Explaining Herself (27 page)

She heard Ross say something about "has my Colt," and Thaddeas say something like "count your blessings."

It wasn't enough. She lifted her wet skirts, circled behind the cafe, and crept up an alley almost across from the jail. She could hear a lot better then
—a horse approaching, a train whistle, and Ross Laramie when he stiffly said, "Obliged."

See,
she wanted to say, pleased.
Thaddeas isn't the bad man you think he is!

But Thaddeas said, 'You were innocent, weren't you?"

Ross stared. The longer he said nothing, the more nervous Victoria felt. He'd spent time at a reform school. He was good with guns. He'd been hiding unexplained wounds.

Thaddeas clarified, "It was self-defense this time, wasn't it?"

All Ross said in agreement was "This time."

"Then he shouldn't have held you," said Thad. "I got you out because it was the righ
t thing to do, Lar
amie. Not for you. Not for my sister. And now I expect you to keep your word."

His word? What word? What had Thad made Ross promise?

Then, before Victoria could even work that out, her father rode up to the two of them on his buckskin.

Thaddeas Garrison knew who Laramie really was.

Jacob Garrison, reining back his gelding in front of the jail, also knew. According to Thaddeas, the rancher remembered Laramie's poppa, saw the resemblance right off, and hired him anyway. Of course, the cattle baron had also warned him against making trouble or trifling with his daughters.

Likely Elizabeth Garrison knew, too
—but Victoria did not. Not yet. Maybe, if they were lucky, not ever. It was the one thing the three of them had in common, whether they knew it or not.

Not wanting to hurt Victoria.

"Well," said the older Garrison, nodding as he looked from his son to Laramie and back. "You're out."

Yet someone else "doing the right thing" by riding to Laramie's rescue. Not for Laramie, though. Just for justice.

He guessed justice had to be enough.

"He's out," said Thaddeas. "And now he's leaving."

Garrison looked at his son in silent question.

Thadeas just shook his head. Of course, that satisfied his father, no
matter what ghosts haunted Thad
deas's past.

Laramie silently braced himself so he wouldn't show pain, then fitted his boot into Blackie's stirrup and swung himself into his wet saddle. He met Jacob Garrison's steady gaze and nodded silent thanks, for more than he could ever say. For the trust. For the daughter, no matter how briefly he'd known her.

He also nodded to Nate Dawson, who, standing on the corner, looked nervous about something. Whatever it was, it wasn't likely Laramie's business anymore.

"Good-bye," he said. With a soft clucking to Blackie, and the lightest touch of his spurred heels, he turned and headed down Main Street, into the drumming rain.

And that, he guessed, was that.

Except for one last stop.

Chapter Nineteen

Victoria
did
fall off her bike this time. Fleeing Main Street before either Papa or Thaddeas knew she was there, though, it wasn't her speed or the wet roads that took her down. It was sheer, blind fury.

Thaddeas had told Ross to leave.

Ross was going.

One moment Vic was pedaling wildly, blinking away rain and leaning into a turn. The next, the wheels of her bicycle skidded out from under her. She hung suspended
—then slammed into the paved street. Pain shot through her wrist, her knee, her hip, and she cried out a word she wasn't even supposed to know. But the hurt was at least a distraction from the hollow ache in her heart.

She sat up and gingerly made sure nothing was broken, pushing a wet, concerned Duchess away from her. Too soon, she knew that her heart still hurt worse.

He wasn't even going to say good-bye?

Some of the rain felt hot on her cheeks, and she realized that she was crying. Sitting in a stream of runoff, Victoria drew the knee that wasn't hurt up against her and tried, for just a moment, to think.

They were clearly
making
him leave. But he wasn't gone yet. And maybe . . .

The idea wasn't clever at all. It was more instinct than sense. But she thought she knew where to find him.

Carefully testing her leg, she stood. Her knee still hurt, but she could walk on it. She picked up the bicycle and made sure it would roll; the fender rubbed against the tire only a little.
Good,
she thought, determined.
Good.

If it were broken, she would have darn well limped her way out of town. Or stolen a horse, and forced Thaddeas to defend her at the resulting trial. But she was going after Ross.

Her friend.

Ross felt empty, numb,
hard
as he hitched Blackie beside Mount Hope's only lamppost, pushed open the gates, and walked into the cemetery. He didn't know who he was anymore. Outlaw? Cowboy? Vengeful brother? He didn't know what the hell he would do now, other than keep breathing.

But the least he could do was see the family once more, and apologize for failing them.

After this night, he wanted to apologize to
someone.

Had he ever, even as a child, feared cemeteries? Tombstones and graves were nothing, even in the rain; a remarkably neat packaging for the ugliness of death. Laramie walked among them without a second thought
—and had almost passed the tomb marked "McCrae" when he saw the bicycle leaned against it.

Staring at it, Laramie realized that maybe he
wasn 't
numb. Maybe he could feel something after all.

He just didn't dare name it.

He glanced toward the gates, just in case. Then he spun and wove his way past more headstones toward the back of the cemetery, splashing through puddles, tripping once over a child's small marker.

Victoria?

Maybe she'd left the bicycle earlier. Maybe he'd imagined her so hard tonight, he'd gone loco. Maybe the woman he spotted, huddled against the pale square of Julie’s tombstone, was his sister's ghost, come to chide him for deserting her cause. That was no more foolish than to think ... to think. . . .

A dog, lying beside her, sat up at his approach.

The woman looked up with Victoria's wet face. Her eyes burned with silent accusation, her mouth tight with the effort to hold back whatever she meant to say. And Laramie sank to his knees beside her, grateful, penitent, afraid to believe, afraid to doubt.

He'd wanted her so badly tonight. More than life.

Then Victoria blinked against the rain and asked, "You're leaving?" He didn't know how she knew, or what she felt about it, but she was real.

And here.

He'd come straight from jail, and before that, a bar. He'd come from killings. He didn't deserve her. But she was here, and he reacted to her nearness, not her words. He reached for her, sank into her arms even as he drew her into his. He curled around and into her, losing his hat in the grass, laying his head to her chest where he could hear her beating heart.

It was the closest thing to his own heart that he'd ever had.

Even if she was angry, she wrapped her arms around him
—all curves and warmth and wetness—and she repeated her accusation. 'You're leaving me?"

He blinked away rainwater, glad for its disguise.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice broken. It became a chant. "Victoria, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry, Victoria. . ."

She countered with hushing sounds, first hesitant, then steadier. Her lips brushed his temple, his jaw. The scent of soap and cinnamon surrounded him like a sacred incense
—almost enough to mask the smell of blood. Almost. "Tell me what's wrong," she urged. "Please, Ross. Whatever's wrong, please just tell me."

"I.. ." But he didn't know where to begin, what to leave out. Why should he hurt her with the truth now that he was leaving? He did not want to leave her that way. He did not want to forever remember her disillusionment. So he dammed his words at "Sorry," and he held her.

"Ross," she pleaded, deliberately loosening her hold to sit up, to look at him full on. She didn't stop touching him, though, her fingers on his face, one hand drawing up and down his arm. She wasn't pushing him away. "Are you all right? What happened to your face? Why did they hurt you?"

She was not here because it was the right thing to do. She was here for him. Or the man she thought he was.

He closed his eyes a moment, to balance himself, then opened them to stare at the marvel that was the woman he loved. He touched her cheek with his fingertips, wondering if the dampness was tears. He almost wished they were, and hated himself for wishing it. "You shouldn't even be out here," he murmured, awkward. And yet even the awkward words came more easily when they were for her. "The ground's wet."

Victoria squared her shoulders. "It's barely September, and I have a cloak. And I'd best warn you, Ross Laramie, that I've had my fill of men trying to protect me against my will tonight."

She sounded serious. Good thing she wasn't dangerous. He no longer had his gun.

"At least. . ." He leaned back against Julie’s tombstone and drew Victoria full into his lap so that he was the one sitting on the damp ground.

Snuggling more securely onto him, against him, she filled his arms with her warm curves, soothed his scarred heart with the balm of her concern. "Oh," she murmured, adjusting herself on him, and he could have died from the sensation. "This
is
better."

Better? It was heaven. Stolen heaven, true
—but he would take what he could get.

"Tell me what happened?" she repeated as she looped her arms behind his neck and leaned more comfortably against his chest. Of course, she was hungry for information. To Victoria, truth equaled love. Truth
—and shared secrets.

He could at least give her some of it.

So instead of asking his own questions, which he'd never been very good at, he confessed about tonight. He told her about the Red Light Saloon, and she didn't even chide him for drinking. He hated leaving out the part about meeting Lonny Logan, but told her about the first shooting as evenly as he could. As he spoke, he realized his voice was shaking.

But that's what guns did. He'd never once forgotten that's what guns did.

"Harry Smith?" Victoria lifted her head from his shoulder, though her arms stayed behind his neck. "But he was in jail."

He ducked his head to better see her, searching her gaze for condemnation. "He got out."

"But why would he want to kill you? He seemed like such a nice . . . rustler."

With one hand Laramie drew her head back to his shoulder, where he could kiss her forehead. Her cheeks. Her eyelids. Every kiss might be his last; he
wanted to hoard as many as he could. But he knew she wanted information even more. "Maybe he was working for someone important. Maybe his boss got him out on the condition that he kill me."

Her eyes widened.

"So that I wouldn't look further," he explained. It was the only thing that made sense. Even in the wild West
—the West that Jacob Garrison said was over— very few men killed for the sake of killing.

"That's all the more reason for you to stay here and not give them the satisfaction," insisted Victoria. Then her face paled, her lips rounded. "But then they might try to kill you again! Oh no, Ross. You
do
have to go."

"That's not why I'm going." If it was kinder to let her think that, why did he want to tell her more? "Not all of it."

She waited, asking nothing except with her eyes.

I'm leaving because the sheriff is gunning for me.

But he'd never been a coward before. That wasn't enough.

I'm leaving because your family will destroy me.

But he remembered what she'd said about her sister and the sheep farmer, and even that wasn't enough.

I'm leaving because I lost my first reason to be here, and the truth would destroy my second one.

And God knew if he stayed, Victoria would get to the truth. She deserved it.

Feeling inadequate, he went back to what he
could
tell her. "Smith drew down on me, and I killed him. Then another fellow shot at me, so I killed him too." He never did get a good look at the second man, though he assumed it was the gravelly-voiced rustler. It could have been an innocent saloon patron, itchy from the first shooting. He may have killed someone's husband, son, brother, pa.