Intimate Strangers (Eclipse Heat Book 2) (22 page)

At her nod he took her arm and shouldered their way through the milling throng. She was grateful for his size when he shielded her from a quarrel taking place between a well-dressed man and a shabbily dressed woman.

The harsh sound of a slap eliminated any misconception that his elegant attire clothed a gentleman. Lucy curled her fingers around the gun in her pocket.

“Here now,” Sheriff Bailey halfheartedly called from across the room, then turned away, content that he’d made a show of intervention.

Ambrose would have passed the two but Lucy stepped around him to face the slender auburn-haired woman cradling her cheek. “Can I help you?”

The woman’s face bore bruises from other confrontations as well as the recent hand imprint. As they watched, another man grabbed the dandy by his collar and hauled him toward the exit.

The young woman, little more than a frightened girl, whispered, “No one can help me.”

“Then you’ll have to help yourself,” Lucy told her. She stepped closer and laid her hand on the other woman’s arm. “My name is Lucy McKenna Quince. If things don’t work out and you need assistance tonight or in the future, let me know and I’ll aid you.”

The woman’s arm, rigid under Lucy’s hand, trembled and she drew a deep breath, inclining her head slightly to indicate she’d heard. “Thank you,” she whispered, then pushed her way through the crowd to the door.

“Who are those people?” Lucy asked Ambrose.

“Worthless trash—a local gambler and his wife who he promotes,” he answered gruffly. “Grady Hawks is the rancher who took the no-good bum outside. Of course, Hawks isn’t much better than a savage himself.”

Lucy frowned at him in reproof. “You pass judgment on others very quickly.”

Ambrose didn’t comment, instead turning her and moving her through the crowd and away from the people surging toward the sound of a fistfight on the sidewalk.

While she stood at the edge of the dance floor waiting, Ambrose retrieved a cup of punch for her. Steve Pauley jostled against her and murmured his apologies. His smile was flattering, admiring her in a sweeping glance until he realized with whom he’d collided.

He stuttered, clearly at a loss as to how he should address her, finally refraining from acknowledging her at all. Lucy thought it odd Ambrose had ever thought them friends because Stephen Pauley pointedly made certain the crowd knew he wasn’t one any longer.

Just to prod him a little, she said, “About that identification that you need supplied, Ambrose has sent to Boston for my birthing records and such. When we have established my identity to the satisfaction of Texas and Boston courts, I trust you will have an accounting of my funds ready.”

His response was virulent.  “You’re not Lucy Quince. She’s dead. I don’t know who you are or where Hamilton dug you up, but you shame the memory of that lovely young woman.”

Denying his claim, Lucy shook her head and spoke loudly enough to deliver her words to all straining to hear. “Mr. Pauley, the only way you would know for certain Lucy Quince is dead is if you buried her. Did you?”

“Of course I didn’t kill Lucy and bury her.” His stance was rigid, barely containing the rage marring his expression.

Lucy’s smile held a warning as she continued her message in precise tones everyone could hear. “When I remember the name of the man who tried to murder me, he’ll answer for his crime.” She lowered her voice and murmured to the banker, “Regardless of whether it’s you or not, you will no longer be in charge of my money.”

He cast a look at the avid listeners and lowered his voice to match hers. “Lucy’s body was found buried on open range this last spring. I don’t know who you are or where Hamilton Quince found you, but I’m not fooled. Lucy’s dead.”

“Mr. Pauley, the body of a poor dead woman might have been found, but it wasn’t Lucy Quince, because I’m Lucy Quince.” She asked curiously, “What makes you so certain that that woman was me?”

“Lucy Quince came to see me the last afternoon she was seen alive. She withdrew all her funds and said she was leaving. It was the last time I ever saw her.”

“And how does that authenticate the discovered body?” she asked him. It had been three years since Lucy’s disappearance. Certainly another woman before or since could have been murdered and buried to hide the crime.

“The remains were clothed as Lucy was when she came to my office. It was Lucy. She is dead, and you are nothing but a cheap trickster hired by the Quince brothers to cover their crime.” He brushed past her, almost knocking her down in his haste to leave.

Ambrose stepped to her side, handed her the cup of punch and drawled, “You two getting reacquainted?”

Pauley swept them both with his glance, informing them righteously, “I’ll see you in hell before the inheritance rightfully belonging to Cordelia and Alexander falls to murderers.”

Lucy held Ambrose’s arm, afraid he’d hit the banker in the face. He surprised her, laughing instead at Pauley and delivering his own loud warning, “And we’ll see you in jail if one penny of Lucy’s money can’t be accounted for.”

Lucy sipped her cup of punch then corrected Ambrose before the banker walked away. “It’s all Quince money now.” She made sure the listeners heard her comment.

Ambrose nodded his agreement. “Yep. You’ve been toying with Double-Q business too long, Pauley. That’s ended. ”

Lucy doubted that Stephen Pauley had been prepared for the show of unity between her and Ambrose. When he walked away, he looked worried.

So was Lucy. He’d been her number one suspect but it seemed as though he had more reason to want her missing and Ambrose under suspicion than her body discovered and her proclaimed dead.

Knowing his desire to control her money, Lucy was surprised he’d identified the clothing, since an audit of her estate was an inevitable outcome. It gave her a headache trying to puzzle it out. Was the banker in league with others? Had someone else dressed a skeleton and provided evidence to hang Ambrose. If so, why?

The Quince brothers controlled ten thousand acres of good grassland with a steady supply of water. Lucy could see that the smaller ranchers might be resentful—but the question was—had envy and greed joined neighbors in a conspiracy to bring down the Double-Q and its owners?

Lucy was pulled back from her speculations when Ambrose growled, “You’re frowning and rubbing your head. Let’s get this show on the road.”

Since the upright women of the town couldn’t decide whether to speak to Lucy or turn aside, Ambrose forced the issue by steering her toward Comfort Bailey, the mercantile owner.

In Lucy’s opinion, Comfort was one woman in the room who had no reason to fear competition from the Quince women’s attire. Her gown, emphasizing her willowy beauty, had been designed to make women envious and men look at her with lust. It was a success. As they stood before her, she gazed at Lucy from her regal height and Lucy understood why Comfort was recognized as queen of Eclipse society.

“Mrs. Bailey, I know you remember my wife, Lucille.” Ambrose’s voice held a quality that Lucy couldn’t quite identify. Her nerve endings stood at attention and she vaguely recognized feelings of jealousy.

Ambrose had explained earlier that Comfort would lend her social support by
recognizing
Lucy as his disappeared wife. Bristling at the picture of herself kneeling before royalty, Lucy had objected.

He’d explained gruffly, “Comfort Bailey is a business woman, and her business has already fallen off with the bad blood caused by her husband’s role in my prosecution.”

His excuse seemed thin to Lucy and, given who Comfort was married to, she had no desire to seek the woman’s approval. Now, as Lucy stood waiting for the grand confirmation of her identity, indecision flickered over the beautiful face.

She looked past Lucy at someone approaching and hurriedly held out both hands as if greeting an old friend. “I am truly pleased to welcome you home, Lucy. I have certainly missed your friendship as well as your business.” She paused and added mischievously, “Come to the store when you have an opportunity. We have catching up to do and I have a bedroom set you might be interested in.” Comfort’s expression warmed even more when she added, “It’s fit for a little princess.”

Lucy felt the hair on the nape of her neck stir as Sheriff Bailey snarled from behind her, “What the hell you think you’re doing?”

Undeterred by her husband’s anger, Comfort spoke loudly enough for all to hear. “You’re a lucky man, Ambrose Quince. Fate has seen fit to return Lucy to you.”

She gazed beyond Lucy at Owen Bailey, but she addressed her words to Lucy, finishing her welcome calmly. “Lovely dress you’re wearing. You must introduce me to your dressmaker.”

“I look forward to visiting the mercantile soon,” Lucy said her lines, resisting the urge to flee from Sheriff Bailey’s threatening presence. “Roberta Harris, my good friend from Buffalo Creek, is a skilled seamstress.” She nodded across the room, pointing Comfort’s gaze to where Hamilton and Roberta stood together.

Ambrose drawled, “Good seein’ you, Comfort.” He turned, guiding Lucy past Comfort’s husband. “Bailey, you’re in my way,” he said grimly,

Lucy stepped closer to Ambrose to avoid the seething bully, her mind in turmoil analyzing the scene that had just taken place.

As they walked away from the Baileys, Ambrose slid his palm along Lucy’s neck, tilting her head to look up at him. He ignored the rest of those at the dance as if they were alone.

“You look mighty pretty tonight, Luce.” His voice had that rumbly sound that caused skitters up and down her spine.

He made her blush and she said softly, “Thank you.”

Behind them the discordant tuning of fiddle, guitars and piano segued into a beautiful blend. The musicians played a melody and a man began to sing.
“Down in the valley, the valley so low…”

Lucy shivered at the plaintive sound.

Ambrose steered her to the dance floor and growled, “It’s been too long since we did this.”

She stopped worrying about the banker, about Comfort Bailey, even about catching a would-be murderer and hesitantly placed her hand on his shoulder, letting him guide her steps. At first, Ambrose held her a respectable distance from him, one hand on her waist, the other holding her hand. But the floor was crowded, so when Ambrose closed the space between them, if noticed by others, it was understood.

Lucy moved her hand from his shoulder to caress the back of his neck, stroking his hair, enjoying the cocoon of intimacy surrounding them as they glided slowly around the room.

His hand moved from her waist to her back, pulling her in a tighter embrace as they swayed together. Lucy rested her head against him, turning her cheek to brush her lips across his chest. Inhaling the intoxicating scent of Ambrose Quince, she felt the magic and whispered, “Quincy.”

He missed a step and caught her close, staring down at her.

“Did I step on your toes?” Lucy asked hesitantly.

Ambrose hugged her closer and murmured, “You touched my heart, sweetheart, and
I
tripped over my toes.” He laughed and pulled her closer, pressing his hardened length against her thigh.

”That’s not your toes or your heart pressing against me, Mr. Quince,” she teased him.

Stroking his cheek tenderly, she strained to remember, wondering what kind of homing instinct had brought her back into his arms. Ambrose brushed his lips across her forehead and the spell was broken as the music came to an end.

He guided her to Alex, who waited to partner her in a lively reel. They’d agreed, she’d dance tonight because Lucy had always danced. But she would have rather lingered in Quincy’s arms.

A tall, handsome, older man was greeted with hoots of approval when he joined the musicians. “That’s TC McCord, the Texas Caller,” Alex told her as he led her to their place in the line. When the reel started, Alex whirled her through the dance and she concentrated on the steps, smiling proudly at her son. As they completed the first promenade, her pleasure ended.

The caller was in full voice, belting out the words as he came off the musicians’ platform and matched his steps to the dancers weaving hand over hand toward the end of the line. When Lucy and Alex reached that point, he stood before them and said, “Good to see you back, Mrs. Quince.”

Lucy stumbled and clutched her son’s arm and a country woman watching from the sidelines hissed, “Whore.”

Alex pretended not to hear, leading her past the woman and to their spot on the other side. Lucy was certain no one could have missed the insult. The next trip around, she heard, “You got what you deserved, slut.”

Alex growled, “I can’t hit a woman, can I, Mama?”

Lucy’s skin crawled and she would have left the dance had Ambrose not slid his arm under hers and taken Alex’s place. “Steady, sweetheart, I’ve got you,” he said.

In her peripheral vision, she caught Iris Clayton’s sympathetic gaze. Lucy grimaced and turned away, having no intentions of encouraging a friendship that might lead her into Pete Slocum’s path.

When the music ended, Lucy had males jostling each other for the privilege of partnering her in the next square dance. Ambrose kept his hand on her shoulder and said, “My wife’s dancing with me tonight. Find another partner.” His voice was gravelly hard.