Much Ado About Marshals (Hearts of Owyhee) (2011) (31 page)

“Your cave?”

“Yes, I found it not long after we moved here. That’s where I go to read and think.”

And make love
. His loins ached with such intensity, his mind blurred. He couldn’t wait. Not for the cave and certainly not for the wedding. Gently, he pushed her backward toward the jail cell room and pinned her against the wall, jostling her bonnet. She whipped out the hatpin and tossed the bonnet aside. He slipped his hand under her skirt, finding the warmth of her inner thigh, then sliding his fingers to that vibrant part of her that begged to be touched.

She moaned, nearly undoing him. He untied her drawers and pushed them down, wishing he could get a mouthful of her breast, and cursing the low-life bastard who’d invented corsets. She pulled him tight to her, begging him with her eyes. He didn’t need to be asked twice.

His rod was stone hard and knew right where it wanted to be. Shaking with hunger for her, he unbuttoned his britches with one hand, then bunched her skirts around her waist. “When I lift you, hook your legs around my waist.”

He pinned her back against the wall, then raised her, and, after she’d put her legs around him, slowly lowered her onto him, trying to be gentle, but wanting so badly to bury himself with one strong thrust. After a few gentle strokes, he drove deep within her, nearly dying for the pure joy of it. She was hot with desire, her face flushed, her breathing fast and shallow. Her moans urged him to hurry the pace until he rammed her with all his weight.

She bit her lip, then mashed her face against his shoulder. Sweet little cries from her throat urged him on. Her muscles clenched tightly around him and she gasped, then bit his shoulder to stifle her scream. With every thrust, the pressure built. Hard and hot, he shot his seed into her—and more, and more.

For a moment, he just held her, then he kissed her deeply. He loved this woman more than life itself—and that just might be what it came down to. “Let’s put you to rights before we have visitors.”

She nodded slowly, the fire of passion not yet gone from her face. “I, uh, better
…
” She licked her lips.

He wanted to start all over again. Instead, he pulled her drawers up and tied them. “You better what?” he prompted.

“Comb my hair,” she breathed. She picked her bonnet up and studied it. “I don’t know how to fix this.”

“What’s wrong?”

“You mashed my cherry.”

Some things just couldn’t be undone.

“It’s too short,” Sarah lamented. She gave another tug on the hem of Daisy’s wedding dress, nearly knocking her off-balance. “And I’ve already ironed it. If I let it down the crease will show.”

Tears pooled in Daisy’s eyes, but she tried to hold them back for Sarah’s sake. The days had flown by as Sarah and she had prepared for her wedding and few precious days were left. Still, she could hardly get married in a dress that showed her ankles. “I’ll keep moving. Then no one will notice.” But she would notice, and she wanted to be beautiful just this one time for the marshal. Just this once, please, she prayed.

Sarah jumped up. “I know! I’ll make my dress up for you. Remember? You said there was enough goods for two dresses, and you were right—plus some left over to decorate our bonnets.”

“You can’t possibly make a dress in only four days, Sarah. This one will do.”

“Daisy, you can’t just
do
for your wedding. It has to be perfect.” She smiled as she dug in her sewing box. “Besides, I already have my dress cut out and basted together, and I’m sure the hem is long enough for you, because I left extra for flounces.”

“You’ve already started on your wedding gown?”

“You started on yours before you had a fiancé, so why can’t I make mine.”

“Have you arranged to meet Patrick Dugan again?”

“No,” she said with a flick of her blonde ringlets. “I’m not marrying him.”

“You’re not thinking of Sam, are you? Why, he has no property at all, and he’s only a carpenter.”

“Jesus was a carpenter.”

“You’re not marrying Him, either.”

Sarah shrugged. “I’ll get my dress. Wait here.” She left the sewing room.

Daisy pulled off the too-short wedding gown and hung it on a hook, her breast heavy with disappointment. She fingered the beautiful silk, hoping Sarah was right—that she could actually finish the other dress in the few days left before the ceremony. Sarah could never know how important this dress was to her. With Sarah’s blonde, radiant beauty, she’d never know how it felt to be the drab mouse beside the shining star. To Sarah’s credit, she’d never purposefully made Daisy feel plain, but facts were facts. Sarah was beautiful—Daisy was plain.

She sighed and tugged on her snug corset. Sarah had cinched her up good and tight for the fitting, and between that and the overly warm last day of June, Daisy admitted to a certain amount of discomfort.

Sarah dashed back into the bedroom with her own dress. “Here, try this on.”

It was a bit tight in the shoulders and bust, but the waist was fine, and the length left plenty for a hemline that would be decent. “Are you sure you want to trade dresses?”

“Yes,” Sarah said with finality. “Now let me pin this up. I have lots of work to do.”

An hour later, after Sarah had assured her that disaster had been averted, Daisy walked into her aunt’s house to work on the final arrangements for the wedding. No one seemed to be home although her bonnet and gloves lay neatly on the table beside the door. Her bedroom door was shut so Daisy figured she might be asleep.

But Aunt Grace never slept during the day unless she wasn’t feeling well. Daisy hoped that wasn’t the case because it would certainly hamper the wedding planning—yet another disaster. Maybe she should give up the idea of an actual wedding. They could say their “I do’s” at the picnic and be done with that.

Then she heard a giggle—a decidedly un-Aunt-Grace-like giggle, and definitely not a feeling-poorly giggle. Something was askew. Daisy pondered a bit. She could hardly walk into the bedroom—that would be very bad manners. After a moment of indecision, she decided to call out.

“Aunt Grace?”

She heard a thud, another giggle, and a grunt.

“Just a minute, Daisy.”

After a considerable amount of rustling noises, Aunt Grace emerged in her dressing gown, shutting the bedroom door behind her, and looking more disheveled than Daisy had ever seen her—and smiling. Her rosy cheeks looked like she’d used rouge, of all things, and her lips looked like they’d seen recent action. My goodness, it couldn’t be!

“Uh, are you feeling all right?” she stammered, feeling like she’d just walked in where she didn’t belong. “I could get you some medicine from the store.”

“Oh, no. I feel great.” She tied the sash on her robe.

Could there be a man in there? Surely not. Daisy couldn’t believe it if it were true. Aunt Grace? At her age? Why, she was forty-four years old! Surely, at that age, women didn’t
…
couldn’t
…
but it looked like she could—and did. “Maybe I should, um, come back later.”

Aunt Grace smoothed her hair and nodded. “Yes, uh, you could do that, or I’ll see you at suppertime.”

It had to be. Someone definitely occupied Aunt Grace’s bed other than Aunt Grace. A man. And not for sleeping purposes. Daisy nodded faintly. “Suppertime.” She backed toward the front door. “See you then.”

Sidney
sat on the boarding house porch swing, waiting for the man posing as marshal to go on his rounds. He checked his timepiece—nearly seven o’clock. He’d seen Bosco, but not the marshal. In the week he’d been in Oreana, he hadn’t caught the fraudulent marshal in a single lie or underhanded endeavor. But the mark of a good lawman was patience, and
Sidney
prided himself in that.

“Hello, Sam.” Sarah looked at him, her pretty blue eyes shining.

His mouth turned to cotton and he nodded, unable to make his voice work.

“I, uh
…
” She lowered her eye
lid
s and tilted her pretty little head. “Would you think poorly of me if I sat by you?”

He shook his head and patted the seat beside him. She gathered her skirts and sat, her shoulder brushing his. Lord, if she knew just how much he wanted her, she’d hightail it back in the house in a hummingbird’s heartbeat. Meantime, his heart thumped like an elephant’s. He hoped she didn’t hear.

She snuggled closer. He no longer had room for his arm, so he let it rest behind her, the wisps of hair from the back of her head brushing his wrist with every sway of the swing. He felt her heat merge with his, and he had an overwhelming need to kiss her.

But he didn’t have the slightest notion how, and she’d just think he was a clumsy oaf. Any girl as pretty as Sarah had certainly kissed many men. Dugan, for one.
Sidney
’s bile rose at the thought of him.

“My hand’s cold,” she said. “Could you warm it for me?”

Now that posed a problem. His right arm was draped over her shoulder, and he’d rather get shot a dozen times and hanged twice than move it. Bringing his left hand across his body seemed more than awkward. Besides, she couldn’t be cold—it was probably eighty degrees still, and on top of that, she had gloves on.

But he desperately wanted to hold her hand, so he offered his left hand. She laid her sweet little hand in his, and he thought he’d died and gone to heaven. She smelled of cinnamon and roses—sweet and beautiful.

The marshal-imposter left his office. Drat!
Sidney
should follow. He knew he should. But he’d give his name to any piker who wanted it just to spend five minutes with Sarah.

“Where are you from, Sam?” Her voice was as clear as a church bell.

He cleared his throat, praying he wouldn’t squeak. “Uh, Chicago, originally, but I came here from
San Francisco
.” He relaxed. His voice hadn’t betrayed his anxiety, thank the Lord for small favors. Then he tensed—he should never have mentioned
San Francisco
.

“Are you a carpenter? You’re so wonderfully skilled.”

“No, uh, yes. A little bit of everything.”

Sarah smiled and his heart did a backward somersault. “Oh, you mean like a jack-of-all-trades?” She leaned toward him, her breast brushing his arm. His skin felt like it had been stung by a thousand bumblebees—only it felt good, not bad. “You could build things. All sorts of things.”

He could barely breathe with her nearness. Oh, if he could only kiss her! “Uh, yeah. Build things.”

“Like houses and fences and barns.”

He nodded. He’d build a whole damned town for her if she wanted it, even if he did hate carpentry.

“Sarah,” Mrs. Howard called. “Come in the house now.”

His heart sank as she stood, but he’d remember those past few moments for the rest of his life—the prettiest girl he’d ever seen, sitting by him, even touching him.

“Ma’s calling.” She bent and kissed him right on the cheek. “I gotta go.”

He covered the place she’d kissed, maybe so the wind didn’t blow the feeling of her lips away. “Will, uh,” he stammered. But he couldn’t possibly hope.

“Will I what?”

He licked his lips. “Will you sit with me again?”

She smiled. “Sure. Tomorrow evening?”

He hoped he’d heard right. “That would be good. Tomorrow evening, then.”

“Maybe we could go for a walk.”

She, a goddess, asked him, a toad, to go for a walk? “That would be my pleasure.” She knew not how much.

Her departure left him with a yearning like he’d never had before. And lonesome. He’d always been alone, but he’d never really been lonesome—not until he’d met the beautiful and charming Miss Sarah Howard.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he remembered that he’d had a purpose for sitting on the porch swing. Something besides working up the courage to touch Sarah’s porcelain complexion. Something besides the brief peck on his cheek that he’d remember until the day he died.

He stood and adjusted himself, hoping no one would happen along, then stepped off the porch. He didn’t have one single thing to offer her—not a job, not a home, not even a name, although he had no intention of offering for her. She’d only think him a fool.

Ah, now he remembered. A man had usurped his identity and
Sidney
damned well wanted it back. He headed for the Branded Horse. The fake marshal spent most of his evenings making sure the drunks didn’t cause trouble—making those same rounds was exactly what he planned do when he took his rightful place as marshal of Oreana.

Not much activity met him as he walked through the doors of the saloon. Three men hunched over their drinks at the bar. A fancy lady, who’d seen fancier times, cooed over the four men at the faro table. The piano player kept them all company with
The Girl I Left Behind Me
.

He walked to the bar and ordered a drink.

One of the men, odiferous in nature, leaned over to him. “Hey, little fella, you ain’t even big enough to be weaned off your mama’s tittie yet. Best you get on out of here.”