Midnight Lover (9 page)

"You truly would hit me," she said in amazement. "You'd hit a defenseless woman."

"Hit me again and you'll find out for your own self." He grinned. "Besides, it don't seem to me you're all that defenseless."

"Unlike you I don't carry a six-shooter, Mr. Reardon," she pointed out.

"Women got other weapons." His eyes raked her body from her boots to her bodice. "Of course it don't mean much if the lady in question don't know what to do with them."

"You may save your insults for a more willing victim."

"You seemed mighty willin' under that stagecoach."

She considered his words thoughtfully, praying a blush didn't flood her cheeks. "Perhaps I should add assault to your list of mis-deeds."

Reardon laughed out loud. "Tell it to the judge."

"I fully intend to. Certainly even Silver Spur has one."

"Circuit judge. Don't expect him around until the middle of next month. You ain't likely to be around that long."

"That's where you're wrong, Mr. Reardon. I most definitely intend to be around that long—and longer. Silver Spur is my new home." He pulled a cigar from his shirt pocket and bit off the end. Caroline tried not to notice the disgusting noise the tip made when he spat it into a cuspidor a few feet away

"The hell it is," he said easily.

"The hell it isn't," she retorted, slipping into language as salty as his own, another legacy from her father. "This is my saloon and my property and now this town is my home and it doesn't matter what you think of that situation, Jesse Reardon, because I am here to stay."

Reardon clamped his cigar between his teeth and took another step closer. "Last chance, Car-o-line."

"You don't frighten me, Mr. Reardon," she lied.

"Then I'll do what I should've done right at the start."

With that he swept her over his shoulder with a move so smooth that she didn't realize what had happened until they were halfway out the front door of the Crazy Arrow.

"Put me down!" she commanded as he stormed down the stairs and into the street. "I order you to put me down, Reardon!" How on earth was she to set up a business in a town where she'd been disgraced twice within her first hour?

"I ain't puttin' you down until I put you down inside the stagecoach heading east."

Whirls of dust rose from his bootheels and tickled her nostrils while tortoiseshell hairpins fell from her chignon, marking her trail like Hansel and Gretel's breadcrumbs.

"My hair!" she cried as long ropes of golden blonde waves tumbled down and threatened to become entangled in his jangling spurs. "If you have any decency at all in your black heart, you'll—"

He skidded to an abrupt stop and her chin bumped into his hard, muscular back. "Son of a bitch!"

Caroline furiously gathered her long hair into a loose knot. "Put me down," she commanded once again, "before I do something I'll regret."

She could feel his body tense menacingly. "Put you down?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, suddenly uneasy, "before I—"

She never finished her words for he released his grip on her and she slid over his shoulder and down his chest, only to land in an embarrassing heap at his booted feet.

"Good place for a woman," said one of his cowboy cohorts to a rumble of male laughter. "If they'd see things that way all the time
, maybe we wouldn't mind having 'em around town."

To Caroline's dismay, hot and embarrassing tears filled her eyes and threatened to disgrace her. Her chin stung where she'd scraped it on his holster as she slid from his shoulder. Her left ankle throbbed from bearing the brunt of this graceless fall. And her pride—dear God, her pride! It seemed she'd left her pride somewhere between Boston and Silver Spur and she wasn't entirely certain she had the will to recover it.

And there Reardon stood, hands on his lean hips, towering over her, his body blocking the fierce sunshine and throwing her into shadow.

You win, Mr. Reardon, she thought looking up at him. You brought both Bennetts to their knees. She had battled both circumstance and fate and emerged victorious but in this battle of wills she knew she had been vanquished.

"Do as you will, Mr. Reardon," she said, her gaze intent upon him. "Put my baggage in the stagecoach and run me out of town. I lack the weapons to fight you after all."

His gaze held hers and she had the sensation of time suddenly curving around her until it held her in its seductive embrace.

"I didn't think you'd throw in your hand so easy, Miss Car-o-line," he said, his words for her ears alone. "I thought you'd kick up more of a fuss than this."

"You want me out of town, Mr. Reardon, and I am willing to go. You should be quite pleased with yourself."

He reached down and, grasping her wrists, pulled her to her feet as if she weighed no more than a down pillow. She winced as her twisted ankle throbbed but he didn't loosen his grip upon her; indeed, he drew her close until her breasts, chastely covered by her woolen traveling suit, grazed the front of his fringed vest.

"You're stayin'."

"Why?" She knew her voice betrayed the wild feelings blazing through her but there was no hope for it. A delicious, intoxicating lassitude that was as powerful as it was illogical spread through her limbs like heated honey when Jesse Reardon smiled at her.

"Because the stagecoach left without you."

His smile turned into a mocking grin and she struggled against him. "I would sell my soul to slap that expression from your blasted face!"

"Careful what you wish for, darlin'," he drawled lazily. "In Silver Spur the devil just might hear you and come to claim his due."

"I doubt that," she snapped, not caring that they were once again the center of attention. "I am of the mind the devil stands before me."

"A compliment is it, Caroline?"

"Only a fool would consider a comparison with Beelzebub to be a compliment." With that she brought the heel of her right shoe down upon his instep and nearly cried out in triumph as he swore and released his hold upon her.

Gathering up her skirts, she inclined her head toward the two cowboys sitting atop her trunks.

"If you would follow me, gentlemen," she said sweetly, "it appears I shall be staying in town after all."

"Seven days," said Jesse Reardon. "When the next stage rolls into town, you're gonna be on board."

"You're a gambling man, Mr. Reardon," she tossed over her shoulder as she headed back to the Crazy Arrow. "Perhaps you'd care to wager on it."

"Fifty dollars gold says you're out of town before sundown next Friday night."

She swallowed hard. "Fifty dollars gold is a great deal of money, Mr. Reardon." Fifty dollars gold was almost all she had remaining of her father's legacy to her.

"Maybe you ain't too sure you'll be around next Friday night after all."

Had she any sense at all, she would continue walking toward the saloon; but good sense, however, had been left behind in Boston in the Addison house on the hill. "Fifty dollars gold says I have the Crazy Arrow open for business before sundown next Friday night."

He extended his right hand toward her. "Bet?"

She extended her right hand and watched it disappear within his. "It's a bet, Mr. Reardon."

#

Two hours later Caroline wondered why she'd fought so hard to stay in Silver Spur. The sparkling, lively saloon she'd dreamed about as she crossed the prairies had turned out to be a dilapidated building that not even mice seemed to find livable. Aaron's touch was visible in the red flocked wallpaper and the ornate chandeliers in the gaming room downstairs but apparently it took more than gaudy decor to lure drinkers and gamblers to a new establishment.

The sound of piano music and raucous laughter drifted through the open windows from the Golden Dragon across the street and Caroline could not resist the urge to peek through her yellowed curtains at her competition. Jesse Reardon had certainly made a beeline for the place; no sooner had she paused in the doorway of the Crazy Arrow to direct the cowboys toting her baggage when she saw him leap the stairs to the Golden Dragon and disappear inside.

Painted ladies abounded at the Golden Dragon: they perched on the second story window ledges like garish flowers; they lounged on the porch in most scandalous attire; one even sauntered down the street arm-in-arm with a grey-bearded cowboy whose pockets jingled with coins.

How could she possibly compete with the enticements offered across the street? She'd already taken inventory of her stock and she doubted if the half-bottle of whiskey and jug of something labeled mescal would tempt even the driest of desert rats and the only entertainment she could offer—a front parlour rendition of the Spinning Song—was scarcely what the good gentlemen of Silver Spur were accustomed to.

She sighed and walked through the dim hallway to the curved staircase. What did it matter? she thought as she climbed the stairs. Seven days from today she and Abby would be back on that stagecoach headed out of town landless, friendless, and penniless thanks to Jesse Reardon and their foolish bet.

How arrogant she'd been to even consider such a foolish escapade. "Money is the key to life," Aaron used to say and for the first time she was inclined to agree with her father. Had she enough gold at her disposal, she could replenish her stock of liquor, hire a handyman to repair the sagging floorboards, and at the very least make an effort at establishing the Crazy Arrow as a force to be reckoned with.

As it was, she scarcely had enough gold to return to Boston.

She stormed into the enormous third floor bedroom where Abby was unpacking her trunks. "Unpack only enough for a week, Abby, for I doubt we'll be here longer."

"Miss Caroline, I'd be thinkin'—"

"Do not say a thing, Abby," Caroline warned, sinking down onto the lumpy feather bed. "I am within an inch of murder as it is. I should hate for you to be my unwitting victim."

"Miss Caroline, I—"

"Abby, there is nothing you can say that I have not already thought. This dwelling is an abomination, fit only for spiders and bats. I wonder only that Reardon wagered but fifty dollars gold that I would last just a week." She stretched out on the bed, uncaring that her boots left streaks of brown on the faded quilt, and closed her eyes. "I do not imagine there is any food in the pantry, is there, Abby?"

"Three tins of beans," said Abby, "a jar of strawberry preserves and a loaf of stale bread and me with my stomach growling like a wild dog."

"Do you remember that stew last night in Calico City?" Caroline asked dreamily. "Big pieces of beef, succulent carrots, just enough onion to add spice. Ah, that was a meal!"

"Last night you said the stew was swill for starving pigs."

Caroline opened one eye. "Last night I believed I owned a booming saloon in a bustling town. Today I know better." She would give up her silver brush and comb set for just one spoonful of the dinner she'd so arrogantly turned away from less than twenty-four hours ago. "Silver Spur is a dreadful place filled with witless cowboys and trollops and sunbaked prospectors who have but a nodding acquaintance with soap and hot water. My father must have been mad to think he could build a future here."

Abby looked up from the trunk she was emptying and met Caroline's eyes. "Not everyone in town be as you say, Miss Caroline, if you don't mind me sayin' so."

"I do mind, Abby. Don't you go letting some filthy cowboy turn your head with pretty talk."

"Sam Markham wouldn't be a filthy cowboy, Miss Caroline, and I'll ask you to spare him the edge of your sharp tongue."

Caroline sat up, knees drawn into her chest, and stared at her companion. "So help me, Abigail O'Brien, if you are turning into one of those husband-hungry females, I vow I'll—"

"It isn't a husband I'd be hungry for, Miss, it's a full dinner plate and we wouldn't be seeming to come up with that."

"And how does Mr. Sam Markham figure into this, pray tell?"

Abby flashed a triumphant smile as she pulled the last petticoat from the battered Saratoga trunk. "Thanks to Mr. Markham I know the one place in town where a body can find a hot meal."

#

Unfortunately Sam Markham's idea of a hot meal consisted of a tin can of rancid beans heated over a flame and served with a chunk of bread that looked as if it had been used as a seat cushion by a score of cowboys. Aunt Sally's offered a full stomach in exchange for a gold piece but nowhere did they promise that the diner would actually enjoy the meal. Caroline's stomach tilted in a most alarming fashion and she managed only a few sips of warm lemonade before abandoning all pretense of eating. Besides, attempting to enjoy a meal while under the scrutiny of fifty unshaven men carrying pick axes and bad tempers was more than Caroline could bear.

"Come along, Abby," she said, rising from her hard wooden bench. "I would rather starve behind my own four walls than subject myself to such squalor."

Abby polished off the last of her beans and drained her glass of lemonade. "As you wish, Miss Caroline," she said, casting another glance at a scruffy cowboy leaning against a pillar across the dining room.