Romancing the West (18 page)

Today. He’d start singing Athens’s praises today.

Emily spent the night alternating between insomnia, inappropriate dreams, and anguished nightmares. Awakening predawn in a tangle of sheets, her chemise plastered to her sweat drenched body, had been the final straw. A nightmare was not to blame for her frenzied heart rate, but a passionate dream. Intent on weaving intimate aspects into the swashbuckling tale she’d been toiling over for months, she lit the kerosene lamp sitting on the table next to her bed and reached for her spectacles.

Only her spectacles weren’t there. They’d died an ugly death under the heel of Mrs. Thompson’s boot.

She penned her thoughts all the same. She couldn’t read the scribbled pages, but at least she’d gotten the scenes out of her head and onto paper. Maybe it would help her to remember what she felt in the dream, for surely she’d never experienced such sweet torture. And she never would.

The shirtless hero in her dream had been Pinkerton.

She stood less of a chance with him than with Rome. At least Rome fancied girls.

Maybe she had an unconscious desire to be a spinster. At least she’d be assured her independence. Her Grand Design wouldn’t be at risk. Unfortunately, her Savior had robbed her of her means to finance that adventure. If he had his way, she’d never utilize that talent to earn another penny.

“You’re in a heck of a pickle, Emily McBride. You’re also talking to yourself. Again.” Sighing, she shoved out of bed and squinted at the clock on her bedside table. It was later than she thought.

She padded to her window, pushed open the curtains. Storm clouds blotted out the morning sun. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Thankfully, last night after unhitching and brushing down Guinevere, Pinkerton had fed and stowed the horse in the stall instead of turning her out in the pasture. Guinevere hated thunderstorms. Emily loved them. Rainy days meant extended time for reading and writing.

She needed her spectacles for that.

Drat.

Mrs. Dunlap would spend the day knitting. Pinkerton could tinker with his poems and short story. What was
she
supposed to do? Mood worsening, she hurriedly washed and dressed. The least she could do was make breakfast. She could see well enough to hustle up some eggs. Anything of substantial size was simply fuzzy around the edges. Mostly she was farsighted. So long as she didn’t have to consult a recipe she’d do fine.

A few minutes later, she tiptoed down the stairs so as not to disturb anyone, locked away her journal in her desk, and commenced to preparing a hearty morning meal. Her own appetite was still weak, but she refused to succumb to more swooning. Doc Kellogg had been right about one thing. She needed to get on with her life. She couldn’t let her Savior rob her of her health as well as her money and peace of mind. Mostly it was Pinkerton’s heartfelt concern and the possibility he might alarm Paris that prompted her to take more care.

She cracked an egg into a bowl, her mind flashing on the way he had held her in his arms after she’d fainted in the mercantile. If he were Rome, he would’ve pressed his lips against hers and breathed life into her. If she were Miss Sarah Smith she would’ve thanked him by pressing her breasts against him and thrusting her tongue into his mouth. Rome had described it as a goddamned hot and wet, boner-inducing kiss. She wasn’t sure what that was. But he’d been smiling like a cat that ate the mouse when he relayed specifics to Boston. She assumed a kiss like that brought immense pleasure.

He’d gone on to describe a few of the things he’d like to do to the lush-figured woman, using words that made Emily’s cheeks burn. She’d quickly slinked away, not that they knew she was within earshot to begin with. Without Paris around, where the Garrett brothers were concerned, Emily was as good as invisible.

She wondered if Pinkerton knew anything about hot and wet, boner-inducing kisses.

“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?”

Emily jumped at the sound of Mrs. Dunlap’s voice. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

The woman sidled in beside her, filling a copper kettle with Arbuckle’s and water. “That’s because you were daydreaming about him.”

She cracked another egg into the bowl, refusing to look Mrs. Dunlap in the eye. How could she possibly know someone else’s mind when she barely knew her own?

“I know a woman in love when I see one,” she continued. “I still get that dreamy feeling whenever I think about my Harold. Doesn’t matter he’s been dead and gone for five years, or is it six? True love is forever.”

Emily dabbed the cuff of her shirt to her perspiring brow. The incoming storm had pumped the summer air full of humidity. “Part of me believes that. Part of me hopes it’s romanticized cow flop,” she said in a quiet voice. “If true love is forever, then I’m doomed to live life alone. Rome doesn’t care two figs for me.”

“Rome Garrett?” Mrs. Dunlap snorted. “You don’t love him.”

“I don’t?”

“Not in a grown woman way, no. You’re in love with Mr. Pinkerton.”

Emily’s mouth fell open. Thunder shook the panes like an unsubtle foreshadow.

Mrs. Dunlap smiled while setting the kettle on the stove to boil.

Shaking off her daze, Emily cracked open another egg, and lowered her voice to a self-conscious whisper. “I am not in love with Phineas Pinkerton. Even if I were, which I’m not, I would be just as doomed. He doesn’t like . . . that is to say . . . I’m not his type.”

“Nonsense.”

“You don’t know the particulars.”

“You don’t know your own heart.”

“What are you lovely ladies arguing about?”

Pinkerton stepped into the kitchen, sucking up all the air. Emily couldn’t breathe. Even blurred around the edges, he looked dashing and handsome, just like in her dream, only he was wearing clothes.

Mrs. Dunlap eyed him up and down while forking bacon into a cast-iron skillet. “My, aren’t you dapper this morning?”

Emily thought he dressed impeccably every day. He’d probably look stylish wearing a potato sack. She concentrated on the eggs.

“You’re fetching as always, Mrs. Dunlap.”

“You’re kind to say so, Mr. Pinkerton. You removed the bandage from your forehead, I see. Barely a scratch, as you said. You fared much better than poor Emily.”

“I’m fine.” But she knew she looked a fright. The bump on her noggin was swollen and discolored. She hadn’t bled like Pinkerton, yet her head wound looked five times worse.

“How’s your arm?” she asked. Even though the bullet had grazed, he’d still been shot.

“I’ll live.”

She heard the smile in his voice, looked over her shoulder and caught him staring at her. He did that a lot. Her heart constricted along with her lungs. She squirmed under his appraisal. She hadn’t dressed in her Sunday best. She’d dressed hastily and in honor of Calamity Jane. She’d dressed, not for vanity or propriety, but confidence. “Didn’t figure you for a practicing Christian, Mr. Pinkerton.”

“I’m not, but I assumed you and Mrs. Dunlap were.”

The older woman busied herself setting the table. “I keep faith in my own way.”

“As do I,” Pinkerton said, pulling three mugs from the cupboard.

Emily bristled. What? Because she was a preacher’s daughter she was expected to act more traditionally? She stabbed the yolks, whipping up scrambled eggs as her scrambled brain whipped up her defense. Surely he understood that she couldn’t, in good conscience, enter the house of the Lord with this blackmail issue hanging over her head. Not only that, but her faith had been sorely tested this past year.

“I’ve read the bible front to back, not once, but several times,” she said, pouring the eggs into a second frying pan. “I suspect my father’s sermons will ring in my mind for eternity. I know what’s expected of a decent soul. I’ve done my best to abide. Attending church for the sake of attending is not going to make me a better person.” There. That sounded logical. Didn’t it?

“You’re fine just the way you are, dear,” said Mrs. Dunlap. “They don’t come any finer.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” Pinkerton said, moving in, hovering.

Her skin sizzled. Or maybe that was the bacon. Her senses whirled.

He placed one hand on her hip as if sensing a dizzy spell, reached around her with a fork, and flipped over the strips of frying meat.

She stood frozen, her mind replaying that sensual dream. She imagined him kissing her neck, her shoulder . . .

“Are we expecting company?” he asked, breaking in on her thoughts.

“No.” She cleared the gruffness from her voice.

“Why?

“That’s an almighty serving of eggs, Em.”

She squinted at the griddle, then at the counter littered with, was it, yes,
twelve
shells. My, but she’d been distracted.

“Thanks to you,” Mrs. Dunlap said, “our girl’s got her appetite back.”

A knock at the door saved Emily from having to comment. “Who could that be?”

“I suspect it’s Mr. Bellamont,” said Mrs. Dunlap. “He mentioned he’d be stopping by.”

She sidestepped the poet and whirled to face her boarder. “When?”

“Now, obviously. On his way to church.”

“No. I mean when did he tell you he’d be stopping?”

“Yesterday.”

“Yesterday, when?” Pinkerton asked in a voice much calmer than Emily’s.

“Just after you two went off for target practice.”

“Did you tell him where we were?” This again from Pinkerton.

“I believe I did, yes.” The woman, who’d been polishing the silverware, scrunched her nose. “What’s all the fuss?”

Emily refrained from looking over her shoulder at Pinkerton. She knew what he was thinking and it was ludicrous. Still, she was painfully uncomfortable with a visit from Mr. Bellamont. “I wish you would have told me.” She could’ve figured out a reason not to be here.

“I did,” the woman said, then frowned. “Didn’t I?”

Another knock, louder this time.

“You go ahead, dear. See what he wants.” Mrs. Dunlap nabbed the spatula from Emily and shooed her toward the hall. “I’ll mind the bacon and eggs. If he wants to stay for breakfast, we have plenty.”

She didn’t aim on inviting him, although he had a way of inviting himself now and then. It’s not that she didn’t like Mr. Bellamont. He always seemed to have her best interests at heart, even going so far as to offering marriage when she’d been abandoned so abruptly in this world. He’d been a good, if not misguided, friend to her father. He’d seen her through a horrific night and for that she was grateful. Except it meant he was privy to her darkest secret. In her mind it was far worse than what her Savior held over her head. Though he’d sworn to carry the secret to his grave, and though she believed him, each time she saw Mr. Bellamont she felt panic and shame.

“I’ll only be a moment,” she said to Pinkerton, adding a silent
stay here
with her eyes.

She skedaddled before the man could counter, walked briskly down the hall. With any luck she wouldn’t have to invite her father’s friend inside. Hopefully, he’d say his piece and hurry toward town in an effort to beat the storm. She smoothed her sweaty palms down her trousers and opened the door. “Mr. Bellamont.”

“Emily.”

He swept off his bowler revealing a full head of silver hair. In contrast, his moustache was black with only a sprinkling of grey. He wore a tailor-made suit, dove-grey, expensive. He’d tucked the ends of his black silk cravat under the tips of his turned-down collar. Gold cufflinks glittered from the cuffs of his starched white shirt. A watch fob dangled from his vest pocket. Whenever on business and always on Sundays, Claude Bellamont dressed like the wealthy wine baron he was. He reminded Emily of a rendering she’d seen in one of the dime novels of dandy lawman, Bat Masterson. Only Mr. Bellamont was shorter and older. Maybe it was the cool, sophisticated air more than an actual likeness. Maybe it was her blurry vision.

“To what do I owe this honor?” she asked, loitering on the threshold.

He didn’t answer and she realized with a start that he was staring. Self-conscious, she lifted a hand to the bruised bump on her forehead. “Clumsy accident.”