand over his mouth to conceal a smile. “Maybe
she just doesn’t care for biscuits.”

“And maybe I make the worst biscuits this side of St. Louis,” Lila
countered. She punched the dough a couple of times and then gathered it up in
both hands, shaping it into a neat ball before placing it in a white
earthenware bowl and covering it with a clean towel.

Bishop started to say something consoling about her biscuits but
his attention was caught by a movement outside the window. A half step to the
left gave him a better view without putting him directly in front of the
window. The area behind the house had been cleared of trees when the place was
built, apparently with the idea of putting in a garden. The garden had not yet
come to pass, though Lila was nurturing a cutting of that rosebush of Bridget
Sunday’s that she seemed so fond of. At the moment, the backyard was nothing
but dirt and weeds backed by a ragged line of pines and aspens.

Gavin stood near the back of the yard, the light blue of his shirt
visible against the dark-green shadows of the pines. Assured that the movement
he’d seen had been nothing to worry about, Bishop started to turn away from the
window but he hesitated and looked at Gavin a little more closely. There was
something odd about the way the boy was standing.

“You’re not usually home this early,” Lila said, turning toward
Bishop. “Dinner won’t be ready for—” She broke off, startled, as he walked past
her as if she weren’t even there. “Bishop?”

He didn’t seem to hear her as he reached the door and jerked it
open with enough force to smack it back against the wall. Lila caught a quick
glimpse of his expression and felt her heart leap into her throat. He looked as
if he were on the verge of murder. What on earth? She hurried after him, nearly
stumbling off the porch in her haste. Bishop was halfway across the yard, his
long legs setting a pace she couldn’t hope to match without breaking into a
run.

“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” The question was asked
in a near roar.

Looking past Bishop, Lila saw Gavin turn, his expression startled.
His blue eyes widened and his face paled when he saw his father. Remembering
the fury she’d seen in Bishop, Lila could appreciate the boy’s look of fear.
She lifted her skirts indecently high to hurry forward over the uneven ground.
She didn’t know what had set Bishop off, but she was suddenly afraid to let
Gavin face him alone.

“Give me that!” Bishop reached out and snatched something from
Gavin’s hand just as Lila reached them. “Where did you get this?”

“Bishop, don’t shout at hi—” Her protest trailed off when she saw
what it was he held. It was a revolver, blue-black steel gleaming dully in the
late-afternoon sun. “Good Lord! Gavin, where did you get that?”

“I—I found it,” Gavin stammered. His eyes darted to Lila and then
back to his father.

“You expect me to believe you
found
this?” Bishop demanded,
his fingers knotting around the wooden grips. His free hand shot out, catching
Gavin by the shoulder, jerking his son a half step closer to him. “Don’t lie to
me, boy.”

“I’m not lying.” Lila hadn’t thought it possible, but Gavin’s face
paled even more. His mouth set as he looked at his father, his eyes holding a
mixture of defiance and fear. “I found it in the alley next to the Lucky
Dragon.”

“Just lying there?” Bishop asked in a tone of deep sarcasm.

“Just lying there,” Gavin repeated, his voice shaking a little but
his eyes steady. Lila had to admire his courage. She wasn’t sure she could have
been as calm in the face of the black rage in Bishop’s eyes.

“Bishop?” She set her hand on his arm. His muscles were iron hard
beneath her touch. “I think he’s telling the truth.”

He shook her hand off his arm without a glance in her direction,
but she was relieved to see him release Gavin. Not that she thought he’d hurt
the boy. Or she was almost sure he wouldn’t.

With a quick flick of his wrist, Bishop snapped open the pistol.
Though she was no longer touching him, Lila could feel a slight easing of his
tension. “The firing pin is broken,” he said, apparently speaking to himself as
much as to either of them. “And it’s too old to be worth fixing. Somebody might
have just dumped it.”

“I told you I found it,” Gavin said, resentful that Bishop hadn’t
believed him without further proof. “I don’t lie.”

“What were you doing with it?” Bishop demanded without offering
any apology for having doubted his son’s word.

Gavin shrugged, his eyes dropping to the ground between them.

“Nothing.”

“You don’t do ‘nothing’ with a gun,” Bishop snapped. “What were
you doing?”

“Practicing,” Gavin admitted sullenly.

“Practicing what? You don’t have any bullets and this gun wouldn’t
fire them if you did. What were you practicing?”

Lila couldn’t understand his interest in exactly
what
Gavin
had been doing. What difference did it make? The important thing was to
make sure that the boy understood that guns were not something to play with,
even guns that didn’t fire. She shuddered to think of what could have happened
if the firing pin hadn’t been broken.

“Bishop—”

“What were you doing?” he demanded, deaf to her interruption.

“I was practicing my draw,” Gavin said finally, the words
seemingly dragged from him. He lifted his head and looked at his father, his
blue eyes, so like Bishop’s, holding something that might have been a plea. “I
want to be a shootist when I grow up. Like you. Willie Smythe says you’re the
best ever, that you’ve never killed anybody except in a fair fight, and that
nobody’s faster than you are.”

Bishop felt as if he’d just been kicked in the gut. His lungs were
suddenly empty of air, and he saw Gavin through a red haze of pain. He was
oblivious to the hunger for approval in his son’s eyes. All he could hear was
the echo of the boy’s words.
A shootist. Like you.
It was like something
out of a nightmare.

Most men dream of seeing their sons grow up to follow in their
footsteps. Farmers hope their sons will share their love of the soil. Bankers
try to instill a respect for money and the management of it into their
offspring. Ranchers pray for a son to inherit the land and finish building the dream
they’ve started.