Lonesome Rider and Wilde Imaginings (4 page)

Both Henry Larkin and Mrs. Peabody were making very good money. Stagecoaches were a miserable way to ride west. They were small, cramped and crowded. Most stops were poor indeed, with mud-chink guesthouses in which the mud sometimes fell on guests as they slept at night, especially during the dry season. There were other miserable places, establishments run by men who wiped the dinner plates clean instead of washing them for the next set of travelers. In such a world, both the saloon and Mrs. Peabody's place were just a small step from heaven.

He sipped more brandy and leaned his head back. He'd seen a hell of a lot of the West in the last few years.

Ever since the war had ended. Looking. Always looking. Because he couldn't stop now, not until he found the men who had destroyed everything and everyone he had ever loved.

Not until they were avenged.

He leaned back in his chair relishing the warm burn of the brandy in his throat. He closed his eyes. Sometimes, because of the memories, he hated to do so. Sometimes, he would see a spring day, with a few white clouds drifting across the sky. Then he would see Mara waving from the well, and his father standing on the porch, smiling at him and Mara, so damned proud that he was about to become a grandfather. Then Mara would be running toward him. He would wave at her to stop, because she shouldn't be running then, it was too close to her time.

Then …

The men. Three of them would be on their horses, clad in red leggings. They would be coming out of Kansas, onto the Missouri side. Coming because John McKenna had damned John Brown for being a heinous murderer and not God's instrument against the inhumanities of man. …

He could hear it still. Dear God, he could hear it still. The first blast of the shotgun. He could see it all, again and again, as if the world had slowed, as if he watched it all take place again in the black recesses of his mind and heart.

He could see the first bullet hit his father right in the chest. He could see the handsome old man fly back, snapped against the logs of the farmhouse. He could see the crimson stain spill across his white cotton shirt.… He could hear his own scream. His cry, his warning, and he knew exactly where he was—again.

He had started to run, and felt the agony in his chest, burning his lungs. He never had a chance of reaching Mara. There had been another burst of fire. God, he could hear it explode, too. Then he could see Mara, flying backward, falling, falling to the ground.

And she, too, had been stained in crimson, a massive hole in her chest, and he had been running and screaming. He had seen men—had seen their faces. He had thrown himself upon the first of them, the blue-eyed one, still mounted, and had dragged him down, his bare fingers around his throat, throttling him.

Then there had been the pain. Blinding, searing, like a flash of fire and light before him. Then there had been darkness. Blackness, a terrible void.

Blade didn't want to awaken from it, he didn't want to survive. He was afraid to awaken, he wanted it to be a dream, never the truth, dear God, he didn't want to awaken.…

“Mr. McKenna!”

Startled, he jerked his head up. He'd dozed. Resting there on the fine leather chair in Mrs. Peabody's library, he'd done what he hadn't done for a long, long time.

He'd let down his guard.

It was her fault. The woman's. Jessica Dylan's.

But it was Mrs. Peabody standing in the doorway, smiling benignly. “I didn't need to waken you, Mr. McKenna—”

“Blade, Mrs. Peabody. We've been friends some time now.”

“Well, then, that's fine, Blade, but you'll have to remember that my Christian name is Rose.”

He smiled. “That's fine, Rose.”

“I wouldn't have interrupted you—you were really resting so nicely—except that I know how you love a good steaming bath when you come off the trail. It's all ready for you upstairs. I've gotten that nice Mrs. Dylan all taken care of, and now it's your turn! I'll be seeing to my dinner now. I haven't had a guest in a day or two, and now you and Mrs. Dylan in one night. I'm anxious to whip up a fine meal for you both. It's so nice to have the company.” She cleared her throat delicately. “I know how you like a game of poker, too,
Blade
, but I do hope you'll be having dinner here before adjourning over to Henry Larkin's place.”

He stood, setting down his brandy glass. “Rose, your meals are always the finest in town, and you know that quite well. Of course I'll be having dinner with you.”

“And Mrs. Dylan.”

“And Mrs. Dylan. And then I will be spending the remainder of the evening over at the saloon.”

“Fine,” Rose said, her chubby little hands folded before her, her lips set in a sweet smile. “Get on to your bath now, before the water cools.”

She left to walk toward the kitchen, which was a separate building reached via an enclosed walkway, because she wasn't about to have her nicely furnished house burned down by a cooking fire. Blade hurried up the stairs.

He paused outside Jessica Dylan's room. He couldn't hear anything. Shorty hadn't come in with the stagecoach yet, and Blade found himself just standing there, wondering what she was wearing after her bath.

He swore at himself and moved on.

The tub in his room was wonderfully inviting, steam rising in great swaths from it. He stripped down quickly, careless of where he cast his boots and pants, shirt and jacket. He started to sink into the water, wincing when the burning heat first touched his flesh, then slowly sinking all the way in. There was a holder with soap and a cloth, and he picked up both, scrubbing his face first, then his arms, then the rest of his body. He ducked his head beneath the water and scrubbed his black hair. Finally, he sat back, rinsed the cloth, and set it over his face. It felt so damned good just to lie there. He could doze easily again.

Damn! He didn't want to doze again, didn't want to dream, didn't want to remember.

He froze suddenly, curling his fingers around the tub, aware of motion and movement in the room. There was a clicking sound.

Her.

She had come through the connecting door. He could follow her movements exactly. He had been living too long in a state of constant awareness—chasing and on the run—not to have his senses keenly attuned to sound and movement.

And smell. Mmm, he could smell her. The clean, fresh scent of her porcelain flesh.…

She was standing above him. Hesitating.

He ripped the cloth from his face, staring at her heatedly in return.

“Yes?” he demanded icily.

She stared and jumped back, but then stood her ground.

Her hair was free, all about her shoulders, just washed and fire dried and radiantly beautiful. He ached to reach out and touch it. Gold and copper. It glittered, it beckoned, it beguiled. No more so than her perfect face, her emerald eyes. Her … person.

He no longer had to wonder what she was wearing. Mrs. Peabody had provided her with a dressing gown. It was far too short, and he could plainly see her long, slim bare feet and her slender ankles, hinting of very shapely, long legs. The gown was a pink frilly thing, with a V bodice that didn't quite close well at her throat and breast, being far too large for her. Her flesh was beautiful. Her throat, long and extremely elegant. The hint of the rise of her breasts …

His fingers clenched very tightly around the rim of the wooden tub and he barked at her, “What?”

“Don't scream at me,” she said.

“Don't sneak in on me. You do that at the wrong time, and you'll find yourself getting shot.”

“I wasn't sneaking—”

“You don't even come in on a man quietly in the West, Mrs. Dylan. You will get shot.”

“Only an outlaw would be so wary—”

“And I never did tell you that I wasn't an outlaw, did I now, Mrs. Dylan? I just might be one. The worst kind of an outlaw.”

Her chin lifted. “There's only one thing I do know about you, Mr. McKenna,” she said flatly.

He arched a brow.

“You are one hell of a rude bastard!”

He grinned, sliding deeper into the water, eyeing her warily. “What?” he said again.

“Dammit, I need you to work for me,” she said, aggravated.

“I'm busy. You need to go home.”

“Who the hell do you think you are to decide who can and who can't make it in your precious West, Mr. McKenna?” she demanded coolly. “I'm not going back East. I've told you. I am home. I have land near here. My husband bought it when he was stationed at the fort. Before—he died. It's mine now. It was important to him, and I'm staying.”

“You might find yourself dead within a week,” Blade said coldly. He needed her out of here. He was staring at her pale throat, at the fascinating rise of her breasts, at the way one of the pink frills rose and fell with her every breath. He could feel the heat of her stare on him, warming him, entering him. His flesh was afire, so much hotter than the water.

“Not if I have you—” she began.

He stood, heedless of whether he shocked her or not with the bronze length of his body.

She was, after all, in his room.

“I'm not for hire, Mrs. Dylan. I've got my own way to go, and I need to keep moving.”

“Maybe I'm moving the same way.”

She was trying to keep her eyes level with his. They slipped now and then. Maybe she was heading the same way. He'd heard he might find just who he was looking for at the fort. They were damned near it now.

The beautiful white marble of her throat and face was swiftly turning crimson. He realized he was naked, returning her stare.

“I'm not going away, and I need help, and I can pay you very well—” she began, then broke off.

He had stepped out of the tub. Wet and bronzed from head to toe, he was suddenly against her, heedless of soaking Mrs. Peabody's dressing gown, sweeping her hard against him, into his arms. He couldn't resist. He couldn't resist the urge to touch her, the anguish to hold her. He had to feel her flesh, had to know if it was really as soft as silk, as perfect as it appeared. He had to grind his lips down upon hers, to taste them, to find out if they were as sweet as the promise they seemed to give.…

Her heart thundered against his. He formed his mouth to hers, forcing her lips to part. He ravaged her mouth, hungrily kissing her, tasting her.… Oh, God, the taste of her was sweet. Mint and lilac. Her lips were perfect, unwilling, ungiving, and suddenly parting to the onslaught of his as her fingers dug into the muscles of his arms.

Surely she felt him. All of him. The fire and the hardness, the burning and hungry demand. He lifted his lips from hers, afraid of what he'd do if he couldn't get her away. His fingers bit into her upper arms. His eyes blazed hotly into hers.

“I think I've told you my price,” he said hoarsely.

She was shaking, her emerald eyes blazing. “If I have to—” she began miserably.

“Oh, you'd have to. And I'd have to have a hell of a lot more than you've just given to find out whether or not you're good enough to meet the price.”

Her flushed skin went white. Her hand was about to fly, her fingers just itching to get to his face once again.

“No, Mrs. Dylan, not on your life!” Blade yelled, and swept her up into his arms. She gasped startledly, her arms around him to keep from falling.

He strode across the room, swinging open the adjoining door with his bare foot. He set her down on her bed. “Go home!” he roared. And he slammed the door between them.

He heard a cry. A very soft, quickly stifled cry of pain and dismay. He grated down hard on his teeth, swearing silently. Why did it seem to tear at him that he had hurt her, that he had been so brutal? It was better than what he might have done.… So much better than just taking her. Having her then and there. Sating the hunger, the longing, the anguish.…

He swore and turned to his bath. Henry Larkin's Jackson Prairie Bar and Saloon was just across the way. And he was going there just as damned fast as he could.

Chapter Four

T
here was one thing definite about Jessica Dylan—the woman was tenacious.

It was amazing. Blade had murmured an excuse to Mrs. Peabody after all, and had taken his meal over at the saloon. Soon after, he had found himself in the midst of a pretty good poker game, the stakes rising swiftly, the play running smooth and fast. Roxy Niemes, one of Larkin's girls, resplendent in a short black and crimson affair that left more of her legs bared than covered, was perched right behind him, keeping his whiskey glass filled and occasionally draping long painted fingernails idly upon his shoulders. She was discreet, quietly watching the play, patiently waiting.

He was doing well. Damned well. He already had taken a fair amount of gold from the men at the table, one of them a middle-aged, sandy-haired cattle herder, one a young blond miner and one a tall, dark and lean Easterner in a fancy dress frock with an extravagant red cravat.

A hand of five-card stud had just been dealt. One down, three up, the last down. The miner had two kings showing. Blade had a pair of tens. There was a third beneath his hand. The miner threw in his bet, waiting for Blade to call him or raise him.

And that was when he saw her.

She walked into the saloon with supreme confidence—and arrogance, he determined. Her hair was neatly knotted again at her nape with very soft tendrils escaping to frame her elegant face. She was dressed in a beautiful gown in shades of blue, with rows of black and white lace at the sleeves and hem and bodice, which dipped low upon her breast. She paused just inside the doorway, her emerald eyes sweeping the many tables where men sat about gambling or propositioning the girls or just swilling down their whiskey. She stared at the long bar, the stunned, mustachioed barkeep, the stairway that led to the rooms above, and then to him. He had forgotten to throw his coin down. The miner cleared his throat, and Blade dropped his gold.