Gaffney, Patricia (8 page)

"This kind of thing happen often?" Gault had taken his
hat off and set it on the step beside her. The setting sun through the live oak
lit up the silver in his dark brown hair.

"No." She shook her head vehemently. "Definitely
not."

"They, um... they didn't hurt you, did they?"

It came to her what he was thinking, what it must've looked like
when he smashed the door in. "Oh, no. Not at all. They were just looking
for my gun." Mainly; Turley had snuck a feel in the process, but she
wasn't going to dwell on that.

"Looking for your gun?"

He looked so surprised, she smiled. "Yeah. And if I'd had it
on me, I'd've plugged 'em both," she boasted. It was probably a lie, but
just saying it made her feel calmer. "I keep a .22 in my... on my
person," she said delicately.

"What kind?"

"Remington Elliot. Five-shot."

"With the ring trigger?" She nodded, and he pursed his
lips in an approving whistle. "Guess things can get a little rough in your
line of work."

Not as much as in yours.
"Once in a while. But I
can handle it. Anyway, Turley and Clyde were just trying to scare me."

"Why?"

She lifted her eyebrows. How strange to be explaining to him who
her enemies were. Until now, she'd been pretty sure he was one of them.
"Because Merle Wylie told them to," she said.

"Why?"

"Because." She rested her chin in her hands and
contemplated him. His one gray eye looked harmless for a change, not evil.
Interested. "He wants the Rogue," she said with a sigh. "Wants
me to sell out, sell him the Rogue and the Seven Dollar. He just wants
everything."

"What's the Seven Dollar?"

"A mine. It's placered out, not worth anything."

"Why does he want it, then?"

"I just told you—because he wants everything. That's what
he's like, that's the kind of man he is."

He looked thoughtful. "I've been hearing a few things about
Wylie," he allowed after a pause.

"I'll bet. I told you he burned down the livery."

"What?"

She touched his shoulder when he started to jump up. "The old
one—Wylie's is the new one. Nestor Yeakes runs it for him."

"Oh." He relaxed, sank back against the step.
"Yeah, you told me that yesterday. What the hell did he do that for?"

"Bob Logan wouldn't sell out to him. He couldn't foreclose
because Logan owned it free and clear, so he burned him out."

Gault swore, as if that shocked him. "So Wylie's a
banker?"

"No, but he's got one in his pocket."

"Cherney."

She blinked. "Yeah. You know him?"

"We met." For some reason, he smiled.

"Well, Cherney's his hatchet man, you could say. He's making
him foreclose on Forrest Sullivan's sheep farm, pretty much just for the hell
of it. The Sullivans have four kids, and the oldest is seven. I don't know what
they're going to do."

Gault took a cigarette out of his pocket and started to roll it
between his fingers, play with it. Cady watched him out of the corner of her
eye. The more time she spent with him, the less she could figure him out. He
could barely line up a match and a cigarette, and yet he was so confident of
his triggerman skills, he didn't even have to draw on his enemies.
Didn't
even have to draw.
She still couldn't get over it, the way he'd cut Warren
Turley down to size— cocky, black-hearted Warren, who wasn't scared of anybody.
She'd been scared herself when Gault had banged that door open, even knowing
he'd come to save her. (How
had
she known that?) There was just
something about him. He only had to squint his eye to put the fear of God in
you, or whisper something, or stretch his lips in his wicked smile. But then he
could say charming, downright flirtatious things when he felt like it, and he
had a different kind of smile, tickled and lighthearted, for Ham. And once or
twice for her.

"Paradise is a nice little town," she said offhandedly,
leaning over to trace a line around her bare toes on the warm wood step.
"Used to be even nicer. Since Wylie got this bug up his behind about
owning everything, it's changed. People are scared now. When you rode in, most
of 'em assumed he'd hired you. You say he didn't." She stole a glance. He
was watching her, stroking his fingertips across his long, sexy upper lip,
brushing the edges of his mustache. She looked back down at her feet.

"The thing is, people are starting to feel outnumbered.
Tommy—Sheriff Leaver—he's not very..." She hunted for the right word, gave
up. "He could use some help. We could all use... somebody on our
side."

She came to a stop, hoping he would fill in the silence, say,
"Why, I'll help you! You should've asked sooner; I had no idea you were in
such a pickle." But as the pause lengthened, she understood what a foolish
hope that was. He fished a match out, struck it on the step, and this time lit
his thin black cigarette in one try. Slouching down, legs crossed, he stuck his
elbows on the stair behind him and blew unconcerned smoke at the sky.

"Why did you come to my room anyway?" she wondered
testily. "Did you want to see me about something?"

"Oh, yeah." He turned on his elbow to face her. "I
wanted to tell you." He fingered one of the green paisley curves in the
dangling belt of her robe; he might've been doing it unconsciously, but she was
aware of every move of his fingertip. "That I'm, you know, sorry."

"For what?"

"Today." Even with the sinister patch over his eye and
the smoke curling up from his cigarette, there was something boyish in the
angle of his head, the way he looked up at her through his thick eyelashes,
then quickly away. "I'm talking about me and the kid," he explained,
mumbling. "You were right. Had no business handing over a gun to a
seven-year-old. Even though it wasn't loaded."

"Yes, but you can never—"

"You can't be sure and you can't take a chance, not with
children. I know that. Don't know what got into me, Cady. I won't be doing that
again."

She went all soft inside when he called her Cady. She had the strangest
urge to run her fingers through the lock of black-and-silver hair that fell
sideways across his forehead. Push it back, and cup his ear with her palm while
she was at it. "It's okay. Gault. Mr. Gault." She gave a short laugh.
"Seems funny— you know my first name but I don't know yours."

He flicked his cigarette into the grass. She watched it smolder
while she waited for him to speak. It died before he did. "A man in my
line of work," he finally said, and stopped.

"It's okay. I understand." But she didn't, not at all,
and she was really disappointed. She couldn't get over how disappointed she
was.

"It's Jesse."

"What?" He'd whispered—she wasn't sure she'd heard
right.

"Name's Jesse. You can call me that. I'd like it if you
did."

"All right." A slow smile bloomed on her face. "But
I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't tell anybody else."

"I won't. I promise." The thrill of conspiracy made her
wind her arms around her knees and squeeze. Jesse Gault. It suited him.
"Gault" was a hard word, but "Jesse"... "Jesse"
could go either way.

"You sure are pretty when you smile."

"Oh..." She swatted a hank of hair over her shoulder,
hoping she wasn't blushing. Thinking she could give him the exact compliment.

"You're pretty all the time, but especially when you smile.
Your eyes get little and crinkly, and they twinkle. And the corners of your
mouth turn up just so."

She
knew
she was blushing. He looked like he was telling
the truth, although he was smiling, too. Men said things to her all the time,
ridiculous things, she didn't pay any attention. But they usually didn't go
into all this... detail.

"Mr. Gault, you're flattering me," she actually said.
She'd heard a girl say that to her beau once, on the church steps one Sunday
morning. It had stayed with her for some reason; she'd thought it was silly but
also kind of dignified—and here she was spouting it out to Jesse Gault, like
some antebellum miss in a crinoline. Her cheeks got even hotter.

"Where'd you get skin like that?" He was murmuring,
almost whispering, but it was nothing like that dark, scary whisper he used on
men. This was more like soothing, more like a caress. "And I don't even
know words for that color you turn sometimes. Like now. Like a peach. No,
lighter. Miss Cady McGill, you are just about the prettiest girl I ever
saw."

She put her chin on her knee; he leaned closer. Their faces were
about five inches apart. He dropped his gaze from her eyes to her mouth, and
she imagined the corners were probably turning up "just so" right
now. They were going to kiss. Right here on her back stoop. How would it feel?
He had a beautiful mouth, full and manly under his black mustache, the ends of
which looked soft, not bristly. His lips were closed. She closed hers. They
inched toward each other. His breath blew out through his nose, fluttering
softly on her cheek. She shut her eyes.

"Miz Cady?"

Levi. Calling through the closed door of her office.

Jesse didn't move, just smiled a slow, sexy smile while she jolted
up straight, plucking at the closed throat of her robe. "Yes?"

"Miz Cady, you okay?"

"Fine!"

"Boys're askin' for you. They ready to play cards. Tol' 'em
you'll be right out."

"I
will be. Thanks, Levi."

"Ma'am."

She heard his soft footsteps fade. "Well," she said.

"Well," Jesse said, still smiling at her.

For some reason she felt like laughing. Nerves, she guessed. She
stood up. He stayed where he was, studying her bare feet for a second, then
leaning back so he could see her face. She had never seen a man look so...
appreciative.
The heat of the day was fading, but she felt warm all over. "Well.
Guess I'll get dressed."

"Right." He still didn't move, so she left him where he
was and took her green dress and the rest of her things with her behind the
screen.

It was a pretty screen, three-paneled, painted with a scene of a
lady taking a bath in the woods surrounded by naked nymphs. Needless to say, it
hadn't been in this room when Mr. Shlegel lived here; she had found it up in a
third-floor room, and brought it down because she liked it, and because it gave
her some privacy while she dressed if she had company. Ham or Levi, for
instance, or one of the girls. She hoped Jesse was enjoying it.

She didn't feel like hurrying—some kind of lethargy was weighing
her down very pleasantly, making her arms and legs feel heavy—but she could
hear Chico playing "Buffalo Gals" on the piano, a sure sign that
Saturday night was getting under way. "How do you like your room?"
she asked, for something to say, while she pulled on her stockings and rolled
garters up to the tops.

"Like it fine." The nearness of his voice surprised her.
She peeked over the top of the screen, and saw that he'd moved. He was sitting
on the foot of her bed.

"That's good," she said. "The balcony's nice."

"Real nice. I like to sit out in a rocking chair, watch the
world go by."

"The world," she said with a laugh. The population of
Paradise hovered around four hundred.

"Yeah, it's a real nice room. Gets kind of lonely,
though."

Shimmying the tight green taffeta down over her hips, she heard
the bed springs creak. She was turned away, facing the oval mirror nailed to
the wall. She saw the reflection of four fingers and the top of a thumb on the
screen edge, overlapping one of the naked nymphs. Her heart, which had finally
slowed down since their almost-kiss, recommenced racing.

"Specially late at night. When I'm lying there in that big
bed all by myself. I thought about you last night, Cady. Kept me awake.
Couldn't get you out of my mind."

She started to turn, but he moved faster. She saw him behind her
just before he put his hands on her bare shoulders, and for no reason she could
think of she closed her eyes. Maybe it was so she could concentrate on the way
it felt to be touched by him, undistracted by the sight of him. God knew the
sight of him was a distraction. "Mr. Gault, I do believe..." She
smiled with her eyes closed, thinking that leaning back against Jesse was like
leaning back against a hard, strong wall. "I do believe you're toying with
my affections."

His laugh was nice, a huff of breath followed by a soft, infectious
chuckle. His hands slipped slowly down from her shoulders to her elbows, then
her sides. "There's nothing I'd rather toy with, Miss McGill," he
said with his mouth against her hair, "than your affections." He was
staring in the mirror at her breasts. She couldn't get over how much she liked
this, this blatant...
thing
they were doing that she never allowed and
always discouraged, wouldn't put up with past this point from almost any man.
This man... this gunfighter she'd known for a day... she very much wanted to go
to the next step with him. She dropped her head back on his shoulder and
watched, heavy-lidded, as his big hands slid up and across her rib cage, a
soft, slow, full-handed caress. Reckless, out of control, she felt like she was
drunk.