The Vigilante's Bride (11 page)

An hour later, in a field behind the house, Emily blurted, “I’m afraid of guns.”

“All guns or just my guns?” Luke slid a shell into place and snapped the breech shut.

She blinked at him. “Both, maybe.”

“You still afraid of me?” He thrust the rifle at her.

She hesitated. “Not anymore.”

He let his breath out slowly. “Good, I’m glad of that. Now stop talking and shoot the thing.”

She took the rifle from him and raised it. The wood stock was heavy, and her arms trembled with the weight of it. Grimly, she pulled the hammer back and jerked the trigger. The gun roared, staggering her backward with the impact. The bullet whistled into the sky.

He smirked. “Just great, if your target’s on a roof.”

Tears sprang into her eyes. “You stop poking fun at me!”

He sighed, feeling guilty again. Everything he tried to do right for her, he did all wrong. Moving behind her, he reached both arms around her and covered her hands with his. He lifted the gun into place, flattened his thumb on hers, and cocked the hammer back. All at once he felt massive. He’d forgotten how small she was. The gun was too heavy for her.

“I’ll hold it; you aim it,” he said, and adjusted the rifle butt more comfortably into the hollow of her shoulder. He leaned forward, steadying her, his cheek flattened against hers as she aimed at a tree in the distance.

A strand of soft coppery hair blew across his mouth, filling his nostrils with a cloud of scents – sunshine and soap. As he pulled it off his lips, he made the mistake of looking into her eyes, and the kick of attraction nearly took his breath away. Her pupils had gone wide and dark, and for the first time, he saw tiny flecks of gold deep down in the green around them.

Pretty.

When his gaze slid to her lips, he swallowed. Unaccountably, his mouth had gone as dry as flour.

Her lips were just inches away.

“I want to kiss you,” he said softly.

“I’d rather you didn’t. You’ll just laugh at me.”

“Why would I laugh at you?”

“Because I grew up with all girls and” – she jerked away – “and I don’t know how.” Her voice caught.

Something soft and warm curled in his chest. He put his hand on her cheek and turned her face to him. “I’ll show you.”

Slowly, he lowered his mouth to hers. Not wanting to startle her, he kissed the corners of her mouth, first one side and then the other. He grazed his lips back and forth over hers. Her mouth was soft and warm and yielded under his. When her eyelids fluttered closed, he cradled the back of her head and kissed her full on the mouth. Hesitantly, lightly, she pressed her lips to his. He made a thick, pleased sound in his throat and gathered her into his arms. Even as he told himself not to, he closed his eyes. And then he
really
kissed her.

Not a good idea
.

Though he didn’t want to, he raised his face. Softly, he cleared his throat, reminding himself it was just a kiss. Nothing more. But his stomach had turned to air.

She looked dazed, her eyes huge, her lower lip caught between her teeth.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he said, relieved his voice was steady.

“Is that all there is to it?”

He grinned. “Pretty much, with a few variations.”

She drew a small shaky breath and sat back. Her cheeks were splotched with pink, and her hand trembled under his on the rifle. “You’re a good teacher,” she said quietly.

Though he knew she meant it as a compliment, it made him feel old and experienced and somehow not very nice. Yet a band of pleasure tightened his chest and set his heart racing again. He was the first. She’d never kissed a man before. He grinned to himself, still trying to wrap his brain around that.

He wanted to protect her, to keep her safe. That was all he’d intended with this shooting lesson. Nothing more, he told himself. He hauled his thoughts away from how good she’d felt in his arms. How right she felt.

He straightened his shoulders and forced himself to concentrate. Something odd was stirring around inside his head. Feeling a little short of breath, he forced himself to explain how to sight the gun.

He liked her. A lot.

“Line up the target with that metal tip at the end of the barrel.” He covered the small hand under his and supported the rifle for her. His cheek brushed hers again.

He screwed his eyes shut. He wanted to kiss her again.

“Pull the trigger, Emily,” he growled.

But the husky change he heard in his own voice wasn’t lost on her, either. She became very quiet and did everything he told her to. And wasn’t that a switch?

Emily was ready to drop from exhaustion. Luke kept her out there until she could load the gun, get the rifle up into position, and fire. Only then did they start for home.

On the way back, they cut across a muddy field and down a sloping hill through a grove of cottonwoods. “How’s your shoulder?” he called to her.

“What shoulder? If I have one, I can’t feel it. My whole arm’s numb.”

He only nodded, and the sharp retort she expected didn’t come. He was different this afternoon. Nice. Once, he’d spread the strands of a barbed wire fence apart for her. As she climbed through, her skirt caught on one of the kinks of wire. Twisting around, she bent over to work it loose. From the expression on his face, Luke Sullivan was getting a good long look at knee-length ruffled drawers and two legs in heavy black stockings.

Facts lined up and marched out of her mind. Frosty, coldhearted, cold-blooded Luke Sullivan was grinning like a schoolboy. This tough-talking gunslinger holding the fence apart confused her like a Chinese puzzle, and now the pieces of the puzzle were snapping into place. A lot of things were beginning to make sense this afternoon.

He liked looking at her legs.

Her face on fire, she yanked her skirt free. Her stomach churned. She was playing a dangerous game, unsure how to handle this situation, how to handle this man.

She sent a look sideways at him. He had a nice square jaw and was certainly attractive for a gunfighter. Well, not really a gunfighter, but almost. And despite who he was and what he did, his chin was downright cute, with a Y-shaped cleft so deep it folded in on itself. Unbidden, the thought slipped to the front of her mind and hung there. She imagined her fingernail tracing the tiny trench, probing it, even kissing it. Heat slid down her neck.

She smoothed her skirt and wheeled around. Quickly, she started walking away from him.

Luke dumped his hat on the back of his head and loped along beside her. “I’ve been thinking about what you said a while ago,” he said coolly. “Out here, you need to be able to protect yourself. I did not teach you to shoot to be mean.”

Emily’s lips curved faintly. She’d figured that out for herself.

“I don’t know anything about guns,” she said, lowering her eyes. “My arm hurts because your old rifle is so heavy.”

He stopped dead still, the rifle crooked in his arm. Though he didn’t answer right away, she could tell he was considering what she’d said.

Hesitantly, as if she were fishing – which she’d never done in her life – she mentally cast a silken feminine line far out into uncharted waters. Hoping she wasn’t misreading him, she said, “Maybe tomorrow you should show me how to shoot your Colt instead.”

In a flash, the wiliest, craftiest game fish in the river – twenty-six years old and two hundred pounds – shot to the surface and swallowed the bait, the hook, the rod, and swam off with the line.

“Good idea, Emmy. How’s tomorrow, right after dinner?”

CHAPTER
10

New Hope had settled down for the night, the children cleaned up, prayers heard, and sent off to bed. Emily, hemming a dress, sat in the parlor with Molly and Luke.

A few feet away, Luke lounged in a wing-back chair, reading a newspaper. In blue Levi’s and a soft flannel shirt, boots off, he’d propped his socked feet on a footstool.

Emily bit off a length of thread, happy that she and Luke had stopped squabbling every time they got within spitting distance. Ever since the shooting lessons, he seemed to be observing a kind of truce. She was, too.

Funny what a couple of kisses could do.

Earlier that evening, like every other evening for the past week, they’d gone for a walk after supper. Twice he took her to one of the fields and let her practice shooting his revolver. The last two evenings, however, he’d steered her over to the corral. He insisted she learn to ride, something she rebelled at every time he took her to the barn. She was afraid of horses, and he knew it, so he’d lift her onto Sheba, a gentle old mare, and have her sit there to get used to the feel of the animal under her.

But not Bugle. She wouldn’t go near Bugle.

“He growls at me,” she said.

Luke fought a smile and lost. “Horses don’t growl.”

“He does. And it’s not funny.”

In the parlor, she looked across at Luke. Dark head bowed, he was deeply engrossed in what he was reading. Lightly, she ran her fingers over her lips, remembering the pressure of his lips on hers, how firm his mouth was.

She glanced down, putting up the hem of a dress she’d made for church, this one plain blue with bone buttons down the front and a soft belt. Every time Molly went to Repton, she brought back several yards of fabric for her. Slowly, Emily was putting a wardrobe together.

“Where’d you learn to sew dresses?” Luke glanced over the top of his newspaper at her.

“Chicago. They taught us to sew and cook and keep house – ‘domestic science,’ they call it.” She shook the dress out and smoothed the silky blue folds across her lap. She grinned as she said, “I also became quite good at sewing boy’s underwear. Would you like me to – ?”

With a quick “No, thanks,” Luke ducked behind the paper.

Molly’s lips twitched. She glanced up from her darning.

Smiling, she shook her finger at Emily. Emily grinned back. She and Molly had forged a friendship.

“There’s an article here about railroad rights-of-way,” Luke said slowly. “Reminds me of what Jupiter Jackson said about New Hope’s boundaries.” He lowered the paper and looked over at Molly. “He says New Hope is bigger than we think.”

“Oh, there’s always been talk,” she said, “but it was way before I came. The truth’s been exaggerated, I expect. Long time ago, a French fur trader named Olivier owned everything from the Wyoming line to Billings. It was a land grant from before Napoleon – that’s how far back it goes.”

Molly worked the needle through the fabric, shaking her head. “Olivier returned to France. Story I heard said the Cheyenne captured him and some traveling preacher saved him. Olivier left these parts in a hurry. Before he did, he deeded a large tract of land for a children’s house of refuge – N ew Hope, now – to be run by the preacher. The rest he sold to the U.S. government for pennies an acre. The government bought it and turned it into a reservation for the Crows.”

Luke’s forehead folded into f ive straight horizontal lines.

“Count them,”
Molly had once told her.
“You can always tell what he’s feeling. The more lines, the more bothered he is.”

“Jupiter says he remembers when New Hope’s range ran all the way from the White Dog River to the Yellowstone,” he said.

Molly shook her head. “He’s an old man, Luke.”

“But you said yourself the deed’s messed up, that a piece of New Hope really belongs to the Crows.”

Emily did a quick forehead line count. One more. Six wrinkles.

Molly nodded. “It does, but the stretch from Pryor Creek to Billings was never ours. I’ve always been told New Hope’s line ends at Pryor Creek. It’s another ten miles from there to Billings. From Pryor Creek to the Yellowstone is all open range. Goodness, that can’t be ours.”

“Who said?”

“Everybody.” She slipped a darning egg into another black stocking belonging to one of the girls. With tiny, deliberate stitches she outlined the hole, her mouth set. Jabbing the needle into the stocking, she set it aside and looked over at Luke. “Half a dozen people over the years, including Bart. Since he was here before me and on New Hope’s board, I accepted his word.”

“Where’s the deed, Molly?”

She stood up. “I’ll get it, but some of it’s in French.” Shoulders stiff, she left the room.

When she returned, Emily joined the other two at a long coffee table against the wall, where Molly had unfolded the deed.

“What’s it say about boundaries?” Luke asked.

“There’s nearly half a page about them here.” Emily traced her finger under the tiny, cramped French writing down the deed’s left margin. “This says ‘west from
Rivière du Chien Blanc
’
–
White Dog River
–
‘to
Rivière de l’ Élan
.’ ”

Slowly, Molly shook her head. “We all know where the White Dog is, but there’s no such place named
Élan
around here.”

Emily tapped her finger in the margin. “It’s not a place. It’s another river.”

“Had his rivers mixed up, I guess. No such river named that, either.” Luke straightened. Hands on his hips, he stared down at the deed. “Might as well be in Chinese for all the sense it makes to me.” He turned to Emily. “What’s
Élan
mean in French?”

She shrugged. “A big animal with horns . . . like a moose.”

His eyes narrowed, then snapped wide open. “Elk, maybe?”

“That’s it. That’s the one.”

“Jupiter was right!” He grabbed Molly around the waist and swung her feet off the floor. “That’s not open range. It’s ours!”

“Put me down, you crazy man,” Molly said, laughing as hard as he.

Eyes bright, Luke set her on her feet, grinning. “Elk River is what the Indians used to call the Yellowstone.” He leafed through the pages of the deed, looking for something. “There.” He pointed to the date. “They drew this deed up in 1803. Lewis and Clark didn’t explore this area till after the U.S. bought it, two years later. That’s when he named Billings’s muddy big river the ‘Yellow Stone.’ ”

“I can’t believe it,” Molly said, her voice cracking. “All these years of just scrimping by. If this is true, it’ll make folks mighty unhappy around here.”

A shadow spread across Luke’s face, his eyes serious. “Correction. It’ll make one man unhappy. The Paxtons, the Ormons, old Mr. Bolton – they’ll be glad for you. They only drive through, but Axel’s days of hogging the range closest to Billings and the railhead are over. That’s New Hope land. If he wants to graze it, then he rents it. And the next time he drives through, he’s trespassing. Either he pays New Hope or he doesn’t go through.”

“He’ll fight it, Luke. You know he will,” Molly said quietly.

“Then we’ll fight back. In court. The money problems for New Hope just ended.” His face was grim and determined.

“I don’t want anybody hurt. It might mean more trouble with him and his men,” Molly warned.

He squeezed her shoulder. “There won’t be any trouble.”

Like an unborn baby kicking, Emily’s heart jumped. She stared at the deed and bit the words back. Of course Bart would fight it. Worried for Luke, her gaze swung to him. If something happened to him now, she’d regret it forever.

Molly’s gaze held Emily’s, as if she’d read her mind.

“Let’s not say anything to anyone yet,” she said. “Luke, how about you showing this deed to the land office in Billings? Maybe take Jupiter along to back us up.”

Coming down from his room two days later, still sleepy and trying to wake up, Luke saw the glow of an oil lamp from the dining room. At four o’clock in the morning, the downstairs was usually dark and quiet. Instead, light shined into the hall, the end of the dining room table lit with a pale apricot glow. The rest of the big room fell into the shadows behind it. He heard comfortable, waking-up noises in the back of the house and the pattering of footsteps. He recognized the hinge creak of the stove’s fire door. The aroma of woodsmoke and boiling coffee drifted into the hall. Curious, he followed his nose.

Wearing an apron over a long blue gingham dress, her cheeks flushed from the heat of the woodstove, Emily removed a pan of biscuits from the oven. Luke stopped in the doorway, admiring her as he always did when she wasn’t looking. Her hair was tied back with a matching blue ribbon and curled prettily from the heat and steam in the kitchen.

“You’re up early this morning,” he said.

Holding the hot pan with a towel, she banged the heavy oven door shut and turned to him. “And how about some nice scrambled eggs this morning?” A dazzling smile nearly blinded him.

Instantly his guard went up. Several times in his life he’d used dynamite, to clear a trail covered by a mountain of mud and rubble or to break loose a snowpack threatening to avalanche a herd. He wasn’t afraid of explosives, but neither was he reckless with them. The potential for mortal danger was only a heartbeat away. The bright smile she gave him was a lit fuse to something.

Fire in the hole! That was what miners yelled when they ran for cover just before the blast let go. And though the words were ringing in his mind, all he said was, “Don’t think I want any eggs this morning. I’m running kind of late.” He picked up the coffeepot and the milk pitcher and ambled through the door into the dining room, feeling her eyes boring into the back of his neck every step he took.

Emily followed a minute later with the biscuits on a flowered plate – the good china, he noticed – and an assortment of jams and preserves in little dishes with little spoons, all daintily arranged on a white napkin on a pewter tray. Luke cocked an eyebrow, wondering. A little tea party in the middle of the night? She wanted something. He filled their cups, then set the pot down.

“Would you like some fig preserves?” she asked.

His mouth puckered. Few things in this world made him shudder, but fig preserves did. So did beef tea. “It’s a little early. Got any grape jelly over there?”

“Here’s some lovely quince.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Grape’s fine.”

She stiffened. Irritably, she pushed the tray toward him and sat back. He moved the fancy dishes around and found some strawberry jam. Almost as good as grape.

Emily stirred a spoon around and around and around in her cup. He set his teeth together and did his best to ignore it, but the small, monotonous whine of metal on china at four o’clock in the morning curled his toes in his boots. She laid the spoon down and looked off into space, her gaze fixed in the air over his head.

Luke waited, relieved she’d stopped scraping the bottom out of that cup but wondering what was on her mind. Whatever she had to say wouldn’t come out until she was good and ready. And heaven help him if he didn’t want to hear it. Might as well try to hold back the tide.

“Biscuits are real good, Emily,” he said, hoping to prod her into conversation.

Silence.

Reaching across, he helped himself to another biscuit, slit it, and spread a thick glob of fig preserves on it. There – maybe that would make her happy. He did the same with a second and handed it to her, using the opportunity to study her face.

When she turned her head, the lamplight pooled in deep shadows under her eyes.

“You look tired,” he said.

“I didn’t sleep much. I’ve been thinking.”

He pushed his cup away and folded his arms on the table. “All right, let’s have it. What have you been thinking?”

“I want to talk to you.”

“I guessed that much.”

The words tumbled out in a breathless rush. “I think it would be a good idea if you’d take me along with you and Jupiter to Billings,” she said.

He blinked. “Why?”

“Because I’ve never really been there and because I can read French, and maybe at the courthouse they can’t.”

“And maybe they can.”

Her eyes met his. “But what if they can’t? Then what will you do? You’ll have to come back here and get me and go back again. That means you’ll make a trip for nothing.”

Wouldn’t hurt to let her ride along, and what she said about the French made sense. No one around here spoke it. In fact, he’d never met anyone who spoke French before. And he had to take a wagon anyway because Jupiter was too old to ride a horse that far. Her skin looked creamy and soft in the lamplight. His gaze lingered on her lips. She really wouldn’t be much trouble. He cleared his throat. “You’re talking twenty miles in a wagon and camping out one night.”

Emily nodded. “I know.”

He picked up his cup and sipped slowly. But there were other things, he knew, that had never occurred to her. Luke glanced over at her. “I’ll have to talk to Molly about it. You know how people gossip. It might not look right. Some folks might get the wrong idea if you were to go to Billings alone with two men.”