Only My Love (12 page)

The Madison Mining Cooperative met the needs of most of its citizens. Nearly every individual owned shares in the silver mine and had a personal interest in its success. From the surveys that were done on the mines and the equipment that had recently become available, the town believed the mines would continue producing to the turn of the century.

It didn't seem necessary to look beyond that. There was a sense of satisfaction and optimism that pervaded the spirit of the town, a feeling of comfort that one could put down roots and enjoy a modicum of prosperity.

Madison was moving toward respectability. Not respectable enough to run the gambling halls out of town, but respectable enough to want a little order in them. To that end Madison, Colorado had recently elected its first sheriff.

At the edge of town Houston held up his hand and stopped his group. He reached inside his coat, into the breast pocket of his shirt, and pulled out a tin, five-pointed star. He grinned sideways at Jake who was doing the same. "Well, deputy?" he asked. "Ready?"

"Ready, Sheriff."

Ethan was watching Michael carefully, waiting for her reaction. She would have been offended to know she was so completely predictable.

"What the hell is going—"

Ethan's hand clamped over her mouth.

"Shut her up," Houston said at the same time. "If you can't keep her quiet, knock her out."

Ethan nodded, turning Michael's face roughly toward him. "Hear that?" he asked softly. "Your jaw probably can't take another good clip. You speak up now and you may never speak again." He felt her acquiescence in the slow release of tension in her body. Not completely trusting her, he withdrew his hand in small increments. "I thought that might quiet you."

It was the smugness in his voice that infuriated her. "Bastard," she hissed softly.

"You really shouldn't swear. It's unbecoming."

If he hadn't removed his hand Michael would have bit him.

As if he could read her mind, Ethan chuckled. "She'll be fine, Houston."

Houston nodded. "All right, let's go."

They rode into town slowly, Houston and Jake in the lead, Ethan and Michael behind them flanked by Happy and Obie. The pack mules came next with Ben Simpson bringing up the rear.

"Hey, Sheriff!" A voice called to Houston from the entry to the mercantile. A man stepped out of the shadows of the store front. "You found him! Hell, Happy, where'd ya disappear?"

"Storm caught me unawares up Stillwater way. Had to dig in." He grinned sheepishly, as if he couldn't believe it could have happened to him, and spit once in the street.

"Glad they found you." The man gave the passing party a jaunty salute and turned back to the store to spread the news.

As they traveled the length of Madison's unnamed main street, and more people welcomed their sheriff home, Michael began to understand the story that had been fabricated to cover the disappearance of five of Madison's citizens.

Two weeks before the planned robbery of No. 349, Happy McAllister left Madison on the pretext of prospecting. When he didn't return Ben made a point of reporting the disappearance of his brother to the sheriff. Houston organized a search party among the dozens of volunteers and set off with food, water, and medical supplies.

Michael realized there would be no hiding out in the sense that she had imagined it. Houston's men weren't going to spend months in a cave in the side of a mountain or live in an isolated canyon. During the robbery they had worn their hats low and their kerchiefs high. They'd never called one another by name or given a hint about their origins. For all intents and purposes they were unidentifiable. As for the people of Madison, they had every reason to believe their sheriff was coming to the aid of one of their own. The absence of days was explained. There was no need for inquiry because questions simply didn't arise.

The awareness of the planning and preparation that had gone into the robbery created an uncomfortable sense of hopelessness within Michael. Nothing Ethan had said to her, nothing Happy had threatened or Houston had warned, had the same impact as knowing first-hand how carefully they had created their scheme, how cautious they had been in covering their activities. She understood clearly the threat she was to their accomplishment. She. Alone. There was no one else.

They meant it when they said they would kill her.

"It won't be long now," Ethan said, his breath warm against her ear. "We'll fix you up with blankets and a half dozen hot bricks at Detra's."

He must have felt her shiver, she realized. He thought she was cold. He almost sounded concerned. Michael wondered why the hysterical laughter she felt inside never surfaced.

They stopped in front of Kelly's Saloon. Above the porch roof bright green block letters, edged in yellow, proclaimed the name of the business. Managed by Detra Kelly, the sign informed. Owned by Nathaniel Houston.

Michael pointed to the sign. "How convenient," she said as Ethan helped her down. Cold seeped through her thick socks.

"It has its advantages." He tethered his horse then removed his saddle bag. "Let's get you settled first, then I'll help the others."

Her arms had been crossed protectively in front of her, a shoe in each hand. Now she held them up in a gesture of innocence and pretended indifference. "I'm in no hurry. I don't mind waiting to see sixty thousand dollars unloaded."

Ethan didn't hesitate. It didn't matter that her voice didn't carry beyond him, he refused to take the chance that her next comment might. He slung her over his shoulder, carried her into the saloon, and up the stairs to his room at the rear of the building.

"Explanations later, Dee," he called as he mounted the stairs. He almost couldn't be heard above the laughter and ribald observations of the saloon's patrons. As he turned the corner to his room he saw Houston motion to Dee to follow him to the office. Ethan was surprised by his relief. Dee's reaction to Michael's presence worried him. It was better that Houston explained. Detra was, after all,
his
mistress.

Ethan thought Michael was unusually quiet as he paraded her in front of the patrons. She didn't fight him or even voice a protest. Inside his room he sat her down then quickly locked the door. "I'm sorry if I offended your sense of dignity," he said before she could say anything. He dropped the key in his pocket. "Get out of those damp clothes and into that bed. I'll have Dee send someone up with hot bricks and extra blankets. My nightshirts are in the bureau over there. You can wear one." He saw the immediate look of protest in her eyes, the fear and uncertainty. "Or not," he said. "Naked suits me fine."

He half expected she would fly at him. There was no attack of feet or fists, no barrage of words meant to cut him low. His dark brows drew together and his expression narrowed questioningly. She merely continued to stare at him, her blanket drawn protectively around her. Ethan shrugged, unable to make sense of her. "I'll turn down the bed and leave you alone. The window over there's been painted shut. Even so, don't think about prying it open to yell for help. I'm locking you in. Bang on the door or give the girl Dee sends up any trouble, and you'll wish you hadn't." He considered the threat was sufficiently vague to keep Michael compliant.

Ethan stood outside the door for almost a minute listening for some sound that would mean Michael was doing as he told her. The sound never came. He moved away because he heard Happy calling him.

Fifteen minutes later, when the key scraped in the lock, Michael was sitting on the edge of the bed still wrapped in her blanket. A puddle of water from her thawing socks and ice encrusted trousers was forming on the floor, staining the maroon and cream colored carpet.

Seeing the condition of the new girl, Kitty Long sighed as she entered the room. "Ethan warned me you might be a little hard to reason with," she said briskly. Kitty's arms were filled with blankets and a warming pan. She set things down on a cherry wood table just inside the door. "I can't say I hold with locking you in, but Ethan thinks you're not quite right from the cold." She tapped the side of her head with her finger. "Looking at you, I can understand his concern. I'm Kitty Long. Ethan said I should mention that Obie's my brother. Can't imagine why that's important right now."

But Michael knew why. Even if Kitty knew nothing about the robbery, which seemed unlikely to Michael, she was still not apt to turn her brother in. It was Ethan's warning.

Michael's eyes grazed her uninvited guest. Kitty's coloring was similar to her brother, flaxen and pale, and they shared a certain likeness in the fullness of their mouths. While Obie was tall and rather loose-limbed and lanky, his sister was fully rounded, not thick or heavy, but generously curved. She was also not nearly so reticent as her brother.

"Let me have that blanket," she said. As she was already pulling it off Michael in a no-nonsense fashion, it was less a suggestion than a command. "My, your hair's pretty. Bit of a rat's nest now though, isn't it? Here. Let me dry it for you then we'll get you out of these wet clothes. I'll be careful not to touch your face. That's quite a bruise you got there. Don't worry though. I got somethin' to cover it right up. Those are Obie's jeans, aren't they? I recognize the patch I sewed for him on the knee. My, oh my, I could never get into them. But look at you. Just a skinny bit of a thing, aren't you?"

On and on it went. Kitty fussed and fretted and never gave an inch. She asked a barrage of questions and never yielded time for an answer. It was comforting in an odd sort of way, and Michael, numb of thought and feeling, discovered that her eyes were damp with tears.

Kitty warmed the bed with a long-handled pan filled with hot coals while Michael slipped Ethan's nightshirt over her head. "Put yourself right in bed," Kitty said. "That's a girl. Careful not to burn yourself. What a few days it's been for you, hasn't it? I'll wager you thought it was a lark comin' west. Lucky they found you at the Stillwater depot when they did. You could have ended up workin' in Angel Madden's establishment." Her rounded features screwed up comically in a look of utter distaste. "That's no kind of place for anyone."

Michael allowed Kitty to pull the thick goose-down comforter up to her shoulders and tuck her in.

"I could brush out your hair," Kitty offered.

Michael shook her head.

"All right. Tomorrow. When you're feeling a little better." Kitty started a fire in the iron stove in the far corner of the room. She gathered Michael's wet clothes, mopped up the floor with her brother's trousers, then let herself quietly out of the room.

* * *

It was several hours later, after bounty from the robbery had been divided and deposited in a safe place, that Ethan was able to return to his room. He was bone weary. He wanted dinner, a bath, and bed, and he wasn't even particular about the order.

The tray he carried with the evening meal was laden with large helpings of beef stew, thick chunks of buttered bread, generous wedges of cherry pie, and a pot of tea and two mugs. He juggled the tray carefully while he opened the door to his room with the key. It wasn't until he actually saw Michael in his bed that he realized how much he had wanted to be alone. A powerful surge of irritation swept through him as he set the tray down and locked himself in.

"Wake up," he said roughly. "Your dinner's here." When Michael didn't respond with so much as a twitch, Ethan went to the bed and touched her forehead with the back of his hand. She wasn't hot or flushed. There was some relief in knowing that. He was of no mind to take on the role of nursemaid to anyone, let alone this stubborn, willful, and ultimately ungrateful patient.

His hand slid lower, lightly cupping her jaw and turning her face so he could see the extent of the bruise he had given her. Some faint swelling still remained but the bruise itself was fading nicely. Tomorrow it would be invisible except to those who knew to look for it. Kitty would. It was the first thing she had asked him about when she came downstairs. She made it sound as if half of Michael's face was discolored. Ethan made up a credible story on the spur of the moment that satisfied Kitty. It further annoyed him now that he had to share it with Michael so their telling of events would have some consistency. Resentment made him impatient. His hand went to her shoulder and he gave her a hard shake.

"Wake up. Your dinner's getting cold."

Michael blinked widely as she was roused from a deep sleep. Instinctively she jerked away from the pressure on her shoulder.

Ethan removed his hand. "I wasn't trying to hurt you," he snapped. "Your dinner's on the tray over there. Half of it's mine so don't eat it all. Go on. I'm not serving it to you in bed. You're going to have to learn to fend for yourself."

"I'm used to fending for myself," she said coolly. Michael sat up and pushed the covers down. The borrowed nightshirt was an adequate and modest cover—the hem fell to the middle of her calves—but Michael had her own thoughts about what was proper and asked for a robe.

"Oh, for God's sake." He turned away from the bed in disgust. He wasn't going to let his own meal grow cold. Sitting down in the large wing chair beside the table, he lifted one of the plates of stew from the tray and set it on his lap. "No, I don't have a robe."

"I merely asked."

Ethan's response was a derisive snort. He applied his attention to his plate and began eating. Only a few moments passed before he caught a flash of bare feet and trim ankles as Michael hastily approached the table, took her food, and scurried back to the bed. Once he heard her settle in he looked up. "Were you expecting me to attack you?" he asked.