Thea Devine (22 page)

“I do too.”

“Where? When?”

“There’s time.”

“Oh God, I feel like there’s never been time.”

“No,” he said consideringly, “not like this there isn’t.”

“I know. I thought about it.”

“So did I.” Her eyes rested on his hands and she caught her breath. Thinking was nothing; wanting and completion were everything. Desire spumed in her like a living thing.

“How can I eat?” she demanded.

He smiled, because he was feeling exactly the same. “I’d take you on the table if I could, Maggie.”

She opened her mouth to say something provocative and then closed it again as she met Reese’s heated gaze from across the room.

Reese looked away. What was she saying to him, the lusty bitch? She was probably negotiating with him, maybe even teasing him by telling him she couldn’t do that anymore. Yes, he could imagine such a conversation
very nicely, but that vision was superseded by the image of them together the previous night, and his rage that Logan had had her grew in proportion to his own desire.

They wouldn’t leave yet, he thought, licking his lips with anticipation. It would look exactly like what it was: art assignation with only one purpose.

They ate sparingly and his throat thickened; he would be stuck with his mother while the cowboy was taking his pleasure from her willing body. He had to get rid of his mother. He glanced around hastily and saw that there were people in the room with whom his mother was acquainted.

He ate as quickly as good manners and his rampaging desire would allow, and then pointedly suggested to his mother that there were friends in the room trying to catch her eye, and that if she didn’t mind, he wouldn’t wait.

A few minutes later, Maggie and Logan left, and after a moment’s interval, Reese covertly followed them out of the door.

There was nowhere for them to go, he thought, but the apartment. Perhaps they even thought that he would be so busy with his mother that he wouldn’t notice they had gone. He let himself into the back room by the same rear entrance. Everything was quiet; he was quiet. He heard a step on the stairs, and he heard her groan and the end of a long lingering kiss.

He slipped off his boots and hid them carefully behind the door to the stairwell, which was slightly ajar. He positioned himself carefully to hear everything.

“I hate this,” she murmured. “Where do we find privacy?”

“You tell me, Maggie.”

“I don’t want to think about it now.”

“Then this is what we will have.”

“Does it matter to you?”

“You matter. I told you, Maggie, I was going to come
after you and I swore I would give you all the time you wanted. If this is what you think we have to do, then we’ll do it.”

“What do you think?” she asked in a melting voice.

“I think I want you, Maggie,” he whispered, “right here, right now.”

“How?”

“Like this.”

There was a brief pause and then that erotic sound she made at the back of her throat, then her husky whisper, “Oh yes.”

Oh yes, oh yes
—the words reverberated through Reese like a gunshot. Oh yes, he could imagine it, the two of them in that narrow confined space, Maggie with her wriggling backside on the step, her dress thrown up, her legs long and enfolding, wrapped around him tightly as he entered her and began his relentless quest to conquer her.

And the whispers, the low moans of pleasure—he could hear them clearly and he was desperate to see. No, he didn’t need to see, he knew what Maggie was like now. She had never been the woman Frank Colleran had thought he had married. She had always been no better than the whore Frank had chosen over her, and the goddamned fool had probably never known it. He had never been aware of what he had missed.

But he, Reese, would not miss.

The question of privacy haunted Maggie. She almost felt as though Logan had maneuvered her into this sensual thrall in order to make her choose. She was violently unhappy about the nature of the alternatives, and there were only two. Either she could settle for Sunday afternoons with him at the ranch, where at least he had control over who was around to see them, or be satisfied with that wrenching coupling on the stairs or in
the office, or a hotel if they were desperate.

And on top of that, she was trying to balance the worrisome fear of conceiving against the loss of the cataclysmic pleasure of Logan’s pursuit.

A.J.’s death preyed on her mind. It almost seemed as if the sheriff were doing nothing, and that at some appropriate time, he would storm the door and arrest
her
for murder on the very premises that Arch Warfield had outlined in his article.

And then the two things she dreaded would happen: Reese would take over running the paper and Dennis would need a power of attorney to allot the money for him to keep publishing. The thought of that made her wonder whether the two of them didn’t have more decisive motives for murdering A.J. than the killer.

But that was fanciful. On the other hand, both had indicated they were ready to be more to her than just friends. Neither of them had been happy about her refusal to consider it. And Reese was almost jealously preoccupied by the fact that Jean wanted her.

God, if they knew about Logan … What had Reese really thought about that lunch at the hotel? What else could he have done? Where else could they have gone?

And she was back to
that
question again.

There was no answer to anything, just the pervasive feeling that she was like a fish, swimming unaware into a net, and that sometime, somewhere, someone was going to pull it tightly around her and she would never know who and she would never know why.

“Well now, here’s today’s news,” Reese said, coming in the front door that Wednesday. “Melinda Sable has contracted to build her house finally.”

“The wonder is she could find anyone with the way Denver North has been snapping everyone up,” Maggie murmured in a moderate tone. She really had no quarrel
with Melinda Sable. Melinda was really very discreet—look at how she handled Frank. She had a selected clientele, and when a man was loyal to her, she repaid that loyalty a thousandfold.

But this news meant that she was going up against the ladies of the trade with a vengeance. And she wouldn’t be tawdry or shoddy about it either.

“Oh, I expect Melinda has some sweet convincing ways,” Reese said with a faintly arch note in his voice. “I bet she could make anyone do anything she wanted him to.” I bet, he thought, she’d hire you in an instant, o Maggie of the prostitute’s soul. You’d be the star of her show and you couldn’t turn anyone down if you wanted to.

“I
know
she can,” Maggie said, discomfitted by the way Reese seemed to know all about Melinda. But everyone knew about Melinda. She had wondered all these years what Melinda knew about
her
. “Where do you suppose her money is coming from?”

“Dear Maggie, she must have money.”

“Or someone or something might be financing her,” Maggie contradicted.

“There is no one rich enough in town to do that,” Reese said emphatically, and then could have bitten his tongue. He understood what Maggie was getting at. He didn’t like her assumption one bit and he said so.

“I think it’s a reasonable supposition. A clean house, clean fun for the working man, more or less, a classy place where he can let off… steam. It sounds like a good investment to me.”

“Maggie, you are not supposed to know about these things anyway,” Reese protested, felt he had to protest, but he knew that Maggie knew all about them. He was steaming for her with her suggestive scenario about Melinda’s place.

“I know all kinds of things,” Maggie said lightly. “We’ll keep an eye on Melinda, rest assured.”

“That’s a man’s job, Maggie,” he said, with emphasis, watching to see how she responded to that.

“I wouldn’t be too sure,” she retorted, and he thought there was a faintly provocative note in her voice.

He turned away. She was too damned provoking, given what he knew about her. He was finding it harder and harder to work side by side with her and his ever-rising desire. He wanted to test her again, to see whether the invitation he sought would finally be forthcoming.

“Are we driving out to the track site this week?” he asked offhandedly. He had been so good with her, alone in the carriage. But that was before he had caught her whoring with a cowboy.

“I believe we should. I think they’re coming up close near Danforth land now. I’m thinking I’d like to talk to one of the prostitutes, too.”

Oh, would you? he almost murmured out loud. To get some tips?

“All right,” he said, reining himself in. “I’ll check with the sheriff again see how he’s getting on.”

“He’s not getting on,” Maggie said crisply. “I saw him yesterday.”

“Then we’ll go … soon?”

“We’ll go now,” Maggie said decisively.

“I’ll meet you out front.”

“Fine. I can check how Jean’s doing with those church notices he’s printing up.”

Jean looked at her soulfully. “That one is getting very possessive—of you and the things he sees here.”

His perception made Maggie uncomfortable. “And you, Jean?” she asked quietly.

“I? I am hopeless,” he said, and turned back to his work.

He had admitted nothing and very cleverly, Maggie thought later as she and Reese approached the track site. “Busy here,” she commented. “They may be closer than we think. Is Denver North in some kind of hurry? I
thought this was a six-month project.”

“I don’t know.”

They pulled in to the day-gang camp. Things were as usual. There was a crew down the line working with the men going up north. There was a supply wagon heading out that way with food and a fresh supply of tools. A one-horse dump cart was rumbling out in the other direction, toward Gully Basin for the initial grading operation. On site, a gang of men were either lined up at the chuck wagon, clearing brush, or laying out posts and string as far as the eye could see. Some wagons were parked away in the distance, and there was movement unrelated to the work of the moment; pastel colors coupled with rough denim, but never anywhere near the sight of a supervisor or a gang foreman.

“The word came down,” the supervisor said, shading his eyes to try to see the wagons and his men. “They want it done—and fast.”

“Do they want it done right?” Maggie asked, and Reese shot her look.

“They got a subsidy from the government, Miss Maggie; they’ll take on all the men they need to finish it right.”

“They’re after the summer beef,” Maggie said, making a note on a pad she had brought with her.

“I suppose they reckon by the time them drovers get ’em up toward Denver, they’ll be past Colville and coming on to Cheyenne. And by the time the train gets to Colville, they’ll have met up with that ole Union Pacific,” the supervisor said.

“I thank you,” Maggie said. “Reese?”

He climbed back into the buggy. “What’s next, Miss Maggie?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t think I want to interrupt those good ladies from their appointed rounds.”

Reese snapped the reins and they moved forward. “Did you ever wonder,” he mused, “what it would be like to
choose a life like that?” Did you, Maggie? Did you? You must have.

She gave it some thought—or pretended to give it some thought. “I suppose every woman wonders,” she said finally. Hadn’t she?
Hadn’t she
—when Frank was suddenly gone all those long hours at night. Hadn’t she visualized it, the allure, the mystery, the smoky sex of it. Hadn’t she wondered why Frank had run toward it instead of exploring all that she had offered him; hadn’t he berated her for being the very thing he sought in another woman’s arms, a woman who was the whore that he called
her?
She was surprised she had answered him so dispassionately when she flamed with resentment everytime she thought of it.

“And what
do
women wonder?” Reese asked offhandedly, leading her, guiding her to the point of no return. His first question had agitated her. Why? Because she pretended to be what she was not. She was a good woman, the respected wife and widow of his beloved older brother. How could Mrs. Frank be a stoked up bitch, mating with a cowdog every chance she got?

“Women wonder why,” she said finally.

“Why what?” he pursued it.

“Why men choose not to see what they have and try to find it someplace else,” she said reluctantly. “I really don’t feel like talking about this, Reese.”

“You should write about it, from a woman’s point of view,” he suggested. He was desperate to know her real thoughts. “How ladies are sitting home thinking their men are out there earning good pay and not knowing what they are squandering on a quick roll in the fields.”

“Or elsewhere,” she added bitterly.

“Oh, Maggie, you sound so sad.”

“Nonsense. It was just the thought.”

“Well, tell me then, have you thought about me?” Reese asked softly, jumping in, not because the moment was right but because he saw that she was vulnerable and
there was an opening.

“How do you mean?”

Damned obtuse bitch … He felt his hackles rise. Her answer as good as meant
not much
. He calmed himself so he could proceed slowly and carefully. “We’re friends, Maggie, but you know I wanted more than that. I just want you to know I still feel the same way.”

She was silent for so long he thought he might throttle her. “I don’t need a man, Reese. I thought I made that clear.”

Oh God, you out and out bitching liar
—he almost said out loud. She didn’t need a man, for God’s sake; right, she needed a man’s anatomy, the right part in the right place. And not his, she was telling him. Damn her to hell… if she only knew …

“You need a man, Maggie.” A
man
, bitch, not a cowdog.

“Reese, don’t…”

“How can I not, Maggie?”

“You don’t need to. I’m doing very well.”

“You’re in agony, Maggie, over the paper, over your life, over the sale of the land, over those whores you saw parading around that work crew …” He stopped, biting back the words, the real things he was thinking, about her needs and how maybe she envied them their freedom to go after the thing they couldn’t live without. “Over all the damned things you can’t change, including A.J.’s death. You need a man, Maggie, not to take care of you …” no, just to take
care
of you … “only to love you.” He looked away from her to let his words sink in, the kind of words that would appeal to a whore who wouldn’t admit she was a whore.