Lover's Gold (6 page)

“Is something wrong, Chuck?” she asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

“You know damned well there’s something wrong!” He moved toward her ominously. “You went to that damned miners’ meeting yesterday, didn’t you?”

She didn’t answer.

“You told those miners you agreed with them.” His eyes looked like angry black pits. “After all my father and I have done for you, you told them they were right and we were wrong!” His voice sounded shrill. His fists clenched and unclenched with the effort to control his temper.

Elaina flinched a little with every word.

“I will not have it, Elaina. You’re going to be my wife. I won’t have you making a fool of me in front of the whole damned town!” Taking another step forward, his face a mask of rage, he slapped her hard across the cheek with the palm of his hand.

Elaina clutched the comer of the bureau to steady herself, feeling a sudden rush of tears and the salty taste of blood. She swallowed hard and looked away, wiping at the blood in the comer of her mouth. What had she expected? She’d done exactly as he said. What she didn’t expect was to see Dan Morgan’s attempt to raise himself up off his sickbed.

“Leave the girl alone,” he warned, trying to struggle to his feet. “Don’t touch her again!” He swayed with each movement, his face drawn and pale, but his eyes were hot.

Elaina rushed to the injured man’s side. “Please, Mr. Morgan, it’s all right. You’ll open your wounds again.” She forced the gunman to lie back down. “Besides, I . . . I probably deserved it.” Tawny eyes gazed into sky-blue as she silently thanked him for trying to help.

Morgan, if that was his name, was trying desperately to understand his actions. Feeling a fierce urge to protect the girl, he’d been unable to stop himself. If he could have risen, he’d have beaten the man senseless for hurting her, yet he didn’t even recall who she was. The effort hurt him a great deal, so he closed his eyes and allowed himself to sink back onto the thin mattress.

He was so tired he found it hard to concentrate, but brief snatches of conversation led him to believe the woman had been at least partly responsible for his injuries. Why, then, did he feel such a powerful need to protect her? She acted as if they’d known each other only briefly, probably no more than a day or two. Why should he feel such concern? Why should he risk his life for her? Still a little unnerved, he shrugged the feeling off.

He liked her looks, that much was certain. She was tall, but not too tall, and gracefully built, yet with a full bosom and rounded hips. In that moment he decided that if the girl was responsible for his injuries—and he certainly intended to find out—he’d be happy to pay her back the best way he knew how, by making sure she ended up flat on her back servicing his needs. The thought both amused and disturbed him. He felt the quick tug of a smile. The challenge should make for an interesting recuperation.

With thoughts of the pleasures to come, and niggling glimpses of what might have been his past, he drifted into a fitful sleep.

Before leaving the room, Chuck Dawson continued his tirade, laying the blame for Morgan’s injuries squarely on Elaina’s shoulders, and Elaina felt he was probably right. It made her all the more determined to ensure the gunman’s recovery. She paid little attention to Dawson’s abuse, feeling it was a small price to pay for the privilege of voicing the feelings and opinions she’d hidden all these years. Putting the ugly scene behind her, she rechecked her patient and, as soon as Chuck was gone, left to fetch Doc Willowford.

Morgan was awake when she and the doctor returned, and the doctor made a second careful examination of the head injury.

“Looks like you got yourself a pretty bad concussion, mister. That knot on the back of your head’s as big as a hen’s egg.” He peered through a pair of spectacles suspended from a long gold chain. “Can’t remember a thing, you say?”

“Not a thing, Doc. Had a few interesting images in my sleep that seem to fit the day I was shot, but nothing more.”

“A little loss of memory’s not unusual under the circumstances,” the doctor said. “Happens sometimes with a blow to the head. Doesn’t look bad enough to be permanent.” He rubbed his pudgy chin. “’Course, I could be wrong, but I don’t think so.”

The doctor pulled his stethoscope from around his short neck and stuffed it into his medical bag. “Laina, you got any information on this man’s background? Anything at all that might jog his memory?”

“I don’t, but I know Chuck does. He and Dolph got a lot of newspaper articles together before they decided to hire him. I read a few of them. I’m certain they’re still around somewhere. I’ll get them together for him.”

“That’s fine. That should be a big help.” He turned to the man on the bed. “You just rest quietly. Elaina’s near a doctor herself. Read those articles and see if they don’t jog your mind some. If that doesn’t work, time will probably take care of things.”

“How long a time, Doc?” Morgan’s concern clouded his light blue eyes.

“Anywhere from a day to a few weeks. Sometimes folks never remember, but as I said, I don’t think that’ll be the case with you.” He closed his black medical bag and let the spectacles fall back to their place on the end of the chain. “You just get some rest.”

Elaina spent the next few hours scouring up any information she could locate on the gunman, Dan Morgan. Chuck had a file on him, and the local newspaper had carried several stories of his escapades. Elaina read them all carefully. Some of the stories made the man sound like a sort of western Robin Hood; others made him out to be just a step lower than a cold-blooded killer. Elaina didn’t know which to believe, but she hoped for the miners’ sake the former was true.

When she took the newspaper articles in to Morgan, he perused them carefully, drinking in every word. Elaina got the distinct impression that Morgan, after reading the articles, also felt ambivalent about his true nature. She left him alone with the papers for several hours, then returned to check on him.

“Well, Mr. Morgan, what do you think of yourself? Do you recall any of those events?” She watched uncertainty creep across the hard planes of his face.

“No, Miss McAllister, I don’t.” He smiled at her ruefully. “You apparently know me better than I know myself right now. What do you think?”

Elaina pulled a chair up next to the bed, pondering the problem. “You speak well, so you must have some education. I know you threatened the miners at the town meeting hall, but I also know you tried to help me when Chuck . . .” She glanced away, no longer willing to look at him. A sense of foreboding filled her as she remembered the anger in Chuck Dawson’s brooding eyes.

“Yes,” he agreed, “I tried to help. Didn’t do you a whole lot of good, as I recall.” A muscle bunched in his jaw while his eyes said he well remembered Chuck Dawson’s actions and didn’t take kindly to a man hitting a woman.

He smiled again, this time wryly. “I guess if I’m a gunman, I’m a chivalrous one.”

Elaina smiled back. When he smiled like that he reminded her so much of Ren. It bothered her somehow. It was hard to keep a clear head with such a disturbing man around, especially one who dredged up all her girlhood fantasies. Every time she looked at him, she found herself fascinated by the dark hair curling across his chest, the way his muscles rippled when he moved. When she reached out to pull up the sheet in an effort to stop her disturbing thoughts, her hand touched his flesh and a surge of heat spread through her.

She jerked her hand away as if she’d been scalded, then, feeling slightly foolish, noticed his grin.

“What’s the matter, Miss McAllister? You think those articles may be right? Maybe I’m some kind of killer, and you’re all alone up here with me.”

Somehow the way he kept trying to convince her—as well as himself—made her begin to believe the Robin Hood stories. “Don’t forget, Mr. Morgan, you’re an injured man. I don’t think you’d be a match for me right now.”

He reached out and caught her hand, bringing it gently to his lips. “Don’t be too sure.”

Elaina snatched her hand away and turned to leave the room, but not before tiny goose bumps raced up her arm. Damn him! Damn him to hell! Why did he have to look so much like Ren?”

The next four days passed uneventfully. Morgan improved each day and was now able to move about his room and down the hall. He had almost memorized the newspaper articles, and he had to admit some of the stories were beginning to bring back sharp impressions of the past.

He’d gone over every article of his clothing, his weapons. He found plenty of money in his wallet, more than enough to get him through the next few months if necessary, and an envelope stuffed with bills, which he assumed was Redmond and Dawson’s down payment on his services. The two men assured him his room and board were being taken care of, so he had no worries there.

His main task, as he saw it, was to heal himself—and maybe even the score with the sable-haired woman. Both Dolph Redmond and Henry Dawson had related the story of the shooting and the events leading up to it. Morgan was convinced the woman’s interference had been at least partly to blame, and that suited him just fine. He found himself more and more attracted to her; any excuse he could find to justify seducing her was a welcome one. He wondered if his sexual appetites had always run this high, then chuckled to himself. There were some things about a man even his loss of memory couldn’t alter. When it came to women, he was obviously one healthy man.

“Mr. Morgan?” Elaina’s melodic voice interrupted his reverie. “Are you awake?”

Grinning up at her, he noted the high curves of her breasts beneath her light green dress. “You need me to defend your honor again?” he teased.

“No, I just figured it was about time you got out of this room and breathed a little fresh air. I’m headed over to the Colsons’. It’s out near the patch town, an hour’s ride from here. If you feel up to it, the buggy’s hitched up out front.”

He saw the way her golden eyes watched him a bit suspiciously. “Sure you can trust me out there alone?”

She lifted her chin. “I told you, until your shoulder’s healed you’re no match for me—and you’d do well to remember that.”

Morgan chuckled softly. He liked her spirit. He hoped she’d be that spirited when he had her on her back. His shoulder and leg were healing rapidly and the idea of bedding her was fast becoming an obsession. He knew she was spoken for by Chuck Dawson, but she obviously felt nothing for the sallow-faced man. Morgan felt he owed Dawson nothing, and liked him even less, and he wanted the girl more every day. He was Dan Morgan, a gunman, a man who often took risks, and bedding this woman was a risk well worth taking.

“It would be my pleasure to accompany you on your journey, Miss McAllister,” he said with a bit of mockery and watched her bristle. Then he groaned a little as he sat up, and she took pity on him.

“Can you dress yourself? Or do you need me to . . .”

She blushed crimson, though he knew she tried not to, and glanced away.

Morgan seized the opportunity for a little close contact. “I’ll do my best, but I may need some help.”

The girl turned her back as he slipped into his breeches, stumbling on purpose just as he pulled them up over his hips.

She gasped and rushed to his side. “Here, let me help you. You’ve got to be careful of your stitches.

Draping an arm around her neck, he fastened his breeches with one hand. She helped him struggle into his shirt, brushing a soft breast against his palm as she did so. The contact was jolting. Morgan felt beads of perspiration pop out on his forehead and a sudden stiffening in his breeches.

He smiled inwardly as the girl glanced down and realized what was happening, and her face flamed crimson again. It was obvious she was having doubts about the outing, but she seemed determined to go through with it.

Morgan finished dressing and pulled on his boots. The effort was costing him, but he was determined to get back on his feet as fast as possible. Besides, as he remembered the feel of her soft breast against his hand, his anticipation grew, along with his desire, at the thought of being alone with her.

Doc Willowford had left a crutch for Morgan, and Elaina brought it to the injured man’s bedside. She was already sorry she’d suggested the outing, but it was too late to rescind the invitation. Besides, the man did need to get out into the fresh air.

She helped him navigate the two flights of stairs to the lobby, then walk out the mahogany doors of the hotel. Elaina could see the effort had exhausted him. His face looked pale, and tiny beads of perspiration dotted his brow. Again she regretted her impulsiveness. But if he sat quietly, the hour-long ride should renew his strength, and overall, the exercise would be good for him.

Elaina ignored the stares of passersby, the mangy dog barking and nipping at Morgan’s boots, and the towheaded youth watching with menace from the alley, his slingshot poised at the ready. Allowing Morgan to use her shoulder to steady himself, she helped him climb into the buggy.

As she climbed into the driver’s seat, she looked briefly at the man beside her. Beneath his broad-brimmed hat, his light eyes watched her, and she felt her heartbeat quicken. The heat rushed to her cheeks for the third time since noon. Until she met Morgan, Elaina had rarely succumbed to the feminine urge to blush. She’d been serving meals to the miners for six years, and she was used to their hungry stares. What was there about this particular man that made her feel different? Older, somehow. Womanly.

The bay single-stepped the buggy at a brisk pace out of town. With Dan Morgan beside her, Elaina made her way into the mountainous Pennsylvania countryside. At first Morgan was quiet, introspective, allowing his strength to return. They passed through a covered bridge, and chimney swifts darted from their nests among the eaves. The birds skimmed the surface of the stream, scooping up the tiniest insects. Then the darkness inside the bridge gave way to a bright green meadow, and sheep laurel formed a thick hedge along the road. Elaina was lost in the beauty of the countryside and the scent of wildflowers when Morgan touched a hand to her knee.