Between Love and Lies (3 page)

Equal parts shocked and mesmerized, he watched her chest rise and fall with the words of her song.

“She cried so when I left her,
It like to break my heart,”

Lord, he felt like his heart was liable to break right here and now. It missed a beat, tightened as if she’d reached out with her small hand and twisted it. What in the blue devil was she doing dressed like that and in a saloon?

“And if I ever find her
We never more will part.”

He’d found her. Hadn’t even taken a day. But what had happened since he’d last seen her? Dread made his stomach churn as a dozen possible answers, each one more sordid than the last, flashed through his mind.

“She’s the sweetest rose of color
A fellow ever knew,”

The red of her hair shone like a beacon. He’d remembered it perfectly these last twelve months. But her face was different…paler, while the blush of her cheeks was too vivid.

“Her eyes are bright as diamonds,
They sparkle like the dew.”

From this distance, he couldn’t see the color of her eyes, but he didn’t have to. They’d be green as a summer meadow and glittering with tears. Tears he’d caused.

An avalanche of regrets roared in his ears, blocking out all sound. The one person he’d loved was gone, wiped out much like he’d destroyed this woman’s farm. Now there was only her, haunting his dreams, both sleeping and waking. Her memory had called to him in Texas, same as her voice broke through his grief and called to him now.

“We’ll play the banjo gaily,
and we’ll sing the songs of yore,

And the Yellow Rose of Texas
Shall be mine forevermore.”

With that last line, Noah made a promise—to God, to himself and the whole forsaken town of Dodge. He wasn’t leaving until he fixed the wrong he’d done.

CHAPTER 2

“And you scoffed
at my suggestion,” Lewis said in a voice hushed with both appreciation and amazement, “that we’d find anything of worth in a saloon.”

Noah wrenched his gaze from the stage to stare at his friend. “Why is she here?”

“You know her?” Lewis’ eyebrows rose even further. “Is she what you came searching for?”

Noah spun on his heel and made a beeline for the bar. He ordered a shot of whiskey and drank it in one gulp. The cheap liquor burned a path down his throat, making him grimace. The bartender reached out a hand as big as a dinner plate to remove the bottle.

“Leave it,” Noah growled, then poured himself another glass and tossed it back even faster. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Lewis had joined him.

“Last year, your trip to Dodge…” Lewis’ voice lacked its usual hint of merriment. “I always wanted to ask... You came home awfully cut up about your brother, but there’s more, isn’t there?” He glanced at the stage. “I’ll admit she’s mighty pretty, but you could pay dozens of saloon girls to help you forget about—”

Noah seized Lewis by his shirtfront. He wasn’t sure if he did so to shut up his friend or keep himself from keeling over. A sudden dizziness was making it difficult to breathe. “I don’t deserve to forget. I deserve to rot in hell.”

Lewis’ face went as white as bleached bone. “Noah, you’re scaring me. Tell me why you came back to Dodge.”

Noah released him, but only so he could pour himself another whiskey. He knocked back the third drink, despairing when it still failed to numb the guilt stabbing his conscience. First his brother, then her. He’d destroyed both of their lives. Jacob was dead, and she was working in one of the roughest saloons in the West.

What happened to her farm? To her father? To the money I left them?
He poured another drink and rotated the glass in his hand, searching for answers at the amber liquid.

“For God’s sake,” Lewis said. “Say something.”

“Yes, she’s the reason I came north with you,” he managed through gritted teeth. “Only she wasn’t a
whore
—” the word stuck in his throat, had to be forced out, “—when I saw her last.” The full weight of the situation pressed down on him, crushing him. “I’m responsible for making her one.”

Lewis’ eyes flared with disbelief. He opened his mouth to reply, but a cool, feminine voice behind them interrupted.

“Well, I declare. I reckon I’ve never laid eyes on two such eye-catching men in all my life.” A delighted chuckle followed, then the woman announced, “And that’s saying something. Name’s Gertie Garrett. Welcome to my saloon.”

The middle-aged madam’s squat frame sported a massive bosom and red hair…like Timothy Sullivan’s daughter, but there was a world of differences in the color. While Miss Sullivan’s mane gleamed with gold and strawberry tones, this woman’s hair was harsh and brassy as old copper. Her cloying floral scent made him wrinkle his nose. Everything about her was overstated, overpowering.

Right now Noah welcomed her vulgarity. The force of it, the distraction, anything to halt his careening thoughts and wandering gaze. Despite his best efforts, he was staring at the stage again.

“Ah, you are intrigued by my Sadie,” the madam observed.

The word “my” raised Noah’s hackles. He gave Gertie Garrett his full attention. The hint of a smile curved her scarlet mouth, as if she were a mother mentioning a beloved daughter. But shrewdness narrowed her kohl-painted eyes. His hands tightened into fists. Madam Garrett owned this saloon. She owned Sadie. She was making that relationship clear.

“Many have been interested,” she purred. “The girl caused a bidding war when I first got her. But tonight I can arrange for her to spend some time with you.”

Noah fought the urge to punch Madam Garrett—and every person in the room who might have forced Sadie to do anything against her will. His inclination must have shown in his sudden stillness, because Lewis stepped between him and the madam.

Oblivious to the danger, she rambled on. “Men of your bearing are always welcome in my establishment.” Her gaze swept over first Lewis and then him. “Sadie deals a fine hand of poker. Which of one you would like to join her table and try your luck?”

Lewis shook his head. “Neither one of us are much for playing cards. We should be going.”

Noah shouldered Lewis aside. “I’m not leaving.” With folded arms, he faced the madam. “The sooner you set up that card game, the better. I want to sit down with Sadie immediately.”

* * *

Sadie doggedly
avoided making eye contact with the brooding man seated across the card table. Her thoughts were harder to control. The Texan had been back in her life less than an hour and every second of that hour she’d spent thinking about him, recalling his calm, self-assured manner when he’d saved her from being trampled and told her that her farm could be rebuilt.

Then he’d left.

Anger and disappointment made her hand tremble, like a drunk letting go of an empty bottle, as she dealt the last card.

She glanced up and caught him frowning, his whiskey-colored eyes locked on her fingers. She dropped her hand, palm down, onto the table, anchoring herself while she concentrated on suppressing her reactions. Unable to look away, she watched his gaze travel upward, over her gaudy dress, pausing for a heartbeat on the exposed flesh of her chest where—if possible—his eyes narrowed even more before they rose to her face.

Noah Ballantyne
. When he’d arrived at her table, introductions had been made. He’d spoken in the same rumbling deep voice that continued to befuddle her. She knew his name now. She knew who to curse.

Deciding it was safer to concentrate on the others at the table, she assessed the two men seated with them: a fair-haired man named Mr. Adams and a cowhand still damp from a scrubbing at the bathhouse. The cowhand fidgeted with the collar of a too-tight shirt and the brim of a too-large hat, seesawing between praising and condemning his new clothing. Mr. Adams’ smile and cordial replies never wavered. He was a handsome man, but nowhere near as striking as her cowboy.

Damn it.
Noah Ballantyne wasn’t her anything. Desperate for a distraction, she scanned the table again.

Cora’s gaze clashed with hers.

Perched on the arm of Mr. Adams’ chair, the ebony-haired beauty’s ample curves and charm made her feel dull and dim-witted. She cared little about her looks, but in Dodge a dearth of knowledge could prove deadly. Eyebrows arched in challenge, Cora traced a slow but precise finger down Mr. Adams’ chest. Only after her hand disappeared below the table did she give Mr. Adams her full attention, along with a murmured invitation from him to accompany her upstairs.

Sadie imagined herself and Mr. Ballantyne climbing the steps to the second-story rooms, his arm around her waist, binding her close. What would happen if they were alone in her room? She pictured him lying down with her, strong and sure, holding her on her bed instead of the trampled earth of her farm.

Around her, the cacophony of braying voices faded to a dull roar. The heat in her cheeks spilled over, spiraling down to curl low in her body. The tension arched her back, making her sway toward him.

Mr. Ballantyne reached out as if to steady her. His tanned, work-roughed fingers hesitated short of her arm.

The wholesome scents of soap and leather tickled her nose, enticing her to remove the gap between them. Her gaze skimmed the faded blue shirt hugging his arms, the rough-cut leather vest encasing his chest, the sheepskin coat on the back of his chair. The same coat he’d worn when they first met.

He hadn’t bothered to buy new clothing.

A sudden chill chased the heat from her body. He wasn’t here to impress anyone and, judging from his lack of attention for his cards lying on the table, he wasn’t here to be play poker either. So why was he here?

“Why are you so pale?” Mr. Ballantyne’s unexpected question made her jaw drop.

His gaze searched hers.

Behind her, Gertie cleared her throat, snapping her back to reality. Gertie always had a way of doing that. The heartless woman needed to pay for what she’d done to Edward. And when she did, Sadie could stop dealing cards to men who, when they stared at a woman like Mr. Ballantyne was looking at her, desired one thing. The one thing she not only wouldn’t, but couldn’t give.

She edged back in her seat.

“Hey!” The cowhand sitting next to her slapped his cards on the table, making the chips rattle. “You ain’t leavin’, are you? You haven’t answered my question.” He jumped out of his chair. His damp hair stuck out at all angles like a rooster with its feathers ruffled. “Have you even heard a word I been sayin’?”

She struggled to guess what he might have asked.

The cowhand’s face darkened with a flush of annoyance. “You think yer too good to talk to likes of me.” He yanked her out of her chair and up against his side. “Well, I’ve five dollars that says yer mine for ten minutes, same as any whore in this here room.”

Her gasp of surprise and then pain, as his grip tightened on her arm, was drowned out by the screech of a chair being shoved back. Mr. Ballantyne had launched to his feet. The card table between them pitched violently. The chips scattered and struck the floor with the clatter of a rockslide.

Gertie bellowed Handsome John’s name. An instant later he stood by his employer’s side. He didn’t stay there long. The Northern Star’s peacekeeper pressed forward, looming over her unwelcome suitor, who had yet to release her arm. John was anything but handsome, having come out the other side of a knife fight the hands-down loser, but Sadie welcomed the sight of him.

Another shadow fell over her. Gaze riveted on the cowhand’s grasp on her arm, Mr. Ballantyne towered over her, like a storm cloud ready to descend. His eyes had lost all warmth. The change chilled her to the bone.

She didn’t want to see him or John get hurt. Only Gertie deserved that level of retribution.

Fixing her attention on the cowhand, she said, “You have misinterpreted the situation, Mr.…”

“Miller. See! You can’t even remember my name.”

“Mr. Miller, let me assure you that it is I who is not good enough for you.” She’d spoken as politely as she could, trying to keep her voice calm despite his fingers digging into her arm.
Hold steady
, she told herself.
Don’t panic
. As when soothing a wild animal, one must keep them from sensing your fear.

Mr. Ballantyne took a step closer to her, robbing her of logical thought and whatever words she might have uttered next.

John moved in on Miller. “You’re new in town and wet around the ears in more than one way. You don’t want this lady. Pick another. One without—” his gaze cut to her before locking on Miller again, “—Cupid’s Disease. In case yer still confused, I’ll put it plainly. You dally with her, you get syphilis.”

Mr. Ballantyne flinched as if he’d been slapped, while at the same time Miller dropped her arm faster than a coyote learning a porcupine has quills.

“The French pox?” Miller’s words broke the bubble of silence that had briefly cocooned her.

She fought the urge to lay a protective hand over her aching arm. Feeling as if everyone’s gazes bored into her, her skin prickled then flushed with heat. What was Mr. Ballantyne thinking?