Surrender to Love (18 page)

He was penniless
…again.  His winnings from earlier in the week had gone to paying off the rest of the house and land, and assuring Henry’s friends in Kansas would continue to keep tabs on his situation.

He was stuck with her until he could figure out some sort of plan.

But she was so peaceful there, this girl who had made him go against everything he believed in.  The haunted, hunted look he had seen before in those emerald eyes had dissipated.  She was beautiful, despite the dirt and scratches that blemished her features. , and he would have been lying to himself had he admitted he wasn’t attracted to her.

Part of him wanted her to go; but another part, well, wanted to keep her here, prote
ct her.  He didn’t know why – he just did.

Again, the fleeting image of that young woman in New Orleans passed through his mind. The same image that had plagued his dreams since the night he had seen Sabine in Havana.

Michael scowled, frustrated as he stared up at the ceiling.  Why did that senseless image keep coming back to him?  It was nothing –
she
was nothing.  Just some silly girl who was probably crying her eyes out over some ridiculous trivialty.  Like hair ribbons.  Or a spat with some beau.

That still didn’t explain why she continued to haunt him.  Suddenly Michael laughed aloud at the recollection.  New Orleans.  It was the first American city he had
entered in two years, and it was almost like Christmas when he heard his first words of English spoken on the streets.  Familiar words.  Familiar names.  And he didn’t stand out like a foreigner.

But what did he almost get himself into?  Helping another woman.

It was a weakness of his, he supposed as he released a sigh, trying to rescue women in distress – even when they really didn’t come asking for it.  That was what had landed him in trouble in the first place.

Kansas again, he brooded, and a frown creased his handsome features.  It invaded his thoughts once too many times lately- something he had tried to escape for two years now; but his pursuers had yet to give up, even though his contacts said the sheriff in Lawrence had deemed the killing of George Morrison purely an accident.

Michael let loose a heavy sigh and settled his gaze again on Sabine.  It was time things were laid to rest.  Let’s face it, he contemplated silently.  Morrison had tried to rape a woman in an alley – a woman of color.  Not that it made a difference, but outrage filled him when he, along with four other men, had heard her cries.

No one went to her aid.

When he dashed into the narrow alley to interfere, he was horrified by what he saw.  She lay sprawled out on the ground, bathed in moonlight, her clothing torn, her breasts exposed for all to see.  Revulsion and anger spread through him and he grabbed her kneeling attacker from behind.

Michael never saw the gun Morrison held until it pointed at his chest.

“Get outta here,” the man snarled. “Just you turn around.  You didn’t see anything here.”

Michael caught the woman’s pleading look, and knew he couldn’t abandon her.  She could have been someone’s mother, sister, wife.

“Leave her alone.”

A snort of scornful laughter escaped his adversary’s lips.  “You a nigger lover, boy?”

Morrison lunged at him then, and despite his large build, the man was remarkably agile.  They grappled in the dust of the dark alley until the sound of a gunshot separated them.  Morrison slumped against the planked wall of the saloon, blood pooling in the packed, dry earth.

“Run,” the woman told him urgently.  “You run from here ‘fore they catches you.  They’ll gets you for sure if you don’t.”

“But…” he started hesitantly.  “The law…”

“
Ain’t no one gonna believe no colored woman, no way, no how.  And all them men out on the street,” she said decisively, “they’s all Morrison’s friends.  He’s rich.  Rich for these parts, at least.  They’ll say you started it.  You best run from Lawrence, mister.”

He didn’t even have time to think about it.

The angry shouts of men grew loud outside the saloon, and Michael’s gaze darted to the fallen body of George Morrison. The blood.  God, was that how much blood was in a person’s body?

And he had to run.  He beat it out of Lawrence and the States as fast as he could, dragging along a handful of possessions
and his new bride Julia, until he finally landed here. It was the only option…unless, of course, he wanted to find himself the guest of honor at a necktie party.  The thought was less than inviting.

He hadn’t returned to Kansas since, and it hadn’t bothered him too awfully much.  He liked it here in this wild land where nobody bothered him unless he went looking for it. Where he could step outside each day and not have to worry about constantly looking over his shoulder.

But the word was out.  Morrison’s friends were still looking for him, and their vengeance continued as strong as it had two years ago.  How long would it all last?  The happiness?  The security?  When would it finally come crashing down around his ears?

Looking down at Sabine again, a tenderness came to the sharpness of his blue eyes.  She definitely had been a lady in distress, and, yes, he wanted her to stay, though he knew it was a rash decision.

He couldn’t pinpoint it, but there was something about her that drew him.  Maybe it was those eyes…that hair…or maybe it was just because she was unlike any other woman he had ever known.

No, he wasn’t stuck with her, Michael decided as he absently stroked at one of those errant curls that lay against her shoulder, and he wound its length about his finger,
studying it intently as if it were some incredible discovery.  He really did want her here, this beautiful woman who made his blood run cold, then hot, then cold again.

Michael shifted uncomfortably as he guiltily smoothed the curl back in place.  He had no right to feel this way, no right at all.

Chapter Twelve

The long shadows of twilight had stretched far against the walls when Sabine stirred to awareness and hesitantly opened her eyes.
  It wasn’t a dream.  Everything was just as she remembered it.  The decadent luxury of the feather mattress.  The china cup she had drunk from earlier.  A half burnt tallow candle that rested on a nearby table.

She sat up, surveying her surroundings
as she gently smoothed her rumpled curls.  So little there was to look at.  The walls were bare.  The floor was bare.  The windows were bare.  But the furniture was sumptuous.  Carved bedposts.  A lovely wardrobe.  A dressing table.  Mirrors.  This was, most definitely, a lady’s room.

Her stomach rumbled with hunger as she arose from the bed on unsteady legs.  Wincing, she took a few steps.  Well, she hadn’t hurt her ankle as badly as she ‘d thought, she convinced herself.  In a few days she should be as good as new.

Clad only in her chemise, she bathed from the pitcher on the stand, closing her eyes as the soothing coolness soaked her skin.  Forever.  She wanted to stand here forever and let the water slide languidly over her arms and face.  Forget about everything and just lose herself in the mesmerizing rhythm of the wash cloth as it stroked against her body.

“I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.”

With a gasp, Sabine hastily covered her scantily clad bosom with her hands and whirled to face him, her eyes darting around the room wildly in search of her clothing.  Darn it, where were her things?  What had he done with them?  She stamped her foot irritably as she creased her brow in frustration.

Michael Pierson
lounged comfortably in the doorway, his muscular arms folded against the wide expanse of his chest.  A flicker of amusement surfaced in his features, and the corners of his mouth curled up in a smile.  How could he, she thought indignantly.  How could he simply waltz in here and pretend as though nothing was wrong?

“You – you should have knocked,” she accused, her eyes wide as she inched cautiously away from him.

“I didn’t think you’d be awake.”

His gaze tactfully averted to the floor
.  His gesture caused her embarrassment to burn hotter, and she narrowed her eyes to angry slits.  Gentleman or no, he had no excuse for his marching right in here.  Who did he think he was, anyway?  According to the law of this land, he might have ownership of her, but he had no right to invade her privacy!

“Where are my things,” she demanded, her manner crisp as she attempted to cover his disconcertion.  “My clothes.  Where are my clothes?”

“I burned them.”

“You did
what?
” she shouted and took a step toward him, her mouth agape incredulously.  “Those were all I had.”

Rage tore through her.  He had some nerve.  What did he take her to be?  Some cheap hussy he had bought to warm his bed?  She faced him, her hands set stubbornly, furiously,
on her hips.

“Look,” he snapped, jabbing a finger in her direction.  “You don’t understand, do you?  What do you take me for?”

“I’m no whore.”

The evil word had slipped from her lips before she’d had the opportunity to stifle it.  There.  She had said it.  And she didn’t care that she had always been brought up to be a lady.  It was perfectly clear that was all men would think of her.  A whore. A trollop.  A loose woman who was passed around for their pleasure.

“Is that why you think you’re here?” he exploded, his countenance darkening with uncontrollable fury.  “Have you seen yourself in a mirror lately, Sabine?  Have you happened to notice that Manuel Colón almost killed you with the way he beat you? What do you want me to do?  Sit back and wait for him to finish you off?”

“What’s that got to do with my clothes?”

She was so damned irrational.  Michael strode into the room purposefully, anger blazing in his eyes.  Why the hell couldn’t she understand?  She was so blasted headstrong she didn’t even take the time to see the gravity of her situation.  Clothes.  All she cared about were those damned scraps of rags that Colón had expected her to wear with some form of dignity.

Sabine darted away from him, her heart pounding wildly with fear as he advanced.  How could she have been so mistaken?  He was just like all the rest.  Nothing special.  Nothing different.  Not the man she initially hoped he’d be.

Scrambling, she frantically slid under the bed, her semi-nude body trembling as she furtively peeked out from the twisted sheeting that draped to the floor.  Oh, dear Lord, what kind of situation had she fallen into now?

His shouts ceased, and the impatient thump of his boot heels rang in her ears, mixing with the pounding of her heart and the ragged breathing that escaped her. 
He muttered a curse, and Sabine flinched as she heard his fist solidly strike an object somewhere in the room.  More swear words.  The pacing of his footsteps.  A frustrated sigh from near the door.

“I’m sorry.”  His voice was subdued, tired.  “Will you please come out?”

No response.  Well, did he honestly expect to get one?  Only if I was a complete fool, Michael answered himself dourly.  She’d been through enough already without him losing control like a madman.

He waited…and
waited…and waited until the monotonous ticking of the kitchen clock nearly drove him insane.  He wasn’t leaving.  Sooner or later she was going to have to come out from under that bed and talk to him.

“Look, Sabine, I’m not trying to put anything over on you,” he continued as he pulled a chair next to the doorway and sat down. 
“I just thought maybe you would like to rid yourself of that place altogether.  I  mean, you and I both know what happened.  Colón isn’t known for his congeniality toward women…nor will he take no for an answer.” Michael leaned his head tiredly against the wall and stared idly at the ceiling as he let loose a sigh.  “When I saw you the other day, I knew you had to get out of there.  Luís tried, and that failed.”

His gaze shifted to the bed again.
She hadn’t moved.  Not even an inch.  Damn stubborn woman.  Couldn’t she tell he meant her no harm?

“Well,” he continued, “I got lucky anyway.  Fortunately, this four of a kind came along…”

“A card game!”  Her head popped out from beneath the bed skirting, her hair edged with dust, green eyes blazing angrily.  “You won me in a…a
card
game?”

She slid out into the open, her chest heaving with outrage as she surveyed Michael’s bemused expression.

”I knew that’d you get you out.”

She all but screamed at him in frustration.  How dare he!  How dare he sit there and laugh at her as if she were some addle-brained fool!

A card game.
  The vision of it played over and over in her brain.  She could just see him at the table, a wide grin spread across his face as he laid his hand out on the table, a whoop of triumph escaping him as he found himself in possession of a new toy to occupy his time.

Quickly her hand reached out and snatched up the first object it came in contact with.  She’d give him something other than cards to think about.  Oh, yes, Michael Pierson would rue the day he’d ever thought of her as something
to play with.  The china cup flew across the room, shattering into tiny pieces far from her aim.