Explaining Herself Page 5

  They matched her ruffle-edged parasol.

  He figured she would pass him with little more than a nod, but instead she slowed her step. "I hope you found what you were looking for at the Herald office."

  He stared at her, with her bright face and her unruly, upswept hair, and he no longer knew if he had or not.

  Before he knew it, the quiet words slid right out of him. "Where can we talk?"

  Maybe he was hoping to scare her off. But rather than give him a cutting glare and march away, Miss Garrison blinked, then sank to one knee fussing with her shoe.

  There didn't look to be anything wrong with her shoe. But he liked this view of how her hair clung to her damp neck. He admired the curve of her spine.

  "There's a big rock by the creek," she said, low, without looking up at him. "In a willow grove. Nate Dawson knows where. Be there after supper."

  Then she finished dusting the nonexistent speck from her shoe and stood. Or started to. Her air of intrigue suffered when she stepped on her hem and almost fell.

  Laramie caught her arm, and she caught his. She even felt clean and cool. And soft, impossibly soft.

  He quickly let her go, but it wasn't soon enough for her not to notice the holdout under his sleeve. He could tell from the way the hidden derringer jammed into his arm as surely as how her gray eyes widened up into his.

  Now she knew he'd been armed all day.

  When she hurried away toward her safe, neat house, he wondered if she would meet him now, after all.

  And he wondered which he would really prefer.

  Chapter Five

  As she left the house that evening, Victoria doubted she was thinking clearly. Her palm still tingled, either from the memory of Ross Laramie's touch or the gun she'd felt under his shirt, she wasn't sure which. He'd been secretly armed all day? That didn't seem quite right.

  And yet he wanted to talk. To her.

  Slipping into the twilight-shadowed trees bordering Goose Creek, Victoria tried not to remember that her sister Laurel had used the rock in the willow grove for romantic trysts. Just because she'd agreed to meet with Laramie privately did not mean Vic had fallen into some sordid, Garrison-girl custom. Mr. Laramie showed no sign of being sweet on her, except for sometimes staring. And that could have something to do with her staring first.

  Not that she was sweet on him, either. Just intrigued.

  Victoria picked her way along Goose Creek—rushing with cold water from the looming Big Horn Mountains—for no worse reason than to discover things. Who Ross Laramie was. Why he'd come here. What he knew about train robbers and rustlers.

  She would stay in shouting distance of the house. What could go wrong?

  Still, when she reached the willow grove and heard a splashing over the gurgle of the creek, she slowed her step enough to carefully peek around the big rock first.

  Ross Laramie's long form crouched on the dirt bank, his dark shirt wetly reflecting the sheen of purple light still in the sky, his black hair dripping. As she watched, he scooped a hatfull of mountain water and poured it down his chest. Head bowed and shoulders sinking, he sighed.

  Vic cocked her head, noting how his clinging shirt defined the long line of his back. His hair dripped into a curled point between his shoulder blades.

  He did it again, this time pouring water over one shoulder, and she finally understood. His injuries, the ones she'd seen bandaged, must be hurting him.

  "Hasn't the salve—" she started to ask.

  But he spun, dropped onto his flank, and in a snap aimed a derringer at her before she could get "helped" out.

  Victoria had never had a gun pointed at her in her life, much less one that came right out of a man's sleeve. For a long moment, it downright silenced her.

  Laramie opened his mouth as if to say something— a defense, or an apology—even as he slanted the weapon downward. She saw that of course he hadn't intended to shoot her, even though he made no sound. And in the meantime—

  "Your hat!" she exclaimed, and started down the creek bank after the Stetson he'd dropped during his quick draw. She knew it was silly. She should take him to task about the derringer, not try to fetch his hat.

  But hats were necessary. She doubted he had more than one. And this was, at the moment, the easier choice.

  The hat spun and bobbed like a black felt boat while she skirted the edge of the creek. In a moment, Mr. Laramie strode past her on those long legs of his. He glanced over his shoulder as he did, his eyes questioning and silent and ... apologetic?

  The gun had vanished again. But she noticed that, unlike die rest of his shirt, his left sleeve was dry.

  And diere went the hat! Vic pointed. Laramie broke into a run. She picked up her skirts and ran after him, remembering a fallen log farther downstream.

  Laramie waded in, tfien went down on one knee with a splash and a grunt. The current swept him several feet before he could brace to a stop. The hat dodged him.

  Victoria balanced her way out onto the log and knelt precariously. Almost as a gift, the creek twirled the hat right to her. Snatching it from the water, she grinned at Laramie, wading toward her, knee-deep in rushing creek.

  He ducked his head with somediing like chagrin. As he got closer he said, "Figured you weren't coming."

  Which only explained the wet shirt. "Who did you think I was, that you might have to shoot?"

  He lifted his gaze to study her face, looking up at her for once. "No one person," he admitted.

  Then his eyes went cold and he lunged at her.

  He pulled her off the log and into the creek—in her white shoes!—and swept her behind him with one wet arm. His hip felt hard and wet against her mostly dry dress. The current swirled her skirt tight against her leg on one side, floated it up around her knee on the other. With what felt like impossible slowness, Victoria realized that Mr. Laramie was not hurting her at all.

  Then she recognized the echo of the clicking she'd already heard earlier that evening—a drawn derringer.

  Slowly, she peeked around Laramie's side and followed the point of his aimed weapon to a dusty, skinny cowboy standing on the bank of the creek.

  He looked like a drifter, maybe part Indian. He wore a gunbelt, a rifle scabbard, two boot knives, and a sly expression in his black eyes that she didn't trust.

  Instead of trying to pull away from the wall of Laramie's body, Vic pressed closer to it, bracing her cheek against his upper ribs—since she did still want to see what was happening. She felt very aware his arm looping around her back, his hand spread on her hip.

  "Whoa there, friend," said the stranger, shaking his head. "Ain't meant to surprise you. Let's not get spooked."

  Laramie just stood there and silently pointed his gun.

  So Victoria said, "What are you doing out here, mister? It's almost dark."

  The man's smile bothered her. "Not what you was doin', I guess."

  "Chasing a hat?" She shivered, but that was because rushing mountain water chilled her feet as it tugged past, even in late July. The wet shelter of Laramie's body was warm in comparison.

  The man's smile widened. "My mistake, miss. I was just fillin' my canteen." Lifting a dripping canteen in proof, he noted the derringer aimed at him. "You got my word, mister. I don't mean either you or the lady no harm."

  Victoria guessed Laramie believed him, because he slowly lowered his gun hand to point down at the water.

  But she felt just as glad that he didn't push it back up his sleeve yet.

  "No offense meant, friend," added the stranger, kneeling on the bank to finish filling his canteen. "But anyone ever tell you you're a touch quick on the draw?"

  Victoria said, 'You should ride up to the house. We've got a perfectly good pump, and maybe dinner too."

  "We're not that close to the ranch house," noted the stranger. It was true that, even if they left the trees, they wouldn't be in immediate sight of the house anymore. Darned hat! But only one rise separated them from it.

  "You
're closer than not," she challenged.

  "True enough." The stranger looked at them both with sly eyes. "Miss, wouldn't you like to stand on dry land again? I'm surprised your feller here ain't helped you out."

  "I'm fine," she insisted—still pressed against Laramie, even if he wasn't "her feller." She felt safe this way. She liked that he kept his attention on the stranger. "What's your business at the Circle-T?" she asked.

  Laramie's hand twitched against her hip, as if maybe he didn't like the question. But it wasn't his family's ranch.

  The stranger's eyes slid from her up to Laramie. "I'm lookin' for someone I heard tell rides for the brand."

  "Why?"

  "Figured I might have some business with him."

  "What kind of business could you have that you couldn't visit during the day? Why wait until night?"

  Laramie was definitely nudging her.

  The stranger laughed at her protector. "She sure does know how to fan them questions, don't she?"

  When Laramie said 'Yes," his chest vibrated under Victoria's fingertips. Where her cheek pressed against his ribs, she could hear the comforting sound of his heartbeat.

  "Miss, you may have a point," agreed the stranger. "I guess I'll just get word to my friend to meet me in town. Maybe at one of the saloons. You know of any to recommend?"

  Her? She drew a breath to protest the insult, but then Laramie answered, "The Red Light."

  So maybe the stranger hadn't been asking her at all.

  Victoria corrected him anyway. "I've heard that's not a very nice saloon. The Buffalo Bill's the nice one."

  When the stranger grinned again, his teeth seemed whiter because the shadows were getting deeper. "This is business for a not-very-nice saloon," he admitted. "So I'll have this feller meet me there. That would be better than sneakin' about on a fine ranch like this, don't you reckon? Less chance of folks ... talkin'."

  Folks talking, or her? Victoria could keep secrets; heaven knew she collected enough of them. But she also had responsibilities as a Garrison to be sure that nobody connected with the ranch was doing anything illegal or immoral.

  "Who is your friend?" she asked. Now Laramie's heel found her toe, under the water, and pressed slightly.

  "Miss." The stranger tipped his hat and turned away. Then he paused and looked over his shoulder. "If I was you, mister, I would get a handle on that quick draw of your'n. Could be you'll pull down on someone you ought not have."

  Laramie, of course, said nothing. But when Victoria called, "Wait," he tensed against her.

  "Ma'am?" called the stranger.

  "May I ask your name?"

  The stranger grinned, and he was definitely part Indian. "Sure, you can ask."

  Then he tipped his hat to them both and vanished into the shadows. Barely a moment later, she heard a horse riding away. She thought she should take one last look—

  Except that she still stood in Goose Creek, tugged by the current, holding herself against Ross Laramie's long, lean body in ways that were wholly inappropriate.

  And to her surprise, she was enjoying it.

  Laramie wasn't sure at what point during his standoff with Lonny Logan he'd noticed Victoria Garrison pressing her warm, curvy self against his back and side. He did know that he began to have trouble thinking clearly.

  Not a wise state, around outlaws.

  Then again, Lonny didn't fascinate him like Victoria did. Lonny only worried him. But that was enough reason to watch the youngest Logan brother, even while Laramie's blood swirled and eddied, playing with him like the creek had played with his hat, hot as the creek was cold.

  She felt so soft and round in some places, tucked and firm in others. And warm and dry, where he was wet. And at that moment, he would have given anything to keep her safe.

  So what level of fool was she, to ask those kinds of questions to a bona-fide train robber?

  Only once Lonny had said his piece and rode off could Laramie breathe again—and then he felt downright weak. Not that he figured even a Logan, especially Lonny, would hurt a lady. But if anybody would, why not a desperado? Damn!

  In one long movement and a solid click, he eased his derringer back into its holdout. That comforted him some. In another, he turned and lifted Victoria right out of the water, took three dripping steps, and set her onto the bank—even if pain did clutch into his wounded arm and side when he did it. Then he stared at her from the creek, eye-to-eye now, furious and afraid, and still too aware of his eddying blood and her soft, warm curves ... and again, he did not know what to say.

  Should he say, Don't do that?

  How could she have not known not to do that?!

  "Golly!" Victoria exclaimed, her hands still on his wet forearms where she'd planted them in midair. That meant she must feel the holdout's rigging—but she'd seen it in action, so it was hardly a secret anymore.

  Laramie liked her fingers, her soft palms on him.

  She seemed to be too excited, her eyes bright as moons, her face aglow even in the shadows, to notice minor details like deadly force. "Did you see all his guns? I don't think that man was up to any good at all, do you?"

  Laramie stared at her. Of course he was up to no good!

  Hell, Laramie had been doing much the same thing, until Victoria showed up and startled him near senseless, and he wasn't up to any good either. He'd even drawn on her!

  "I wish we'd seen his horse," continued Victoria, squeezing his arms. "I wish we knew who he was meeting, so we could discover if anything nefarious is going on. If I were a man, I think I'd go to the saloon myself and see who he meant to meet!" At least being a girl would stop her.

  Laramie looked down at his submerged feet, braced against the now-dark current. "Could be trouble."

  "Well, if I stopped doing what needs doing just because it could be trouble, I'd make a sorry reporter." She let go of his arms to take his left hand in both of hers, then tugged. "Or human being, for that matter. But now I have to tell Papa, and that will be trouble!"

  "No." Whether he was protecting his secrets or her world, Laramie wasn't sure. Likely himself. But he'd brought the trouble here; he had to deal with it. "I'll visit the Red Light."

  He'd be meeting Lonny there anyway.

  The way Victoria lit up, like he was doing her a grand favor, pained him. So did the relief with which she said, "Oh, good! Once we know more, then I can better decide how much to tell Papa."

  Laramie climbed out of the creek, water sloshing off him and out his boots, and hoped she told Papa nothing. He did not need outraged fathers distracting him from his real job here in Sheridan, and he was already risking it. He'd kept the lady out after dark.

  "I'll walk you back," he offered reluctantly, glancing in the direction Lonny had gone.

  "Well, as far as the rock, anyway," she agreed, taking several squelching steps up the path that paralleled the creek. When Laramie started wetly after her, she slowed down so that he practically had to walk beside her.

  Not that this was a hardship.

  "But we can't go in yet," she continued, grasping her skirts to flap them a little, shaking some of the water out. "We aren't at all finished."

  He tried not to stare at the quick little glimpses of her high-shoed ankles as he thought, We aren't?

  "You still haven't told me why you asked me to meet you," she continued happily. "Why did you, Ross Laramie?"

  Ross. He began to ache again, somewhere deep that he didn't want to know about. Meeting her had been a bad idea. He'd drawn on her. He'd put her face-to-face with a train robber. Now he was lying to her about the Red Light Saloon.

  And because she called him Ross, it suddenly mattered.

  She stopped walking, so suddenly that Laramie almost bumped into her. Staring down into her shadowed face, he remembered what she'd felt like pressed against him, more intimately than either of the gals he'd known sinfully, and he felt guilty for such common thoughts, too. Why had he asked to meet her?

  "I forget," he lied,
and felt like a damned idiot.

  He feared she saw his lie, but all she said was, "Since we're here, then, will you answer a question for me?"

  He shrugged one shoulder, wary. He owed her.

  "Why would a stock detective spend the day looking through old newspapers?"

  To his relief, he could answer that with marginal honesty. "Been rustling here before."

  Victoria Garrison clapped her hands together. "I knew you were a range detective! I just knew it!" And he recalled again just how good she was at finding things out.

  Good enough to not just be helpful.

  She was good enough at it to be dangerous. To both of them.

  Chapter Six

  "Just a cowboy tracking rustlers," said Ross Laramie, sounding defensive.

  But Victoria knew better, just as she knew he could not have forgotten why he asked her to meet him . . . which made the real reason all the more intriguing. "That means there are rustlers!"

  Anyway, a range detective was more than that, a cowboy whose purpose was to track down rustlers. Though the term was sometimes used for hired guns, a real range detective was practically a lawman. And meeting a lawman by the creek wasn't so bad. "You were reading about old rustlers?"

  He shrugged that one shoulder again. "Folks involved once ..."

  Might still be involved! That was smart thinking. "You mean some rustlers from before are still around? They aren't arrested, or dead, or run out of town?"

  He stared at her in the darkness, and she guessed that meant yes. Rustlers from the past might still be walking the streets of Sheridan!

  Life surely had gotten interesting since he rode in.

  "Do you think that man by the creek was a rustler?" She shuddered to think that, and felt glad that Laramie had been beside her—well, in front of her—the whole time. Considering that it was dark, she felt glad he still was.

  "No." He sounded vaguely angry. "He wasn't the type."

  "There's a type? Tell me how to recognize a rustler, then, please? Maybe I can help you."