Sweetwater Seduction (12 page)

“I don't know what came over me,” he said with a dry laugh. “I must have been blinded by your great . . . intelligence.”

Miss Devlin paled. Of course he hadn'tauty.” She knew what she looked like. But it still hurt. “Now that you've recovered your sight, I expect you can find your way out,” she said acidly.

“I expect I can,” he agreed. He didn't look at her again, simply headed back out the door the way he had come in.

Miss Devlin stared after him, distressed by what had just transpired. Somehow whenever he got near her she felt . . . things . . . she didn't want to feel. How had he managed to breach her defenses so quickly? Now that she had felt these . . . feelings . . . was she going to have to worry about feeling them with every man she met? She felt vulnerable as she never had before. And she didn't like it one bit.

That devil dressed in black, with his dark eyes and his dark past, had come into her life and turned everything upside down. Kerrigan had shown her what life could be like in a dangerous man's embrace. She saw now the temptation her mother, Lillian, had faced when she had met her father, a man called Sundance—the lure of danger, the blatant desire in a man's eyes, the mystery of his past.

Eden had watched her mother die a little every time her father drew his gun and killed another man. Until finally the day had come when Sundance hadn't drawn fast enough, and he had been the one to die. She had mourned her father's passing, and taken comfort in her mother's arms.

But Lillian hadn't wanted to live without the man she loved. When Eden buried her mother, she had vowed never to repeat Lillian's mistake. A man who lived by the gun, died by the gun. Along with danger and mystery came violence and death. Loving any man—especially a gunslinger—wasn't worth the risk.

The walls Miss Devlin had built so carefully over the past twenty-nine years might momentarily have come tumbling down, but she would just get a little mortar and bricks and put them back up again. Eden wasn't foolish, and she wasn't stupid. From now on she would make sure Burke Kerrigan kept his distance from her. Or at least that she kept her distance from him.

Miss Devlin continued sternly lecturing herself as she walked the short distance to her gingerbread house, a shuffled stack of homework papers in her arms. She would not let herself like the gunslinger from Texas. She most certainly would not let herself fall in love with him. He could be as charming as he wished. She would have nothing more to do with him.

On Monday she was standing at the counter of Tomlinson's General Store reading the labeon a jar of Eastman's Violette Cold Cream when she noticed him entering the store. She purposefully returned to her examination of the perfumed cold cream. The label promised
“Does not contain a base of oils or other ingredients that promote the growth of unwanted hair! No refined woman desires a growth of hair upon her face, neck, or arms, and hence every careful woman—”

Miss Devlin hadn't realized she was reading aloud, and froze when she heard a familiar Texas drawl finish
“—will use only a high grade cold cream to protect herself from this danger.”

She clutched the jar of cold cream to her breast and grated out, “Aren't you supposed to be out hunting down rustlers?”

Kerrigan grinned. “Not much rustling going on in the bright light of day.”

Miss Devlin turned to face her nemesis. Unfortunately, the gunslinger was standing so close she was practically pinned between his muscular form and the counter. His black duster was hanging open and his body was disturbingly warm. “Don't you have anything better to do than stand here bothering me?”

“Am I bothering you?” he asked in a seductive voice. “You don't really need that stuff, you know. Your skin is lovely just as it is.”

While she stood there wide-eyed, his callused thumb brushed across her soft, smooth cheek.

“But if you insist on having it,” he continued, “perhaps you'd let me buy it for you as a gift.”

Aware they were attracting the attention of the other patrons in the store, Miss Devlin hissed, “I've changed my mind.” She slammed the cold cream down on the counter with a satisfying bang, threw her shoulders back, and marched out the door with the sound of the Texan's mocking laughter echoing behind her.

By sundown Florence Grady, the butcher's wife, who had been standing in the corner of Tomlinson's holding a ribbed-pattern lemon squeezer, had told everyone she met—and a few she contrived to meet—of Miss Devlin's confrontation with the gunslinger.

On Tuesday when Miss Devlin arrived home from school, she found a package on her front porch wrapped up in brown paper and tied with a pretty pink ribbon. At first she thought she must be seeing things. She looked left and right, but there was no sign of anyone about, nor was there a note. Eden wasn't used to finding items on her doorstep—especially not something that looked suspiciously like a present. Her heart beat a little faster as she carried it with her straight through the parlor into the kitchen.

Miss Devlin laid the mysterious package in the center of her kitchen table while she crossed to fill the coffeepot and set it on the stove to heat. The package sat there worrying her like a bowl of ice cream that would melt if it wasn't eaten. She sat down abruptly in front of it. Slowly, carefully, she untied the pink ribbon and unwrapped the brown paper to reveal—

A flush rose on Miss Devlin's face, and she put her hands to her cheeks to cool them. This could only have come from one person. She fought down the feeling of pleasure she felt, forcing herself to concentrate instead on the gall of the man. Imagine buying her something despite her explicit request that he
not
!

Of course she couldn't accept such a gift, especially from
him.
It would be highly improper. She opened the jar and sniffed the soft violet scent, but resisted the urge to dip her finger in. She couldn't imagine why he had sent it—except perhaps to aggravate her. She quickly put the lid back on and set the jar down with a bang, as she had once before. Only it wasn't nearly as satisfying a sound without Kerrigan there to hear it.

Well, no disreputable gunfighter was going to put Miss Eden Devlin in a compromising position. She would just return the cold cream to Mr. Tomlinson and let him refund Mr. Kerrigan's money. And she would do it before the sun set. Eden quickly wrapped the cold cream back up in the brown paper and threw her shawl around her shoulders for the walk into town.

Miss Devlin entered the general store and marched directly up to the counter, heaving a silent sigh of relief that there were no other customers in the store. Mr. Tomlinson had his back to her putting some yard goods on the shelf, so she cleared her throat and said, “I've come to return something.”

The balding man turned and smiled. “Why, hello, Miss Devlin. How can I help you?”

“I've come to return this cold cream.”

At that moment Florence Grady entered the store.

“Is there something wrong with it?” Mr. Tomlinson asked in a concerned voice.

Conscious she now had an audience, Miss Devlin stuttered, “No . . . that is . . . yes . . . that is, I've decided I don't want it.”

“The gentleman who purchased it for you seemed to think you did.”

“Well, he was wrong!”

“I see,” Mr. Tomlinson said. Although it was clear from the look on his face, he really didn't.

“I want you to refund the cost of this cold cream to Mr. Kerrigan,” Miss Devlin said.

“I'm afraid I can't do that,” Mr. Tomlinson said.

“Why not?” Miss Devlin demanded.

“Mr. Kerrigan expressly said that if you returned the cold cream I should give you whatever else you wanted in exchange.”

Outmaneuvered. Again. Miss Devlin felt the heat on her cheeks. Aware of Florence Grady eyeing her from behind the button table, she ged her teeth and said, “Please tell Mr. Kerrigan for me that I don't care to have anything in exchange.”

She turned a stony eye on Florence Grady's knowing expression, and marched out the door with as much dignity as she could muster.

On Wednesday Miss Devlin overslept and was almost late to school. She had been in the throes of a disturbing dream in which she had been running, trying to escape . . . something . . . and had been caught by a tall, dark-eyed stranger. He had cradled her in his arms while his hands roamed across her violet-scented skin. She awoke with a start when his hand reached for—a place it had no business being! She was totally mortified that her thoughts could have strayed so far from where she wanted them. It was enough to keep her up late reading at night, just to avoid sleep.

She had been relieved to discover, as she hurriedly dressed for school, that the
real
reason she had overslept was that her Waterbury Sure-Get-Up Alarm Clock had stopped ticking.

After school she headed directly for The Gold Shoppe, broken alarm clock in hand. However, she was stopped in front of the saddler's by Claire Falkner, who claimed, “I just happened to be in town on an errand, and when I saw you I just had to ask. Is it true what I heard?”

“What did you hear?” Miss Devlin asked cautiously.

“That he gave you a gift,” Claire said in breathless wonder.

“He?” Miss Devlin said, tilting her chin up and eyeing Claire down the length of her nose.

“The gunslinger.”

“I don't know where you heard a thing like that,” Miss Devlin said in a daunting voice.

“From Lynette Wyatt,” Claire admitted.

Miss Devlin's neck hairs prickled in alarm. She wondered how many people knew about her confrontation with Burke Kerrigan and the return of his gift.

“Why didn't you keep it?” Claire asked.

“It?” Miss Devlin said distractedly.

“The perfume.”

“Perfume?” Miss Devlin's eyebrows rose in two pointed arches.

“Why, yes. He did give you a bottle of Violette Rose Water, didn't he?”

“No, he did not!”

“Well, Lynette told me that Florence told her—”

“You should know better than to credit anything a notorious gossip like Florence Grady says,” Miss Devlin said ster

“But Florence—”

“I'm afraid I have an appointment,” Miss Devlin interrupted. “I trust you won't repeat that farradiddle to anyone.”

Claire blushed, “Well, I'm afraid I already . . . but I'll be sure to . . .” One look at Miss Devlin's face sent Claire hurrying down the boardwalk to do an errand of her own.

To Miss Devlin's dismay, Claire was only the first of several ladies who stopped her before she got to the jewelers. Every conversation led to the “gift” she had received from Burke Kerrigan. Eden's patience quickly deserted her and she donned an expression intended to convince the ladies of Sweetwater she “really did not want to discuss the matter.” But since she couldn't be rude to her pupils' mothers, Miss Devlin had no choice but to endure.

“Whyever did he give you such a gift?” Mabel Ives had questioned speculatively.