Always You (11 page)

She only shook her head. There were no tears on her face; this was a dry, gripping terror, the kind that filled one with a soundless pain, that reverberated through the body.

“Melora, you’re shaking like a leaf. Tell me what’s wrong!”

Outside, thunder descended like great bells tolling death, and he saw her flinch, and her face grow ever paler. “Is it the storm?” he asked in disbelief.

She nodded and a hoarse whisper emerged. “Ever since I was a little girl—”

Lightning blazed then, and a shudder shook her. Cal’s arms closed around her, drawing her close against him, so close that Melora almost sobbed with relief as she buried her head in his shoulder.

Yet she braced herself for what he would say next, something along the lines of “So... fierce, brave Melora Deane is afraid of a little thunderstorm.”

But he didn’t say it.

“Louisa’s the same way,” he murmured, his breath ruffling her hair.

“Who’s Louisa?” she whispered.

“My little sister. She’s seven, and every time it storms she starts to shake and sob, and we all end up sprawled together on the sofa, drinking warm milk and singing songs to try to keep her mind off the thunder. Hey, there, Princess, it’s all right,” he added, as another boom sent a tremble across her shoulder blades. “A little thunder never hurt anyone.”

“But lightning can.”

His arms tightened around her, snug and strong. “You’re safe, Melora. You don’t have to be afraid.” His voice sounded oddly husky. “I won’t let anyone or anything hurt you.”

Strange words from her kidnapper, but she believed him. She had no idea why, but she believed him. The trembling lessened as he held her, stroking her hair, sliding his hands up and down her slender back. Even the glint of lightning that lit the room now and then didn’t seem as terrifying with Cal’s arms around her, with her head resting against his chest.

They sat like that for some time, until the tremors inside her ceased. “Better?”

She took a deep breath. “I think so, yes.”

“Then how about some supper? There’s steak and potatoes and sourdough bread, too. Also half of a pie. I thought you’d like it.”

She disengaged herself from him far enough to lean back in his arms. Her eyes searched his face in bewilderment.

“You’re being awfully nice to me.”

“Unless I miss my guess,” Cal drawled, “that’s a suspicious tone I hear in your voice.”

“What if it is?”

For answer, he chucked her gently under the chin, as if she were his sister, Louisa, Melora reflected wryly.

“I’ve got nothing against you, Princess. Nothing personal. Except for the fact that you’ve got real bad taste in the men you plan to marry. Otherwise this is just business for me. I’ll do what I have to do, see this through to the end, but I’m not out to cause you any suffering.”

“So you’ll feed me steak and pie and then leave me alone in some godforsaken cabin somewhere?”

He frowned and stood up from the bed and paced away from her. “It will only be for a little while. This won’t go on much longer. Only until—” He set his lips together. “Let’s eat. The food’s getting cold.”

By now she recognized that stubborn set to his jaw, and she knew he would say nothing more for the time being. And as he pulled out two chairs at the table in the corner of the room, she suddenly realized how hungry she was. Thankfully the worst of the lightning and thunder seemed to have moved beyond Devil’s Creek and out across the high country. During the meal a steady downpour did sheet against the window, but the dingy little hotel room somehow took on the aspect of an oasis. By the amber glow of the kerosene lamp on the bureau, Cal and Melora devoured thick steak and potatoes seasoned with onions and pepper. Even the sourdough bread was warm, fresh, and delicious, Melora noted in surprise, as she lavished it with butter. And there was coffee, which Cal generously laced with whiskey from his canteen. It filled Melora with a fiery warmth that went a long way toward keeping her mind off her troubles.

“This place might be uncivilized, but someone certainly knows how to cook,” she commented almost gaily, and savored another sip of the whiskey-laced coffee. She even was able to glance at the windswept blackness outside the window without her nerves jumping through her skin.

“You ought to taste my special barbecued steak sometime,” Cal told her. She knew he was trying to keep her distracted from the storm. “It’s got a sauce that’ll wake up your innards, like old Cody used to say. He was the chuck wagon cook on my first cattle drive,” he explained, fondness softening the hard planes of his face. “Boy, oh, boy, did that steak ever disappear faster than you can slap a tick. Every Fourth of July we held a big barbecue at our ranch, and my ma would bake three of her special chocolate cakes, and Lord knows how many pies, and there’d be dancing in the big parlor. M brother Joe would play the fiddle and I’d play my harmonica—”

He stopped suddenly, frowning. “Do you know much about cooking, Princess?” he asked, the glint in his eyes indicating to her that he doubted Miss Melora Deane had ever spent much time in the kitchen.

“I’ll have you know I’ve been fixing grub for a bunkhouse full of cowhands since I was ten,” Melora informed him, setting her glass down on the table with a distinct clink. “Of course I had Aggie to help me.” Now it was her turn to explain. “Aggie’s been almost like a mother to me and Jinx. She’s lived with us and Pop and helped take care of the ranch house since our mother died. And of course, when I was away at school in Boston, she took over almost all the cooking and household work. But since I’ve come back, I’ve managed to feed quite a few hungry men on a daily basis. Although,” she added, her eyes darkening nearly to copper, “we only have a scant half dozen ranch hands left these days. The way the rustlers have cut into our stock, we don’t need as many hands and can’t afford them. Profits are down and—”

She broke off. Why was she telling Cal these personal things? She folded her napkin corner to corner and placed it beside her plate.

“None of that is important,” she finished quietly. “What’s important is that Wyatt is going to help me save the Weeping Willow. He’s head of a committee dedicated to stopping the rustlers. And he’s promised to invest money in the ranch too. Soon we’ll need to hire on more hands just to keep up with all our cattle.”

“Don’t count on it.”

She met his icy gaze as her chin angled up. “Don’t underestimate Wyatt.” She pushed back her chair and stood. “I’ll wager everything I own that Wyatt and I will have our honeymoon yet.”

“Don’t, Melora. You’d lose.”

What was the use? Gazing at the implacable harshness in his eyes, Melora shivered and wondered if she would ever find a way to reason with Cal about this. Still, she had to keep trying.

She couldn’t bear to think about what would happen if Wyatt somehow found them, if he and Cal suddenly found themselves confronting each other face-to-face.

If that happens, I’ll just have to make sure that they work things out peaceably, like reasonable men, and that no one gets hurt.

Strangely the idea of Cal’s getting hurt was almost as disturbing to her as the notion that Wyatt might end up shot or injured.

She shook off the picture of either man coming to harm.

If it comes to that, I’ll stop it. No matter what it takes.

Cal watched her move about the room, setting to rights the candlestick she’d thrown earlier, rifling through her carpetbag, setting out her dainty silver-handled hairbrush. Strange to see that pretty silver hairbrush and the matching ornate hand mirror in this cheap, dingy room with its burlap curtain and chipped furnishings.

Melora Deane didn’t belong here. But she didn’t belong on a honeymoon with that black-haired snake either, Cal reflected savagely. The very notion sent tension rippling through his muscles, made his chest constrict, and his fingers itch to shoot someone. But not just anyone.

He itched to shoot the man Melora Deane loved.

“May I have some privacy?” Her low voice broke into his thoughts. “I’d like to change.”

He saw that she was holding one of the flannel shirts he’d given her to sleep in; it was warmer than that thin little nightdress she had, though not nearly as pretty to look at. Still, Cal thought dryly, that shirt looked much better on her than on him.

Then he groaned inwardly. He’d better stop thinking like that about her. It was loco. “I’ll be back in a while,” he said, walking to the door.

Melora couldn’t help being baffled by him as she stripped off her riding habit and readied herself for bed. Cal had so many sides to him that she didn’t know anything about and didn’t understand. A seven-year-old sister named Louisa? A family? A brother named Joe, who played the fiddle? A ranch?

Yet he was an outlaw. A kidnapper. A man bent on some ruthless revenge against Wyatt. A man she had to escape from, to thwart, and to stop.

A man who came back into the room silently and barely threw her a glance as he prepared to turn in for the night. She was already deep down under the sheets by that time, with the lamp turned down to only a thin, feeble arc of light.

Just enough to keep an eye on him.

Rain still pattered on the window as Cal threw his bedroll on the floor. She watched surreptitiously as he hung his gun belt over the back of a chair, then stripped out of his shirt and boots, leaving on only his snug-fitting blue trousers.

He had a magnificent body. Lean, strong, toned. It was bronzed from the sun and gleamed like dark wood in the pale lamplight. He moved with sure agility, with a kind of graceful strength that she’d come to realize was as much a part of him as the thick waves in his hair or the way his eyes seemed to pierce right through her.

As she watched him hunker down and smooth out the bedroll, she remembered the feel of him when he’d held her, the hard, solid strength of him, the way his hands had glided over her, stroking, comforting.

A bewildering wooziness came over her.
It’s all that whiskey,
she told herself.
You’re not used to drinking liquor.

Melora drew in a deep breath and tried to block out all these disconcerting thoughts about Cal. They were improper, as Aggie would have said. Unsuitable, as her teachers in Boston would have said. And absurd. Cal was not her hero, her protector. He was the man who had snatched her away from everything she held dear.

Yet the burning heat of his kiss branded her still. She’d kissed many boys, and a few men, but those kisses had been blandly pleasant, nothing like this. Even Wyatt’s kisses hadn’t affected her like this.

This was unforgettable. As the wind rattled the windowpanes and the noise of the storm settled down to a drone rather than a roar, she tossed and turned in the narrow, lumpy bed, trying to get comfortable, trying to sleep, but sleep was elusive.

She was all too aware of Cal’s long frame, of his steady breathing, only a few feet away.

“Can’t you sleep?” he inquired suddenly, roughly, out of the darkness.

“Of course I can sleep. I
was
sleeping. You just woke me up.”

“Right. Whatever you say, Princess.”

She closed her eyes and pretended to sleep. She
tried
to sleep.

But it was a long time before either of them slept.

Cal left first thing the next morning to purchase supplies. The moment the door closed behind him Melora sat up in bed and shoved her hair from her eyes. She’d made up her mind. She would find out if Devil’s Creek had a telegraph office, and if it did, she would send a wire to Wyatt.

Excitement licked through her as she raced through her toilette. Today, instead of the riding habit, she wore another one of Cal’s green and blue flannel shirts and the pair of baggy denim trousers which he’d lent her during their journey. She had to bunch the trousers at the waist and tie them with rope just to keep them from falling down—not exactly a smart Boston outfit—but as she hurried out of the hotel room early in the morning, her hair scooped into a ponytail, she didn’t care how she looked.

She just wanted to wire a message for help.

They’ll be so relieved to hear from me,
she thought, her eyes glowing as the hotel clerk informed her that the telegraph office was next door to the Dead Man’s Saloon. She composed the letter in her mind as she rushed out the hotel door and onto the boardwalk.

My darling Wyatt, I’m being taken to South Dakota—to a cabin in the Black Hills, not far from Devil’s Creek. I haven’t been harmed, but be careful when you come to find me. My kidnapper is a man named Cal, who has a grudge against you. Give all my love to Jinx. Please come soon!

* * *

Melora glanced hastily up and down the puddle-filled street as she dashed along, keeping an eye out for Cal. She only hoped that when Wyatt showed up, she could keep the situation from turning violent. But she had to do this, she reasoned, striding toward the sign next door to the Dead Man’s Saloon. She had to get home, to Jinx, to the ranch. And she had to protect Wyatt from whatever Cal had in store for him.

When she entered the telegraph office, her heart pounded as though it would burst.

“I need to send a wire immediately.”

The fat, bespectacled clerk whose hair and eyebrows were the color of dried carrots shot her a darkling glance.

“You’ll have to wait your turn, lady.”

Melora clenched her teeth. She threw a desperate glance at the gangly brown-haired boy of about fourteen who stood ahead of her at the desk.

He seemed at a loss regarding what to write, and she stamped her foot impatiently.

“Excuse me, young man.” Melora could contain herself no longer after several moments of agonized waiting. She used her most commanding tone, trying to sound the way her father had when he addressed his fellow ranchers after a rustling raid. “Why don’t you let me send my wire first since I know exactly what I plan to say? And my message is extremely urgent!”

“So’s mine.” He flicked her a tense, distracted frown. He was twisting the pencil between his fingers, and Melora saw sweat on his brow. At another time she might have sympathized with the anxiety in his large brown eyes, but not now. When he put the pencil to the paper, only to sigh and shake his head, she couldn’t restrain her impatience.

“Look, I’m sorry for whatever trouble you’re having, but I don’t have much time.” She darted a nervous glance out the window. “I’ll tell you what. You
compose
your message, while I give the clerk mine, and then—”

The boy spun toward her angrily. “If you’d shut up for a minute, lady, maybe a body could think!”

Then, as he wheeled back toward the desk, Melora saw a familiar figure approaching the other side of the window. It was Cal.

He spotted her through the glass, and there was hell in his eyes.

Melora gulped but stayed where she was and glared right back.

What could he do to her? Shoot her right here in the telegraph office? Beat her, drag her away?

“Listen to me, mister,” she said to the clerk, hoping desperately that he could be convinced to help her. “My name is Melora Deane. There will be a substantial reward for you if you will only send a wire to Rawhide, to a man named Wyatt Hol—aaah, what are you
doing
?” she cried as the brown-haired youth suddenly grabbed her arm and yanked her toward the door.

“Hey, what about your wire, kid?” the clerk barked.

“Never mind!” the boy shouted back.

Melora gasped, stumbling as he dragged her out the door. “Wait a minute, young man, just because I asked him to send a wire for me you don’t have to get all—”

“Looks like you lost something, Cal,” the boy announced disgustedly as he pushed Melora forward on the boardwalk.

Cal was staring at him. To Melora’s astonishment, warmth and affection flashed across his face. “Well, Jesse, she tends to be a mite slippery.” He actually grinned at the boy, then sprang forward and embraced the youth in a giant, emotional bear hug.

Melora looked on, too stunned to do anything else. Suddenly Cal broke away and held the boy at arm’s length. “What is it, Jesse? You wouldn’t have come here if something wasn’t wrong.”

“Something is wrong.” The boy wiped a shirt sleeve across his sweaty face. “It’s Lou. She’s sick, Cal.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“We don’t know exactly, but she’s got a terrible fever. I rode over to Devil’s Creek to find a doctor and hoping there’d be a wire from you, but there wasn’t either one. I thought of trying to find you, Cal, by wiring Zeke or Ray, but hell, I didn’t know what I was going to do about Lou’s fever!”

“How bad is it?”

“Bad. She’s been sick three days already. She won’t eat anything.” He swallowed hard. “I’m scared, Cal!”

“It’ll be all right. We’ll be there by this afternoon.” Cal seized Melora’s arm and started toward the hotel at a near run, with Jesse hurrying to keep up with them. “If she’s not any better by then, I’ll ride to Deadwood or Cherryville and fetch a doctor myself.”

“You can’t. That’s too dangerous, Cal. You can’t risk showing your face in those towns!”

“Don’t argue with me, Jesse. I’m going.”

Melora digested all this as they hurried along. Obviously Cal had been too distracted by Jesse’s news even to think about what she’d tried to do at the telegraph office. She could understand why. She’d already deduced that Lou must be his sister, Louisa. And she’d have bet her boots that Jesse was his brother. There was a decided resemblance in the strong features and the pugnacious slant of the nose.

But she had no time to ponder what Jesse’d said about Deadwood and Cherryville because as they reached the lobby of the hotel, Cal finally halted long enough to speak to her.

“Change in plans, Melora. Forget the cabin. I’ll have to take you with me.”

“To your family’s ranch?”

“To the farm where we live now.” His face was grim, mirroring the tension Jesse had displayed at the telegraph office.

Suddenly the urge to comfort him overtook her. The tautness in Cal’s broad shoulders and the worry furrowing his brow filled her with emotion she didn’t fully understand. “Maybe I can help Louisa,” she said impulsively. Without realizing it, she put a hand on his arm. “I’ve nursed Jinx through fevers lots of times. And through the measles and whooping cough.”

He nodded, but his eyes held a faraway look.

“Cal, she’ll be all right. You’ll see.”

“Grab your things, and we’ll ride for the farm,” he directed. “Jesse, you give her a hand with the gear while I get the horses. And keep your eye on her—she’s tricky as they come!”

Melora watched him stalk away, feeling more rebuffed and alone than she’d ever felt in her life.

And so before the sun had fully begun its westward march across a sky as blue as larkspur, the three of them were galloping east, away from Devil’s Creek, straight toward the towering cliffs of the Black Hills.