In the Marshal's Arms (2 page)

“Almost four years,” she said.

“And before that? Where did you live?”

“I was born in the New Mexico Territory, and I worked there for a while before I joined a troop of actors and we moved from place to place before I met Edward.”

He knew that, of course. “I imagine this life is quite different.”

“It is quiet,” she said with a wistful sigh. “But I enjoy having no one to answer to but myself.”

“And your husband. Where has he gone?”

She shifted slightly in her chair and focused on her plate. “To Kansas to help his brother.”

Kansas, where Rhys and several other marshals had learned about the bank robbery ahead of time, surrounded the bandits, and shot Edward Colby dead in the street. How much did Maddy know about his death? As much as he loathed the man and all he’d done, he didn’t want Maddy to know the gruesome details.

“You said he’d be back soon?”

She concentrated on buttering a slice of bread. “He’s been gone awhile.”

For just a moment, he doubted that she knew of Edward’s death, but no, he’d spoken to the marshal who’d delivered the news. Had she cried? Did she mourn him?

She looked up then. “What about you? Are you married?”

The question shouldn’t have caught him off-guard, but it did. “My wife died a few years back.” And he hadn’t been able to bring himself to go home since. The life of a marshal had suited him as he grieved.

“No children?”

He shook his head. For that, at least, he could be grateful.

“No, we didn’t, either. It’s probably a blessing.” Regret laced her voice.

He had to change the subject, and struggled for a topic to make her smile. “I should be able to finish the roof tomorrow,” he said. “What do you have for me to do next?” Everywhere he looked, the place needed work, but he didn’t know what her priorities were.

“The barn likely needs repair as well. I do need a trip into town, but I’m not sure about the state of the wagon.”

“I’ll take a look after dinner.”

She pushed back from the table abruptly. “I made a pie.”

That surprised a laugh from him. “You’ve been busy while I was on that roof.”

“It’s nice to have someone around to cook for. I usually just make bread for myself. I’m happy to remember I can cook.”

Half an hour later, Rhys rose from the table, unable to remember the last time he’d eaten so much. His mother had been a good cook, but he’d left home seventeen years ago, and he’d had to share those meals with three brothers. His wife had been an adequate cook, but Mrs. Colby was clearly talented.

“I’m afraid I didn’t leave much for you to put away for tomorrow,” he said as she cleared the table.

“That’s fine. If we can make it to town, I have no doubt I can make something to please you tomorrow.”

“I’ll go check on that wagon, then,” he said. Best for him to leave this scene before it made him feel too domestic. He couldn’t allow that.

Chapter Two

A clap of thunder jolted Maddy awake and a moment later, rain drummed on the roof as the sky opened above her. She scrambled for the pots she usually put under the leaky spots, but when she reached each place, no water came through. Mr. Burgess had patched all the worst spots, God bless him.

Lightning flashed and she looked out the window. And the poor man was sleeping in the barn, which had fewer repairs than the house. The roof likely leaked like a sieve. She couldn’t allow that. She’d never be able to sleep knowing he was uncomfortable. She shoved her feet in her shoes, wrapped her shawl over her head and around her shoulders, lit a lantern, and hurried out into the storm.

Though it had been raining only a short time, the path between the house and barn was slush. Her lantern was extinguished almost immediately, leaving her dependent on the lightning to guide her way. The mud slowed her progress, which meant the rain drenched her shawl and her hair and her dress by the time she reached the door of the barn. She didn’t know what she expected to see, but Mr. Burgess at the stall door, holding a lantern and calming his horse wasn’t it.

“Mr. Burgess!” she said, breathless, and he whirled toward her, his hand on his hip, as if he was going for his gun. Had he been wearing it, would he have shot her? Fear iced her nerves. So he was a gunslinger. She should have known he was in trouble. And she’d come down here to welcome him into her house.

His shoulders relaxed when he realized what he’d done. “What are you doing out here in this?”

“I’d worried the roof was leaking and you’d be wet,” she said, her gaze drifting to the bed he’d made in the hay which was, indeed, wet. “I came to suggest you bed down in the house.”

“Your husband would likely not like that plan.”

“My husband would understand,” she lied, because she didn’t understand her compulsion herself. Mr. Burgess was a man of the outdoors. He’d probably slept outside during worse storms than this. And she knew nothing of him, other than he fixed her roof, ate her food, and was as jumpy as a gunfighter. But he had been polite, had given her no indication that he would hurt her. Was she too trusting?

“It’s hardly proper.”

She thrust her chin out. “I’m not inviting you to my bed, Mr. Burgess. I’m inviting you into my dry home. You can make your bed on the floor.”

“I’ve slept in worse.”

“But tonight you don’t have to. It’s the least I can offer since you ensured I won’t be sleeping in a leaking house.”

“I thank you, ma’am.”

For a moment, she thought he’d refuse, but then he bent to get his saddlebags.

“I have an oilcloth in here. You should put it on before you go back up to the house.”

“I can hardly get any wetter,” she said. “You use it and come on now.”

Again, he hesitated, then draped the oilcloth over his head, took up the lantern in one hand, her arm in the other, and guided her to the house. The rain lashed sideways, stinging her face and she bent her head toward him to block it. He released her arm and curved his arm around her shoulders, shielding her, urging her forward.

Finally they were on the front porch and he stripped off the oilcloth to hang it on a nearby hook. He stared at her as she did the same with her shawl, then bent to remove her muddy shoes.

“You are a hell of a woman,” he said when she unrolled her stockings and draped them over a bench by the door.

She straightened to look at him curiously, and something flared in his eyes. Only then did she realize she wore nothing but her nightgown, made of the thinnest lawn, and she was soaked to the skin. She might as well be naked in front of him. Twin sensations of fear and arousal shot through her. How would he react?

How did she want him to react?

He turned away and opened the door, his jaw tight. Well, then. Of course, he did believe she was married.

She preceded Mr. Burgess into the house, spine straight. “I have some dry bedding you can use, if you’ll give me a moment.” She headed for the area she’d curtained off for privacy. She shivered out of the wet gown and draped it over the top of the curtain and listened for movement on the other side. He hadn’t moved once he’d come in the door, and stood waiting.

“Could you start a fire? There’s wood in the fireplace.” she asked as she tugged on her day dress with chilled fingers and buttoned the bodice. She didn’t usually light a fire when she was asleep, was too afraid of letting it burn, but he seemed alert enough for both of them.

She heard him move about, followed by the crackling of the fire, and emerged from the curtain. She opened the chest at the end of the bed and withdrew some blankets with cold stiff fingers. The floor would be hard beneath them, but he would be dry. She passed the blankets to him and stood in front of the fire, her arms wrapped about herself.

“Do you have another shawl?” he asked, stepping up behind her.

“No, but I’ll be fine when I get back into bed. I didn’t know the weather was about to change. You came in just the knick of time, didn’t you?” She smiled over her shoulder.

“I suppose that’s true. You might have been better off sleeping in the barn tonight, as bad off as your roof was.” He offered a smile of his own.

She scrambled for something to say. She had been around handsome men before, but something about Mr. Burgess’s smile hit her below the heart, making her feel giddy.

“I was thinking more that you’d be stuck out in it somewhere.”

“But I’m not,” he said, smile fading. “I appreciate your hospitality, but I would feel better if you’d get in bed and warm up. I can take care of the fire, and making my own bed.”

She felt awkward crossing the room to her bed, drawing back the covers and sliding inside. She never slept in a dress, but she didn’t have another nightdress, and her shift was even more sheer than the nightdress had been. When she’d been in the acting troop, she’d been accustomed to sharing a room with several people, men and women alike. And she’d been with Edward for four years, though he wasn’t often home. She hadn’t slept with someone else in the room in a long time. She rolled onto her side, facing the wall, but couldn’t help listening to him settle down. Did he sleep fully dressed, too? Was he as uncomfortable as she was? When was the last time he’d slept in the same room with a woman? She couldn’t imagine he was the celibate type, but neither did she think he was the type to take a mistress.

Goodness, she would never get to sleep speculating about his sexual habits, especially when she couldn’t know, since she’d only known him a matter of hours. She tried focusing on the rain on her new roof, the fire in the fireplace and the warmth of the blankets surrounding her, and not on the sound of him settling onto the floor, the evenness of his breathing.

Finally when his soft snores filled the room, she let herself drift to the rhythm, and fell asleep.

When she woke, sunlight streamed through the windows, and Mr. Burgess was gone. The blankets were folded neatly and placed on top of the chest at the foot of the bed. She hadn’t even heard him get up. Now, though, she heard the pounding of a hammer.

She tossed back the heavy covers and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Despite the fire burning fairly well in the fireplace, a chill bit at her skin even through her dress. She hurried to the stove to light it, hoping to add to the warmth as she made breakfast for Mr. Burgess. She looked out the window and saw the top of his head over the roof of the barn. Past him, she saw the sun higher than she expected—how long had she slept?

She made her ablutions, then cooked up some pork and eggs, frying up bread as she did so. She put the food on a plate, then went to call Mr. Burgess. Her shawl was still wet, so she wrapped a blanket around her and headed to the barn.

He looked down at her from the peak of the roof. He wore two shirts today, but that was his only concession to the colder weather. “Did I wake you?”

She shook her head. “You should have. I would have made you a good breakfast. It’s waiting for you now.”

He nodded and made his way to the ladder. “We won’t be able to make it to town today. The roads are too muddy. No sense putting the horse through that if we can wait another day.”

“We can wait,” she said as he dropped to the ground beside her.

“You didn’t have to make me breakfast. I could have waited until dinner.”

She glanced at the sun. “I’m thinking it’s close to that time anyway.”

He grinned. “Maybe.”

“I’m not usually such a lay-about.”

“You don’t have to explain anything to me. Out here on your own, you can keep your own schedule. I know I do, when I’m on the trail.”

“I haven’t had anyone else to think about for awhile.”

“What about your husband?”

Oh, dear. She’d let that slip, hadn’t she? That she’d lied because she’d been afraid? If he knew the truth, would he think her vulnerable?

“He hasn’t been home in quite a long time.”

“Which is why you’re expecting him.”

“Yes.” For some reason, the lie made her stomach sink. She was drawn to him, and if he thought she was married, he’d never allow himself to think of her sexually. But she didn’t know him well, and couldn’t measure his response to the truth.

Rhys sat across from the beauty, the image of her in her soaked nightshift burned into his brain, those lush breasts, trim waist, hips perfect for a man’s hands. He’d walked into the cabin last night with his cock hard and pleading for a chance to plunge between those curvy thighs. Thank God she’d changed quickly and he’d been able to distract himself by lighting the fire. A trip to town would have been ideal today, but no, he was in the house with her, forcing himself to keep his gaze from her breasts.

The domestic scene didn’t help. What kind of woman was she to invite a hired man to her table? Generous, he wanted to think, but she had been a bank robber’s lover. He didn’t know how much she knew about the Colbys’ activities—and it certainly didn’t seem that the men had spent the money on her—but he couldn’t be too cautious.

“What are you going to be working on today?” he asked as he spooned fluffy eggs into his mouth.

“Laundry will be the big job. Can I wash anything for you?”

“It’s a bit cold to be doing laundry.”

“Oh, no, I do it in here.” She gestured to the deep sink behind her. “I have a way to hook my wringer onto the sink so it will drain to the outside, and when it’s too cold, I hang the clothes in the house. The fire dries them quickly enough, though I don’t care for the smell. Today is brisk, but I’ll probably still hang them outside.”

He rose to look at the sink, with its big pump handle. He saw the slot where her wringer would fit on the side of the sink. “Did you rig that as well?”

She shrugged, and her cheeks turned that pretty pink. “I hate hauling water, so, yes.”

He traced his finger around the drain hole. “And this leads outside?”

“Yes, it collects in a bucket on the other side of the wall. I can use that for the garden, if need be.”

He turned to look at her. “Clever.”

“If I could figure out how to hook up a shower in here and heat it, I would. Not much space for that, though.” When he just stared, she shrugged again. “I don’t sit still very well.”