Beyond Betrayal (24 page)

Continuing to frown with a combination of curiosity and impatience, he shrugged into the shirt he'd discarded over the back of a chair the previous night before falling into bed and, while buttoning the garment, answered the door. Mrs. Williamson, one of the town’s most prominent matrons, stood on the stoop with one of her marriageable daughters, Honoria, at her side and a bevy of four or five slightly less forthright examples of Red Rock's ladies arrayed at her back.

"Good morning, ladies," Samson said.

Mrs. Williamson tensed slightly upon catching sight of his partially exposed chest, but did not allow herself to be deterred from her course. Fixing her gaze firmly upon his face, she said, "Good day to you, Sheriff Chambers. We were wondering if we might have a word with you?"

Samson glanced at the sparsely furnished interior of the log cabin the town had provided for his use. Not only was it untidy at the moment, but there were only three ladder-back chairs to be had. "Now's really not a good time, Mrs. Williamson. I'm afraid I don't have enough chairs."

"It won't take long," she persisted. "And we're quite willing to stand."

Reluctantly, Samson stepped back. "Then by all means, come in," he said drily.

He observed their expressions as they stepped into his humble home, trying to see it through their eyes. It was quite obviously the home of a bachelor. Mrs. Williamson noted yesterday's unwashed dishes still stacked in the basin on the table and raised her nose a fraction of an inch. After briefly making eye contact with him, Honoria Williamson's cheeks flamed and her gaze dropped to the rough planking of the floorboards, where it seemed permanently fixed. Mrs. Osbourne's examination found the open door of his bedroom where his unmade bed was in plain sight and her cheeks took on a flush—doubtlessly caused by the direction of her own thoughts. The other ladies centered their attention on him unwaveringly.

He leaned against the wall and tucked his thumbs into the outside edges of his pant's pockets. "So ladies," he said with a nod as they stood in a semi-circle around him. "What can I do for you?"

Mrs. Williamson seemed to be their self-appointed spokesperson. "Sir, it has come to our attention that you seem to be spending an unsuitable amount of time in, shall we say, pursuits inappropriate to one of your position in the community."

"You don't say," he managed to return mildly as he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. The rasp of his calloused palm across his unshaven jaw was the only sound in the room. If there was one thing he didn't like, it was other people telling him what was acceptable for him. Abruptly he recalled Delilah's words of the night before and felt a twinge of guilt. Okay, so he could admit that he understood Delilah's feelings on the subject a bit better.

Meeting his gaze, Mrs. Williamson took a hasty step back, and Samson realized he must not have controlled the evidence of his irritation as completely as he had supposed. Nevertheless, it soon became obvious that Mrs. Williamson wasn't about to be deterred so easily. "I do say, sir."

"And what pursuits
exactly
are we talking about?"

Mrs. Williamson's thin lips narrowed even further. "Why the pursuit of that little trollop. . .” Samson's gaze sharpened and Mrs. Williamson hastily amended, ". . .  er, widow that has taken up residence at the saloon, of all places. She is a lady of questionable character, Sheriff."

"I believe she has taken up residence at the hotel, not the saloon, madam," Samson corrected her in a deceptively mild tone. "Now let me get this straight. You ladies feel that it is inappropriate for me, as a fine upstanding member of this community," unfortunately his sarcasm seemed to be lost on them, "to pursue a lady of Mrs. Sterne's. . . um,
questionable character
?" he raised a brow to confirm her wording and when she nodded, he repeated, "Mrs. Sterne's questionable character. Is that about it?"

"Yes, Sheriff, it is," Mrs. Williamson responded, emboldened once again. "Why she gambles, sir! And the Lord knows she associates with riffraff of every sort in that. . . that
saloon
.” The way she said the final word left no doubt in his mind exactly what she thought of such places. "It's unseemly. We had expected you to run her out of town long before now. Instead you're. . ."

"I can't run her out of town for being a gambler, ma'am," he interrupted. "It's a legal profession."

"But Sheriff, . . . ," Mrs. Osbourne sputtered in defense of her friend.

Samson held up a hand to forestall her. "If Mrs. Sterne cheats, I can run her out. But so far ladies, she has proved to be the first
honest
dealer this town has seen in some time."

"So we just have to put up with this. . . this
woman
luring decent menfolk into that saloon to lose their hard-earned money," Mrs. Gage spoke from the background, the apparent failure of their cause giving her the courage to speak up.

Samson made a mental note to check to see if Larry Gage was spending a bit too much time at the gaming table. "From what I can see, ma'am, she's not doing much in the way of luring.”
Certainly not where I'm concerned.
"And, there isn't a man in there that has a gun to his head. Least none that I noticed."

"But surely, sir, just because we have to allow her to work here does not mean that you have to. . . to consort with her.” Mrs. Williamson returned to the essence of her purpose. She, after all, had five marriageable daughters as she'd pointed out to Samson on a number of occasions.

Inwardly, Samson grimaced. He had hoped that he'd deflected that course of questioning by focusing on the gambling aspect of the conversation. But he had an advantage in having been raised by a very Christian mother. "Mrs. Williamson, if you saw a lost sheep, would you not consider it your Christian duty to return it to the flock?"

Perceiving the direction his question was about to take her, she frowned, but could apparently think of no way to answer the question without seeming uncharitable. "Of course, but. . ."

"Mrs. Sterne is a lady with a Christian upbringing, ma'am. When her husband died leaving her penniless,"—he was embroidering, for he had no idea what financial state her husband had left her in—"she was forced to make her way with the only skill she had. Would you do less?"

She stared at him, not prepared to give up hope yet in snaring him for Honoria. And he knew she certainly wasn't prepared to accept Delilah. But he hadn't left her much maneuvering room. "So your intentions are honorable, Sheriff? And you intend to put a stop to her gambling?"

Samson nodded as inspiration struck. The question had given him an opening to escape unwanted attentions. "Completely honorable," he assured her.

Mrs. Osbourne sighed in obvious relief and nudged her neighbor. "There Eliza, what did I tell you. No man would permit his wife to gamble."

Samson stared at her.
His wife
? Somehow the words sounded distressingly appealing when associated with his mental picture of Delilah.
His
wife?

Uh-oh.

~~~*  *  *~~~

________________________

Delilah had spent the night pacing her room, only dropping into bed, fully clothed, and falling into a fitful sleep as dawn began to lighten the eastern sky. Now, as sunlight poured into the room and over her face, she woke and groggily blinked at the clock on the nightstand. Good heavens! It was nearly noon. She couldn't remember ever having slept that late in her life. With a groan, she rose to wash her face and make an attempt at pulling herself together. It didn't help. Once again, Matt Chambers invaded her thoughts. Damn the man! Why wasn't he discouraged in the face of her widowhood as other men were?

Tears stung her eyes. She was too tired to deal with this. Too tired to find the answers she needed.

All she knew was that she had to get away. Away from Matt and his overpowering, seductive presence. Away from his town. Away from her own confused emotions concerning him. Simply
away
. But she couldn't go because Eve still needed her. And if she didn't soon start earning some decent money with her gambling, she wouldn't have a hope of helping Eve make the mortgage payment on the ranch. In fact, it was almost too late already. She'd have to win a considerable sum every night from now until the date the mortgage was due to help as she'd promised she would.

She just didn't know what to do.

Unconsciously, Delilah resumed her pacing.

If she'd only managed to make the money she'd planned by now, then perhaps she could have left Red Rock. Although she'd have felt guilty for not being near to give Eve the emotional support she needed to face Tom's illness, at least Delilah would have been secure in the knowledge that her sister would not lose her home. But Delilah hadn't made the money because she just couldn't seem to work with Matt Chambers watching her like a hawk.

"Drat the man!" she muttered. At every turn his name arose as the source of her troubles.

Having given up on diverting her mistress from her thoughts during the night, Poopsy now watched Delilah from her bed with a disconsolate expression. Delilah knew the little dog, sensing her distress, wanted reassurance, but she just didn't have any to give her right now.

Pausing, Delilah looked in the mirror and gasped at the change in herself. Huge bluish shadows marred the flesh beneath her eyes. A frown line etched the normally smooth skin between her brows. And her typically pale complexion was downright pasty, not a trace of color remained. She didn't understand how a man, any man, could have this effect on her. She was a Sinclair, after all. She was made of sturdy stuff. But in the short time she'd known him, Matt Chambers had invaded her mind and her life.

Her stomach rumbled loudly, and she realized she was hungry despite her inner turmoil. She welcomed the interruption. It was another direction in which to focus her thoughts, for all the worry and pacing was getting her precisely nowhere.

She'd put on some fresh clothing, take Poopsy out for a walk, and then go for breakfast. Or rather lunch.

Three quarters of an hour later, carrying Poopsy in the crook of her arm, Delilah made her way into the dining room. It was rather more crowded than she'd expected. A good many families seemed to have decided to treat themselves by buying their Sunday dinner at the hotel. As she stood in the entrance seeking a small table for herself, a few speculative glances were flung her way. Over the years, however, Delilah had grown accustomed to the way tongues invariably wagged about a young widow turned gambler, so she ignored them. She had never been a really gregarious person anyway, and travelling as much as she did precluded making lasting friendships.

"Mrs. Sterne—” A sudden loud call startled her, and she turned her head to the right to locate its source. At a table near the front of the restaurant, a man had risen to his feet to wave at her. To her surprise, she realized it was Mr. Pike. "I'd be right honored if you'd join me for lunch, ma'am.” He indicated the empty chair across from him. "I'd hate to see such a pretty lady go hungry."

And, in truth, Delilah realized that there were no vacant tables. "Thank you, sir," she said with a smile as she moved to join him. "That's very kind of you."

He shook his head as he moved around the table to pull out a chair for her. "No, ma'am. Not kind at all. My reasons are purely selfish. I just wanted the chance to sit across the table from such a pretty lady."

Delilah smiled and settled Poopsy on the floor at her feet where she could unobtrusively feed her tidbits. She noticed Pike's collection of
WANTED
posters laying on the table to his right. Nodding toward them, she asked, "Have you had any luck with your search?"

"Not yet, ma'am. I heard this morning that the sheriff brought in a couple of rustlers last night. Thought I'd mosey on over there after I eat and take a look. I figure it could be Morgan and, maybe, Clark too. If so, it might be that I'll have to set my sights somewheres else."

"No luck with that other one either?" she asked.

He shuffled his stack of posters, placing one on top and turning it toward Delilah. "Towers?" he asked, pointing to the picture. She nodded. "Naw," he said, shaking his head. "It's the dangdest thing. He seems to look a mite familiar to folks round here, but most swear up an' down they never seen him. Almost makes me wonder if he might have kin in these parts or somethin'. I ran into that down Arizona way once. Trailed a fella nigh on a month cause folks kept sayin' they'd seen him. Then, when I finally caught up with him, turned out I'd been chasin' the cousin of the fella I wanted to find."

"I take it the cousin wasn't wanted?"

"No, ma'am. Wasn't worth a penny. And ta top it off, he hadn't seen the man I was after in more 'n two years.” Pike shrugged. "But sometimes it goes like that. It's part o' the job."

At that moment, Mrs. Schmidt approached the table with a plate for Pike. "Missus Sterne, I didn't know you vere comink or I vould haf brought you a plate too.” She set Pike's plate down with a smile and looked back at Delilah. "You vant dinner, no? It is roast turkey today."

Delilah's stomach rumbled at the mere mention of food. And
turkey
. She couldn't remember the last time she'd had turkey. "Oh, my, that sounds lovely. Yes, please."