Texas Hold Him (18 page)

“Sorry,” he whispered. “Didn’t mean to offend.”

As if the warmth of his hand against her belly weren’t enough, now Lottie had to contend with his lips suckling her earlobe.
She knew she should stop him. There were sensations flooding through her body that were more indecent than the horse’s name,
and if she allowed them to continue, she would start moaning like a common trollop. The slide of his hand to clutch her breast
snapped her from her lethargy. She sat up and shoved his hand back to her waist.

“So, Mr. Straights. What unit did you serve with during the war?”
That
should sidetrack him. Men loved to talk about themselves, and he was a hero, after all.

His muscles tightened. Her question cooled his ardor more effectively than she’d expected.

“Does that matter now?” The tension in his body echoed in his voice, and she realized only too late that she’d hit a nerve.

“It’s just that my . . . neighbor served in the war, and I thought perhaps you may have fought with him.” She had almost mistakenly
said her father’s name. She didn’t
expect Dyer to know him, but it would’ve brought questions about her pseudonym she didn’t want to answer.

“I doubt your neighbor and I served in the same war.”

That was an odd thing to say, even for him. “Whatever do you mean?”

He hesitated and then said, “I fought for the North.”

If Lottie’s jaw dropped any further, she would have to unbutton her bodice to eat. She practically sat on the lap of a Yankee.
Momma would roll over in her grave.

“But you’re a Texan. Texas was Confederate.” This had to be a mistake.

“I was raised to believe it was wrong for one man to own another.”

“The war was about more than slavery.”

“For you maybe, but not for those men, women and children who worked your plantation.”

“I never said I had a plantation.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Lottie clamped her mouth shut. What he’d said stroked the guilt she’d harbored in her heart since the war. She was raised
in luxury because of the workers on their plantation, but it wasn’t until the war that she’d ever questioned the morality
of it all. It was just the way it had always been and the way she had assumed it would always be. She had slowly come to believe
slavery was wrong, but that still didn’t give the Yankees the right to dictate to the South how they were to live their lives.
Besides, there were plenty of Yankees who wore cotton picked by the hands of those slaves.

“At a loss for words?” Dyer’s defensive voice piqued her anger, and a part of her wanted to lash out at him
for all the Yankees had done to destroy her beloved South.

She took a breath to do just that and then remembered the blackmailer, a
Southerner
who claimed to have served with her father in the war. At least what Dyer did, he did out of conviction and not greed. Of
course, that did not change the fact he was a Yankee, and some things were more difficult to forgive than others.

“I’m not at a loss for words,” she finally answered. “I’ve just decided to take a little time to sort through which ones I
want to use.”

Dyer allowed the knot in his gut to relax. He had fully expected her to flail into him with teeth bared and talons slashing,
but she’d surprised him again. He knew the war had destroyed her life, but he doubted her loss was any greater than his. Pain
like that couldn’t get any deeper.

The road was rough and rutted, and the decision to choose a horse over a carriage was a good one. But right now, having her
sitting beside him on a bench would be easier than her nestled into his lap.

She was pissed.

He was pissed.

Hell, even Peckerhead was snorting more than usual. Luckily, they came upon a tavern by the road just at lunchtime. He dismounted
and tied the horse to a hitching rail alongside a carriage and two other horses. Lottie slid off the horse before he could
offer help. She faltered slightly, then regained her legs and marched into the tavern. Apparently, she wanted nothing to do
with him, and that suited him fine.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dark
interior of the room. The only window in the tavern was covered with enough grime to effectively filter out most of the light
that might’ve slithered through the deep forest outside. Lottie walked over to a small table and took a seat with her back
to him, sending a very clear message that she wanted to eat alone.

“Fine,” he muttered, picking a table as far from her as possible. Unfortunately, in a tavern as small as this one, that was
only about twenty feet away. He scooted his chair so his back was to her as well. Two could play at this game.

A large man with a towel wrapped around his waist came into the room from what Dyer guessed was the kitchen. “If y’all are
wantin’ to eat, we got deer stew and cornbread today.”

His sweat-stained shirt was only slightly cleaner than the grubby towel that had probably been used to wipe everything from
tables to noses. The man stopped by Dyer’s table and pulled the stub of a cigar out of his mouth.

He looked first at Dyer, then at Lottie. “You two ain’t together?”

“No!” they answered simultaneously. A couple of men eating at the table beside Dyer’s looked at each other and grinned.

“Stew’s fine,” Dyer said, sending the owner on his way. The sooner they could eat, the sooner they could get on the road.

One of the men beside him leaned toward Dyer once his food was delivered. “You say she ain’t your woman?”

“Nope,” Dyer answered, biting into the stew, hoping nothing in it bit back.

The man chuckled and scooted his chair away from
the table. Dyer lowered his spoon and sighed. Why hadn’t he seen that coming? He looked over his shoulder at the tree stump
of a man as he walked to Lottie’s table.

“Well, missy,” the stump said to Lottie. “You travelin’ all alone?”

Dyer couldn’t see Lottie’s face, but the slight tremble of her spoon told him she was frightened. She tipped her head back
to speak. “I—”

Dyer stood. The sound of his chair scraping across the wooden floor drew the stump’s attention. “I said she wasn’t my woman.
I didn’t say she traveled alone.”

The stump’s gaze narrowed. “Seems to me, pretty boy, that you need to make up yer mind.”

“I believe I did.” Hell. The stew wasn’t half bad, but it looked like he wouldn’t be finishing it.

The stump growled and ran toward Dyer. Dyer stepped to the side and plowed his fist into the man’s belly, doubling him over.
Dyer immediately followed through with an upper cut to his chin, sending the oaf to the floor with an “oof.”

He opened and closed his fist a couple of times to relieve the sting in his knuckles before he turned around just in time
to meet the fist of the stump’s friend. Unfortunately, he met it with his face and down he went, crashing into Lottie’s table
as he fell.

The friend grinned in victory, showing a lack of intelligence only surpassed by his lack of teeth. Dyer rubbed his jaw and
regained his feet. He spat the blood from his mouth and raised his fists.

“Now let’s see if you can do that without blindsiding a man.”

The goon dropped his grin and took a swing. Dyer blocked it and returned with a blow to his jaw that
should have knocked his brains out. But evidently this man’s brains were a little lower. The idiot came at Dyer again, swinging
his fists like a fury. Dyer ducked and kicked him in the nuts with all the strength he could muster. The bastard froze, then
gave a tiny cough before his eyes rolled back in his head and he dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

“Let’s get out of here before our friends wake up.” Dyer grabbed Lottie’s arm and led her out of the tavern. He set her on
the horse and quickly mounted, leading Peckerhead away from the tavern and down the road toward Greenville.

Lottie sat in silence for several minutes, which was just as well. Dyer’s face throbbed from where old Swollen Nuts had sucker
punched him, and his heart thumped from the exertion of the fight. There was the chance those two men would come after them,
and even though he doubted they would, he still needed to stay at the ready.

After some time passed without any sign of the men from the tavern, Dyer allowed his body to relax.

“Thank you,” Lottie finally mumbled.

Dyer leaned closer to her. “For what?” He knew why, but he couldn’t help but force her to say it.

She sighed. “For helping me.”

“For coming to your rescue, you mean?”

“Yes, I guess occasionally I do need rescuing.”

“
Occasionally?
Miss Mace, you need more rescuing than a June bug in a chicken coop.”

“I didn’t before I met you.”

Since he hadn’t known her before she met him, he’d have to take her word on that.

“Anyway,” she continued, “I’ve decided to forgive you.”

If he were a smart man, he’d leave that alone. “For what?”

“For being a Yankee. As long as you promise to never do it again.”

And that’s what he got for asking. “Miss Mace, the war is over, and I’m no longer a Yankee, just a man.”

Her gentle touch on the arm he’d wrapped around her waist surprised him. She patted him like he was a child and muttered,
“And I think you’re a good man.”

Her simple statement hit him harder than anything those two at the tavern had thrown at him. Having nothing to say, he decided
to act as though he hadn’t heard her. She’d had enough disappointment in her life, and correcting her mistaken opinion of
him would serve no purpose.

They rode in silence until the sun set and Lottie’s head drifted back onto his shoulder in sleep. The night before had been
tough on her, thanks to Mimi’s vindictiveness. Even though Dyer’s muscles ached, he moved as little as possible so he wouldn’t
wake Lottie. The singing of the tree frogs and crickets filled the night air as Peckerhead plodded along, but even the old
horse sagged with tiredness.

If they didn’t find someplace to pass the night soon, they would have to sleep in the woods. As they rounded a bend in the
road, an inn came into view.

Lottie’s rumbling stomach under his palm was a reminder that lunch had been cut a tad short. He guided Peckerhead to the hitching
rail and waited to see if their stopping would wake Lottie. She didn’t stir. He leaned over and nuzzled her ear.

“Miss Mace?”

She made a tiny mewing sound, then snuggled
deeper into him. His mind went through a litany of ornery things he could do to wake her, but she was too damned soft and
he was too damned hard to take that chance. So instead, he cleared his throat.

“Miss Mace, if you’re dead set on throwing yourself on me, the least you could do is wait until we have more privacy.”

That worked. She gasped and sat up, fully awake. “I—

I . . .”

“It’s all right,” he grumbled, swinging down from the saddle. “Women always have that problem with me.” He lifted her from
the horse and ushered her toward the inn. He leaned next to her ear, adding just before he opened the door, “But they usually
fall asleep
after
they take their pleasure.”

Very few women could wear a blush as prettily as Lottie. Maybe that was why he enjoyed giving her one so much.

A man Dyer assumed was the owner came over to meet them. “Y’all wantin’ a room?”

Dyer nodded. “And a meal.”

“Meal ain’t no problem, but I hope you and the misses ain’t fightin’, ’cause I’ve only got one room left.”

“Oh, we’re not—”

“Fighting,” Dyer interrupted Lottie. He put his arm around her waist and hugged. “We have much better things to do, don’t
we, darlin’?” He leaned over to whisper to her. “If we don’t sleep here, we’ll be out in the woods.”

She nodded her head, forcing a little smile. “Of course we’re not fighting,
sweetheart
.”

The proprietor reached into his pocket and pulled out a key. “Your room will be the first one to your left
at the top of the stairs. Pay before you eat or do anything else.” He chuckled and winked at Dyer, then handed him the key.

Lottie hoped her face wasn’t as red as it felt. She waited patiently while Dyer paid the man and led them to a table for supper.
The spicy stew and warm bread tasted like heaven, and she ate her fill before she finally leaned across the table to speak
to Dyer in private.

“We cannot share a room.”

He leaned toward her. “There’s only one.”

“I am fully aware of that, and if you were any kind of gentleman, you’d let me have it.”

“I never claimed to be a gentleman.”

That was true enough. “But you know there will only be one bed.”

He grinned, and the glint in his eye told her she was in trouble. “I am betting you are correct on that.”

“Are you going to let me have the bed?”

“I don’t see why we can’t share it.”

She gasped. “You know very well why.”

“Miss Mace, I promise to be a gentleman.”

“You just said you
weren’t
a gentleman.”

He shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “Doesn’t mean I can’t reform.”

She clamped her mouth shut and sat back in her chair. This was getting nowhere, and he was having entirely too much fun getting
there. She tapped her foot against the floor, thinking through exactly what she wanted to say to him when her attention diverted
to a group of men who entered the room. They laughed and talked as they walked across the dining area and through a door in
the back.

“Excuse me?” She motioned to the proprietor. “Where are those men going?” she asked when he reached their table.

“Some of the local men enjoy their cards in the back room. But you needn’t be concerned.”

Cards.
“What do they play?”

“Poker.” He picked up their plates and walked away.

She looked across the table at Dyer, who for some reason shook his head. “Don’t even think about it.”

“Why not? It would be a perfect chance for me to practice.”

“A woman doesn’t practice poker in a back room with a bunch of men she doesn’t know. The
Belle
is much safer.”