Lauri Robinson (3 page)

Chapter Four

She huffed a breath so deeply her breasts pushed up against the neckline of her dress. Jake had to drag his eyes away, but as he stared at the gun cabinet behind her, he wondered if the material would split open and couldn’t stop a peek or two.

“I, Sheriff McCrery, am teaching Emma a lesson.”

That simple statement confirmed his suspicions. The rift between the sisters was no concern of the law’s, though Emma’s wagging tongue had personally irritated him. However, it hadn’t appeared to bother Stacy, who had gone about sprucing up the house she’d bought, and until today he’d never heard her say a bad word about any of the Blackwells. Even when her father insisted Jake put a stop to her gambling. Things with Stacy had changed after that day, when he’d escorted her out of Ma Belle’s, and since then the little gambler’s indifference had pulled him into the family fray more than Emma had managed with her constant complaints. He just hadn’t known what Stacy hoped to gain.

Now that he did, his heart skittered across his chest like a fawn on ice. “And what lesson would that be?”

Her pacing started up again. Drawn to her like a nail to a magnet, Jake stepped closer, blocking her path. Those blue eyes shot daggers, but he caught the slightest tremor on her bottom lip.

“That she can’t have everything she’s ever wanted,” she snapped.

He tilted his head, watched her follow the movement. “And by your gambling, winning the town and most everyone’s affections, you’re proving that?”

“Yes,” she agreed softly. “In part.”

“What’s the other part?” he asked.

An actress, she was. Her stature was perfect, her face expressionless, but Jake saw through it as if she were bluffing with nothing but an eight high in her hand. He was on to her, on to her good, and no one, not even an adorable little thoroughbred, was going to best him. Two could play at this game. Excitement zipped through his veins. A gambler never lost the thrill, and he was a gambler, through and through.

“What’s the other part, Stacy?” he asked again, this time low and slow, while tilting his head the other way. She followed the movement, her eyes on his lips. Moving in slowly, keeping her attention on his mouth, he waited until his lips almost touched hers before saying, “It’s me, isn’t it?”

Her denial, for he was sure that’s what it started as, turned into a moan that made his chest rumble when their lips met. The kiss, the experience, went beyond his imagination, almost as if he’d stepped over an unforeseen ledge. This little thoroughbred wasn’t any shyer at kissing than she was at gambling, and that had his senses reeling.

Jake only pulled away when he needed air—briefly, until her smoldering eyes and an unabashed grin had him taking her lips again. Their mouths made a perfect pair, and their tongues twisted and turned with each other as if caught in a tiny tornado.

His hands slid up and down her back, resting to span her slender waist. Every touch heated his palms, making them throb for more, and had him visualizing the alabaster skin beneath her clothes that he wanted to taste from head to toe and everywhere in between.

When the kiss ended, after a very long time and by some sort of mutual agreement, Jake was envisioning doing so many things to her delectable body he barely knew where he was. But he was supposed to be the one seducing her into submission. Into admitting she was playing a very dangerous game. She needed to understand he wouldn’t become the prize in any competition. Instead, he felt as if he’d just laid a bet on a hand that didn’t even hold a pair of deuces.

Face flushed, she curled her lips into the sweetest smile he’d ever seen. “My, my, Sheriff McCrery, you are a magnificent kisser.”

“Really?” Drawing up an indifferent tone and expression, he said, “I can’t say the same about you.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, I’ve unquestionably met better kissers than you.”

“You—”

He lifted a brow.

Her eyes narrowed and she grabbed the front of his shirt with all the strength of a cowpuncher, and this time she didn’t even let him come up for air, nor did she stop at kissing. Dexterous little fingers unfastened the buttons of his shirt with the speed of a hummingbird’s wings, and when her hands met his skin, he dug his heels into the floor. He hadn’t known his nipples were so sensitive, and he yearned to explore hers—feel the full weight of her breasts in his hands, taste the buds, suckle them fully.

His hands caught the firm plumpness of her backside when she lifted a knee and ran it along the inside of his thigh, all the way up to where it made his breath catch. He had to remember she was acting. Had too. It was the only thing that kept him from hauling her into the jail cell, laying her on the cot and showing her just how he’d like to end this game.

When her lips did leave his, it was to trail kisses down his neck and across his chest.

Breathing hard, mostly through his nose in order to maintain an ounce of logic, Jake, practically overwhelmed by the urge to dip his head and run his tongue along the depth of her cleavage, took her by the upper arms. “Stacy—”

One dainty finger pressed into his lip. “Hush now, Sheriff McCrery.”

As before, the way she called him Sheriff had a cooling effect, though not as much as he needed. Especially when her finger glided down his chest, the tip of the nail pressing into his flesh with just enough sting to keep his desires overriding a good portion of his common sense.

“Jake,” she whispered, trailing the finger close to his waistline.

“Yes.”

Pushing back his collar, she kissed the lowest point of his neck while her fingertip, dipping below the edge of his pants, had him at full attention.

“I have something to tell you,” she said sweetly.

He should stop her, knew what was coming, but chose not to. This could be her win. At least, he’d let her believe that. Saying she wasn’t a good kisser—a lie if he’d ever told one—had gotten her goat, so in a way he deserved her scorn and her taunting.

“Oh?” He ran his hands down her arms, letting the edges of his thumbs brush the side of her breasts.

She wobbled, but quickly stiffened and stepped back. Her breasts rose and fell fast, matching her breathing, catching his eyes all over again. For a split second Jake found himself wishing he’d been wrong.

She flipped around before he had a chance to catch the expression in her eyes, and crossed the room to pick up her fancy little umbrella and satchel.

Jake turned and leaned one hip against his desk. Though breathing normally was a struggle, he buttoned his shirt as if their encounter hadn’t affected him whatsoever.

Eyeing him with that assessing little gaze she had, a satisfied grin appeared on her face.

“Don’t ever try to lie to me again.”

“Lie to you?” he asked, as if dumbfounded, while pushing off the desk.

Her nod lost confidence with each step he took, and she bit her lip when he tucked his shirt into his britches.

Once in front of her, he caught her chin with one knuckle. “I didn’t lie to you, Miss Blackwell.”

Jake wondered if he’d been sucker punched when her chin quivered and those skyblue eyes wavered. Up until this moment he’d never thought there’d be a woman who’d manage to steal his heart. Yet this little gambler had, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

Yes, there was. It took considerable effort, but he pulled the St. Louis event front and center, reminded himself what his gambling had done to another woman.

“I’ll have you know, Sheriff McCrery, I’m a very fine kisser. Many men have told me so.”

A stone-honed knife couldn’t have sliced him sharper than the thought of her kissing other men. Not even the incident flashing in his mind eased it. Yet her acting abilities were slipping. The apprehension in her eyes said she was lying, and the downward tug on the corners of her lips told him she was waiting for his reassurance. A major part of him wanted to give it, declare she was indeed the best kisser he’d ever met.

Opening the door, he waved a hand. “They lied.” With a nod, he added, “Good day, Miss Blackwell.”

No matter how hard Stacy tried, her lungs wouldn’t take in a full breath of air. And her heart, well, it had never beat so hard, so fast.
He
was suppose to be breathless, not her. Fury, hot and cold at the same time, zipped up her spine. “I’m the best kisser you’ve ever met, Sheriff McCrery, and one day you’ll admit it.”

She swung around, wishing he were the boards beneath her boots, and stomped out the door.

His low laugh reverberated down her back, making her grow stiffer and madder with every step. Emma could have him. Matter of fact, the two deserved each other. One was just as irritating as the other. Bald-faced liars. That’s what they were. Emma and the things she said about Pappy and mother, and Jake…

It was as if all the life drained out of her. Stumbling, she caught herself before going down, but the way her knees wobbled told her she’d better sit. The hat shop door was open, and she barely made it inside, to the little chair next to the mirrored table, before her legs gave out. Her parasol, caught on the narrow doorframe, fluttered in the breeze.

Stacy took several breaths. Jake McCrery meant nothing to her. He was simply a gamble. The burning in her chest rose into her throat in the form of a fiery moan. Besides, this wasn’t about him. Emma needed to be put in her place. Furthermore, Edward Blackwell—her own father—had suggested she’d been attempting to catch Jake’s eye at the dinner table that evening—and that had stung harder than Emma’s words.

Nothing could have been further from her mind. Sure, she’d noticed Jake’s handsomeness and had been entertained by his quick wit, but she was being personable. Having dinner with her family, that’s where her excitement had been. She’d always wanted to meet them. Wanted more than a piece of jewelry to prove she was connected to others. In one evening she’d lost it all. Hope and her necklace. Even the next day, after all Emma’s accusations, when she’d packed her belongings and moved to town to wait for Pappy’s return, winning Jake’s affections hadn’t crossed her mind.

Plopping an elbow on the table, and resting her chin in her palm, she let out a long sigh. That hadn’t happened until almost a month later.

They’d encountered each other a few times, she and Jake, and she’d admired him from afar, but it wasn’t until the day he’d escorted her out of Ma Belle’s, said her gambling was souring her family’s reputation, that the idea came to life.

Her lips pinched as a fresh bout of fury grew inside her like a vine around a post. The Blackwell family tainted their own reputation by their uppity ways, and she’d set out to prove she was nothing like them. Only after the almighty sheriff continued to interrupt her games, insisting her father didn’t want her gambling, had she’d added him to the kitty.

She slapped the tabletop so hard that the mirror shook and hats tumbled off their little hooks. The game wasn’t over and there would be no folding on her part.

“Oh, goodness, dear, I’m so sorry,” Helen Wilson rushed from the curtain separating the backroom from the rest of the store. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Emotions piling up so high her hands shook, Stacy knocked over more hats as she attempted to gather those near her toes. “I—I bumped the table.”

“Here, I’ll get them. I do apologize. I just didn’t hear you with Christina Marks crying so.” Short, plump and overly efficient, the shop owner had all the hats back on their hooks in record time.

“Why is Mrs. Marks crying?” Stacy asked, though her gut—always aware even when her mind wasn’t—already knew.

Clicking her tongue, Helen replied, “Chester lost their farm in a poker game with that gambling man this afternoon.”

Precisely what her gut said, and that was enough to send Stacy’s fury into full-blown rage. Chester’s big toe gambling aside, Ratcliff was hurting too many people. And messing with her plan.

“Miss Blackwell?”

A wave of frustration, knowing what was about to come, made Stacy shiver.

“Do you think you could help her out? Like you helped me when my Elmer lost my shop?”

A growl formed in her throat. She owned five Founder’s Creek businesses because men had gambled them away. She’d won the first one back and given it to the wife to manage—with the agreement that a small portion of the profits were to be paid to her—she knew people didn’t learn from their mistakes if those mistakes didn’t cost something. It had all started as a way to demonstrate she wasn’t like her family, but now it felt like a heavy burden. Correcting half the town’s foolishness took away time from her own gambling.

“Do you, dear?” the woman repeated.

Men. Not one of them was worth the air they breathed. Including Sheriff Jake McCrery with his
you’re not a good kisser
idiocy.

Mad enough to bite through one of Ratcliff’s plugged coins, Stacy stood. Snatching the parasol still caught on the door frame, she marched out the doorway.

As if he expected her, Winston Ratcliff stepped out of the hotel, shining a pocket watch on the lapel of his black suit coat. “Miss Blackwell.”

There wasn’t an ounce of pleasantry left inside her. Never without funds, Stacy dug in the tiny pocket sewn into the seam of her skirt. “One coin flip. The Marks farm against my house.”

The man had the gall to question her. “Your house?”

“Yes,” she growled, not giving a rat’s tooth if she lost the big house on the edge of town or not. “Heads or tails?”

“I’ll flip, you call,” he answered, pulling out his own coin.

“I won’t be taken with one of your plugged quarters.” She tossed his in the street and slapped her gold piece in his hand. “Flip.”

He tossed the coin in the air, and a brief bout of panic seized her vocal cords. Burying the fear amongst a thick coat of anger, she snapped “Heads” moments before the coin bounced off the boardwalk.

Balanced on its side, the coin spun for several feet, and her interest dulled with each revolution. Oh, there was some, because she loved to gamble, but in all actuality, the sour taste in her mouth told her she didn’t love it as much as she used to.

Ratcliff stopped the spinning coin with one boot. “You’re sure about this?”