She couldn’t drag her gaze from his. To know that he, of all men, had seen her behave with such a total lack of propriety made her feel dangerously vulnerable. And here she stood, attired in nothing but a nightdress and wrapper, in what was fast approaching broad daylight. “I—” She searched desperately for something, anything, to say. “I’m going to be late.”
With that, she turned and scurried for the house. The rhythmic sound of the ax continued the entire time she dressed for school. She grabbed a chunk of bread and an apple for lunch, then left the house, slamming the door with such force the windows shook. Swift upended the ax on the chopping block and propped an arm on the handle’s end. His gaze followed her as she swept past him in a blaze of anger. There was only one word to describe that look in his eye,
predatory.
And, God help her, she was his prey.
Chapter 5
THE FIRST THING AMY CLAPPED EYES ON WHEN she stepped inside her classroom was Swift’s black poncho hanging on the coatrack. As soon as she’d set down her books, she walked over to dispose of the disgusting thing, but when she reached for the coarse black wool, her arm began to shake. Try though she might, she couldn’t force her fingers to clasp the garment.
Slowly the children began to filter in. Aside from the concern for her welfare because she had fainted the prior afternoon, it seemed like any other day, yet not, for she knew Swift lurked somewhere in town and that he might, at any time, appear in the doorway. Just in case, she closed the door but soon reopened it when the children began to look flushed. It was an uncommonly warm morning for October, and the classroom was a misery without some fresh air.
Before Amy called class to order, she heard a distant popping sound.
Gunfire.
Swift always had been one to practice with his weaponry, so hearing the shots shouldn’t have surprised her. Memories assailed her, of Swift teaching her to throw a knife, his strong hands enfolding hers, his chest against her back, his deep voice whispering next to her ear. If only they could go back. If only the years hadn’t changed each of them so.
Amy licked her lips and dragged her mind back to the present, to the gunfire. Swift was no longer a gentle boy. He had killed more men than he could count and had joked about the number last night.
Not more than ninety.
One was too many.
Another volley of shots rang out. Distracted by the sound, nerves leaping, Amy relied on ingrained habit and opened the day’s lesson with arithmetic, then proceeded to spelling. When the distant sound of gunfire ceased, her senses, alert for the slightest sound, became riveted to the doorway. During recess, she refused the girls’ invitations to join them outside for a game of jacks. Instead she sat at her desk, back to the wall, nibbling her apple and trying without success to read.
By the end of the day, Amy’s nerves had frazzled. As relieved as she felt that Swift hadn’t visited the school, she still had the remainder of the afternoon and the evening to get through. In no hurry to go home, where he was sure to find her, she sat at her desk to check her notes on the next day’s lessons.
When a shadow suddenly fell across the room, she stiffened and glanced up to find Swift standing in the doorway. Because she hadn’t heard him approach, she dropped her gaze to his boots. His silver spurs had been removed. As much as she detested the chinking noise the spurs made, a perverse anger swept over her. Why had he taken them off? The better to sneak up on her?
Brown-red dust coated the toes and heels of his boots. She swallowed and trailed her gaze upward. More dust clung to his pants. Dressed all in black, with his hat over his eyes and the gun belt low on his hips, he looked every bit the heartless gunslinger, the kind of man who was lightning quick to anger and deadly on the draw. The kind of man who would rule a woman’s every thought, word, and action.
The sleeves of his shirt were rolled back over his corded forearms, as if he’d been working. The collar hung open, the top three buttons unfastened to reveal a V of bronzed chest.
“M-may I help you?”
“Something that belongs to me is here,” he replied silkily. “I thought I’d walk over and collect it.”
Amy gripped the edge of the book so hard her knuckles ached. “I thought I made myself clear last night and this morning. I’m not yours. Nothing on God’s earth could convince me to marry a man who hasn’t even the common decency to remove his weapons in a schoolhouse. Hunter may not step in on my behalf, but there is law here in Wolf’s Landing. If you bother me again, I’m going directly to the jail to tell Marshal Hilton.”
He tipped his head so the sunshine slanted under the brim of his hat, revealing his slow, taunting grin. His hatband of silver conchae flashed into her eyes like a mirror.
With a flick of his fingers, he unbuckled his gun belt and slung it over his shoulder as he stepped inside. “I was talking about my poncho, Amy. I worked all day with Hunter up at the mine, and it gets damned chilly if I go underground. The poncho’s the closest thing to a jacket that I’ve got.”
“Oh.” She swallowed, feeling ridiculous. How could she have forgotten the poncho? Swift rattled her so badly that she was fortunate to recall her own name when he was around.
So he’d been working at the mine all day, had he? No doubt catching up on old times with Hunter. That was just like a man, making threats and leaving a woman to stew, never giving it another thought, while she thought of nothing else.
He stepped to the coatrack. “I’m sorry if I startled you. It was so late, I figured you’d be gone.”
To her dismay, instead of collecting his poncho, he hung his gun belt on a hook and strolled around the classroom, hands clasped behind him. Her attention centered on the knife and scabbard attached to his pants belt. She recognized the hand-carved handle; he still carried the same knife he had years ago. She could almost feel the smooth wood against her palm, still warm from his hand, the thrill of hitting her mark.
He paused before a display of drawings. “Not a bad likeness of a horse. Who drew it?”
“Peter Crenton. His father owns the Lucky Nugget Saloon. He’s a little redheaded boy. You may have noticed him.”
He nodded. “That carrot red hair was hard to miss.”
“His name is in the bottom right corner.”
“I can’t read, Amy. You know that.”
A pang of sadness hit her at the life he had led, but she pushed it away. “What can you do, Swift? Besides ride a horse, steal from the God-fearing, and sling a gun, I mean?”
He nudged his hat back, the movement slow and lazy, then turned to survey her, his mouth still curved in a grin. “I make love real good.”
Fiery heat flooded up her neck to her face, pooling in her cheeks. She stared at him, her eyes dry, her eyelids stuck open.
“What can you do?” he countered. “Besides teaching children and scaring off men by spouting rules of etiquette, I mean.”
Amy ran the tip of her tongue across her lip.
“Do you make love good, Amy?” he asked softly. “I’ll bet you don’t know. I reckon there are lots of rules for courting, and I’d wager every piece of gold I own that you know them all by heart. I’ll bet any man who’s ever come close to you got so sidetracked trying to start off right, he never got past saying, ‘How do, Miss Amy.’ ” He turned to regard her. Because his hat shaded his eyes, she could only guess where his gaze might be lingering. “It’s too bad you were so young fifteen years ago. I’d have made love to you, and you wouldn’t be in this fix.”
“Are you quite finished?”
“I haven’t even started yet,” he came back with a low chuckle. He strode toward her, his feet touching the floor planks so lightly that she felt as if she were being stalked. “Lucky for you, no rule book about manners is going to muddy my waters.” He braced his hands on the far side of her desk, leaning toward her. “It’d be a shame, wouldn’t it, if you lived the rest of your days a starched virgin with her nose in the air?”
“I’m no virgin, and you know it.”
“Aren’t you? I’d say you’re about as untouched as a woman can get. You’ve never made love, Amy. You were used, and there’s a hell of a difference.”
The blood drained from her face. The Swift she had known never would have taunted her about the comancheros. “Get out,” she whispered. “So help me, if you don’t leave, I’m going for Marshal Hilton.”
He smiled and straightened. “So he can fight your battles for you? What’s happened to your backbone? The girl I knew would have spit in my eye. Or socked me. She gave as good as she got, to hell with the consequences. You called
me
a coward? Honey, you haven’t got enough guts left in you to make a smear if someone smashed you.”
“I’m not the girl you knew. I told you that. Now please leave before you embroil us in a nasty and completely unnecessary confrontation with Marshal Hilton.”
Moving toward the coatrack, he began to whistle. The tune came clear after a moment. Scarcely able to believe he still remembered it, she threw a glance at his broad back. After taking his gun belt and poncho off the hooks, he turned and looked at her again. His voice pitched low, he said, “How did that song go? ‘Up in the hayloft with a girl named Sue . . .’ ” His eyes met hers, alight with laughter. “You taught me the words, remember? Did you even know what they meant? You didn’t, did you?”
“It—it was a song I’d heard my—my stepfather sing. At that age, it never occurred to me it might be—” She broke off and averted her gaze. “What’s the point in all this, Swift? To embarrass and humiliate me? If so, you’re doing a good job.”
He hesitated at the door, looking back at her over his shoulder. “I’m just reminding you that there was a time when you laughed and sang and ran wild with me on the Texas plains. That chapter in your life isn’t closed. The last half hasn’t even been written yet. Like I said, I’ll give you some time to get used to the idea of marrying me. Make good use of it.”
With that, he walked out the door.
For the next several days, Amy expected Swift to sneak up on her at every turn. During school, the slightest sound outside made her whirl, heart slamming. En route home, she jumped every time a bush moved. At night, certain he would come and force a confrontation, she paced, ears pricked for footsteps on her porch. When he didn’t, instead of feeling relieved, she grew angry. He had turned her life into a living hell, and now he was off doing whatever it was men did, forgetting all about her.
Was this what he meant about giving her time to get used to the idea of marrying him? This torturous waiting? Not knowing, from moment to moment, when she’d turn and find him there?
She avoided Hunter and Loretta’s house as though the occupants were in quarantine, going directly from home to school, then back again, double-bolting her door against the night, only to pace until the wee hours, unable to sleep. She didn’t dare bring her tub inside and bathe, for fear he’d choose that moment to shoulder her door open. When she dressed, she did so with the speed of a harried actress changing costume backstage between scenes.
The first afternoon, she saw Swift at a distance when he came into town after working at the mine. A few minutes later, she saw him out riding his black stallion bareback, impressing Chase with his Comanche riding skills. On the second day, she spied him walking with Indigo along the boardwalk. He behaved like a man without a care, his hat low, his gait loose-hipped and lazy. He never spared a glance for the women who passed him on the street, apparently unaware that they made a cautious circle around him. Late the third evening, she saw him and Hunter in the woods at her end of town, throwing axes and knives at a stump. Having fun, damn him!
By the fourth afternoon, necessity drove Amy up the street to the shops along the boardwalk. She was out of bread, low on eggs, and she needed kerosene, flour, sugar, and molasses. She hurried to get her shopping done, hoping to pick up a loaf of bread and eggs from Loretta’s before the men came in from work.
Samuel Jones, at the general store, grinned broadly when he saw her. “Well, hello, Miss Amy. How are you this afternoon?”
“Fine, and you?” she asked, moving toward him, her green muslin skirts swirling with each step.
“Now that your smile is brightening the place, I couldn’t be finer,” he teased. “I just got a shipment of new threads. Care to look them over? Lots of tempting colors.”
“I haven’t had much time for crocheting of late.”
“Haven’t seen you out and about much. You been spending all your time visiting with Hunter and Loretta’s houseguest? I hear he’s been a friend of the family for years.”
Amy stiffened. “Yes, he has. However, that isn’t what’s kept me at home. I’ve been occupied with lesson planning and such. The beginning of the school year is my busiest time.”
She glanced at her shopping list and read off the items she needed. Sam quickly stacked her supplies on the counter, casting her curious glances while he worked. “Is it true he’s
the
Swift Lopez, the gunslinger we’ve been reading about?”
Amy crumpled the list in her palm. “Yes.”
Sam gave the sack of flour a pat. His face was pockmarked thanks to Jacksonville’s smallpox epidemic of 1869, but the scars enhanced his looks, lending him a rugged appeal.
“People are fidgety about him being here. Even makes me nervous. If it wasn’t for Hunter being the founding father of our community, I think there’d be a petition circulating by now to have Mr. Lopez escorted out of town by the marshal.”
Family loyalty prompted Amy to say, “You know Hunter would never countenance a troublemaker in our midst. As I understand it, Mr. Lopez has come here to make a new start. I’m sure he has no intention of using his guns again.”
“He’d be wise not to. You know what they gave John Wesley Hardin, don’t you? Twenty-five years in the Texas State Prison. He’ll be an old man by the time he sees freedom.” He went to fetch her kerosene. As he sat the container of fuel on the counter, he shook his head. “Hard to believe we may see the day when lanterns will be outdated.”