Explaining Herself (29 page)

Victoria stood and stalked away some distance. Her skirts made a slapping noise, they were so wet. That's when he noticed that the rain had stopped.

He gave her a while to think about it, to understand what he'd done. In the meantime, he touched Julije's tombstone and thought,
My sister.

My poppa. My brother.
It was right that he'd told.

The dog, who'd sat up again when Victoria stood, lay down when she turned and came back. She was taking this far better than Laramie had feared. Maybe she just didn't understand.

He picked up his hat and stood to meet her.

'You shouldn't go," Victoria announced.

He stared. He'd expected a slap, or tears, or fury. "What?"

She took his arm, tugged him a little to make him walk her slowly back toward her bicycle. "You should stay here. This town once did a great disservice to your family. You oughtn't let that chase you away."

He stopped, made her stop, searched her face. She couldn't be serious, could she?

The words came harder this time, even speaking to her. "W
—wouldn't it chase
you
away?" he stuttered.
"All
of it?"

Somehow she knew what he meant, even with him saying it so poorly. She ducked her head. "I don't know for sure," she admitted
—not what he longed to hear, but far more than he'd expected. "Maybe if I had more time to get to know you as ... as Ross Laurence."

Ross Laurence.

A fine, bright feeling came over him when she called him that. Laurence was who he'd been back when life was still hopeful, when he'd been loved. When he'd lived in a world far more like Victoria's.

Ross Laurence would just say
Yes, I'll stay.

But could he survive the world Laramie
—even Dra
zen Lauranovic—had built for him?

"I have no job," he reminded her. "Someone powerful is gunning for me. The sheriff is this close to figuring out why I look familiar. I've given up on the man who
—"

But no, he wouldn't argue about who had ruined
Julie
again. Not tonight. Maybe never.

"My lawyer advised me to leave town," he finished weakly, gazing into her beautiful face, memorizing it.

"The hell with your lawyer," she insisted, which made him want to laugh. And to cry. But gunslingers didn't cry.

He laid his open palm against her cheek. "I have no reason to stay except for you. And your family would never let you get to know Ross Laurence."

"Then we'll make them," she said firmly.

He wanted to believe her. But what did he have to offer her, except danger and a bad reputation?

At least, that's all he could offer her here.

The idea stole upon him unexpectedly, maybe out of desperation, maybe out of sheer greed. He didn't know, didn't care. It
—
she
—was all he had now.

"Come with me," he said.

Victoria stared up at him, her eyes going round.

"Tonight. We'll start somewhere new. You'll write home that you're safe, and
—"
Oh.
He flushed, to have forgotten so important a detail. "We would marry. If you'd have me."

Had there ever been a worse proposal? He could see
from her face that this wouldn't be. Not in his world. Not in hers.

"Oh! Ross . . ." Now he'd forced her to reject him.

"Never mind," he assured her, taking her arm, leading her toward her bicycle. "I'm sorry, Victoria. I shouldn't
—"

"No! It was . . ." Now she was the one who dug in her heels and stopped them. She laid her hands against his chest as if to steady him. Or herself. He felt so embarrassed, he hardly cared. "It's not that I don't want to go, or even to . . ."

He winced away from her kindness. "Please don't
—"

But this was Victoria. "I do want to go. More than I would ever have thought. But oh, Ross. I
—I don't really know you."

How could she? He didn't know himself.

When he said, "I understand," she began blinking away fresh tears. "Victoria?"

"No." She drew one hand protectively to her lips, held him from her with the other. "If you don't go now, I might not let you, and I guess I have to let you, except that it isn't right, and there's got to be something
—see? You've got to go now."

He looked down at her, and he hated himself for hurting her, and he loved her beyond reason
—and he knew he could not do it. "You go first."

She glowered at him through teary eyes. "Coward."

'Yes," he admitted, voice broken.

"Tell me you'll come back," she demanded suddenly.

"I
—"
Come back?

"1 can't leave
—let you leave—unless you promise you'll come back to me someday. In a few months 'you'll write to me, and I'll let you know how things are, and then you'll come home."

The closest he had to a home was her, and she deserved a better home than him. "I don't
—"

"I've seen you read," she warned him. 'You can so write."

He nodded. He
could
write. But from where? To where would she send her reply? What would he even be by then?

Surely he'd gone too far to start over, at least without breaking a few laws. A few
more
laws.

"Don't you dare leave me thinking I'll never see you again, Ross Laramie," she warned him, her voice thick with tears, and dug her fingers into his shirt. "Don't you dare do that to me."

He would give her anything. His life. His heart. His soul. Likely in half a year, she would have found a proper beau
—but he would give her this.

"I'll write," he promised, leaning down to rest his forehead against hers. "I will find someplace safe. Then I will write to you and tell you where I am, and . . ."

"And we'll decide then," she whispered, with no idea how unlikely it was that they would ever get that far.

"We'll decide then." If he were in prison, or Argentina, there wouldn't be a great deal to decide. And if he were dead ...

"Kiss me?" she pleaded, so he did. He covered her lips with his, held her and pretended he didn't have to let her go. He allowed all the precarious, vulnerable life in him, the emotions she'd awakened, to fill that kiss. His lips worshiped her, his hands cherished her. She buried her fingers in his hair, responded to him hungrily. Her bosom pressed round and firm against his chest, her hips flared and swaying under his hands, and oh, he wanted more. He wanted everything. There was more than one way to be considered married out west, and then even if he died . . .

But no. That crime he would not commit. If he
loved her enough to leave her, he must love her enough to leave her alone.

They kissed, long and longingly, until finally Victoria wrenched herself from his arms, grabbed her bicycle, and began to run with it, somehow mounting it as it rolled. She coasted out through the gates of the cemetery and pedaled, hard, out of sight. Staring after her, Laramie wished, more than he'd ever wished for anything, to be someone else. Someone who could stay with her. Someone who could love her properly.

But hell, he'd already been three people, and he wasn't even twenty-five years old. Besides, a fellow brought all those past selves with him. Prison and Argentina aside, the person he was now
—whoever that was—might not even be alive in a year.

One more secret he'd chosen to keep.

Victoria was halfway home, nearly blinded by her tears and the gaslit darkness, before she realized the truth.

She was in love with Ross Laramie.

The thought surprised her so much, she almost swerved right into Duchess. She braked immediately and dismounted to find her balance. How blind was she? For mercy's sake, she'd been happily kissing the man for weeks!

Had she thought the excitement came from the rustling?

She looked over her shoulder, toward the cemetery, and she thought
—/don't
know him.
She had too many unanswered questions. Who were his bad companions? Did he enjoy reading books? Was he a Republican or a Democrat—or did outlaws even vote?

And how had he hurt himself, when she first saw him bare-chested and bandaged?

But she did know Ross Laramie had a soft voice, a deliberate manner, a coiled control. He was impressive with a side arm but still didn't like using it. He

was tall and angled and darkly handsome. He made her feel safe, cherished. Now that she knew who he really was, or at least had been
—

Drazen Lauranovic!

—she also knew he'd come through awful adversity and, with few good influences, had grown into a man so decent that he'd comforted Kitty about the stallion's death. So decent that he hadn't taken advantage of how she kept meeting him alone like a regular hussy. So decent that he mourned his self-defense shooting of a cattle rustler.

She knew more than she'd thought
—and she loved him.

And now she'd let him go?

"Idiot!" She said the word out loud, turning her bicycle to go after him. Then
—again—she hesitated.

How long could he hold down a job? How heavy a drinker was he? Was there a price on his head? Did he believe in God, the rights of children and laborers, or women's suffrage?

She looked back toward the cemetery and wanted him. She wanted to get on her bicycle and go after him. But she couldn't seem to make herself move
— until Duchess spun around, ears high.

Then she heard hoofbeats, coming fast. Someone was riding toward her at a trot, just this side of dangerous on paved streets.
Ross?
She spun hopefully in that direction.

Then she recognized her father's buckskin, her father's fury
—and her heart took a header.

Papa reined to a stop and glared down at her, beyond words. Before she'd even reconciled herself to disappointment
—that he wasn't Ross—he reached down, lifted her bicycle right up out of her hands, and hurled it in a high, heavy arc into the bushes beside the road. His horse started at that bit of business, but Papa just reined him
in again, leaned out of the sad
dl
e, and caught her by the waistband. Her, he dragged up onto the saddle in front of him, facedown.

"Papa!" she protested. But she also grabbed on to his leg when he wheeled around and set off at a canter. "Let me up!"

"Keep your voice down," he cautioned, his own drawl dangerous. "Just might survive this night without ruinin' your reputation and the rest of ours."

Reputation? The man she loved had just left to God-knew-where, and her father was worried about her
reputation'?
Only out of respect for her sisters, and
their
reputations through association, did she bite back further protests until they reached the in-town house. That, and apprehension. Generally, when one of the girls was old enough to ride sidesaddle, it was understood that they were too old for whippings. But Victoria's sister Laurel had disproved that understanding once or twice.

Vic wasn't about to submit to a child's punishment without a fight. But even Mama tiptoed around Papa when he got angry
—and Victoria had never seen him this angry.

He rode right into the now-open doors of the stables and swung her none-too-gently onto her feet. Then he pointed at an empty stall. "Wait."

She drew a breath to protest, then saw his face. His brows slashed low over eyes that glittered with gray fury. His mouth was set tight. His movements, too, were sharper than he would normally make around a person, much less a horse.

She stood, silent and obedient, while he saw to his horse. But she regretted her obedience when he grabbed her by the arm and all but dragged her toward the house.

He made poor Duchess stay in the stables, like a failure.

"Papa, stop it," Victoria protested again.

She might as well argue with a mountain. He didn't let go until he'd shoved her down into a kitchen chair. Then he strode to the other side of the room, as if afraid of what he would do if he were close to her.

She sat up, head high, and waited.

Papa opened his mouth once, closed it, shook his head. It took him another few tries before he managed, "Where. Were. You."

So much for choosing home and family over true love. That hurt
—that
anger
—made her fold her arms and demand, "Where do you think?"

Only then did she spot it, the flash of pain behind Papa's fury, the confusion at her disobedience of lifelong rules, the fear he must have felt. He turned away, before she could see more, and braced a forearm against the wall. "Gallivantin'
through the night," he accused, aggrieved. "Riskin'
your safety, your honor."