Beyond Betrayal (16 page)

"Goodnight," Delilah called after him as he pulled the privacy curtain which—being of a yellow fabric with large white flowers on it—looked as though it had been fashioned from one of Eve's discarded dresses. She received a deep grunt in response.

She then arranged the bandages on the table, separating the thicker ones used for padding from the strips used for tying the dressing in place. After placing Fong's whiskey on the table next to the bandages, she retrieved a needle and thread from Eve's sewing basket. Pouring a small amount of Fong's whiskey into a saucer, she soaked the needle in it. Then, surveying the supplies she wiped her sweaty palms against her hips. Now, if only Matt would get back in here, she could get this over with.

But Matt seemed to be taking his time. Watching Delilah pace back and forth, Poopsy whined. "Do you have to go, girl?" Delilah asked.

As though to answer her question, Poopsy went to the door.

After taking one of the lanterns off of the table to light her way, Delilah opened the door for the dog and stepped out onto the veranda with her. Poopsy, however, took one look at the cold wet rain pouring down from the eaves, and stopped in her tracks to look back at Delilah with beseeching eyes.

"There's nothing I can do about the rain, Poochie," Delilah said. "Now, if you have to go, hurry up. You'll dry once you're back in the house."

"R. . . row, raw, grr. . . row.” Poopsy bobbed her head, sounding for all the world as though she was arguing the point.

Delilah shook her head. "You heard me. Now either go, or you can hold it until morning."

With her ears flattened against her head in annoyance Poopsy sidled up to the edge of the porch, jumped off into the mediocre shelter of a lilac bush, squatted as briefly as possible, and leaped back beneath the shelter of the porch roof. Then, after shaking the water from her coat, she gave a series of exaggerated shudders and walked disconsolately back to the door.

"That is the dadburndest thing that I've ever seen.” The male voice coming out of the shadows to her right made Delilah jump.

With her fingers hovering near her throat, she searched the shadows until she recognized Matt's form. "Oh," she said. "You frightened me."

"Sorry. I thought you'd heard me step onto the porch."

"No, I didn't.” Delilah stood staring at his shadowy form, not knowing what to say next.

Matt solved the problem for her. Nodding toward Poopsy, he said, "I think that blamed dog might actually develop a fit of the vapors if you don't soon let her in."

Delilah looked down. Sure enough, Poopsy was putting on quite a show. Anyone who didn't know that she'd been subjected to less than two minutes of rain would have believed the poor creature was about to die of a pulmonary illness from the way she sneezed and shuddered and coughed. "All right, Poochie," she said, opening the door. "You can go curl up in front of the stove."

Matt indicated with a hand that Delilah should precede him into the house. "Ma'am."

Swallowing her renewed trepidation, Delilah stepped through the doorway. "I was beginning to give up on you."

"I had to bed Goliath down for the night," Matt explained as he removed his dripping wet hat and hung it from one of the hooks next to the door. Then, turning toward the fireplace, he spread his bedroll out before it to absorb some of the heat. It consisted of a waterproof tarpaulin outfitted with rings and snaps so that the sleeper could pull the top flap over his head in wet or stormy weather. Folded neatly inside the tarp were a woolen blanket and a quilt. It was the kind of bedroll used by a person who knew what it was like to sleep on the land. Very similar to the one her daddy had always used, Delilah noted a bit wistfully.

"How are your ribs?" she asked quietly, mindful of those already abed in the small log house.

He gave her a long steady look, then said, "They've been better."

Summoning an impersonal attitude, Delilah nodded. "Well then, let's get them looked after, shall we? Take off your shirt and have a seat.” She indicated the chair nearest the stack of linens she'd prepared.

Wordlessly, Matt did as he'd been bidden. For an instant, Delilah could only stare at the massive shoulders and biceps thus revealed. Then, with unthinking candor she blurted the question that had plagued her since she'd first seen him lift a wagon single-handedly. "How in blazes did you get so big?"

Abruptly conscious of the personal nature of her query, her face flamed with embarrassment. "I'm sorry," she said quickly, averting her gaze though she felt his regard. "Please forgive my forthrightness."

"Nothing to forgive."

His deep quiet tone drew her gaze back to his face. . . to the dark eyes of such a deep grey that they seemed almost black. To the dark brown of his mahogany hair, tinged with flame now in the light from the fireplace. To the swarthiness of his complexion, with its whisker-shadowed jawline. There was something about this intense and powerful man that Delilah found much too compelling.

Suddenly he spoke again, tugging her gratefully from the dangerous direction of her musings. "Actually, size is a family trait. My father was a big man too, as are my uncles. We have contests to see who's the strongest whenever the clan gets together.” He looked up at Delilah, and she thought he almost smiled. "I won last time for the first time," he said. "It wasn't easy. Took a lot of practice."

Delilah began to remove the binding she'd put on his ribs earlier in the day. Blood had soaked through in a number of places. "And how does one practice for a contest of strength?" she asked, purposely focusing on the conversation rather than on the man.

"By lifting tree trunks, dragging stone-beds and the like."

"I see.” Delilah dropped the soiled bandages into a pile on the floor. "It sounds like an awful lot of work. Is there a prize for the winner of this contest?"

"It wouldn't be a contest without a prize."

"So what did you win?"

"Let's see. I got one of Aunt Mazie's prize-winning crab apple pies. A fancy embroidered shirt from Aunt Carlotta. A bowie knife from Uncle Dustin. And a real nice hand-carved leather belt from Pa.” He sounded a bit wistful.

"You miss them?" she asked.

He nodded. "My father was killed shortly after that."

Delilah dipped a cloth in warm water and knelt at his side to begin cleaning some of the gouges marking his midriff. Then, pouring some of Fong's whiskey onto a clean dry cloth, she repeated the process. Samson sucked in air through his teeth as he felt the sting, but made no comment.

"How did it happen?" Delilah asked.

Silence.

She looked up into his face, saw a new tension settle in the lines around his mouth. Pain? Grief? "Forgive me. I shouldn't have asked," she said. "I didn't mean to stir painful memories."

He nodded. Then, when Delilah had begun to think he would say nothing more, he said, "He was killed by a gambler in Green River.” Delilah's hands froze in mid motion, but Matt didn't seem to notice. "He stepped in when a young, newly married farmer called the dealer on cheating and was about to be killed for his trouble. Of course the young fool shouldn't have been gamblin' in the first place, and if the dealer hadn't cheated, Pa wouldn't have stepped in. But he was never been able to abide cheats and swindlers."

"Was your father a lawman, too?"

"Yes."

She didn't know what to say, so she said the only thing she could. "I'm sorry."

He made no reply. The only sounds in the room were the crackling of the logs in the stove and the more subtle hissing of the coals in the fireplace. Delilah felt judged in that silence. Judged and condemned without benefit of trial.

"Listen, Sheriff, I can understand how that experience could affect your view of gamblers, but, just as all lawmen are not created equal, gambling is a profession chosen by many different types of people. Some good, some bad. I neither cheat nor steal, Sheriff, and I would never kill anyone over a game of cards."

He looked at her, looking deep into her eyes as though to see her soul. Finally he asked, "Do you lie?"

Confused, Delilah looked at him. "Pardon me?"

"People usually say they don't lie, cheat or steal. You left out the lyin' part. So. . . do you lie?" he reiterated.

Delilah shrugged. "I think we all lie when it suits us, don't you? I'd be very surprised indeed if I met a person who could swear they had never uttered a single prevarication."

Matt nodded and silence fell for a few moments as Delilah worked. It was Matt who broke that silence first. "You might think you'll never cheat, but, given the right set of circumstances, you will. You're a gambler.” He shrugged. "When you feel it's necessary to cheat, you'll simply gamble on not getting caught. But. . . ” Extending a finger, he lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze again. “But," he continued, "do it in my town, and you
will
be."

"Is that a threat, Sheriff?” To Delilah's chagrin, the words she'd meant to sound challenging, emerged huskily, almost breathlessly.

"Yes."

Delilah jerked her chin from his grasp. "I don't like threats, Sheriff Chambers."

He shrugged. "I don't think I've met anybody who does," he returned casually. The message was clear. "And don't you think it's about time you started calling me Matt."

"Why?" she asked. "It smacks of familiarity. And I really don't want to know you any better, Sheriff."

For an endless moment, he looked at her, holding her gaze. Then he murmured, "Liar."

Managing finally to tear her gaze away, Delilah inadvertently poured an excessive amount of Fong's potent whisky onto the deepest scratches. Nevertheless she felt a certain gratification to hear Matt suck in another breath through his teeth. Served him right!

But he was like a dog with a bone once on a particular topic of conversation, and he pursued it relentlessly. "I think you do want to know me better."

"And I think you're presuming a lot."

"Really? Well, regardless, I'm going to call you Delilah," he said. "Somehow Mrs. Sterne just doesn't suit you."

"And you think Delilah does?” She'd always disliked her name. Neither she nor Eve had been able to understand why they'd been named after the two women in the bible most famous for their fallibility. But, it seemed that their mother had simply liked the names and no connotation had been intended. "I would have thought you might find my name a bit off-putting considering the less-than-honorable character associated with the biblical personage."

There was a brief pause, imbued with a significance that Delilah failed to grasp and then he said, "I had thought of that actually."

She looked up at him. "And?"

He shrugged. "Well, you know the saying: Forewarned is forearmed."

"This is going to hurt," Delilah advised, just a fraction of a second before poking the small needle through the edge of one of the wounds. His stomach muscles contracted in reaction, but he said nothing. Curiously stimulated by their verbal sparring, Delilah returned to their previous conversation. "Does that mean that you think I'm capable of betraying you should the opportunity arise?"

He considered her for a moment with his hard, charcoal eyes. Finally, he said, "Capable? Oh, yeah. But I would hope, not
willing
."

She glanced up at him. "You don't have a very high opinion of me, do you?"

"Actually, I have a higher opinion of you than of most people. You're resourceful, independent, ambitious, and beautiful.” He frowned for a fraction of a second and added, "A mite misguided maybe. Still, that's not a combination often seen in a woman."

He does find me attractive!
The words sang through Delilah's brain before she remembered that she didn't care a fig whether he found her beautiful or not. "Well, Sheriff, I'm hardly going to thank you for such a backhanded compliment. Nevertheless, I am gratified to learn that a man can appreciate my independence. Few do."

"Matt," he reminded her. "And sure, I admire independence in women. An ambitious and independent woman can go far. A bit of firm guidance from a supportive husband is all that's needed to—” Delilah's hand froze, and this time he seemed to sense it.

"To what, Sheriff?" she asked in a deceptively quiet voice.

He cleared his throat. "Could you maybe. . . uh, just finish that stitch?" he asked.

Delilah looked down and noticed that she'd halted in mid stitch, with the needle imbedded in his flesh. She finished the stitch and then realized that the other gash that needed stitching, being more centered on Matt's abdomen, was beyond her comfortable reach for stitching. She could try to accomplish the task anyway, by extending her arms and doing the best she could from the side, but she'd be unable to see it properly. The best position was to move between his sprawled knees and accomplish the task from that position. Such a situation, however, suggested a degree of intimacy that immobilized Delilah.

He sensed her hesitation. "Is something wrong?"

Delilah jumped as though she'd been scalded. "No, of course not," she said quickly. Too quickly? He stared at her strangely. "I. . . I'm just tired.” The excuse was weak, but it was the best she could come up with. "Could I get you to turn to the side?” Perhaps if she worked from his other side, it would be less awkward.