Montana Wildfire (39 page)

Amanda's heart fluttered. Her cheeks went pale, and her fingers tightened around the gun. "What other things?"

He trained his gaze on the mountainous horizon. Cruel words formed an acidic lump in his throat; there was no swallowing them back. Amanda's betrayal still festered inside him, demanding he lash out. The urge to hurt her the way she had hurt him had been brewing for three days too long already. It could no longer be suppressed. "What do you think, Miss Lennox? What, besides a good stiff drink, can a man buy in a saloon? Hmmm, I wonder...?"

Amanda didn't. While she may have spent years locked away in Miss Henry's Academy, she wasn't dead. Even proper young women were aware of what went on in the questionable establishments where men gathered to drink. She'd heard that the "saloons" out here in the untamed west were twice as bad as their more refined, Bostonian counterparts.

Men visited places like that to get drunk and drown their troubles, if only for a little while... and to buy the favors of a warm, willing woman. What Amanda didn't know—couldn't begin to understand—was why the idea that Jake would want to do both hurt her so deeply. She felt as though he'd just sliced her heart to ribbons.

It puzzled Jake that hurting this woman didn't feel better than it did. In fact, it felt incredibly lousy.
He
felt lousy. And cold. And cruel.

It didn't matter that he'd purposely struck out at her in the only manner he trusted himself to do it; with words. It didn't matter that, after hurting him so badly, it was only fair she be hurt in return. No, it should have, but none of that made a bit of difference. What
did
matter—and mattered far too much—was the deep, physical ache that twisted in his gut when he saw the disillusionment and pain swimming in her huge green eyes.

Dammit! He'd said those words to hurt her, to prove beyond a doubt that Amanda Lennox had no hold over him. He realized now that it might be a good idea if he carried through on the threat. Maybe another woman, bought and paid to please, was just what he needed to wipe all traces of this one out of his mind.

It was a long shot. If he were a gambler, he wouldn't have bet heavily on it... because there was a good chance it wasn't going to work. But, hell, he could at least give it a damn good try. He was desperate enough to do anything, anything at all, if it meant getting Amanda out of his mind, out of his blood, out of his... Goddammit, out of his heart, a place she had no right to be. A place he had no right to
let
her be.

"There's a hotel a quarter mile up the road," he said suddenly, harshly. "It's run by a woman named Mulligrew. Think you can find it on your own?"

Amanda stiffened. Was he
that
anxious to get to his saloon, she wondered with a sudden surge of temper. Her mood was reflected in her tone. "I'm not a complete incompetent, Mr. Chandler. I think I can find the place myself." She paused. "I take it you won't be coming with me?"

He shook his head. "We'll ride
out
at dawn. Make sure you're ready, because if you aren't, I'll leave without you."

Amanda remembered Jake's reluctance to go to the cabin, and her original assumption on why he wouldn't go there with her. The suspicion that had gnawed at her then returned in force.

Would he sleep in his bed
alone?

"Very well," she said, her voice cracking only slightly. No tears clouded her eyes. Amanda knew, because she had the devil's own time blinking them back.

She was in the process of flicking the reins—she had to get away from him; she would rather die than let Jake see her cry—when his fingers snaked out, looping around her wrist. His grip was light but insistent, his fingers warm, thick, and calloused.

A bolt of sensation shot from where their flesh touched all the way up her arm, and a wave of desire poured through her. Like a hot steel band, passion, longing, and... something else, something stronger... banded around her heart, squeezing so tightly she could barely breathe.

"Amanda," Jake said, leaning toward her. For once, the sharp edge of anger had been ironed from his voice. She hardly noticed. What she did notice was that this was the first time in three days he'd called her Amanda... and that she enjoyed the sound of her name on his tongue immensely. "You do know how to use that thing?"

"What thing?" she asked vaguely, and looked at him. His gaze was lowered, hooded by thick, sooty lashes. The copper skin stretched over his cheeks had an unusual, ruddy undertone.

Amanda didn't have to see his eyes to know what he was looking at. He was staring at the pistol now resting atop her lap. No, she corrected as a warm tingle washed over her, he was staring at her lap, not the gun, and not the trembling fingers fisted around it. His gaze was hot and intent.

"The gun," he elaborated. "Do you know how to use it, or was that another lie?"

"I—" Amanda glanced away. "No, I don't. This is the first gun I've ever held, and I've never fired one. But I think I could bluff my way through it if I had to."

Jake didn't utter a single one of the swears that slammed through his mind. He didn't dare. But he thought them... with a vengeance. Was this woman insane? Had she really traveled all this way, with that brat, not even knowing how to use a gun?! Why the hell was she carrying the damn thing in the first place if she didn't know how to use it?

Then he remembered the way her delicate white hands had held the gun that morning in the woods, as though she
had
known her way around it. He thought of the hands of poker they'd played, and he knew that, if the situation warranted, Amanda could bluff. Of course she could. She'd bluffed her way with him from the first, and Jake had only recently discovered it. Her affect on a total stranger would be even more dramatic, more believable.

He let go of her hand, ignoring the way his palm smoldered as he placed it atop his thigh. "Let's just hope you don't have to."

"I'm sure I won't. This seems like..." A scowl furrowed Amanda's brow as her gaze trained on the fighting miners. Though both were bloody and battered, neither looked ready to admit defeat. Just the opposite, their expressions said they were trying to kill each other with their bare hands. A crowd had gathered around them; all seemed to be enjoying the disgusting spectacle. "This seems like a perfectly lovely," she choked on the word, "town. I'm sure I'll be safe at Mrs. Mulligrew's."

"This is a mining town, princess," Jake corrected harshly. "It's nothing like Boston. Yes, some of the men here came from back East, but you aren't likely to find a gentleman among them. The men here are hard-bitten miners who, nine times out of ten, haven't seen a decent woman in a long, long time. There isn't an inch of Junction City you can consider safe. The sooner you realize that, the safer you'll be."

Amanda almost,
almost
told him that only if he remained at her side would she feel really and truly safe. Protected. But she didn't, because she didn't want him to think her clingy. It was enough he was concerned about her. Reluctantly concerned, true, but concerned nonetheless. She said, "I'll keep it in mind."

"You'd damn well better."

This time when Amanda flicked the reins, Jake let her go. He watched the mare pick its way around the horses and flatbed wagons jostling down the street. He didn't follow her, nor did he move about his business the way his mind told him he should. Instead, he just sat and watched—both Amanda
and
the impact she had on the grizzled-looking males she passed.

More than one bearded mouth gaped open. More than one man's eyes widened appreciatively upon seeing her, blinked hard, then looked again, staring with open amazement.

Her calico dress didn't hide as much as Jake would have liked for it to. It clung to her breasts, nipped at her uncorsetted waist, bunched enticingly at her hips. A small portion of creamy white calves could be glimpsed beneath the hem.

The dress couldn't hide her voluptuous curves, nor could it hide the raw dignity of the woman wearing
it.

Jake sighed and plowed his fingers through his hair. Where his next thought came from, he didn't know. And he didn't like it one damn bit. But he thought it anyway.

Amanda Lennox didn't belong in faded calico. Her quiet grace and dignity said she belonged in silks and satins, with swathing of intricate lace. In frilly, fashionable bonnets and thick sable cloaks, not threadbare cotton. She belonged in a richly decorated mansion with a battery of servants and a loving, devoted husband... not a cheap hotel room in Junction City with a temperamental half-breed.

Where she belonged, Jake thought miserably, was back in Boston. Not here. Not with him. Not ever.

With those thoughts eating at him, Jake nudged the white into motion, his glare trained on the hand-painted signs announcing each building. His attention fixed on the saloon to his right, and automatically he guided the white toward it.

The supplies, he decided abruptly, could wait. Right now he needed a drink. Badly.

Amanda's boot-heels clicked atop the scarred, planked floor as she paced from one end of the hotel room to the other. Her arms were crossed over her chest as though to protect her from the chaotic thoughts racing through her mind. Her wrinkled calico skirt rustled with each agitated step. A scowl had been brewing on her brow for the last two hours; it now etched deep crevasses into her smooth white skin.

The first fingers of dusk threaded through the single window on the far wall. Slices of muted light cut pale purple streaks over the floor. Outside, the sounds of Junction City seemed to magnify with the coming night. Horses whickered, wagon wheels creaked and jostled, men cussed, degraded, and goaded each other at incredible volumes. Tinny piano music drifted up through the floorboards under Amanda's feet. Husky male laughter wafted up the stairwell and crept through the crack under the door.

Tired of pacing, yet not nearly tired enough to sleep, she spun on her heel and perched on the edge of the narrow bed. The straw-filled mattress crunched under her weight as her gaze scanned the room. She remembered the sign that hung above the door of the hotel, the one she'd glanced at briefly before entering. Bold, handwritten letters proclaimed Mulligrew's Hotel as the finest in the territory. One golden brow lifted skeptically, and she thought that if
this
was the finest the Montana Territory had to offer, she'd hate to see the
worst!
They were in Montana now, weren't they?

What little furniture there was matched only in that it was all old. A single bed rested against the wall beside the window, and it looked as though the rickety piece of furniture was the only thing holding the wall up. The lumpy bed didn't look big enough to fit one person comfortably. An off-balance table squatted beside the bed. That was it. The chipped crockery pitcher and basin for washing didn't have a table; instead, it had been set off on the floor in a corner near the door. The wallpaper was decorated with big, water-damp brown splotches.

She could be thankful the bedlinen was clean. Faded and dingy, but clean all the same. There was no bedspread. Two blankets had been tossed atop the mattress and sloppily tucked in at the bottom corners. They were threadbare and thin, but also clean. So was the hand-stitched cotton pillow casing. Cleanliness was something to be grateful for, considering the state of the rest of the room.

She slipped her hand into the oversized pocket of her skirt. Her fingertips stroked cold, hard metal. She shivered even as she wrapped her fingers around the carved wooden butt of the pistol.

Slowly, Amanda pulled the gun free, her gaze fixing on it. The weapon wouldn't offer much protection. Not without bullets. And hadn't Jake known when he'd returned it that...?

The scowl etching her brow deepened, and her gaze fixed on the chamber that should hold the bullets—had she any to load it with. A nagging suspicion tugged at her.

Jake Chandler wasn't the type of man who left
anything
to chance. While she may not know the man as well as she would like to, she knew enough. Returning an empty pistol when he thought it might be needed for protection was out of character for him. Quite simply, he wouldn't have done it. At the very least, he would have checked the gun to be sure it was loaded.Her fingers trembling slightly, Amanda toyed with the revolver’s cylinder. Figuring out how the cylinder rotated took her a few minutes, but in the end she drew back the hammer slightly and her patience was rewarded.

More so than she'd expected.

Her gaze widened. Five shiny cartridges were now nestled within the cylinder. Only the chamber in front of the hammer was empty.

Amanda smiled. So, Jake
had
checked! He must have purchased
the
bullets in the last town they'd stopped at.

Her heart skipped a beat, and her smile faded. The trembling in her fingers spread throughout her body. Dear God, he had checked! That meant he knew she'd lied that morning when she'd told him the gun was loaded.

You don't know me. If you did, you'd know how much I hate a liar.