Tall, Dark, and Determined (8 page)

I
t gave her a case of the woollies.
Because this disconcerting, itchy sensation can't be my dress. Doesn't the man know long silences make people nervous?
Lacey tilted her head to the side, the pretext of shifting her now-askew bonnet allowing her to break eye contact. When its bow finally gave way and the entire creation slipped to the ground, she breathed a sigh of relief. Since she'd risen from the cougar's impact, those ribbons chafed against the scab Twyler—Lacey froze as the offhand brush of memory set her prickling anew.
I'm alone in the forest with another strange man, and absolutely no one knows where I've gone or that I might need help. Every man in Hope Falls will already be accounted for
.

It wasn't as though she'd failed to notice he was a he and they were the only two people. But he didn't seem threatening.

After all
, she thought wildly,
threatening men don't save women from cougars—or try to save them, because he truly didn't know I'd already shot it—or scold them for walking alone. Fathers did that. Big brothers did that. Gentlemen with good intentions and high self opinions order women about
.

Except … gentlemen didn't don dusty leather and go climbing mountainsides with shaggy wolfhounds. Nor would any gentleman stand overly close to a lady and demand to touch her—no matter the reasoning. Which brought Lacey right back to the woollies.

Because every instinct God granted and every lady lesson learned warned Lacey that the man before her was no gentleman.

“A gentleman would pick up my bonnet,” Lacey pointed out, trying to prod the man. Any attempt to pick up the hat—or, better still, the shawl which might better conceal her torn bodice—meant releasing her grip on the bandanna pressed to her shoulder.

And, though Lacey wouldn't have believed it in a thousand years, that bandanna now ranked as the most important part of her ensemble. It didn't match—in fact, everyone knew red clashed with pink—but since coming West she'd found that clashing, faded articles of clothing seemed almost du jour in mountain wear.

Even more important, the blessed thing stopped the non-gentleman who owned it from inspecting her wound, a process she strongly suspected might involve him coming closer and touching her bare shoulder. No man had ever touched her bare shoulder. In fact, Lacey was hard pressed to recall a time before Hope Falls when a man touched so much as her ungloved hand. Obviously a mysterious stranger couldn't be permitted the liberty.

Besides, she tried not to make a fuss about it, but—

“It hurts.” The gravelly voice shook her from her thoughts as the man inclined his head toward her wound. “Let me see.”

She still needed to say no, but at least he sounded nicer and as though it mattered to him that the scratches burned. Lacey could be gracious since he'd been kind enough to ask.

“Thank you for asking, but—wait.” Her eyes narrowed. “You didn't ask at all, did you? You ordered me in a nicer tone!”

“I've found questions usually are just that: orders phrased nicely to make the other person feel like they have a choice.” He shrugged then reached for the bandanna as though she agreed.

“Oh no.” Lacey skittered backward, not even ashamed at the retreat. “I do have a choice, and you didn't phrase your request nicely enough to acknowledge it. You best try again … buster.”

I don't know his name
. She held back a groan.
I'm trying to hold him to manners when I neglected basic introductions
.

“Dunstan. It wasn't a request—now stop moving.” He shadowed her in a slow waltz around the felled cougar.

The man most likely didn't recognize the steps of the dance. Counting the beats took almost none of Lacey's concentration, and the movements both avoided crushing her bonnet and kept her from his reach. Unless he lunged, which she'd be prepared for once the pattern brought her beside her pistol.

“I'm Miss Lyman. That's the problem….” Lacey's comment trailed off as she darted to the side, grabbing her pistol despite her now-throbbing shoulder. “And
now
I'll stop moving.”

Honestly, I'm not certain I could keep going even if I wanted to
, she admitted to herself as she raised her pistol. Lacey didn't aim it at the man—Dunstan—nor release the safety. She simply held it between them in readiness, a silent message she wouldn't be ordered around.

“Plan to shoot?” He showed the audacity to sound amused.

“Careful, Mr. Dunstan.” She gritted the warning from behind clenched teeth. Keeping the pistol aloft cost her, but he needn't know it. “That sounded more like a real question.”

This time the silence-and-shrug combination didn't fool her. Dunstan only kept quiet when he didn't have a good answer.

That means I'm winning!

“Have you lost your wits?” Braden Lyman yelled at her.

“No, though my hearing might be at risk.” Cora Thompson neatly snipped through a stitch of her embroidery and knotted it. “Do you realize, dear, that you yell more than you speak?”

“I do not,” he roared. “And I'm not your ‘dear.' “

“There. You did it again.” She hid a smile behind the needle she threaded with another color. “Loud and loathsome.”

“Then loathe me and leave me.” His grumble made her smile.

Good to know my needling still has its uses
. Cora avoided looking at the mess she'd made of her embroidery. Not that her crooked stitches mattered. The past few weeks taught several lessons, but the one Cora found most practical when visiting her reluctant fiancé was to bring something to occupy her hands.

Full hands helped keep her from strangling the man.

“No such luck, sweetheart.” She beamed a sunny smile and jabbed the needle back through her hoop. “I'm here to stay.”

“Then you'll be in a pine box before long. All of you will.” He pushed against his pillows, sucking in a sharp breath. Whether Braden braced against pain from his dislocated shoulder, his broken knee, or both, Cora couldn't guess. He wouldn't want her to ask, even if he hadn't continued his lecture.

“You sit here as though yesterday doesn't change anything, pretending the danger still doesn't exist, when the proof snuck up and grabbed Lacey. My sister could have been killed!”

“The way you could have been killed in a mine collapse?” Cora's needle dipped and rose, gaining speed as she spoke. “You don't use danger as a determining factor in your decisions.”

There. She'd stopped tiptoeing about his ordeal.
Long past time we stop pretending the cave-in didn't happen, as though not asking questions or acknowledging the horror of it will somehow help him battle through the lingering effects. The light of day will shrink it, no matter if it makes him feel smaller for a while
.

“No one can predict a cave-in.” Her beloved no longer spoke. He snarled. “But any twit with half a mind and half a thought to rub alongside can spark a warning against gently bred women wandering out West. If you were honest, we all foresaw—”

“That one of our hired men happened to be a deviously disguised murderer whose sick need to fund high-stakes gambling would make him kidnap Lacey and try to stuff her into an old tree?” Cora stopped stitching to gape at the man sitting stock-still in his bed. “Of course you're right. That sort of thing happens far more often than a cave-in, so we women knowingly put ourselves in the most danger simply by staying in town.”

“Stop trying to make it sound as though I'm being foolish.”

“I'm not trying.” She shook her embroidery hoop at him like a tambourine. “There's no need, foolish as it is already. If Evie were here, she'd say your argument is meringue.”

A brief battle ensued. Braden stared her down, refusing to ask about meringue but obviously wanting to. Cora stared back, refusing to elaborate unless asked. The old Braden would ask.

A sudden tightening at the base of her throat made Cora put down the embroidery.
Foolish
. A warning hammered in her pulse, advising against empty hands and heated arguments. Last time she'd yanked the pillows from beneath Braden's head in retribution for his harsh words. She hadn't known about his dislocated shoulder yet, and the resulting jolt brought him low.

And now I know. I know about the shoulder, about the deeper wounds to his pride, and the truth about why I pulled that pillow
. Cora swallowed against the crest of emotion.
It wasn't just the words; I tried to punish him for not being
my
Braden
.

But that Braden died in the mine collapse as surely as the sparkling, unstoppable Lacey would have died if she'd been trapped in a hollowed tree stump for days. For now, hope kept her believing time and love—along with healthy doses of ignoring him as needed—would bring back the Braden she knew and loved.

The old Braden—her Braden—would have asked about the meringue, a whipped-egg topping Evie put on lemon pies. Cora would have explained that Evie called arguments meringue when someone clucked themselves silly, so worried that they laid an egg. Then the only thing they could do was whip it up in hopes it would be impressive enough to top everything else. But mostly it owed its size to air. No substance.

Then Braden would smile, and they would have laughed. But today Braden shrugged his good shoulder and started lecturing her about safety again, leaving her to sigh over memories.

I miss the days when he had a sense of humor
.

Chase just about hooted when the fluff ball came up with that plaything of a pistol, but pegged her for the type to lose her temper first and regret her reactions later. Which meant he didn't smile at her triumphant tone, much less laugh.

His amusement died a swift death when he caught her slight wince, prompting him to catalog other signs that Miss Lyman's show owed more to bravado than substance. The hand clutching his bandanna to her shoulder pressed harder, her knuckles now faint shadows beneath pale skin. Skin that went from pale to practically translucent around the fingertips of her other hand, where she gripped her pocket pistol. The revolver dipped then righted once more, evoking another hastily hidden wince.

Swiping the gun would damage her pride more than anything, but Chase didn't want to jar her arm and shoulder. He bore no doubts about whether or not she'd fight him; he'd never met a less biddable, more contrary woman.
Or a more amusing one
.

Despite her one good point, Miss Lyman still counted as a woman. Which meant he might
not
have to take her gun away. Whistling a slow tune to warn away any nearby scavengers who might have caught scent of the cougar's blood, Chase did what any man should when faced with an irrational woman. Ignored her.

Except for keeping her in the corner of his eye, he focused on the cougar instead. Chase angled toward the fallen cat as he slid his rucksack off his shoulder. He hid a smile at her disbelieving huff when he sank into a crouch, riffling through his essentials and withdrawing a coil of tightly braided rope. But as far as any onlooker could see, Chase ignored her.

And it worked. She lowered the gun, stopping the pull against those scratches. It didn't let him examine her shoulder, but he could already hear her breathing more easily. When people braced against pain, they tended to hold their breath, exhaling almost as an afterthought when the pressure became distracting.

Women are the only creatures known to avoid attention then become irritated when they succeed
. And the pretty ones were worst. Right now Miss Lyman stood, stymied by his sudden lack of interest. Any minute now she'd start chattering at him to reestablish the familiar scenario of a man focusing on her.

Chase focused on the cougar. He took his time binding the cougar's paws, so it'd be easier to sling across his shoulders without sliding to the side or back during the walk to town. With her arm no longer raised and pulling at her shoulder, he had no reason to hurry. Particularly since Miss Lyman hadn't started blithering at him yet. Come to think of it, he couldn't hear her breathing any longer, which meant she might be in greater pain than he realized. He straightened, turning to see—