Anita Mills (12 page)

“Maybe he’s smitten by your looks.”

“He’s probably thinking I’m making a spectacle of myself,” she retorted.

“Keep smiling.”

“My face hurts from trying.”

By some act of divine mercy, the fiddler either didn’t want to play more than two verses, or perhaps he decided to spare her, but the music stopped. To complete her mortification, Matthew McCready gave her one last turn, then caught her in his arms and brushed his lips against hers in a public kiss. And there was nothing she could do about it without making matters worse.

“You are a miserable example of humanity—you know that, don’t you?” she said under her breath.

“Unless you want to try convincing Sheriff Goode that two strange men are following you, claiming to be related to you, and threatening your life for no apparent reason, you’d better hang on to me until you reach Columbus safely. Right now, I’m all you’ve got.”

“I didn’t give you permission to kiss me, and you know it.”

“I figured I’d better show ’em I didn’t marry you for your dancing.” As her face darkened ominously, he caught her hand again. “Now, now—none of that: You’d better keeping smiling, dearest, at least until we get to our room.”

“My room, you mean.”

“Anybody ever tell you the Lord hates a sore loser?” he murmured, pulling her back through the crowd.

“Find that for me in the Bible, will you?”

The fiddle had started up again, and couples were filling the clearing, while a number of cowboys began tapping in time, their spurs jingling with the music. In the renewed enthusiasm, nobody seemed to notice as she and Matthew McCready walked away. Passing the stranger by the tree, Matt nodded. The man stared at Verena for a brief moment, then lifted his hat. He was of medium height, well-built, blond, and quite handsome. She guessed him to be somewhere in his early to mid-thirties.

“Evening, mister. Ma’am.”

“Good evening,” she responded politely.

It wasn’t until they were almost in the house that Matthew murmured, “Any idea now?”

“No. He couldn’t be one of those two you saw earlier, could he? The ones at the waystation, I mean. Or did you get a good look at both of them?”

“He wasn’t one of them.”

“Well, he didn’t sound like either of the ones I overheard in the hall, either,” she said, sighing.

“Then I guess we’ll just have to assume you’ve gotten yourself an admirer, won’t we?”

“I don’t find that amusing, Mr. McCready. Right now, I don’t want any admirer. All I want is to get to San Angelo, take care of my father’s affairs, and get home again safely. After this, I won’t even mind going back to teaching.”

“You might want to take another look,” he murmured. “While I’m not much of a judge of what a woman’d want in a man, I’d say he’s pretty good- looking.”

“I didn’t notice.”

“The hell you didn’t.”

“I’d rather you didn’t swear, Mr. McCready.”

“He was sure giving you the once-over,” he pointed out, leaning past her to open the door to her room.

“I said I didn’t know him,” she declared firmly.

Finding the kerosene lantern in the semidarkness, she removed the chimney and trimmed the wick by feel. Behind her, McCready struck a match on the wall, then cupped his fingers to shelter the flame. The yellow flame beneath his face, coupled with the odor of burning sulfur, gave him an almost evil aspect. She held the lamp while he lighted it. As soon as the soaked wick caught, sending flickering shadows up the wall, he shook the match out, then turned back to shut the door. Replacing the curved glass chimney, she set the lamp on the small bedside table.

“Actually, I’m still trying to figure you out,” he admitted. “I’ve never met another female quite like you.”

She spun around at that. “I’m afraid I’ve already heard that before, Mr. McCready—from Mr. Wendall. And I assure you that I’m no more gullible now than then.”

For a moment, he was at a loss, then he understood. “Oh, you thought that I— Well, I wasn’t. In fact, I’d be a fool to pull anything on you, and you ought to know it.” Moving to the chair, he loosened his tie and pulled it off. “In case you’ve forgotten, neither of us can afford any kind of ruckus right now.” While he talked, he shrugged out of his coat and hung it over the chair back, taking care to smooth the shoulders. “And I don’t know about you, but I’m figuring to get a good night’s sleep myself.”

“I probably won’t sleep a wink with you in here,” she told him with feeling. “Even with you on the floor, the arrangement is positively indecent.”

“Unn-uhhh. I get the bed. You lost the cut, as I recall,” he murmured, opening the window. “So you’d better fold that quilt before you put it down there.”

“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, betraying her alarm. “Have you lost your mind?”

“It’s too damned hot in here.” “I don’t care!” she snapped. “What if somebody tried to climb in through that window?”

A faintly sardonic smile played at the corners of his mouth as he turned back to her. “Oh, I’m a pretty light sleeper, Rena. The way I figure it, he’d have to come in right over you, and when that happens, I’ll hear you screech. I’ll be sleeping with my Colt handy, so I’ll be ready for him. But if I were you, I wouldn’t be worrying my pretty little head over anybody coming in the window—I’d be a lot more concerned about that,” he added, nodding significantly.

“About what?”

“That trail of big red ants down there. I don’t know as I’d want to bed down with ’em.”

“Where? I don’t see any—” She stopped. Cutting across the floor, headed toward the inner wall was an army of the creatures. “My word—”

“Yeah. Kinda reminds me of those Indian torture stories.”

“What Indian torture stories?” she asked hollowly.

“I don’t guess they talk much about Indians in Philadelphia, do they?” he responded, enjoying himself immensely now.

“No, of course not.”

“Well, they’ve been known to stake their enemies on ant hills and smear ’em with a little honey. Not much left of ’em when the ants get done, I’m told.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“But maybe these are grease-eating ants,” he allowed. “I guess you’ll be finding out.”

“I guess I will.” Walking to the bed, she pulled off the quilt and shook it out. “I may be green, but I’m not stupid, Mr. McCready.”

As she folded the bedcovering in half, he sobered. “Whether you believe me or not, you’ll be eaten up before morning. Here—”

“Here what?” she snapped.

Sighing, he unbuckled his gun belt and untied the holster thong at his thigh. “Go on—take it.”

“For what? Surely you don’t expect me to believe I’m supposed to
shoot
those things?” she demanded incredulously. “Don’t you think you’ve just about carried this far enough?”

“It’s got five bullets loaded. All you’ve got to do is pull back the hammer to cock it, take aim, then pull the trigger. Those forty-five slugs will blow a big hole in just about anything. You can put it under your pillow.”

“You’re taking the floor,” she managed with relief.

“No, I’m offering to share the bed. You take whichever side you want, and you put that gun where you can get to it. Then if I roll over onto your side, you can use it. Believe me, a dose of lead in the gut’ll stop anybody.” Seeing that she stared at it in horror, he offered, “I’ll even show you how to shoot it, if that’ll make you feel any better.”

“No.” She eyed the floor with misgiving, then went to the chair. Still holding the quilt, she removed his coat and tie from the straight back and gave them a toss toward the bed. “Since you aren’t going to be a gentleman, I guess I’ll take this chair instead of the floor.”

“You can’t sleep like that.”

“I’ve slept sitting up most of the way from Philadelphia,” she reminded him wearily. “I can’t see where one more night will make much difference.”

“I don’t shame easily, Verena.”

Turning her back on him, she arranged the quilt so that it provided a measure of padding to the ladder back. It wasn’t very satisfactory, she noted with asperity, but she was going to have to make do with it. Plopping herself down on it, she tried to arrange her skirt around her legs. At the creak of rusty springs, she looked up.

The mattress dipped down dangerously where he sat. “Bed’s kind of rickety, but I guess it’ll be all right once I get myself situated.” Already halfway to the floor, he leaned down to pull off his boots, then sat back to take off his vest. Reaching across the bed to the other side of the feather mattress, he eased his body into it, then lay down. The side came up as he propped his feet on the footboard. He looked over, grinning at her.

Goaded, she gritted out, “
Now
what’s so funny?”

“You.”

“Well, I wish you wouldn’t stare. I don’t need to be reminded that I look a fright.”

His grin faded. “Actually, I wasn’t thinking that at all. I was thinking my mother would have liked you. In fact, you remind me a little of her.” Abruptly changing the subject, he said, “You know it’s damned hot in here—if I were you, I’d get out of that dress and skinny down to my chemise and drawers.”

“But you aren’t me.”

“Suit yourself.”

Rolling onto his side, he reached out and turned down the lantern wick. The flickering flame shrank to a small orange bead, then went out, casting the room into near darkness. An acrid wisp of dying smoke rose above the glass chimney, momentarily lingering in the warm night air.

She heard the springs creak again, and then the rustle of clothing. “What are you doing?” she demanded nervously.

“I’m not cold-natured like you, so I’m taking my pants off.” He could almost hear her choke. “I’ve still got my drawers on,” he added to reassure her. “I’m still decent enough for you to change your mind.”

“For the last time, Mr. McCready—if you were decent, you wouldn’t be here,” she shot back.

“Morning’s going to come early, Verena, so if I were you, I’d try to get some sleep. You’ll want to be in real fine fettle when it comes time to part with me in Columbus.”

“I can scarcely wait.”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he rolled to face the wall, and the feather mattress sagged in the middle while the sides of it came up, enveloping him like a lumpy, padded hammock.

She sat as still as stone for quite some time, until she heard his breathing finally even out, and she knew he slept. Easing her tired, aching body from the chair, she crept toward the open window and peered out into the moonlit night. The music had ended now, and the yard and porch were strewn with people bedded down end to end for the night. But over by the tree, there was a small glow of red, fading and brightening as the man stood there, sihouetted against the moon, puffing on another cheroot, looking her way. More than a little unnerved, she closed the window as silently as possible.

Returning to her chair, she sat down in the airless room, listening to McCready breathe. And her indignation grew with the realization that he was all but dead to the world, sleeping like a baby. The selfish lout was utterly oblivious to her suffering. Suddenly, she stiffened, aware of footsteps stopping just outside the window. Her heart in her throat, she held her breath and waited while the stranger from the tree looked inside. Finally, he tossed the little cigar away, then moved on.

“Mr. McCready—” she whispered.

Nothing.

“Matthew!” This time, she said it a little louder.

There wasn’t even a break in his breathing. He was too sound asleep to hear her.

“Matthew!” she tried again.

Instead of actually rousing, he turned over, murmured something unintelligible, then resumed the same even rhythm. So much for his assertion that he was a light sleeper.

Hot, tired, miserable, and more than a little frightened, she rose to tiptoe closer to the bed. A thin slice of moonlight slanted past the roof of the porch, casting a narrow, ribbon of illumination across Matthew McCready’s face. With his eyes closed and the clean angles of his face softened with sleep, he didn’t look nearly as dangerous now. And if she lay down, keeping to the other side, he wouldn’t even know it.

Moonlight glinted off the metal and polished walnut grip of the Army Colt where it hung from the bedpost above his head. For several seconds, she hesitated, then she carefully eased the gun out of its holster. Holding her breath, she crept to the other side of the bed and slid it under the pillow.

“Some help you’d be,” she whispered. “I don’t think a herd of wild horses could waken you.”

When he didn’t move, she very gingerly sat down on the edge of the bed. The whole thing seemed to sigh as she loosened the laces on her shoes and wriggled her feet free. Casting one last surreptitious glance over her shoulder, she eased the top half of her body down, and then she pulled her legs up.

Before her feet even touched the featherbed, the rusty springs suddenly gave way. Wood cracked like a rifle shot, and the whole bedstead shuddered, then caved inward, folding her and Matthew McCready together in the mattress. As broken boards skidded across the floor, the featherbed landed with a heavy thud, sending a cloud of choking dust into the air.

He came awake with a jolt. “What the devil—?”

Panicked, she struggled to right herself, but she and McCready were tangled together in the bedclothes. He managed to roll over her, imprisoning her beneath his body, while she clawed and scratched to get free.

‘Let me go!” she cried frantically. Feeling the cold steel of the gunbarrel under her back, she reached behind her, getting her fingers on it. Bringing it up, she had her arm raised, ready to strike his skull with it, when she heard the pounding and shouting. Somebody threw his weight against the door, shattering the frame, then five or six men burst through it, with Mrs. Goode right behind them.

“What on earth—?” the woman gasped. “What happened?”

“Plain as the nose on his face, ain’t it?” the burly man from the train declared. Pulling McCready off her, he shook his fist in the gambler’s face. “Yuh, suh, are a damned annymule! A-forcin’ yourself on the missus in her dellycut condishun!” he shouted belligerently.

As the man’s beefy fist connected with McCready’s eye, Verena screamed, “No!” Scrambling to her feet, she tried to grab the big fellow’s arm. “You don’t understand! It isn’t his fault!” He shook her off as if she were no more than a pesky gnat, then hit Matthew again. “I ain’t amin’ to mess ’im up much,” he assured her gruffly. “Just enough to teach ’im a lesson.”