Rexanne Becnel (15 page)

Walking the streets of Kimbell with Dillon Lockwood was a confusing experience, especially after such an emotional confrontation. It was difficult enough to feel the warmth of his arm beneath her hand and to brush shoulders with him as they made their way through the crowded street. Lacie could not ignore the terrible attraction she felt for him. It only made things worse to know how selfish and single-minded he was. Yet her heart refused to heed those warnings and instead clung to those rare instances when he showed his better nature.

He was wonderful with Nina and always knew how to cheer her up. And when she had tried to run away from the fair, he had somehow understood how like an outsider she had felt.

She looked up at him cautiously, not sure what she expected to see. He could be thoughtful and kind, but then—then he had turned right around and warned her that he nonetheless intended to wrest Sparrow Hill away from her. She stared at his hard-chiseled profile, trying to understand the man he was—at once cruel and good-hearted, generous and vindictive.

“Is something wrong?” His amused words cut into her troubled thoughts.

“What? No, nothing’s wrong.” Lacie looked away, chagrined to be caught staring at him. His hand covered hers warmly, and her heart began to race unaccountably. Once again she had a wild urge to flee, yet she knew it would be quite impossible to outrun the overpowering feelings he created in her. She cast her eyes frantically about, desperate for a distraction from the intense emotions building within her.

“Oh, look,” she gasped in relief. “There’s to be a race!”

“A race?” he murmured, keeping his eyes on her flushed features. “How interesting.”

“You—you should enter,” she stammered.

“Why?”

Lacie took a deep breath and tried to compose herself. “Because you like to win at everything.” She finally dared to meet his avid gaze. “And I would really enjoy seeing you lose.”

That brought a grin to his face, and his expression grew speculative. “What makes you think I’d lose?”

“I’m an optimist,” she quipped. But she had to stifle a small smile herself.

“We’ll see.” Then he purposefully steered her over to a flag-festooned table where a number of men milled about.

“We got us another rider?” Mr. Mooring of the dry-goods store shoved a pen at Dillon. “C’mon, sign up. It’s only fifty cents to ride.”

“Fifty cents? And what’s the prize?”

“Why, your lady’s honor, of course.” The balding shopkeeper gave Lacie a wink. “Her bonnet goes up with the rest. The winning rider picks up the bonnet he wants when he rides across the finish line. And then he gets a nice lunch basket to share with his lady.”

“Don’t forget the kiss,” another fellow threw in. “The winner gets to claim a kiss from he owner of the bonnet.”

“I’m in,” Dillon said at once. He dug into his pocket for the coins, then casually turned to Lacie and began to loosen her small black bonnet.

“Oh! Stop it! What do you think you’re doing?”

“You heard the man,” Dillon replied amid the good-natured laughter of the other men. “You’ll have to put your bonnet up.”

“I’ll do no such thing!” she gasped in alarm as she tried to slap his hands away.

“Now, now, Miss Lacie,” Mr. Mooring interrupted. “The race is gonna start real soon. There’s no time for hemmin’ and hawin’. Just give the man your bonnet and wish him the best.”

Lacie could not have been more humiliated. Her cheeks were burning by the time Dillon untied the ribbon beneath her chin and removed her plain dyed bonnet. She could do nothing about it as he handed it to Mr. Mooring. If only she had not mentioned the race!

“Do you wish me the best?” he murmured for her ears only.

“I hope you get thrown and break your neck,” she muttered, turning away in irritation. She heard his amused chuckle but she refused to watch as he left to get his horse from the livery. She did hope he lost, she told herself. She wanted him to lose and be bucked off, to be completely humiliated. And she wanted to be standing at the finish line when it happened.

But as Lacie squeezed up to the front of the crowd gathering for the race, her anger turned to dismay. A slew of hats and bonnets dangled down from a hastily built overhead frame. Blue-dyed feather hats, pink-beribboned straw bonnets, a forest-green confection with a curving rooster tail, and a cunning lace and velvet one done up in an elegant dove gray. There were even several flat straw boaters with wide brims and colorful streamers dangling down.

They twisted and turned in the summer breeze, swinging from thin strings as the riders assembled for the race.

But there was only one black one.

Against all those other colorful bonnets, her own mourning cap seemed pitifully out of place. Not only was it small and plain, it seemed in poor taste amid the gay hats of the other girls and women. She was a recent widow. Such frivolity as this was terribly inappropriate for her, she realized.

For a moment she considered running out and snatching it down, even though everyone would probably laugh. But then, she would never be able to reach it up there so high. Perhaps she could have Mr. Mooring remove it for her, she thought in desperation.

But a drum sounded, and it was too late. As a hush descended upon the gathered crowd, Lacie’s heart sank to her feet.

“All right, folks, we’re about ready to start the race. Now, riders keep to the route. No shortcuts. Down Main Street, around the courthouse, and out Kimbell Road to the big oak tree. Around the tree and back by the same route. And don’t forget—you can’t win unless you remember to grab a hat.

“Mothers, keep your young’uns in hand and out of the way. And may the best horse and rider win!”

There were at least thirty riders, Lacie saw, mounted on everything from plow horses to high-spirited Thoroughbreds. She quickly spotted Dillon, now coatless with his sleeves rolled up. His black slouch hat was pulled low over his eyes, giving him a dark, rakish look.

I hope he loses, Lacie thought vindictively. I really do.

Yet a nervous knot in her stomach belied that emotion. When the shot sounded that sent all the horses lunging forward, her heart leaped as well.

“Go, go, go!” a hundred voices seemed to yell in unison as the riders flew by in a thunder of hoofbeats and a cloud of dust.

“Oh, he’s right near the front,” a soft feminine voice cooed from somewhere behind her.

“Oh, yes. I see him,” another answered. “I do so hope he wins!”

Lacie had no reason to think they were referring to Dillon, yet she could not help but turn around to see who had spoken. When she met the blue-eyed smile of the buxom young blonde from before, she knew.

“Yes, I do hope he wins,” the girl cooed once more to her friend, as she stared straight at Lacie. “And that he picks my bonnet.”

“Oh, you goose! You’d have to kiss him in front of everyone! Why, your mama would swoon if you kissed someone like him. You know, without even a family name.”

“I don’t care,” the girl replied, tossing her thick blond curls arrogantly. “She’ll get over it.”

Lacie turned abruptly. That girl
was
a hussy, she thought furiously. She wouldn’t hesitate to kiss Dillon Lockwood right on the lips in front of the whole town. She’d probably press herself up against him and not care at all what everyone thought. It would serve the blonde right if he won and didn’t pick her prissy little bonnet at all.

But what if he did pick it?

At that dreadful thought Lacie’s shoulders slumped. He had made her put her own plain cap up there, so she had assumed he would pick it if he won. But what if it was all just another way for him to humiliate her—this time in front of the whole town?

She pressed her lips tightly together and clutched her small gathered reticule. Oh, please, don’t let him win, she prayed. Please, please, let him lose.

Yet it appeared that God was not listening, for as the riders rounded the oak tree, a young man perched on the edge of the saloon roof shouted down the standings.

“A big black horse is neck and neck with Stan Harris! And Cliff Carney is close behind them both!”

Then Lacie could see the lead riders thunder toward the courthouse. Around the back, then straight toward the finish line they came. The entire crowd was on its feet, jumping and screaming as the three horses flew toward the line of hats fluttering in the wind. The riders were hunched low, urging their laboring mounts on, but Lacie could not miss Dillon.

No, no, no! her mind cried.

And yet as he galloped in the lead under the hats, yanking one down in passing, she could not help but rejoice, for it was her modest little cap—none other—that he raised triumphantly in his hand! Although the other riders thundered in behind him, grabbing at the other bonnets as they came, Lacie was aware only of Dillon’s jubilant expression as his eyes found and locked firmly with hers.

At once she was circled by jovial townsfolk who drew her forward to where the victor awaited. Even Jessica, who along with her friends had hoped that Dillon would hold her own bonnet aloft, joined in the crush of people. It was all Lacie could do to maintain her footing in the crowd.

Only when she had been helped up onto the back of a buckboard wagon in the winner’s circle did the people quiet down.

“All right! All right! Come on right here, Miss Lacie. Don’t be shy.” Mr. Mooring smiled widely at her. She tried to smile back, but it was a weak effort. Then he grinned over at Dillon, who still sat his horse.

“Well, we got us a winner, and if he will just get over here, he can collect his prize.”

His prize.
At those words Lacie cringed. Never had she felt more conspicuous. Never had she wanted more to disappear. But there was no place to go and no way to avoid the coming humiliation. As Dillon edged his horse up to the wagon, dismounted, and handed the reins to an eager boy, she painted a painful smile on her face and refused to look at him at all.

“Okay, now. Quiet down. Quiet down!” Mr. Mooring waved his hands for silence, then wiped his perspiring brow with a large handkerchief. “This year’s winner of the annual Founders’ Day Race is Dillon Lockwood, only lately returned to Kimbell.”

A slight buzz began to run through the crowd at that announcement. Anyone who hadn’t known that the winner was Miles Kimbell’s bastard son did now.

“And the bonnet he snatched belongs to Miz Lacie—or should I say, Mrs. Frederick Kimbell.”

The hum of whispers grew louder, and Lacie could have died. Why had he done this? Why? As angry as she was at him, however, she was equally angry at the people who were staring so curiously at them now. All they wanted was a spectacle, some entertainment, and they didn’t care who was made uncomfortable by it. Determined not to give them any satisfaction, she grimly raised her chin and turned to face Dillon.

“Your bonnet,” he murmured with a slight smile.

“Thank you,” she replied stiffly as she took the black felt bonnet from him.

“Here’s the lunch basket, Miz Kimbell. Why don’t you give him his prize? Then he can have his kiss, and we can all go enjoy a good lunch.”

A good-natured applause followed Mr. Mooring’s words, but Lacie paid no mind to the crowd. Dillon was staring straight at her, his sharp green gaze as clear as emerald but as undecipherable as ever. She took a deep breath as she grasped the handle of the well-stocked basket, but inside she was shaking.

“Congratulations,” she muttered as she thrust it toward him.

“Thank you, Lacie.” His hand wrapped about hers, and the basket was suspended between them. Then he bent forward to claim his kiss.

Lacie froze as his face approached hers. Her heart beat painfully in her chest, as much in fear and embarrassment as in anticipation. She knew she was mad to feel so, yet she could not deny that she did. His lips would be firm, yet tender upon hers, clever and cajoling, making her warm and weak all over.

Slowly his mouth descended to hers, and without conscious thought she closed her eyes, shutting out everything but the strange and overpowering sensations that raced through her. Then she felt his breath on her skin, followed by a feather-light kiss on her cheek. At once the crowd came alive with sound: claps of approval from the matrons, giggles from the younger ladies and the children, as well as more than a few groans of disappointment from the men in the crowd.

Lacie too felt a guilty wave of disappointment as she tried to back away from him. But his hand still circled hers on the basket handle, and she was forced to endure his scrutiny. Her cheeks were scarlet, her eyes glistened with emotion, and her breath came quick and shallow. Everyone else thought she was simply shy and somewhat embarrassed by her sudden and unfamiliar visibility before the townfolk. Yet she knew it was more than that. It was his touch and his kiss—and an unacceptable wish for more—that had her so chagrined.

What was worse, however, was that she feared he knew it.

To her enormous relief, Mr. Mooring, Judge Landry, the mayor, and the second- and third-place riders quickly surrounded them, heartily slapping Dillon on the back and offering him their congratulations. At least she was no longer on such public display, nor need she fear a cynical comment from him in this crowd. But she was still unable to pull away from his firm grasp. He kept his hand securely around hers and even maneuvered her nearer his side.

It seemed hours that she stood upon that wagon bed, although she knew logically it was only a few minutes. By the time the crowd began to disperse to their own lunches and the men had all clambered down from the wagon, she was uncomfortably warm, and a bead of perspiration trickled down between her breasts. Still, her face was set in a determinedly pleasant expression as she bade the other men good-bye.

Then only she and Dillon were left.

“Allow me,” he said as he finally released her hand, took the heavy basket from her, and set it down. In one easy jump, he was down from the wagon. But as he held his hand up to help her down, Lacie hesitated.

“I’m quite capable of getting down without your help.”

“No doubt you are,” he answered agreeably. “I’ve learned very well that your appearance quite belies the woman you really are.”