Wildfire in His Arms (19 page)

He entered the room and closed the door before he looked to see if she was still there. Although he'd left it to fate, he wasn't sure now that he wouldn't have been bothered if she was gone. But she was still there sleeping. It was incredible how soundly she slept. He'd put more lotion on her a few times last night without waking her. He'd gotten more pleasure from that than he imagined she did, but it seemed to have worked. Most of the swelling was gone from the bee stings.

He put the shackles at the bottom of his valise and draped the new shirt over a chair before he took a deep breath and moved to the side of the bed. He stared at Max for a moment, a long moment. She was still sleeping on her stomach, the sheet draped up to the middle of her back where he'd left it, but her head was turned toward him. She was so lovely. So infuriating. He wasn't surprised that she'd gotten under his skin. The surprise was that she'd done it so quickly.

“Wake up,” he said as he untied her from the headboard. “Bathwater is being delivered for us.”

“Us?” she asked sleepily.

“We'll have to share the tub.”

“Share?!”

It was amazing how quickly she could jump to erroneous conclusions and get upset by them. “Separately,” he clarified. “We can toss a coin to see who goes first, if you like. Or you can accept the fact that my upbringing leans toward ladies first.”

She raised a brow at him. “You really did used to be a gentleman, didn't you? No, I take that back,” she added, finally noticing the rope on her wrist. “
Why
did you tie me again? You said you aren't putting me in jail yet, so why would I run off?”

“Because you don't like me. Because you'd rather be on your own. Because you can't be trusted. Because turning you over to the law is still an option. Take your pick.”

“All of them,” she snarled, and yanked her hand back as soon as it was free. The unruly movement caused the sheet to slip, giving Degan a full view of her breasts. She mumbled, “I must've dreamed that you were being nice to me last night.”

Degan smiled to himself, realizing that he could have said the same thing. But he didn't. He watched as she realized she was still wearing nothing above the waist and dragged the sheet off the bed to drape it around her like a cloak before she sat up. How disappointing, he thought. It was too bad her boldness didn't apply to her body.

But recalling her previous remark, he asked, “What would you know about gentlemen?”

“Bingham Hills wasn't a backwater. We had our share of gentlemen, mostly Southerners, though. Families who lost everything in the war and moved West to lick their wounds. What's your excuse for coming West?”

He didn't answer, which had her adding peevishly, “Oh, yeah, I forgot. Nothing personal—from you. And I don't need a bath today.”

Was she going to be disagreeable all morning? “You would turn down a bath for what reason?”

“My coat protected me from the dust yesterday.” But when he simply stared at her, she grouched, “Fine. I'll go first.”

Taking the sheet with her, she got off the bed and stretched her limbs under it, then gave him a long look, noting that he was fully dressed, eyeing his gun belt. “Where'd you go aside from ordering bathwater? Oh, wait, did the woman come knocking at the door?” Then she chuckled. “Which one was it this time?”

It took him a moment to remember why she would ask about more than one. He'd only wondered briefly about the woman who had asked for him here at this hotel. He'd been hired by a few women before, one who just needed his protection on a journey, the other one a new widow with a brother-in-law trying to lay claim to the property her husband had left her. But as he'd told Max last night, he wasn't taking on any jobs right now. And at least he didn't think the woman asking for him had been his ex-fiancée. Even if Allison was fool enough to follow him, it was highly unlikely that she would have gotten to Butte before he did. Actually, stagecoaches traveled pretty fast . . .

That thought annoyed him so much he turned around and walked to the window before Max noticed. He heard her tsk behind him. “That's the most annoying habit I've ever come across.”

“What?”

“Your not answering simple questions.”

He crossed his arms and faced her again. “There was nothing simple about yours. You were attempting to provoke me. You shouldn't be so obvious about it.”

She grinned. “But did it work?”

“A better question would be, why do you want to?”

“Because you aren't as coldly dispassionate as you want ­people to think. I've seen you slip a few times. And because I
like
conversation, which has already been established. And while I've admitted that I sometimes talk to myself, I'm telling you right now, I don't really enjoy it all that much.”

“And your long-winded point is?”

“With you, it seems like I'm always talking to myself,” she grouched. “It wouldn't kill you to show the man behind the gunfighter. When it's just you and me and no one else would see if you laughed or run away terrified if they saw you get angry.”

“Tell me something—”

“
Not
unless you return the favor.”

“Why aren't you afraid of me?”

She stared at him for a long moment before she started laughing. “That's the question you ask after what I just said to you? Really? Or is that just your way of changing the subject?”

“From the first night, you haven't been afraid. You revealed desperation once, but not fear.”

She raised her brows. “Do you
want
me to be afraid of you?”

Did he? Actually, no. It had been so long since he'd butted heads with someone, he'd forgotten how aggravating, frustrating, but also, at times, quite amusing it could be. A number of times he'd wanted to laugh at something she'd said, a few times he'd been unable to resist the urge. No, he didn't mind at all that he didn't make her nervous. But it certainly confounded him that she'd never been afraid when everyone else was—at least to begin with.

“It's my business to know people. You don't fall into any of the typical categories.”

She threw up her hands. “And now you're calling me strange?”

“No. Either foolhardy—or too courageous.”

She chuckled. “Then you haven't given it enough thought. If you want the truth, I'm usually too angry at you to feel anything else.”

He shook his head. “Fear isn't an exclusive emotion. You can be angry and too afraid to do anything about it.”

“Ha! You know that ain't so in my case.”

True. She'd attacked him with her fists repeatedly, kicked him several times, thrown her boots at him, lambasted him vocally, and snarled her rage and frustration at him. She wore her heart on her sleeve, expressing her emotions, but none of them had been fear. Right now her expression showed that she was delighted by his curiosity—which he should have kept to himself.

Her answer hadn't been satisfying. Payback for all the times he hadn't answered her? Or she was learning from him how to avoid a subject she didn't want to discuss.

He turned to look out the window again to let her know he was done with her avoidance antics. He heard the door to the small water closet open and close. He was surprised the room even had one, when it didn't offer a bathing room as well. The hotel was new, so it should have offered that convenience. But perhaps some of the businesses had been hit hard financially when they'd had to rebuild after the fire he'd heard about. The tub didn't even have a screen. That was going to be ­interesting. . . .

She stepped out of the water closet. “What's taking them so long to deliver the water you ordered?”

“My guess would be that they're heating it,” he said without turning.

She came to stand next to him at the window. He glanced down at the top of her head. Her hair had felt like silk when he'd touched it last night after she fell asleep. Best not to think of that. And she was no longer draped in the sheet. She'd found the shirt she'd been wearing yesterday and put it back on. He didn't mention the clean one he had for her since she would be bathing soon.

Then she surprised him by getting back to his question. “You know, I'm not really sure why you don't frighten me, fancy man, but I'll speculate if you like. It might be because you're so handsome I don't see much beyond that. Or it could be because it became clear to me you're not a murderer. There were a few times you could've shot me but you didn't. But mostly it's because you didn't hit me when you started to that night up in the hills, which told me clearly that you won't hurt a woman. My guess would be, that's your answer.”

Degan didn't hear much beyond her saying he was handsome and was surprised by how much it pleased him.

M
AX SAW JACOB REED
riding past the hotel. He was alone, and in no hurry, perusing both sides of the street. A lot of ­people were out there going about their business. He appeared to be glancing at each of them, not that someone such as Degan couldn't be spotted a block away, if that was whom Reed was looking for. And from what Degan had said, she didn't doubt Reed was doing just that. But why was he alone? Or did he think Degan wouldn't remember him? That was a possibility because there wasn't anything distinctive about the man. He had shaggy brown hair and a bushy mustache and was lean, and not very tall. But his white stallion certainly was memorable.

“Your friend appears to be looking for someone.”

“He's not a friend.” Degan sounded distracted. Was he still dwelling on their conversation? She was still amazed they'd actually had one! Or did her mention of Reed bring back his anger from last night when she'd admitted she wouldn't mind seeing him in a gunfight? She might as well ask.

“Are you done being angry at me?”

“Do I look angry?”

She snorted. As if she didn't know that his appearance offered no clue about what he was feeling—usually. She glanced to the side to remind him, “You shouldn't have gotten so touchy over my wanting to see you in action. It's not like I'm not sure you'd win.” Then she grinned. “Except maybe against me.”

“Go ahead, get your gun.”

“Really?”

“You know where it is.”

She was far too delighted to prove her point to wonder why he'd allow it. She rushed across the room to get her gun belt and strapped it on, then dug into his valise for her Colt and slid it into the holster before turning to face him. He'd turned around but was still by the window, bright light behind him, a disadvantage for her, but she could still see his gun and that he'd moved his jacket back to clear it. She was fast, she'd had almost two years to do a lot of practicing. But she'd never been in an actual gunfight, a real showdown, and Degan looked so deadly standing there waiting, cold, utterly dispassionate.

Max actually began to sweat. This wasn't as easy as she'd figured it would be. She
wanted
to be faster than him, but she might not be. And her gun wasn't loaded, while his was. What if he fired out of habit, without intending to? She might be faster but could still end up dead.

“Okay, bad idea. Forget it.” She turned around, giving him her back.

“Suit yourself.”

She let out the breath she'd been holding and dropped her gun back in his valise. Damnit. Showdowns obviously took the kind of guts she only wished she had, and that hadn't even been a real one! But at least he wasn't rubbing it in, that she'd backed down. She was a woman, after all. He'd probably expected her to do just that.

The knock finally came at the door. Degan let the attendants in. There were four of them this time, so they were likely bringing all the water in one visit.

As soon as they filed back out of the room, Degan told her, “There's a new shirt for you on the chair.”

She was surprised. “You bought it for me?”

“To keep your wounds clean until they heal, although most of the swelling is already gone thanks so that lotion.”

And his tender ministrations, she thought. That hadn't been a dream. Degan Grant continued to surprise her. She would have thanked him for his kindness if he didn't add, “Five minutes, Max, and I'll be back in here.”

He wasn't taking her clothes with him this time? “Ten,” she bargained.

“Eight and not a minute more.” He stepped out into the hall, closing the door behind him.

Max didn't even look toward the window. She still didn't fancy breaking her neck going out one. But eight minutes wasn't long for a bath, and she didn't doubt Degan was waiting right outside the door. She took off her clothes fast and stepped into the tub. This hotel didn't have fancy creamy soap, but the soap bars it provided were shaped like flowers and sweet smelling, so Max didn't break out her stash of the other soap. She quickly washed from top to bottom.