Teresa Medeiros (9 page)

As he awaited her response, he allowed his thumb to roam freely over the inviting softness of her lower lip. Her eyes widened. Her lips trembled, parting slightly beneath the pressure of his thumb. Her breath quickened, causing her small, plump breasts to rise and fall in an uneven cadence.

Billy had anticipated the effect his touch would have on her, but he was not prepared for its effect on him. Desire squeezed his groin in a ruthless vise, making him wish for
a brief but piercing moment that he was exactly the sort of man he was pretending to be.

Emotions flickered across her face. Fear. Outrage. Desperation. And something more elusive. Something that made him wonder just what she would do if he slid his hand through the disheveled skein of her hair, tipped her head back, and caressed her lips with his mouth instead of his thumb.

But before he could succumb to that dangerous temptation, her expression hardened to contempt.

Billy braced himself for the slap he knew was coming. The slap he deserved for daring to make a lady such a scandalous proposition.

Her face was as pale as milk, but her eyes glittered with scorn. “Very well, Mr. Darling. Consider yourself hired.”

“What?” Billy nearly shouted the word. His hand fell numbly to his side. He’d expected her to run shrieking from the room in maidenly horror, not accept his crude proposal.

But it seemed he had underestimated both her determination and her devotion to her brother. A mistake he dared not make again.

While he stood there, still reeling with shock, she bustled around the room with businesslike efficiency, tying on her battered bonnet and gathering up her belongings. “I shall be at the hotel, assuming this provincial village has one. I’ll meet you at the restaurant promptly at seven tomorrow morning so we can discuss our plans.”

Billy’s eyes widened further. He hadn’t risen before ten since he’d retired to the whorehouse to recover from his gunshot wound.

She snapped on her gloves, then hesitated, frowning in dismay. “I hate to trouble you, sir, but might I borrow enough money to pay for a night’s lodging?”

He reached into his pocket and handed her a fat wad of his poker winnings. She could have taken the whole thing and he would have been too dazed to protest.

She peeled off one of the smaller bills and handed back the rest. “Just add it to my tab,” she suggested, her smile sharp enough to raise welts.

“My pleasure, ma’am.” He suspected his cocky grin was only a wan shadow of its former self.

She started for the door, then returned to sweep up the plate of beefsteak and potatoes. “No point in letting a perfectly good supper go to waste.”

When she had departed, the plate cradled tenderly in the crook of her arm, Billy sank down on the bed and dragged off his hat, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. Miss Patches surveyed him from the rocker, her feline hauteur unruffled, while Sadie waddled out from under the bed to lean against his knee.

He gave the hound a distracted scratch before raking a hand through his own hair. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he breathed. “I will be damned.”

But for the first time in more years than he could remember, he didn’t feel like it.

My dearest Grandfather
, Esmerelda wrote in her neat script. She nibbled on the end of the fountain pen for a thoughtful moment before going back and marking out the
My
and the
est
.

“Dear Grandfather,” she read aloud.

Scowling, she slashed through the
Dear
, leaving only
Grandfather
. She had thought to pen an earnest plea for deliverance, but even that stark salutation rang false to her ears. She crumpled the stationery in her fist before dragging a fresh sheet across the desk. It was well past midnight, but restlessness plucked at her nerves, making sleep impossible. If Sheriff McGuire hadn’t been kind enough to retrieve her trunk and violin case from the old cowpoke and have it sent to the hotel, she would have been penning her letter on the back of Billy Darling’s Wanted poster.

Lord Wyndham
, she scribbled, forsaking her flawless penmanship
for an impassioned scrawl,
It is with great trepidation and no little regret that I am writing to inform you that due to your enduring neglect and indifference, I have been forced to barter my virtue to a ruthless desperado
.

She pressed a hand to her cheek, distracted by the memory of Billy Darling’s possessive touch. He had sought to bully her, yet his touch had been as tender as a lover’s caress. The realization provoked a curious shiver that she prayed was fear. She’d nearly killed a man today, then lied shamelessly to his face. She didn’t think she could bear to add wantonness to her growing list of sins.

Curling her bare toes beneath the hem of her gown, she resumed her brisk scribbling.
I trust you will suffer no distress on my behalf since you never have before. Ever your devoted granddaughter … Esmerelda Fine
.

She dotted the final i with savage violence. The pen spat an ugly blob of ink onto the page.

Groaning, Esmerelda lowered her head to the desk, tempted to bang it in frustration. She could post this letter at dawn and it still wouldn’t reach England for weeks. And even if it were to miraculously wing its way there on the morrow, she knew that it would meet with nothing but her grandfather’s apathy and scorn. She’d lingered in Boston for nearly three months after posting that first letter to him, hoping for a reply that she’d known in her heart would never come.

She tossed the letter on the growing pile, wondering what had possessed her to weave such an absurd fable. To boast that her grandfather would cross an ocean to come to her rescue when he wouldn’t cross a London street to toss a farthing in her cup if she were begging barefoot in the snow.

Once she’d started lying, she couldn’t seem to stop. Her desperation had only kindled the fantasies she’d never
dared admit, even to Bartholomew. Fantasies of a man she might call “Grandpapa”—a man with snowy white hair and a bristling mustache that would tickle her cheek when he folded her into his strong, loving arms. A man who would stroke her hair and murmur, “There, there, girl. You’ve done well, but there’s nothing more for you to do. It’s time to come home now.”

Although the dream was sweet, it left a bitter taste in her mouth. Because she knew when it was over, she would be left, as always, with nothing to rely on but her own wits.

And a dangerous stranger.

Since her parents’ death, she’d refused to let herself need anyone. But she needed Billy Darling. Without him, she might never find Bartholomew.

Her brother might actually be alive! She savored a thrill of joy at the thought. She’d found it difficult enough to carry on when he’d ran away, but believing him dead had been nearly intolerable.

She closed her eyes, overcome by memories of the first time she had almost lost him. They’d been at the cemetery placing flowers on their parents’ freshly turned graves when he had put his little hand in hers and tugged, complaining that his tummy hurt. Despite the oppressive heat of the July day, she had glanced down to find him shivering violently.

Stricken with absolute terror, she had nursed him day and night, pouring every ounce of her energy into holding the shadow of death at bay. When the doctor had paid his final visit, shaking his head sadly as he snapped his black bag shut, she had cradled Bartholomew’s bloated little body against her chest and begged God to let him live. Guilt had torn at her even then because she didn’t know if she was more afraid of losing him or of being left all alone. Tears had coursed down her cheeks as she vowed that she
would take care of him, would raise him to be the man her parents had always wanted him to be. If only God would let him live …

Esmerelda opened her eyes, surprised to find them stinging but dry. Taking care of Bartholomew had been the sole focus of her life since that moment. She had thought only to hold him close and keep him safe, but she had squeezed too tightly and he had slipped right through her fingers. Losing him had been like losing herself, or at least the only person she still remembered how to be.

Hugging her shawl around her, she padded to the window and drew back the ruffled curtain. The town of Calamity slumbered in the moonlight, a tiny oasis of civilization in a vast sea of wilderness. Most of its lamps had been extinguished, but burning in the attic window of the clapboard house that sat catty-cornered across from the hotel was a single candle flame.

Mesmerized by its flickering glow, Esmerelda leaned her brow against the warped pane. Was Mr. Darling tucked beneath his faded quilt with a drowsing cat snuggled against his side? Had he drifted to sleep while reading one of those dime novels he denied owning but plainly cherished?

The front door of the establishment swung open, shattering the cozy image. A cowboy staggered onto the sidewalk, a woman tucked beneath his arm. She wiggled out of his drunken grip, but he snatched her back, grinding both his mouth and his hips against her in a crude rhythm impossible for even a spinster like Esmerelda to misinterpret.

She ducked behind the curtain, her cheeks burning. When she dared to peek back out, the woman was gone and the cowboy was lurching down the street toward the saloon. Her gaze flicked back to the candle. Whoever slept in that house, including the occupant of that attic room, doubtless did not sleep alone.

How Mr. Darling spent his nights didn’t matter, she eminded herself sternly, as long as he spent his days searching for her brother. Once Bartholomew was found … well, she would just find a way to renegotiate their little bargain.

She’d always prided herself on her bartering skills. Her parents’ bodies had still been laid out in the parlor in their Sunday best when the creditors had descended on their modest house like a flock of vultures, demanding payment of her papa’s outstanding debts. Fearing they would call the constable and demand that she and Bartholomew be carted off to the Griswald Home for Orphans and Foundlings, where they might be forever separated, Esmerelda had managed to fend them off with a clever mix of promises and threats. She’d never begged or stolen, but neither had she ever paid a dime on Monday that could be put off until Friday. If she’d learned anything in the past thirteen years, it was how to handle creditors.

Her only fear was that a man like Billy Darling just might be more than she could handle.

“Sweet dreams, Mr. Darling,” she murmured, letting the curtain fall.

Had she lingered at the window a moment longer, she would have seen the shadows come creeping across his room in the instant before the candle was abruptly snuffed.

Billy awoke to darkness and the cold barrel of a Colt revolver shoved against his temple. That didn’t stop him from reaching for his gun, just as they’d known it wouldn’t. The butt of the revolver slammed into his jaw. The coppery tang of blood exploded on his tongue. There were at least four of them. They should have brought five, he thought grimly, counting them lucky that the darkness blinded them to his icy grin.

He would have never survived being born the runt of the Darling litter if he hadn’t learned how to fight dirty, how to kick and gouge and bite whatever appendage came closest to his teeth. His foot connected smartly with the nearest groin. A bit-off curse deepened into a tortured groan. The men swarmed over him like a horde of apes, all grunting and swearing and breathing heavier than he was. He knew Sadie would be cowering beneath the bed, but an offended screech warned him that one of them had stepped on Miss Patches’s tail. The long, fluffy appendage was the calico’s pride and joy.

Now he was really riled.

He got in a flurry of savage licks before they managed to bind his arms behind him and shove a feed sack over his head. They herded him down the back stairs none too gently, slamming his head against the wall when he tried to bolt. He fervently hoped none of the girls would hear the commotion and get scared.

The fecund smell of manure and fresh hay penetrated the musty feed sack, along with the whickers of agitated horses. Even before they shoved him to a sitting position against a wooden partition and jerked the sack from his head, Billy knew they’d taken him to the livery stable.

He took his own sweet time licking the blood from the corner of his mouth before lifting his head to meet the eyes of the man standing over him. “Winstead,” he said without a trace of surprise.

The man offered him a curt nod, his smile remarkably pleasant. “Darling.”

The man’s gray-peppered hair was parted in the middle and slicked to either side. His eyes were like chips of coal, opaque and glittering all at the same time. His clothing was impeccably tasteful—his shoes polished, the creases in his wool trousers crisp, the stripes of his double-breasted vest
perfectly matched. He held a leather satchel tucked under one arm.

Of all the U.S. marshals Billy had tangled with, Winstead was the only one truly worthy of his contempt. And his respect. He had served as a colonel in the Union Army during the war and Billy would go to his grave regretting that he’d been too young to face those glittering eyes across a battlefield.