Emma and the Outlaw Read online

  Much to Emma’s pleasure, Steven’s aplomb was jarred by Chloe’s appearance.

  “Nice to see you again,” he managed.

  The reminder that Steven must have encountered Chloe earlier in the day, inside the Stardust Saloon, pierced Emma’s composure. “You wanted to thank me for nursing you,” she said abruptly and her face went crimson the moment the words left her tongue. She cleared her throat sharply and squared her shoulders. “You’ve done that, Mr. Fairfax. You’re welcome, and good-bye.”

  Chloe was watching the tableau with interest from beside the liquor cabinet, a snifter of brandy in one hand, and she offered no contribution.

  “Not good-bye, Miss Emma,” Steven drawled, and his brazen gaze rested on her breasts for a moment, to remind her, she was sure, that he’d bared and enjoyed them with practically no protest from her. “Like I said, I’ll be around.” With that, he nodded slightly in Chloe’s direction, put his hat on, and walked out.

  Emma followed him out onto the porch, incensed at his gall, and spoke in an angry whisper.

  “You’re a drifter! You should be drifting!”

  He chuckled and leaned one powerful shoulder against one of the white painted pillars that supported the porch roof. “You’re right. I should move on and forget I ever saw this backwater town. But I mean to stay, Miss Emma.” He straightened and looked struck by some startling thought. “Now that you mention it, I guess I’ll be needing a library card.”

  “I didn’t mention it!” Emma snapped, folding her arms. She searched her mind for some protocol that would prevent him from coming into the library and kissing her again. Every time he touched her, it was harder to stave off the seduction she was sure was coming. “You can’t borrow if you don’t have an address,” she added priggishly.

  “Well, Miss Emma,” Steven responded, mischief flickering in his eyes, “it just so happens that I do. I’m staying in the foreman’s cottage on Big John Lenahan’s ranch.”

  Emma’s mouth dropped open for a moment, then closed again. “You can’t work for Big John with your ribs bound!” she protested, when she’d recovered somewhat. “How will you ride?”

  “I’m glad you’re concerned about my well-being,” Steven replied in a voice meant to carry beyond the fence, where two women were strolling by, pretending not to notice that Emma Chalmers was entertaining the much-talked-about stranger.

  “I wish you’d just go away and leave me alone!” Emma reached for the screened door, and the hinges squeaked loudly as she wrenched it open.

  Steven grinned broadly. “Like I said before, Miss Emma—you’re going to be seeing a lot of me from now on. In fact, I mean to come calling again as soon as I can.”

  One of the curtains moved behind Steven, and Emma wondered who was eavesdropping—Chloe or Daisy.

  Emma’s desperation drove her to lie. “That would not be proper, I’m aid. You see, I plan to become engaged to Mr. Whitney very soon.”

  Steven caught hold of her hand and dragged it to his mouth, where he kissed the knuckles. It was as though she hadn’t spoken. “Good night, Miss Emma,” he said fondly. “Sweet dreams.”

  There was a full moon that night; its light glimmered on the dark waters of the lake. Emma stood stiffly beside Fulton, looking out at the silent ballet of light and shadow and hating herself for relenting and agreeing to go walking with the man. She wasn’t sure why she’d done that, but she suspected it had to do with Steven Fairfax.

  In spite of her better judgment, all Emma’s thoughts and feelings were for quite the wrong man.

  Fulton seemed nervous, and his boots made a crunching sound in the pebbles along the lakeshore as he shifted uneasily. He tried to take her hand, but Emma was careful to stay out of reach. “I imagine you’re relieved to have that gunslinger out of the house,” he said, his voice too earnest and too loud.

  Emma looked up at him, hoping he couldn’t see contrasting emotions in her face. She was glad Steven was gone from Chloe’s house, yes, but she also missed him dreadfully. Thus her response was only a partial untruth. “It will be much easier, now that he’s gone.” And much more difficult, she reflected to herself.

  “He didn’t say anything about me?” Fulton asked, in a curiously uncertain tone.

  Emma turned her head to hide the forlorn little smile that curved her lips. “Only that you were all wrong for me,” she answered in a soft, thoughtful voice.

  Fulton stiffened instantly. “What else?”

  Emma turned her gaze to Fulton’s face, puzzled. “Nothing else,” she said. “Why?”

  He sighed and averted his eyes. “No reason.”

  Emma folded her arms and stood looking out over the moonlit water. Fulton was hiding something, but she didn’t care to pursue it. In fact, she didn’t really want to talk at all.

  Fulton insisted, however. He cleared his throat and announced, “There was a wire from Mother and Father today. They’ll be home within the week.”

  “I see.”

  Without warning, he reached out and took her arm, forcing her to face him. “I don’t think you do,” he said urgently. “Emma, we’ve got to elope—now. Tonight. That way, I’ll be able to present you to Mother as a fait accompli.”

  Stunned, Emma jerked her arm from his grasp. “Fulton, I’ve told you…”

  He laid a fingertip to her lips. “Don’t say it. I know Mother intimidates you, Emma, but once you’re my wife, she’ll accept you, I know she will.”

  The pain Emma felt must have been visible in her eyes when she looked up at Fulton, but if he saw it, he didn’t react. Perhaps he would listen if she approached the subject from his point of view, rather than her own. “Fulton, there’s a lot of talk about me, and—”

  His hands grasped her shoulders. “I don’t care, Emma,” he whispered. For the first time, she noticed that his lower lip was cut and slightly swollen.

  She touched the wound gently. “What happened?”

  Again his eyes skirted hers. “It’s nothing you need to worry about, darling,” he said. “Now, listen to me. We must get married right away!”

  “I can’t do that,” Emma said miserably.

  “I know women like a church wedding, but—”

  “That isn’t the reason. Fulton, I don’t love you. It would be a dreadful mistake for us to marry.”

  He was still holding her shoulders, and he gave her an angry little shake. “You’ll have tender feelings for me soon, Emma, I promise you. Come away with me tonight!”

  Emma pulled free. “I can’t.”

  “Is it true, then, Emma—what everybody’s saying about you and Fairfax?”

  The question was so direct that it startled Emma. “I guess that depends on what’s being said,” she replied sadly. Then, holding her shawl more closely around her against the evening chill, she started up the bank toward Chloe’s house. Fulton had no choice but to follow.

  He stopped her at the edge of the lawn, again by taking her arm. This time his hold was too tight for her to pull out of. “I don’t care if it’s all true,” he sputtered. “Do you hear me, Emma? I don’t care. I still want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything!”

  Emma sighed. “What are they saying?” she asked, braced for the worst.

  Fulton’s hand dropped from her arm and he lowered his head. “That you spent the nights in his room.”

  Emma’s cheeks flamed, but her chin rose to an obstinate level. “That’s a lie.”

  A bright smile broke over Fulton’s face. “I knew it was.”

  Guilt pummeled Emma like an invisible fist. “You’d want to marry me, even if I’d said the rumors were true?”

  Fulton nodded. “It’s no secret that I’m eager for the—solaces of marriage, Emma. I’m willing to overlook a great deal to have you.”

  The lights of home flowed golden into the night, and Emma longed to be inside, away from Fulton and his too-generous forgiveness. But where could she go to get away from herself?

  The answer was nowhere. Steven was
a drifter, a wanted man. He’d soon grow bored, or restless, and move on without her, despite his protests that nothing could turn him aside from an objective once he’d made up his mind.

  “If you won’t marry me right away, then promise you’ll come to next Saturday’s dance with me.” There was a frantic element in Fulton’s request.

  In time, Emma reflected, she might even forget Steven Faax entirely. For now, she had to give her future very careful consideration, and besides, she wanted to discourage him from pursuing her in any way she could. “I’ll buy a length of fabric and start sewing up a new dress tomorrow,” she said with sorrowful resolve, “and we’ll go to the dance as friends. Your parents will be home by week’s end, won’t they?”

  Fulton started to say something, then stopped himself. “Yes,” he answered finally.

  Emma started up the steps that led onto the screened mud porch. The kitchen was just beyond.

  “Wait,” Fulton said, and he climbed the steps until his face was level with Emma’s. Derby hat in hand, he kissed her carefully on the mouth.

  Emma waited for the delicious sensations she felt when Steven kissed her that way, but they didn’t come. There was no revulsion, either, just—nothing—and Emma was much relieved when Fulton drew back, looking very pleased with himself.

  He took her hand, his eyes glinting in the moonlight. “We could slip into the summerhouse—”

  Emma opened the back door. “Good night, Fulton,” she said firmly, and then she hurried inside the house.

  Chloe was in the kitchen, sipping hot chocolate, but Emma didn’t stop to chat with her as she would have done on almost any other night. Instead she raced up the back stairs and locked herself in her room.

  Steven would have preferred to eat his dinner in the cook shack with the other men so he could get to know them, but he ended up at Big John’s table instead. He found himself seated straight across from the friendly widower’s sixteen-year-old daughter, Joellen.

  “It isn’t easy to find a man with your references,” Big John said as he scooped a mountain of mashed potatoes onto the plate he’d already cleared once and drowned them in gravy. He’d come by his nickname honestly, for he was the size of a grizzly, but Steven could see his bulk was muscle, not fat. “You must have been punchin’ cows most of your life.”

  Steven smiled, avoiding Joellen’s efforts to attract his notice, and took a sip of his wine before answering, “Since just after the war, anyway.”

  Joellen’s glass toppled over, spreading a purple stain over the white linen tablecloth. “Oh, I’m so clumsy!” she cried, and Steven bit the inside of his lip to keep from laughing out loud at her obvious bid for attention.

  Big John just shook his white, weathered head, and the plump Mexican cook, Manuela, rushed in, prattling in Spanish as she elbowed aside the daughter of the house to dab at the stain with a corner of her apron.

  “Leave that, Manuela,” Big John ordered quietly.

  With one dark, reproachful glance at Joellen, Manuela hurried out of the room again.

  Joellen batted her enormous eyes at Steven as she sank with feigned dejection back into her chair. She was probably the prettiest child Steven had ever seen, but she was exactly that—a child. “Did you fight in the war, Mr. Fairfax?” she asked, the light of the lamps flickering in her white-gold hair, which trailed down over her shoulders in a smooth cascade.

  Steven pushed back his chair. “Yes.”

  Joellen quirked one perfect eyebrow. “On the losing side?”

  “That’s most people’s opinion, yes,” Steven agreed, fighting back another smile. “Of course, my granddaddy swears the south will rise again, and he’s got a stack of Confederate bills stashed away for the occasion.”

  Big John grinned and offered Steven a cigar, which he accepted graciously. “Who’d you serve under, young fella?”

  “Jeb Stuart,” Steven answered. He didn’t like to talk about the war the way some men did. As far as he was concerned, it was best forgotten.

  “Best damn horseman in either army,” Big John reflected.

  Steven agreed without question.

  “I was in to see Emma Chalmers at the library the other day,” Joellen piped up, and that brought her the regard she’d been seeking all evening. Both Steven and her father were looking straight at her. “I wanted to check out a book and she got saucy with me,” Joellen continued. “But I put her in her place and reminded her that she’s nothing but an orphan.”

  Big John looked disgusted. “Now, Joellen,” he said, with heavy patience, “that wasn’t very kind of you.”

  Joellen’s gaze shifted to Steven’s face. Her eyes were half closed as she asked, “And what do you think?”

  Steven turned the unlit cigar Big John had given him between his fingers. “That Emma Chalmers is the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen.”

  At that, Joellen’s china-doll complexion turned the color of cranberry cordial. “You can’t be considering marrying her or anything—she’s practically engaged to Fulton Whitney!”

  “The time will come when she doesn’t recall his name,” Steven said, and when he rose from his chair, Big John stood, too, offering a strong work-calloused hand. Tucking the cigar into his shirt pocket, Steven shook the rancher’s hand, then made his excuses and left.

  He didn’t get halfway to the cottage Big John had assigned him before Joellen caught up to him. She was wearing a divided riding skirt, high black boots, and a white blouse that glowed in the moonlight just the way her hair did.

  “Are you mad at me?” she asked, scurrying to keep up with Steven’s long strides. “For saying what I did about Emma Chalmers?”

  “No.”

  “She won’t marry you, you know,” Joellen hastened to say. “She wants to live in a grand house, like the Whitneys do.”

  “That a fact?” Steven asked, glancing up at the spectacular array of stars shimmering against the sky.

  “She wants money, too, and respectability. She’d never marry a ranch foreman.”

  Steven had reached the door of his cabin, and he wasn’t s. invite Joellen in, though she seemed to expect it. “Good night,” he said pointedly.

  Joellen’s lower lip jutted out, and she turned and stormed away.

  Steven chuckled as he watched her stride back toward the towering ranch house with its pillared porch and climbing rose bushes. Then he took matches from his vest pocket, sat down on the step, and lit the cigar Big John had given him. His thoughts immediately turned to Emma, and the way she’d felt, all soft and warm against him, when he’d kissed her last.

  He puffed on the cigar for a few moments, speculating. He wondered if she would really be fool enough to marry that dough-faced banker.

  Emma was stubborn, and she probably thought Whitney could give her what she wanted—money, respectability, comfort. That willfulness of hers just might land her in the wrong bed, and Steven wasn’t willing to let that happen.

  He stubbed out the cigar and went inside, where he didn’t bother to light a lamp. The glow of the moon flowed in through a window, brightening practically every corner of the tiny one-room house.

  After tossing what remained of the cigar into the stove, Steven stripped off his clothes and collapsed onto the double bed that dominated the room. He kept his .45 within easy reach on the mattress beside him, and made himself quiet. Deep within him, he could sense Macon’s approach, but this time he wasn’t going to run. He had a reason to stand and fight, a reason to risk everything, and he was tired of always looking over his shoulder. No matter what happened, he meant to stay.

  His ribs were still tightly wrapped, and they still hurt like hell when he made a sudden move. Steven turned slowly onto his side to lie facing the locked door.

  The moment he closed his eyes, his mind shifted to Emma. He imagined her beneath him, her naked skin as smooth as velvet, and he hardened painfully. He’d have given anything he owned, including his .45 and the fortune waiting for him in Louisiana, to have her there b
eside him in that bed.

  Despite the ache in his groin, Steven was tired, and in less than a minute he was asleep.

  As so often happened in his dreams, he found himself back in Louisiana. This time he was standing on a grassy knoll, an early morning fog wafting around him, a dueling pistol in his hand. His opponent was Macon’s bastard son, Dirk.

  “No!” Steven protested out loud, but the word didn’t pull him out of the nightmare. He could feel the butt of the pistol in his hand, the soft dampness of the ground under the soles of his boots. All his senses were heightened.

  Dirk, just barely twenty, was no older than Steven. Small, with dark hair and dark eyes, like his father, he was hotheaded and jealous of Steven’s close relationship with Cyrus. The pistol trembled in his hand as he raised it to fire, and his face was contorted with hatred.

  The shot went wide of Steven, making a shrill ping as it struck the trunk of a tree on the edge of the clearing.

  “Go ahead,” Dirk shouted, like a crazy man. “Shoot me!”

  Steven shook his head. “Walk away, Dirk,” he said quietly. Gravely. “We’ll forget about this.”

  “I’ll never forget it,” Dirk vowed as his second handed him another pistol. “I loved Mary—and you damned well knew it, you skulking, back-street bastard! And still you bedded her!”

  No amount of denial or explanation would have convinced his nephew that Mary had entered Steven’s bed at Fairhaven after he was asleep. He hadn’t even known she was there until Dirk had come crashing in the next morning, demanding retribution.

  Facing that second dueling pistol, wavering wildly in Dirk’s hand, Steven knew he wasn’t going to be lucky again. Grimly he raised his own weapon and shot his nephew neatly in the left shoulder.

  Dirk went down, blood soaking his shirtfront and turning it crimson, a cry of abhorrence and pain on his lips.

  Steven handed his gun to his own second and approached his brother’s son, crouching on the ground beside him. A doctor, a stranger wearing an ulster and a beaver tophat, was already peeling back the bloody shirt.

  “Why didn’t you listen to me?” Steven rasped, his gaze linking with Dirk’s.