Explaining Herself Read online

  Feeling inadequate, he went back to what he could tell her. "Smith drew down on me, and I killed him. Then another fellow shot at me, so I killed him too." He never did get a good look at the second man, though he assumed it was the gravelly-voiced rustler. It could have been an innocent saloon patron, itchy from the first shooting. He may have killed someone's husband, son, brother, pa.

  Fast. That was him.

  Maybe he shouldn't even have told her that much.

  "Victoria, there are two men dead at my hands tonight."

  "That," Victoria said, "was self-defense."

  "It's still killing."

  She drew back from him, just far enough to study his face—what little she could see of it by that one streetlamp. Now she would know what he really was.

  Then she said, "Oh, Ross, I'm so sorry." And she kissed him.

  He was so stunned, he could not move his mouth against her kiss. He simply stared until she drew back. Then he demanded, "You're sorry?"

  "That must have been terrible." She stroked his hair back from his collar, drew her soft thumb over his injured cheek, kissed the corner of his mouth. "You poor thing."

  Poor thing? "I killed them," he repeated.

  "No," she insisted with a loyal nod. "They killed themselves. They just used you as their weapon."

  At that, something deep in the recesses of his heart cracked and split open and let out too much, all at once. Out poured his grief at the killings—tonight, and twelve years ago, and three others through the years between. Out flowed his guilt. Out rushed his certainty that he could have done something else, been something else, if only he'd tried harder.

  If only he hadn't taken up with outlaws. If only he hadn't run off from the boys' ranch in a futile search for his mother. If only he hadn't told Julie their poppa's plans in the first place.

  It all shuddered up from him, filling his chest, burning at his eyes, closing his throat. He turned his face quickly into her softness, hiding from what he felt, what he trembled with the need to do.

  Gunslingers don't cry.

  But dear God, why had he become what he was?

  He didn't cry—didn't breathe, didn't move, but at least didn't cry. Still, Victoria held him and murmured sweet, blissful lies. "It's all right, Ross. It wasn't fair, but it's not your fault. It's all right, darling. It's all right."

  But she only knew about tonight, only knew what little he'd told her. Even sinking under grief and guilt and feeling—more feeling than he'd endured in years—Laramie knew better.

  More of it was his fault than not. Nothing would be okay.

  But Victoria saying so gave him a few more blissful moments of imagining that maybe, maybe it could be.

  At first Victoria thought Ross would cry, but he didn't. He'd been forced to kill two men. He should cry.

  But although he closed his eyes against some great pain, and pressed his face into her bodice, until he was as much in her lap as she was in his, he did not.

  Poor, rugged, bottled-up man.

  She petted his hair, kissed his forehead, told him it was all right—it had to be, didn't it? Then, afraid that her attention just made him feel worse, she began to talk about other things.

  "I heard you tonight," she admitted. "I was outside the jail and I heard Thaddeas tell you to leave. That's why I came here. I thought—I'm not sure why, but I hoped you might stop here. I'm glad you did."

  He began to breathe again, a little more regularly. "You were outside the jail?"

  "Earlier, I asked Thaddeas about Julie Lauranovic, and he barely remembers her," she continued. She loved his hair, so black, so sleek—even wet. Especially wet. "He remembers the family. He said their name was Laurence, which now that I think of it, the paper said something about too. But he doesn't know who Julie’s sweetheart could have been."

  Ross rolled more fully onto his back, looking up at her from where his head was now cradled on her lap, and he seemed ... shaken. Worn. And somehow, tragically amused.

  "Believe him, Victoria," he said, raising a hand up to her shoulder and fingering a wet hank of her hair. The side of his wrist pressed against her breast. She liked it. "Believe the best of your brother."

  She rolled her eyes, but was careful not to move her body. She liked her body where it was. "I'm not just believing the best of him, Ross Laramie. I may be angry with him, after the way he talked to you—and to me earlier, when he asked questions about why / was asking questions. You know, I'm afraid he's read more into our friendship than . . ."

  It suddenly occurred to her how late it was for them to be alone. Much less together. Much less with Ross pillowing his head in her lap, his hand in her hair and his wrist on her bosom. Were anybody to see them like this, he would have to marry her or the scandal would linger for years. Even if they married, it would linger for months.

  He looked amused—for Ross—and she touched his lips with her fingers, trying to draw them up farther at the corners. "Or perhaps not," she whispered. She'd never come close to feeling this way about any of her other friends.

  "Perhaps he's simply a very clever brother," he agreed, just as softly, and withdrew his hand.

  Her breast ached where he'd touched her.

  With a deep, determined breath, she made herself ask the one thing she didn't want confirmed—but something she knew so deeply, not confirming it would eat away at her. "Oh, Ross, do you really have to leave?"

  He closed his eyes, hints of hidden pain flashing across his face, and she realized it wasn't just words he shared with her. She felt honored, suddenly, to have been privy to so much about Ross Laramie.

  'You do, don't you?" she asked.

  He sat up then, much though she wanted him to lie with his head in her lap forever. He drew a knee up so that he could lean closer to her, and he took one of her hands in his own.

  Their hands were almost dry. At some point, the rain must have stopped.

  "I don't belong here," he told her.

  'You could."

  "I've never been a range detective before."

  "Well, you're a good one."

  He smiled a little then, his lips quirking even without help from her fingers, and he slowly leaned close enough to kiss her. His lips were firm, warm, adoring. Oh, she did like being adored. "At best," he conceded, "I was a good range detective."

  She remembered then that he'd been fired.

  "And someone's trying to kill you here," she admitted reluctantly.

  "Which endangers whoever I'm near," he agreed. He spread her palm flat, then opened his hand and pressed it to hers. No fists. "The only reason I have to stay is you. And even you . . ."

  She shifted her hand slightly, so that her fingers could curl between his and hang on. "Even I what?"

  He whispered something that sounded like, "Just seeing make-believe."

  She cocked her head, confused. "What?"

  Ross searched her face—for what? Then he leaned in and kissed her, longer and harder and more desperate than before. She found herself sinking into him, pressing against him, melding with his mouth, wanting him to never stop kissing her like this.

  But he did stop. He levered her gently back into balance with a hand on her shoulder, his eyes somehow wild, and he rasped out the desperate words,

  "Even you wouldn't want me if you knew my real name was Laurence."

  For a slow, stupid moment, while her lips throbbed and her body felt cold from not being snuggled closer to his, she thought: Lawrence Laramie?

  Then other bits of information, settling so cleanly into place in a puzzle she hadn't even known she'd been working, began to force their truth onto her. Ross Laurence.

  Except...

  She looked at the tombstones beside him, trying to make out the names in the dark of night, but he answered for her.

  "Originally it was Lauranovic," he told her. "I was born Drazen Lauranovic, and then I was Ross Laurence. I have been lying to you, and all of that and more is why I cannot stay."

  Chapter
Twenty

  Victoria looked from the tombstone back to him, and she didn't appear angry yet. She still seemed confused.

  Give her time.

  Still, Laramie took advantage of her momentary silence. "I did not want you to know," he admitted shamefully. "Ever. The more I saw you, the more I wanted you to think I was . . ." Anybody else. But it was not that easy. "I wanted to be the man you see when you look at me. But I am not, and it was selfish of me not to let you know that. At least your father and your brother—"

  Victoria raised a hand to silence him, pulling her other hand free from his grasp. "My family knows?"

  He'd expected anger at the lies, the rustling, the killing. He hadn't thought of this. "What?"

  'You told my family and you didn't tell me?"

  She sat fully back from him now, her eyes bright, her shoulders high. He would have laughed if it weren't for her pain—if it weren't for remembering how Victoria felt about secrets.

  "No. I told nobody." He captured her hand again between both of his, tried to make her understand at least this. "Until you."

  "But you said . . ."

  "They guessed," he insisted. "Your father recognized me and told your brother. I only learned it tonight."

  She stared, her brow furrowed, as if silently begging him to make this right. He knew he could not, but he had to try. He owed her that much. No, he owed her more. But this, he could give.

  "I've been Laramie for years," he explained. "I was not lying about that. Not quite."

  That sounded inadequate, even to him, which is why she startled him so when she finished, 'You just did not tell the entire truth."

  She understood?

  He squinted at her, not believing it. She understood?

  She repeated, 'You're Drazen Lauranovic?"

  He nodded, ready for the worst—and yet somehow, desperately relieved to have it done with. Anything she said now, be it soothing or angry, she finally said to him. For a few minutes at least, whoever he really was got to spend time with her. "I was."

  'You used to live here?"

  He nodded.

  "And the Wards stole your family's cattie, and your family stole them back?"

  He nodded. He couldn't ask her to say what came next, so he did it for her. "And Victoria, I killed Boris Ward."

  "After he killed your father and brother in front of you. Oh, Ross." She wove her fingers through his again, holding his hand tighter, then looked up in confusion. "I mean . . ."

  She actually cared what to call him? "Ross," he pleaded. "Hardly anybody called me Drazen until after .. ."

  "After the lynchings. And the trial."

  He nodded.

  Her head came up at another realization. "Julie was your sister." He heard how she Anglicized the name, and he loved her. "Oh, Ross, no wonder you want to find who deserted her."

  Betrayed her. But now was not the time to pursue that argument. If he did not finish this now, he would never again have the chance, much less the nerve.

  "They sent me to a boys' ranch in Texas, on parole, but I ran away. As I grew, I took ranching jobs. That's where I met other outlaws."

  She whispered, "And you went bad."

  He could not correct her—except, perhaps, her faith he'd not been bad already.

  She considered him solemnly. "Did you really rustle cattle?"

  "Depending on my boss." Ride for the brand. That was the cowboy code.

  "Bank robbery?" At least for that, he could shake his head. "Train robbery?"

  "Just the rustling," he insisted. "But if folks were shooting at us, I shot back. I've likely killed men since '88, Victoria. Maybe as many as three—I wasn't the only one shooting, but maybe that many. I've done that."

  She chewed her lower lip in thought. "Lawmen?"

  He shook his head.

  "Innocent bystanders? Feuds? Were you threatening people?"

  "It was range wars. Men were hired to move cattle and shoot at us. We were hired to move cattle back and shoot at them. It—" He let go of her hand, so she would not have to take it back herself. "It paid well."

  She frowned at her empty hand. "Who's we?"

  He wasn't about to start naming names, even for her.

  Victoria stood and stalked away some distance. Her skirts made a slapping noise, they were so wet. That's when he noticed that the rain had stopped.

  He gave her a while to think about it, to understand what he'd done. In the meantime, he touched Julije's tombstone and thought, My sister.

  My poppa. My brother. It was right that he'd told.

  The dog, who'd sat up again when Victoria stood, lay down when she turned and came back. She was taking this far better than Laramie had feared. Maybe she just didn't understand.

  He picked up his hat and stood to meet her.

  'You shouldn't go," Victoria announced.

  He stared. He'd expected a slap, or tears, or fury. "What?"

  She took his arm, tugged him a little to make him walk her slowly back toward her bicycle. "You should stay here. This town once did a great disservice to your family. You oughtn't let that chase you away."

  He stopped, made her stop, searched her face. She couldn't be serious, could she?

  The words came harder this time, even speaking to her. "W—wouldn't it chase you away?" he stuttered. "All of it?"

  Somehow she knew what he meant, even with him saying it so poorly. She ducked her head. "I don't know for sure," she admitted—not what he longed to hear, but far more than he'd expected. "Maybe if I had more time to get to know you as ... as Ross Laurence."

  Ross Laurence.

  A fine, bright feeling came over him when she called him that. Laurence was who he'd been back when life was still hopeful, when he'd been loved. When he'd lived in a world far more like Victoria's.

  Ross Laurence would just say Yes, I'll stay.

  But could he survive the world Laramie—even Drazen Lauranovic—had built for him?

  "I have no job," he reminded her. "Someone powerful is gunning for me. The sheriff is this close to figuring out why I look familiar. I've given up on the man who—"

  But no, he wouldn't argue about who had ruined Julie again. Not tonight. Maybe never.

  "My lawyer advised me to leave town," he finished weakly, gazing into her beautiful face, memorizing it.

  "The hell with your lawyer," she insisted, which made him want to laugh. And to cry. But gunslingers didn't cry.

  He laid his open palm against her cheek. "I have no reason to stay except for you. And your family would never let you get to know Ross Laurence."

  "Then we'll make them," she said firmly.

  He wanted to believe her. But what did he have to offer her, except danger and a bad reputation?

  At least, that's all he could offer her here.

  The idea stole upon him unexpectedly, maybe out of desperation, maybe out of sheer greed. He didn't know, didn't care. It—she—was all he had now.

  "Come with me," he said.

  Victoria stared up at him, her eyes going round.

  "Tonight. We'll start somewhere new. You'll write home that you're safe, and—" Oh. He flushed, to have forgotten so important a detail. "We would marry. If you'd have me."

  Had there ever been a worse proposal? He could see from her face that this wouldn't be. Not in his world. Not in hers.

  "Oh! Ross . . ." Now he'd forced her to reject him.

  "Never mind," he assured her, taking her arm, leading her toward her bicycle. "I'm sorry, Victoria. I shouldn't—"

  "No! It was . . ." Now she was the one who dug in her heels and stopped them. She laid her hands against his chest as if to steady him. Or herself. He felt so embarrassed, he hardly cared. "It's not that I don't want to go, or even to . . ."

  He winced away from her kindness. "Please don't—"

  But this was Victoria. "I do want to go. More than I would ever have thought. But oh, Ross. I—I don't really know you."

  How could she? He didn't know himself.
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br />   When he said, "I understand," she began blinking away fresh tears. "Victoria?"

  "No." She drew one hand protectively to her lips, held him from her with the other. "If you don't go now, I might not let you, and I guess I have to let you, except that it isn't right, and there's got to be something—see? You've got to go now."

  He looked down at her, and he hated himself for hurting her, and he loved her beyond reason—and he knew he could not do it. "You go first."

  She glowered at him through teary eyes. "Coward."

  'Yes," he admitted, voice broken.

  "Tell me you'll come back," she demanded suddenly.

  "I—" Come back?

  "1 can't leave—let you leave—unless you promise you'll come back to me someday. In a few months 'you'll write to me, and I'll let you know how things are, and then you'll come home."

  The closest he had to a home was her, and she deserved a better home than him. "I don't—"

  "I've seen you read," she warned him. 'You can so write."

  He nodded. He could write. But from where? To where would she send her reply? What would he even be by then?

  Surely he'd gone too far to start over, at least without breaking a few laws. A few more laws.

  "Don't you dare leave me thinking I'll never see you again, Ross Laramie," she warned him, her voice thick with tears, and dug her fingers into his shirt. "Don't you dare do that to me."

  He would give her anything. His life. His heart. His soul. Likely in half a year, she would have found a proper beau—but he would give her this.

  "I'll write," he promised, leaning down to rest his forehead against hers. "I will find someplace safe. Then I will write to you and tell you where I am, and . . ."

  "And we'll decide then," she whispered, with no idea how unlikely it was that they would ever get that far.

  "We'll decide then." If he were in prison, or Argentina, there wouldn't be a great deal to decide. And if he were dead ...

  "Kiss me?" she pleaded, so he did. He covered her lips with his, held her and pretended he didn't have to let her go. He allowed all the precarious, vulnerable life in him, the emotions she'd awakened, to fill that kiss. His lips worshiped her, his hands cherished her. She buried her fingers in his hair, responded to him hungrily. Her bosom pressed round and firm against his chest, her hips flared and swaying under his hands, and oh, he wanted more. He wanted everything. There was more than one way to be considered married out west, and then even if he died . . .