Heartbreak Creek (23 page)

“Kiss me, Ed.”

Her gaze flew up. “K-Kiss you? Here? Now?” She glanced at the men bent over the checkerboard, then back to his smiling mouth, where the tips of white teeth showed behind lips that moved to form a word she scarcely heard until it was repeated again louder.

“Now, Ed.”

“But someone will see us.”

“Then they’ll have something to gossip about, won’t they? Kiss me.”

She stared at his lips. Dare she? Perhaps a quick “thank you” kiss. That’s all. No more.

Astounded by her own audacity, she rose on tiptoe, lifted her face, and pressed her mouth to his. It was startling and electrifying and—

Shocked, she jerked back. “Was that . . . did you just put your tongue in my mouth?”

Laughter rumbled out on a rush of warm breath that fluttered her eyelashes and tickled her cheek. She smelled coffee. Barber’s talc. Declan.

Imaginings of “later” suddenly filled her mind.

She stepped back, her knees wobbling beneath her. It was too much. Too fast. She felt so off balance and out of breath she thought if she didn’t sit down, she might faint.

Instead, she fled. “Pru and I will see you later,” she called back as she hopped off the boardwalk and into the street, barely missing a well-seasoned pile of droppings. “Eight o’clock sharp in the lobby.”

She refrained from running. But just as she reached the boardwalk on the other side of the street, she paused and glanced back.

He was standing where she’d left him, his weight on one hip, his hands low on his hips. Watching her. And smiling.

Which made her smile.

B
y eight o’clock, Edwina had received enough instruction to fill a book. How to flirt. How to charm. How to bring Declan to his knees in quivering lust. A horrifying image. Maddie’s, of course. For a proper Englishwoman, she had a rather unfettered imagination. No doubt the artist in her. Angus must have been a cold stick, indeed, to walk away from such a lovely and lively woman.

But it wasn’t lust Edwina wanted to inspire. And she certainly didn’t need instruction in flirting; that was something at which she heartily excelled. Instead, her apprehensions all centered on what came
after
the flirting. That “later” part Declan had alluded to.

And yet . . .

Sometimes when she looked at her husband, or when he looked at her, the air all around them seemed to grow so thin she felt like she was floating above the ground in a whirlwind of confused emotion and tingling nerves and unformed wants. That was the part she didn’t understand. The part that both terrified her and pulled her closer, until sometimes just standing beside Declan made her chest hurt and her throat so tight she could scarcely swallow.

It was absurd, really. She was far too old for such adolescent foolishness. She had certainly never felt that with Shelly or any of her other youthful beaux. And it didn’t seem entirely proper that she should feel it so strongly for Declan, who was almost a stranger despite being her husband.

And yet, sometimes when she looked at him . . .

“He’s here,” Lucinda said from the window, jarring Edwina’s thoughts back on track. “And looking quite smart. Are you ready?”

For what?
But if there was one thing Edwina Ladoux Brodie did especially well, it was masking her fears behind a pleasant smile, which she did now. “Yes, I’m ready.”

“Put this on.”

Standing patiently, she allowed Maddie to drape her shoulders with Lucinda’s merino shawl with its delicate fringe—which they had all decided was the perfect complement to her cornflower blue dress with the white trim and scalloped hem—which was the perfect complement to the ribbon Declan had given her—which had taken an hour and three pairs of hands to weave through the elaborate curls gathered at the back of her neck.

She took a deep breath and let it out, wishing Pru was still there. But Thomas had come by an hour earlier to take her to Declan’s house to watch the children, which had sent her reserved sister into such heights of delight she had almost dithered. Edwina wondered if she’d recovered enough yet to utter a word to her stoic escort.

“You don’t think he’ll mind taking all of us?” Maddie asked, throwing a short caped jacket over her own shoulders. “I would hate to intrude.”

“You’re dying to intrude,” Lucinda argued, waving them into the hallway. “You can’t wait to see his face when he sees Edwina.”

In better times, Edwina had worn gowns of lace and satin and brocade. She had adorned herself with costly jewels, rather than a single tiny garnet ring that had once belonged to her grandmother. She had walked down elegant staircases under fine crystal chandeliers that shimmered with the glittering light of dozens of candles. Yet now, as she descended the uncarpeted staircase of the rustic Heartbreak Creek Hotel, dressed in an outdated frock and a borrowed shawl and wearing a simple ribbon in her hair, she felt as shaky and breathless as a debutant headed to her first ball.

Declan stood in the lobby, hat in hand, looking broad and solid in his slightly worn black suit and stiff shirt with its high, banded collar that fit too snugly around his thick neck. She couldn’t see his expression because he was looking down at the long fingers playing over the brim of the Stetson he was gripping in both hands. His dark, damp hair caught the light from the sconces, showing glints of red and gold and deep shiny black, and already it was starting to slide down over his forehead as it dried. He muttered something, then shifted his weight from one foot to the other and sighed so deeply she could hear his exhale from the top landing.

My husband,
she thought.

The idea of that—of him—of his not knowing how to dance but still taking her to this shivaree—made her smile.

“Good evening, Declan,” she called to him.

His head came up. For a moment, he went utterly still. Then as she started down toward him, his lips parted on a deep breath. He didn’t smile, nor did his expression betray his thoughts, but she saw his big hands tighten on the hat brim until the edge curled in his fingers.

“Ed,” he said.

That’s all. Just Ed. But hearing it spoken in his deep voice, and feeling the impact of that dark, unwavering stare made her feel more beautiful than she ever had.

 

 

It was like herding turtles, Declan decided, as he steered the women down the boardwalk at such a leisurely pace he had to clench his jaw to keep from yelling at them to “git along now” like he did with laggard calves.

It was also disconcerting the way people looked at them as they sashayed by. Declan “Big Bob” Brodie—the notorious ex-sheriff who had banished his wife to a horrible death at the hands of savages—ushering three beauties dressed in their Sunday best to the social event of the spring.

He was in high cotton, for sure. And hated every minute of it.

Glowering at a drunk gawking at the women from an alleyway, he wondered why he had let Ed push him into this. He wasn’t a dancer, didn’t dare drink with three women to nursemaid, and even though they were still a block away, he could already sense the whispers and speculations and sly glances headed their way.
Hell.

He ran a finger between his sweating neck and his too-tight collar and wished he’d sent the boys into town to sell the cattle without him.

In an effort to stave off impatience, he studied the women walking ahead of him. Ed was the prettiest, even from the back, and especially in that blue dress that matched her lively eyes and with his ribbon wound through her glossy light brown curls. He had debated buying it and had hesitated giving it to her, not sure what she would make of it. But now he was glad he had. Whether it was the ribbon, or the dress, or her own vibrant self, she looked extra pretty this evening.

They were all lookers. Well-featured women, with trim waists and straight backs and rounded hips that moved side to side with each measured step. Ed’s moved more than the others, probably because her back was longest. Or maybe because she had a perkier stride, coming off her heel with a little bounce before she stepped forward onto her other foot. No toe-dragger, his Ed, but a woman who led with her chin, like she was pushing against an invisible barrier and was chomping at the bit to get through it.

His Ed.
When had he started thinking of her as “his”?

A voice called his name, and he turned to see Emmet Gebbers angling across the street toward him, his sad-eyed wife clinging to his arm and struggling to keep up.

Emmet was both the banker and the mayor of Heartbreak Creek. He and Mrs. Gebbers had always treated Declan fairly, even when all the talk started. Probably because they had lost two sons in the war and still carried that grief in their eyes. Slowing from his turtle pace to a full stop, Declan touched two fingertips to the brim of his hat. “Mrs. Gebbers. Emmet.”

Emmet puffed up like he did whenever he was around Declan, as if that might lessen the substantial gap in their heights. “Declan.”

Mrs. Gebbers gave him that soft smile that had probably marked her as a beauty thirty years earlier. Now she just looked tired and a little broken. “Mr. Brodie,” she murmured.

The other three women turned back, smiling expectantly at the newcomers. Declan introduced them to the elderly couple, then watched Ed hook them with her smile and reel them in with a healthy dose of southern charm. He almost laughed, wondering if they would be quite so taken with his gracious, soft-spoken wife if they knew she had threatened him with a pitchfork.

After a few pleasantries about the fine weather and the shivaree they were attending, they continued on together, the four women in the lead, the men following along in their wake. Aware of Emmet beside him, Declan tried not to watch Ed’s butt too much.

“Glad you’re here, Declan,” the older man said after they’d walked a stretch. The banker-mayor was one of the few who used his given name rather than Big Bob, which Declan appreciated. “With Tom Hamilton leaving, we’re out a sheriff.”

The collar seemed to tighten around Declan’s neck.

“You interested?”

“No.”

“I know things were a little rough when you left,” Emmet rushed on. “But most folks have put all that behind them. Water under the bridge.”

Declan didn’t respond.

“You were a good lawman, Declan. And if the railroads decide to reroute through Heartbreak Creek, we’ll need a good lawman again.”

Declan watched the sway of Ed’s hips and thought about Sally, and the ugliness of the past, and wondered how his hot-spirited wife would have reacted to some of the things that had been said about him back then—and some of the things that might yet be said about him tonight. “I’m a rancher now, Emmet.”

“You were a sheriff, too.”

“I’ve got kids. A new life.”
A new wife.

“Think about it. That’s all I ask. And I’m not the only one asking. Aaron Krigbaum—you remember him, he owns the mine—he’s concerned, too. With the ore giving out, he’s having to let men go, and they’re starting to grumble. He’d like someone around to keep an eye on them so they don’t damage any equipment on their way out.”

Declan barely remembered Krigbaum. When he’d been sheriff before, the mine had been a lot busier and Krigbaum had stayed pretty much either up at the mine office or at home. The Krigbaums weren’t a particularly social couple.

“Just think about it,” Emmet pressed.

“All right. But don’t hold your breath.”

The party was already in full swing when they arrived. Not the usual old-fashioned shivaree with all the noise and revelry of a rowdy send-off for the newly wedded couple, but more like a combination good-bye gathering and wedding dinner, with food and music and dancing, as well as punch for the ladies and enough free-flowing whiskey behind the smithy’s shop to keep the men from running off home the first chance they got. The music was lively, the musicians more enthusiastic than talented. The piano player and his piano had been brought down from the Red Eye Saloon and were joined by a fiddler, a harmonica player with a tambourine, a man with a washboard, and another who beat a tempo on a collection of overturned buckets. More noise than tune, but everyone seemed to enjoy it.

It didn’t take long for their group to attract notice. Even as Declan herded the ladies toward the food table, glances were shifting from him to Ed and whispers were starting. He was accustomed to it, but he regretted that he hadn’t warned his wife that not everybody would be in a welcoming mood. Especially Alice Waltham, who was marching toward them, her mouth pursed so tight it looked like a drawstring pouch.

Hoping to shield Ed, Declan stepped forward.

But Lucinda Hathaway and the Englishwoman flew past him like swooping hawks. “Why, Alice Waltham!” Lucinda Hathaway cried, hooking the other woman’s pudgy arm and neatly spinning her around and away from Ed. “What a beautiful dress!”

“French, I’ll warrant.” Maddie Wallace took her other arm. “I’m so parched, aren’t you? Do let’s have some punch, and you can tell us which fashion house you favor. New York or Paris? I do so hope you’ll let me take your photograph for my collection.” And before Alice seemed aware of it, they had steered her halfway across the room.

Which opened the path to all the men who’d been eyeing Ed.

And that’s when Declan’s real misery started.

It rankled that even with him standing guard, every man still on his feet thought he had a right to ask his wife to dance. And it rankled even more that his wife seemed so delighted to accept. In morose silence he watched her charm the townsfolk who had been so quick to think the worst of him a few years ago.
People. Hell.

After an hour of kicking up her heels, she finally came back to him, her face flushed, her curls coming loose and sticking damply to the back of her slender neck, and her blue eyes dancing with life.