Explaining Herself Page 8

  Ten minutes later—most of them spent getting her printer's apron off—Victoria was striding up Main Street toward the jail, wishing she had her bicycle. She got within a block before she noticed her friend Evangeline beside her.

  "Oh! Golly, Evangeline, say hello or something!"

  "Where are you going?" asked her friend, her eyes darting.

  "The sheriff's office."

  Now Evangeline's eyes widened. "Don't do that!"

  "I just want to ask him some questions, is all."

  Evangeline shook her head so hard that some of her pale hair fell out of its upswept braid. She had fine hair; it was difficult to keep up properly. "Please don't."

  Victoria slowed her step. "Why not? I realize he's not the nicest man in the world, but he's a public official and I'm the public, female or not. Why shouldn't I talk to him?"

  Evangeline looked both directions, seemingly frightened. When Victoria looked, she saw nothing but the everyday hustle-bustle of Sheridan's Main Street.

  But she hadn't been friends with Evangeline Taylor for three years without learning to respect the girl's sensitive nature. So Victoria took her hand and drew her farther down the block. "Let's go where we can talk."

  Evangeline followed—until she saw where Vic was headed. Then she stopped, so suddenly her hand pulled loose.

  Victoria looked from Evangeline to her brother's lawyer office back to Evangeline. "Don't be silly. We'll go upstairs; he won't bother us."

  Then she noticed Evangeline look down at herself, and realized the problem. Her friend wore a plain, butter-yellow work dress. She was barefoot. Her hair had fallen.

  She doesn 't want Thaddeas to see her not at her best, she thought, and felt a sudden surge of sympathy. Hadn't Victoria chosen her own white sailor-dress this morning, specifically with the intention of looking nice when she met Ross Laramie tonight?

  She also felt a surge of annoyance at her brother.

  "We'll go up the outside steps," she promised, catching her friend's hand again, and chose her words carefully. "We won't be in the way of Thad doing business at all."

  After a moment's resistance, Evangeline trailed her to the building where Thad kept his office, his name etched in green and gold on the front window, and past it to a flanking wooden staircase. He kept an apartment upstairs; although he had usually stayed at the family's in-town house, he didn't always want to wake them if he worked late.

  It was, as ever, unlocked.

  "So why shouldn't I talk to the sheriff?" Shutting the door behind them, Vic headed to the little pantry to see if Thaddeas had cakes or cookies set aside. He did. The number of ladies who brought him baked goods was amazing.

  Evangeline said nothing, and when Victoria looked over her shoulder, she saw her friend staring at the bed.

  Oh!

  Victoria looked quickly away, blushing. Was Evangeline imagining Thaddeas in that bed? He was Vic's brother! Modern women or not, there was a certain propriety to maintain.

  Wasn't there?

  "Would you like a macaroon?" Victoria asked, loudly enough that Evangeline jumped—and, blushing, quickly shook her head. "So why shouldn't I talk to the sheriff?"

  And Evangeline, nervously smoothing her butter-colored skirt, told her.

  By Friday evening, Laramie doubted he was thinking clearly. Slipping into the tree line by the creek, he tried not to dwell on thoughts of Victoria Garrison— her shiny eyes and her swaying skirts and the way she said "Ross."

  He failed, which explained why the dog startled him.

  "Duchess!" commanded Victoria over fierce warning barks, and he rounded the rock to see her with both arms wrapped around the large animal's neck. "Duchess, quiet!"

  The dog stopped barking. It growled instead.

  "Sit," she ordered, and it sat.

  Laramie looked from it to her. Then he dragged his attention back to the less dangerous of the two— the dog.

  "Duchess," said Victoria, slowly standing, "this is Ross. He's my friend. Ross, this is Duchess."

  Ross again. It sounded more like an alias than Laramie. But he liked hearing the name from her, a reminder of what could have been, all the same. It was a sweet hurt.

  "Hello, Duchess," he said carefully, noting how the dog's ears perked; she knew her own name. So as not to leave out the lady, he rasped, "Hello, Victoria."

  She smiled with undiluted sweetness, maybe the prettiest thing he'd ever seen. She wore a white dress with dark blue sewn to its edges and far more material in the sleeves than seemed practical. She had her hair up again, poofy-like the way ladies did, and little curls slipped out over her temples, across her neck. Her hair looked so soft. So did her neck. She wore the same white shoes as before, dry again and polished, and he was a fool to have come.

  "Papa didn't like me wandering around in the evening without protection," she explained, as if she could read his thoughts. "So ..."

  "Duchess," he finished. The dog's ears turned to him.

  "Exactly," Victoria agreed. 'You can pet her, if you like. She's safe, unless Papa's trained her to attack beaux—" Her eyes widened, and she covered her mouth. "I mean, not that you're here for. . . for any reason but to tell me . .."

  Wasn't he? He'd gone by the barbershop for a shave, bath, and haircut from simple courtesy, not foolish aspirations. And yet why did he have to step closer, just to exchange information? "Why would your father train her to attack beaux? Do you ... Do many men ... ?"

  Do you have many beaux? Do you let other men kiss you?

  If I were part of your world, would I even have a hope?

  But he was not from her world. This tryst was just pretend. He let the dog sniff and then lick his hand.

  "You haven't been in town long, or you'd have heard about my sisters," she explained, eyes shining up with seeming gratitude at the distraction.

  He closed his gun hand into a fist so as not to reach, to touch, nowhere near distracted enough. Her sisters?

  "Sheep farmer," he remembered. "Engaged in secret."

  "That was Mariah," agreed Victoria, clearly pleased. He liked pleasing her. He was a fool. "Then Laurel married up with a remittance man."

  "An Englisher?" Poor Garrison.

  She nodded. "Papa calls Collier 'His Lord God Pembroke.' And of course with Stuart MacCallum . . ."

  Laramie nodded. A cattle rancher would dislike a sheep farmer on principle. But he was watching her mouth far more closely than he was listening to it. Compared to him, the boss would likely welcome a whole army of foreign sheep farmers descending on his remaining daughters.

  She took a deep breath that did wonderful things to her bodice. "But that's not why—I mean ..." She bit her lip, then let it go. "Did you go to the Red Light Saloon? Did you see the stranger? Who did he meet? Is he up to no good?"

  Then she waited, hopeful and excited, and all he had to do to make her happy was to tell her something. Just that one thing, of so many that he had to hide.

  It was why he'd come tonight, wasn't it?

  "I did not see him meet anybody," offered Laramie with marginal honesty—then saw her disappointment. She'd given him some information about Nelson and the Wrights; he was paying her back. But surely he did not owe confessions!

  'You saw him, though?" Victoria asked.

  Did he feel guilty f He nodded, truthfully this time.

  "Do you know who he is?"

  If he said Roberts, she would immediately connect Lonny to the Wilcox robbery. "I think he goes by Logan."

  That clearly pleased her, anyway. "First name or last?"

  Ross bent to scoop a stone from the ground. The move pulled the bullet wound in his side, but somehow that didn't hurt as much as having to lie again did. "I don't know."

  "Still, that's something," encouraged Victoria, as he tossed the rock. "You're sure he didn't meet with anybody?"

  "Nobody I saw." But he couldn't help remembering that to her, in particular, secrets were an insult. "He left not long after the sheriff came in," he of
fered inadequately.

  Victoria stood straighter at that, with a bounce that startled both him and the dog. "The sheriff?"

  Laramie remembered Bram Ward's face, so like the man's pa, and that blasphemous lawman's star, and he nodded. He'd forgotten how much he'd hated die Wards, how much he would welcome a chance to kill the sheriff. But Julije had not betrayed them to Bram—the Wards were no better off than the Laurences back then, and there would have been no family to threaten Julije away after the lynching. Unless Laramie meant to hunt down the entire posse, he had no justification for killing Ward outside pure meanness.

  Far more likely that he would have to kill Thaddeas or Jacob Garrison.

  "Ross?" asked Victoria as he stood not three feet from her, thinking about killing her loved ones.

  But only the one who deserves it.

  He said, "I'm sorry. I should go."

  "Go?" She stepped closer, as if to head him off. 'You can't go yet. We haven't finished talking."

  He wondered what it would feel like, to be that innocent, that trusting. He doubted there was any pain in feeling like that. Any gut-wrenching guilt. Any regrets.

  She took his fisted hand in hers. "Don't go. I haven't told you what /found out about the sheriff."

  Suddenly he didn't care about the sheriff anywhere near as much as his burning guilt and her cool, innocent touch. She ducked her head, showing him her curly hair and the bare nape of her neck, and drew her own hand over his. Now it wasn't just his hand clenched. It was his whole body.

  He hadn't come here to talk at all. He should go.

  "Why do you do this?" she asked wonderingly, stroking his closed fingers.

  So I won't touch you, he thought. So I won't make any sudden moves. So I won't overreach myself. He wasn't innocent or trusting, and he understood regrets.

  Like before, she slid her hand over his, her gentle fingers easing his own out of their fist. He did not fight her. But this time, once his hand was open, he couldn't fight himself, either. He had to fill the empty hand.

  So he reached out, slid his hand around her waist, and used it to draw her up against him, soft and sweet.

  He wasn't barely thinking at all now, just feeling. He felt as if here was an untainted piece of the world and that maybe her purity was such that it could cleanse him. Just enough to make the hurts stop haunting him. Just for a while.

  More amazing yet, Victoria Garrison wrapped her arms around him in unexpected, silent welcome—and God help him, it worked. Even before he kissed her, for one long, blissful moment, him holding her innocence tight against his aching, weary body worked like magic.

  Then his own want of innocence won out.

  Ross surprised Victoria by pulling her firmly against him, closing his long, hard arms around her, but she did not fight it at all. She guessed she'd been expecting ...

  Hoping . . . ?

  And they were within shouting distance of the house.

  He smelled good, like leather and hair tonic, and felt so warm, so solid. She felt safe with him, and excited.

  "I can tell you later," she offered breathily. So much for Sheriff Ward.

  Ross held her as if she were something precious, something he needed—and Victoria leaned into that need. Maybe it didn't make sense. They didn't know each other well enough for her to be precious to him. He was a tall, strong man who shouldn't need anything, especially not her.

  But despite all that reality, she felt his need like a tangible thing and she longed to soothe it.

  She leaned her head against his chest and sighed her own pleasure as tension seemed to ease from him. Ross laid his cheek on her head and she heard him swallow, heard him breathe, as if even that little bit of humanity had to be forced past almost inhuman control. Only after a brief forever did Ross turn his head, nuzzle into her hair. Victoria stretched into the sensation, lifted her face to better see him. His eyes were closed, his lashes two black smudges against his cheeks. His hold on her tightened until one of his shirt buttons dug against her bosom, until her hipbone bumped against his holster, through her petticoats.

  For once, she had nothing to say.

  Ross's eyes opened then, dark and hot, and when he covered her mouth with his, it wasn't like their other kiss at all. His hard lips had no caution to them, no wariness, just need. She didn't try to draw back— could she have?—so he kissed her mouth again, then her cheek, then her ear, then her jaw, then her throat, not stopping. ...

  Victoria sank into the sensation of it, of a man's mouth, this man's mouth, touching her where even his hand shouldn't. If he hadn't been holding her so tightly, she might have fallen. Instead, she slid her cheek across his own, marveled at the rasp of it, smiled at the cool vulnerability of his ear and then the thick softness of his freshly barbered hair.

  She could hear Ross's breath fight out of him in little gasps. Her hand slid down his back, his ribs. When she reached his waist, he gasped a little. Landing on something hard and smooth and cool, her fingers closed around it in inquiry. His hold on her eased, as he caught her hand by the wrist and drew it off of what she realized was his gun. But still he kissed her. His kisses seemed to be searching, desperate, needful. She wished she could sate such needs. And yet. . . this couldn't be right.

  She tried to draw breath to ask what was wrong, but he covered her parted lips with his own, kissing around the edges of her open mouth. He startled her with his tongue on her lower lip, hot and improper and wonderful.

  Now she had trouble breathing, trying not to remember why this wasn't right. She felt dizzy, confused, pleasured, frightened. He seemed to want this so badly. Moans ground out of him with each breath. He held her so tightly... .

  And she wanted this too. Didn't she? Even if she'd never known she did until now, how could she not?

  Victoria let Ross frame her face with kisses, bless her eyelids with kisses, trace a necklace of kisses across her throat. She savored the pressure of his fingertips against her scalp as he buried a hand deep into her hair. She liked the feel of his hair, thick and clean, when she mimicked the gesture. She held his head still so she could stretch upward on her toes to kiss his mouth some more, to see what it felt like to touch his mouth with her tongue.

  He tasted warm, and salty, and he shuddered against her. The hand at her waist slid behind her, lower, to where she should not have felt him through all her petticoats, but she did, and of course this was not right. Somehow, with more effort than she'd ever had to give a single word, she forced a question from her throat into his mouth. "Why?"

  And she wasn't even certain what she meant.

  The word he groaned back was "Please."

  He sank with her to his knees then, in the dirt and dry willow mulch. Trapped in his embrace, she sank with him, unable to fight, not wanting to. She ached to be whatever it was he needed, to do that, be that, dissolve into him.

  But she had an existence outside him, too.

  Her lips felt swollen under his greedy kisses; his cheek rasped against hers. And something else, something short and furry, bumped Victoria's elbow and whined.

  Ross drew his hand upward, toward other forbidden parts, and of course she wasn't him at all. She was Victoria Garrison. And no matter how good it felt, this was wrong.

  "Wait," she gasped, muffled from kissing Ross.

  He wasn't waiting. He was cupping the curve of her breast, over her white frock, and it should have frightened her. It didn't. How good it felt—that was what frightened her.

  She twisted her head sideways, to escape his kisses, and repeated more firmly, "Wait!"

  And Ross fell still.

  He still held her, very tightly, and that should have frightened her too. So should his gun, his boot knife. So should his size, his strength, his hardness, his very maleness, and the certainty that if he wanted to push her to the ground and muffle her cries . . .

  But he didn't frighten her at all, and not just because of Duchess standing beside them, looking concerned. The idea of what he could do did
n't frighten her because he was Ross, and he wouldn't. Something instinctive, deep inside of her sensed something vulnerable, deep inside of him, and she trusted it at least as much as she trusted herself.

  Which wasn't implicit.

  He was still cupping her breast, after all. And she was, she realized, arching into that touch. Heavens!

  Feeling clumsy and lost, she planted her hands on his shoulders and pushed back from him, pushed him off her. He sat back in the dirt, staring downward. His eyes burned, but not at her. His mouth worked, but no sound came out.

  Victoria sank back against die big rock's support, dizzy and flushed and excited about what had just happened, even if it shouldn't have. Even if it must not happen again.

  Ross Laramie, sitting on the ground, looked mussed, and lean, and handsome. Even now her palms, her fingertips, tingled with the memory of him. But he did not look excited.

  When finally he lifted his burning gaze to hers, he looked hurt, accusing—and almost suicidal.

  Clearly, she would have to speak first. She licked her lips in preparation—and tasted him on them. Golly.

  Words had never failed her before, and they did not this time. Not exactly.

  "No wonder you clench your fists."

  Chapter Nine

  Laramie stared at her for several long, shuddering breaths before he was sure he'd heard her correctly. Even once his ears were sure, his mind wasn't.

  His lips felt strange, traitorous as he tried to shape them into a word. His voice only half complied. "What?"

  Wasn't she going to slap him? Sic the dog on him?

  If she sat up, reached across to him, drew his pistol and shot him with it, he doubted he would fight her. It was a double-action. She wouldn't even have to cock it.

  What had he done? Worse, what would he have done if she hadn't stopped him? Clearly there was no purity powerful enough to cleanse him—only more innocence for him to ruin.

  "The way you clench your fists when we get close." Victoria pushed brown curls from her face, and Laramie truly saw what he'd done to her hair. "You were trying not to let yourself do just this, weren't you?"

  Trying not to?