Sweet Silken Bondage (17 page)

They hugged in a warm, spontaneous gesture.

"I hope so, Emilie," she answered. As the door
closed behind her, Reina repeated, feeling strangely
disquieted, "I really, truly hope so."

The ethereal woman hovered before Clay in the misty semidarkness. Though she was completely clothed in some unfamiliar, loose, flowing garment, there was something seductively
arousing about her. Lithe arms raised to him, beckoning him
ever closer.

Clay wanted to go to her. He wanted to hold her. He wanted
more than anything to press his lips to hers and seek out the
sweet ecstasy he knew would be found in her embrace. For some unknown reason, though, Clay couldn 't move or speak. Restrained by an unseen force, he could only look on, desperately
wanting, but never having.

The woman called his name, and the sound of her voice, so
soft and enthralling echoed enticingly around Clay, increasing
his already fervent ardor. She sounded so familiar to him, and
yet...

Clay struggled to break free from the invisible bonds that
held him, all the while feverishly searching his memory for
some clue as to his mystery temptress 's name. He knew if'he
could only call her name, she would come to him. His muscles
strained and sweat beaded his brow as he fought against the
power that held him immobile. His effort was herculean, but
ultimately in vain as she began to move away from him. Her
arms were still reaching out for him, and she was still calling
to him, but he was helpless to respond. Caught... trapped
... Clay could do no more than watch in mute despair as she
was taken from him...

The force of the emotions that wracked him in the
dream jarred Clay from a sound sleep. Sweat-soaked
and breathing raggedly, Clay sat up abruptly in his
bed. He stared off into the surrounding darkness,
trying to make sense of the chaotic, dream-inspired
images that were churning in his mind. Tense but
weary, he rubbed a hand over his eyes in an effort to
help clear his thoughts, then he swung his long legs
over the edge of the bed and sat there for a long quiet
moment in the night-shrouded room.

The unknown woman in his dream seemed very
real to Clay, but he could put no name to her. She was
elusive in his thoughts, teasing the corners of his
consciousness with her exciting presence, yet leaving
him frustrated in his pursuit of her identity. Clay tried
to dismiss his dream temptress as a figment of his
imagination for he could not remember ever feeling
that strongly about any woman. But as he sat there in
the dark, his defenses down, he let his thoughts run
wild. The memory of Sister Mary Regina and the night at the way station came to him. The erotic image
of her brushing out her hair as she sat before the fire,
surged powerfully through Clay. Just recalling that
night aroused him, and with a growl he got up from
the bed and pulled on his pants.

Like a caged animal, Clay paced his room. After a
restless moment, he paused by the window and
brushed back one heavy velvet drape to stare out
across the soothing beauty of the moonlit countryside.
It troubled him deeply to think that he was perverted
enough to dream of Sister Mary Regina as a seductress. He raked a hand nervously through his sleeptousled hair as he considered this flaw in his character.
The sister was the only truly good woman he'd met in
his life, and Clay did not want to dwell on that
incredibly sensual yet completely innocent encounter.
Hell, he berated himself angrily, Sister Mary Regina
hadn 't been aware of any of it. She was a chaste woman of
unimpeachable virtue, and he knew he did her a disservice by
even thinking about that night and how beautiful she'd
looked...

Clay was a man used to being in control, and it
annoyed him that he couldn't completely put Sister
Mary Regina out of his mind. Sometimes, he wondered if he ever would. Clay acknowledged that their
paths would never cross again, and he found the
thought oddly disturbing, although he wasn't sure just
why. Too tense to even think about trying to sleep
again, he turned away from the window and left the
room.

Seventeen-year-old, auburn-haired Molly Magee
smiled tenderly as she gazed down at her little
brother, "Well, Jimmy, do you think you can take
care of Ma while I'm gone to work?"

"Of course I can, Molly," the red-haired, frecklefaced eight-year-old declared with fierce pride. "You
can trust me."

Though Molly didn't like Jimmy missing school
and she had her reservations about leaving him
alone with their sick mother, she knew she had no
other choice in the matter. She had to go to work.
Her job at the Golden Kettle Restaurant was their
only source of income right now, and the owner, a
big-bodied, mean-spirited woman named Bertha
Harvey, wouldn't hesitate to fire her if she dared to
miss a day. Molly reached out to give him a loving
hug.

"You're a good boy, Jimmy Magee," she told him,
ruffling his hair affectionately when she let him go.
"Listen, I'm late already, but I promise you I'll be
back just as quick as I can."

"I hope Mrs. Harvey doesn't make you stay extra
late."

"So do I, sweetie," Molly agreed.

"What should I do for Ma when she wakes up,
Molly?"

"Make sure she gets lots to drink and anything
else she wants, all right?"

"I'll make sure," he promised.

Molly crossed the room to stand by the small bed
where their mother was resting fitfully. Life had not
been kind to Eileen Magee. She'd been married and
had had Molly by the time she was sixteen. The
year after Jimmy had been born, she had followed
her husband to the gold fields only to have him get
himself shot and killed in a card game shortly after
they'd arrived. She had been on her own ever since,
making money any way she could to support herself
and her two children. It hadn't been easy, especially
since she'd refused the easy money to be made
through prostitution. Eileen had wanted an honorable way of life, and though she had achieved at
least that much, it was that very honorable, hardworking lifestyle that had left her exhausted and too
weak to fight off her illness.

Molly studied her mother as she lay, burning up
with fever now and realized that she looked far older
than her thirty-three years. Her hair, once flaming
red, was now dull and streaked with gray. Except for
the fever's flush on her sunken cheeks, she was
deathly pale. Molly was used to her mother being
strong. She'd always bounced back right away from
any sickness, but this was the third day she'd been
down with the fever, and she was showing no signs
of improvement.

"Jimmy, darling, I've got to go. I'm late already,"
Molly sighed, tearing herself away from the bedside.

"Hurry home..." There was a slight tremor in
his voice, as if the uncertainty of their situation
frightened him, too.

"I will."

Molly gave Jimmy one last hug, then hurried
from their small, four room house. It was quite a
distance to the Golden Kettle, and she nearly had to run the whole way for fear of Bertha Harvey's considerable wrath.

"You know I don't abide your being late, Molly."

Bertha's snapped greeting welcomed Molly as she
came rushing into the kitchen of the restaurant a
short time later.

"Yes, ma'am, but my mother's ill and -"

"I have customers who need to be waited on. If
you can't do it, I'll find someone else who can!" the
gray-haired woman said coldly.

It was exactly what Molly had expected her to say,
and yet she still cringed at the threat. "Yes, ma'am."

"You're already late getting the lunches over to the
sheriff. Get on that right now."

"Yes, ma'am," Molly replied breathlessly as she
hurried around the kitchen gathering what she
needed. In a way, she was glad that her first duty of
the day would be to take the lunches to the jail. The
less time she had to spend in Bertha Harvey's abrasive company, the happier she was, and then there
was always the fact that she'd get to see Devlin
O'Keefe again...

"I want you to deliver the lunches and come
straight back. I don't want you lingering over there
talking to those prisoners. Do you understand me,
Molly?"

Her caustic comment jerked Molly's thoughts
away from the young man who'd been arrested for
Pedro Santana's murder, but for some reason hadn't
gone to trial yet.

"Yes, ma'am, Mrs. Harvey," Molly answered respectfully, "but I really don't think that-"

"I don't pay you to think, Molly. I pay you to
work." She silenced any comeback the girl might
have had with an icy look. She was a narrowminded old woman who did not tolerate insolence
from her employees.

Molly ducked her head so Bertha wouldn't see the flash of angry resentment in her green eyes. She
remained silent, but she really wanted to argue and
tell her that Devlin O'Keefe, with his friendly blue
eyes and soft, gentle voice, couldn't possibly be the
villain everyone claimed he was. As desperate as
Molly was for honest work, though, she knew better
than to say anything that might anger her employer.

Hurrying because she wanted to get away from
her boss's overbearing nearness, Molly reached for
the steaming kettle of stew on the stove without a
towel to protect her hand. She gave a small cry of
pain as she burned herself. Suddenly letting go of
the pot, she spilled some of its contents.

"That was stupid," the older woman ridiculed, not
moving to help her. "Now you're going to be later
than ever. Clean up that mess and get those pails
over to the jail."

Molly fought back tears as she bit her lip in an
effort to distract herself from the pain.

"And just remember what I told you, girl," Bertha
went on, "I don't want to hear that you were talking
with those two. I won't have any sluts working for
me."

"I'm no slut!" Molly responded quickly, unable to
take any more of her verbal abuse.

"And you'd better keep it that way. Those two
prisoners are nothing but cold-blooded murderers,
the both of them. Especially that Ace Denton.
They're gonna hang him tomorrow, you know."

"I know." Molly shivered involuntarily as she
thought of Denton. Where Devlin O'Keefe seemed
innocent to her, Ace Denton was just the opposite.
There was something about the man that scared her.
His eyes were cold and deadly, and she could sense
no goodness in him. It was as if all the evil in the
world was embodied in him, and she hated even just
having to hand him his food through the cell bars.

"Won't be too much longer before the other one's tried and sentenced to hang, too. Although," she
mused lightheartedly, "I really shouldn't be complaining about them keeping O'Keefe alive. I'm
making good money feeding him."

"They aren't really going to hang him, are they?"
Molly spoke up without thought.

Bertha eyed her suspiciously, wondering why it
mattered to the girl. "He's guilty. Everybody in town
knows it. The sheriff found some evidence linking
him to the murder"

"But that doesn't mean he did it," she defended.

"He's the killer, missy. Don't you doubt that for a
minute. Sheriff Macauley wouldn't have arrested him
if he wasn't sure. It's just a matter of time until he
pays his dues like Denton's going to tomorrow." She
didn't notice Molly's stricken look as she directed,
"Now, just get those meals over there and hurry on
back. There's a lot more work here just waiting for
you"

Molly finished preparing the hot lunches and then
left for the sheriffs office. As she crossed the busy
street and headed toward the jail, she questioned her
own conviction about O'Keefe's innocence. If everyone in town believed he'd murdered Santana, why
didn't she?

Dev lay on the hard, uncomfortable cot in his jail
cell, his arms folded beneath his head, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. When he'd first been incarcerated, he'd raged against the injustice of it. But as
the long weeks had passed and he realized that he
was no longer in command of his own fate, he'd
called upon his reserve of patience and control. He
would not panic. Only Clay could help him now.
Only Clay...

Dev thought of the last conversation they'd had
before his friend had ridden out of town. Clay had told him how Alvarez had blackmailed him into
tracking down his daughter and of how the Californio had promised that nothing would happen to him
while he was gone. It had been a relief to know that
he wasn't going to be strung up right away for a
crime he hadn't committed, but it hadn't really
changed anything. He was still locked up in the six
by six foot room with no quick hope of getting out.
It was only Dev's complete, unshakable confidence in
Clay that kept him from losing his sanity. That, and
the regular daily visits of Molly Magee, the pretty
young woman who brought the meals from the restaurant.

The thought of the lovely Molly stirred a warmth
within Dev, and he smiled slightly as he pictured her
in his mind. Her hair was a deep, burnished color,
not red and not auburn, but somewhere in between.
The peaches and cream of her complexion was highlighted by a light sprinkling of freckles across the
bridge of her nose. Her eyes were the clearest green.
Her figure was slender and still a bit girlish, but
with the budding promise of future curves. She was
shy, and though he'd made numerous overtures in
his most charming manner to try to engage her in
conversation, she seldom responded. It troubled him
that Molly always tried to keep her eyes averted
from his as if she was afraid of something.