Authors: Barbara Bretton
She smiled, letting her dimples deepen appealingly. "Were I speaking of a traditional hotel, I would agree with you wholeheartedly, sir." She leaned forward, allowing him to catch the scent of her violet-scented perfume. "What I am speaking of is quite revolutionary. I should open my hotel only to the fair sex."
Mr. Muldoon almost swallowed his handkerchief. "Foolishness!" he sputtered, glancing back toward the open window. "Most of the gals here are married or whor—" His round face grew ruddy with embarrassment. "'Scuse me, Miss Bennett. I surely didn't mean you. I was just referring to—"
"I know to whom you were referring, Mr. Muldoon," Caroline said calmly, "and you are indeed excused. Whether you are aware of it or not, there are still a considerable number of unmarried women in great need of comfortable, home-like lodgings for a reasonable price."
"You're a good deal like your father, Miss Bennett. He could charm the birds from the trees but, as you know, his ideas rarely bore fruit."
"I am not my father," she said, anger rising inside her breast. "I am not prone to drinking, gambling, or womanizing. I am interested only in carving a good life for myself in Silver Spur."
Muldoon sprang from his chair and looked out the window behind his desk. "Dang it!" he said, patting the back of his neck with his handkerchief. "I know I saw someone peekin' through this window."
"A thief?" Caroline asked, aghast at the thought.
Muldoon took his seat once again. "A busybody, more'n likely, or Old Tom. Everybody in town wants to know everybody else's business."
"All of my personal information is on that sheet of paper I gave to you. I have no secrets, Mr. Muldoon."
Muldoon stretched back in his seat and laced his fingers together, handkerchief flapping between them like a flag of surrender. "What you also don't have, Miss Bennett, is collateral."
"There's the Crazy Arrow," she said, rummaging in her small bag for the deed even though he sat there, shaking his head. Was the man mad? Surely the Crazy Arrow was worth more in timber alone than the cost of renovating the dining room and furnishing the bedroom suites. "I should think that would be collateral enough for any improvements I might make to the building itself."
Muldoon shifted uncomfortably. "There's a great deal to be considered, Miss, things that go beyond money."
"This is a bank, Mr. Muldoon. What considerations besides money could there possibly be?"
Again that surreptitious glance over his shoulder and for a moment Caroline almost imagined she saw Jesse Reardon lurking behind the bushes. Ridiculous! If ever there was a man less inclined to lurk in the bushes, it was Jesse Reardon.
Muldoon's fingers arched in a graceful church steeple. "This is...ah...a very delicate topic to broach with you, but it is perhaps not in the bank's best interest to grant you a loan. There is another lending institution across the street but I—"
"If my father had any debts outstanding at the time of his death, I will do my utmost to see to it that they are satisfied."
"You're a fine young woman, Miss Bennett, and that gesture is appreciated but the fact remains that Silver Spur is a man's town and doing business with a female wouldn't be a popular notion."
"Not popular with whom?"
"I...I am not at liberty to divulge such information."
She began pulling her gloves back on with sharp, angry movements. "Jesse Reardon."
Muldoon looked up at her. "Beg pardon, Miss?"
"I said Jesse Reardon. He is at the bottom of this, is he not?"
The red flush on Muldoon's face was a dead giveaway. "I've said no such thing."
"You didn't have to." She rose from her chair. "I believe you are making a grievous error, Mr. Muldoon." He stood up and rounded his desk to show her from his office. "I hope you realize this in no way reflects upon your person or character, Miss Bennett. This is purely a business decision. This town has had a gut-f of females. If I do business with one, this bank wouldn't last until year's end."
"Oh, I understand," she said as he opened the door, "and I guarantee that one day you will come to me and admit your mistake."
"You're an odd gal, Miss Bennett. More like your pa than I first realized."
Caroline was unsure if that was a compliment but was disinclined to pursue the matter. With a nod in his direction she sailed past the curious bank clerks and out into the street.
The sun was straight overhead; heat blazed right through the soles of her shoes, reminding her of childhood tales of Lucifer stoking coal in Hades. Hades was exactly where Jesse Reardon belonged. She could easily imagine him lurking below the bank window, brandishing a pistol in an attempt to intimidate the Muldoon.
Two more hours until the stagecoach lumbered into town. She had to come up with something, some tangible reason to hope her plans for the Crazy Arrow were at least possible or asking Abby and the girls to stay in Silver Spur would be terribly unfair.
She glanced up the street. The Howell Bank was nowhere near the size of the Free Man's but it seemed to Caroline she was in no position to be particular. She hurried toward it, ignoring the lascivious looks from a group of grizzled prospectors and aging cowboys cooling their heels under the awning of the King of Hearts Saloon.
How could Muldoon not see what was before his very eyes? For every miner quaffing beer, there was a shopkeeper, a family man looking to provide for his wife and children. The high-pitched laughter of women chatting near the front door of Bates General Store was a counterpoint to distant gunfire and the deep rumble of horses' hooves. Not even Jesse Reardon could keep progress at bay.
Progress was coming to Silver Spur and Caroline knew this was her last, best chance to carve a future of her own in a town beginning to rise over tapped-out silver mines and dreams of gold and glory.
Gathering up her yellow skirts, she was about to climb the steps to the Howell Bank when she heard a loud crack nearby. In the past week she'd grown amazingly accustomed to the sound of gunfire but still she flinched. Such an imagination, she chided herself. She would almost declare she felt the whistle of the wind as a bullet raced past her ear. Pausing, she looked back at the street then caught the flash of something scarlet against the vibrant yellow of her bodice.
"What on earth...?" The red stain was moving, shimmering, growing larger, and she touched her index finger to it and screamed as blood stained her glove.
Two miners watched her from the street, their lined faces bland and curious.
"Please," she managed, sagging against the railing. "I've—I've been shot."
Still they watched her, immobile as wooden statues.
"Call someone, please...I feel faint..."
She sank to the top step, her head buzzing with heat and fear and the smell of gunpowder.
You're a good deal like your father, Kevin Muldoon had said just a little while ago. How well he knew. Just like her father, she was going to die in Silver Spur and no one would even care. Heat more fiery than the sun overhead blazed through her shoulder and she closed her eyes against the onslaught. Had Aaron known what was happening when that bullet found him? Had he known the coppery taste of fear and betrayal as the blood slowly left his body?
She wondered if it would take a long time to die.
"Takes as long as it takes," said a familiar male voice, "but you ain't going any time soon. That crazy prospector's a known bad shot."
Her eyes opened and she found herself looking up at Jesse Reardon.
"What...how did you know what I was thinking?" she managed, her voice trembling despite herself.
"You weren't thinking," he said, leaning so close to her she could smell both leather and spice on his skin. "You said it right out loud, plain as anything."
She held back a whimper when he touched the spot just below her shoulder where the blood was seeping but she could not keep from flinching when he started to unbutton the bodice of her once-beautiful Worth dress in full view of a score of disreputable looking men.
"No," she said, her voice little more than a whisper. "Please, don't..."
His gaze held hers for the time it took her heart to resume beating then he swept her up into his arms, uncaring that her blood would stain his fine white shirt.
"That shoulder's gotta be cleaned out," he said, heading down the stairs and pushing past the crowd of curious bystanders. "You could get lead poisoning soon as not."
"The bullet...is it still there?"
His laugh caused his chest to rumble most pleasantly against her.
"Darlin', if the bullet were still there, you probably wouldn't be here. Surface wound is all you got, but you're askin' for trouble if you don't take care of it now."
Suddenly it seemed as if the world tilted on its axis and she closed her eyes to stop the frantic spinning. "Rest your head on my shoulder," Jesse Reardon said.
"No, thank you," she managed. "I am quite fine."
His muscles rippled with his shrug. "Up to you."
He slowed his pace a fraction and she found the dizziness abating, thank the good Lord, for she would rather risk lead poisoning than the embarrassment of letting Jesse Reardon see her any more vulnerable than she already was.
She opened her eyes and saw the Crazy Arrow pass by on her right. "Where are you taking me?"
"To check on that shoulder."
"Abby can check on it when I return to the Crazy Arrow."
He snorted. "You gals are lucky you got bed sheets in that barn."
"Don't you dare take me into some godforsaken saloon, Mr. Reardon."
"Don't worry," he said. "I wouldn't think of it."
The painted scarlet-and-gold sign of the Golden Dragon fluttered overhead as Reardon climbed the wooden steps.
"I cannot go in there!" Caroline protested as he strode inside as bold as if he owned the place. "My reputation will be ruined!"
Jesse laughed. "Darlin', your reputation was ruined the day you showed up at Silver Spur."
Caroline couldn't help gaping like a country fool at the cut-crystal chandeliers tinkling in the gaming parlors and the women dressed in shimmering beads and exotic plumes who sparkled in the light.
"They all know you," she remarked in awe after the tenth sugar-sweet hello had been acknowledged.
"Real well," he said with a wicked grin, "if you get my meanin'."
Oh, she certainly got his meaning. Cradled against his muscular chest, Caroline found it impossible to dwell upon her bullet wound. A thousand other sensations were awakening inside her body and that sense of disorientation swooped over her once more as she caught the odd scent of candle
wax and spice.
He carried her up two flights of stairs as if she weighed no more than an English saddle then entered a room at the end of the hallway and kicked the door closed behind them.
Everywhere Caroline looked she saw red: velvet drapes of deepest ruby; flocked wallpaper with a delicate gold fleur de lis pattern on a garnet background; and—dear God in heaven!—a massive four-poster bed that bore Jesse Reardon's monogram on every scarlet sheet and pillow slip.
The opulence of the room astonished her. She'd imagined Reardon living in a boarding house somewhere, sleeping on scratchy homespun sheets that cried out for a scrubbing with strong lye soap. Instead, here he was living like a king with Lord-only-knew how many willing subjects at his disposal.
He placed her down and she sank into the luxuriously soft mattress. The hem of her skirt had risen up above her ankles and, even through her lisle stockings, she could feel the satin's coolness against her heated skin. His scent was all around her, that tang of leather and spice and male power, and a trembling began deep inside her, a trembling she'd never known before.
His long, muscular thighs pressed against the mattress at the head of the bed and her cheeks flamed from his nearness. She could not continue gazing at his flank—or the interesting geography of the button-front fly of his trousers—and she forced herself to meet his eyes.
He grinned at her and she held her breath as he bent down toward where she lay.
"Let's see what we got here," he said, his long fingers quickly undoing the first two buttons of her bodice.
She cried out as the fabric clung to the burning wound and his hand stroked her cheek and throat in the motion she'd seen a groom use to gentle a skittish pony.
"Gotta do it." His voice was a low murmur, dark as the midnight blue of his eyes. "Leave it this way and we're asking for trouble."
He moved to the third button where the fabric grew rounded over the initial swell of her breasts and she felt as if someone had ignited fireworks inside her brain.
"No," she whispered, breaking away from his gaze. "Let me."
His hands slowly dropped and although he did not touch her, his heat seemed to insinuate its way into her chest and belly.
"Turn away." Her fingers hesitating at the button loop. She sensed rather than saw the amused glint in his eyes.
"Sooner or later I'm going to see it all, Car-o-line."
"Turn away, Mr. Reardon, please." Dear God, if she didn't have a moment's respite from the fiery heat of his gaze, surely she would go up in flames.