Only My Love Read online

  "You're enjoying this."

  Michael stopped working and rocked back on her heels. "Do you want me to send for a doctor?"

  "No," he said after a moment. "You go on with what you're doing."

  She leaned forward again and ran the damp soap cloth over his back. "How did this happen?"

  "I was blasting out a tunnel this afternoon. I guess I set the fuse too short."

  "I guess you did," she said softly.

  "I dove for cover when the rocks started flying. I don't remember anything falling on me. It must have happened when I hit the ground."

  "Give me the bottle back."

  He handed it to her, clenching his teeth for what he knew was coming. His fingers curled around the edge of the tub.

  She was mercifully quick about it.

  "You can let your breath out," she said, moving around to the side of the tub. She gave him the bottle again. "Here, have another drink. I'm all done. You're going to live."

  "I knew I was going to survive the injury," he said lowly. His eyes held hers. "I didn't know if I was going to survive your attentions."

  Michael stared at him over the top of her spectacles. One of his hands reached for her, slipping beneath her hair at the nape. He held her gently, just steadying her, feeling the panicked heartbeat in the pulse of her neck. He didn't pull her toward him. Instead, Ethan was the one to lean forward.

  Chapter 6

  His lips tasted faintly of whiskey. They moved over Michael's slowly, sipping, learning the texture, the shape. The hand at her nape exerted no pressure. The choice was hers and she remained where she was. Her eyes closed. His mouth was firm and the kiss was warm. He searched without hunger, without demand. His touch was persuading.

  Michael's lips parted under his. She felt the damp roughness of his tongue as he traced the soft inside of her upper lip. She tasted him again as he ran his tongue against the ridge of her teeth. Her mouth opened a fraction more. Water from his arm dampened the front of her nightshirt. A rivulet curved past her throat and between her breasts. It was as if he had touched her there too.

  Her lips were more than pliant beneath his touch. Her mouth was yielding. She thought nothing. She felt everything.

  Neither of them heard the door open. Detra stood just inside the room watching them a moment before declaring her presence by clearing her throat. "I knocked," she said as Michael pushed back from the tub. Ethan's arm fell away from her neck.

  "What do you want, Dee?" he growled. He cursed himself for not securing the door when he came back with the tub. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Michael was forcing a composure she didn't feel. Her spectacles had been pushed up the bridge of her nose and her shoulders were set straight and stiff.

  "Customers are asking for you downstairs," she said to Michael.

  "She's not going down again," Ethan said. "She's here for the night. And while we're at it, Dee, tell Michael whose idea it was that she should start dancing tonight."

  Dee fingered a curl at her ear. "I don't see what harm it's done. She was a success. They like her."

  "Too much. She's not going down again tonight."

  Dee's dark blue eyes made a leisurely, insulting inspection of Michael. "I think my customers thought you'd be through with her by now." She saw Michael suck in her breath and smiled. "Appears you're only starting to thaw this block of ice."

  "Don't let us keep you, Dee," Ethan said, his eyes flinty.

  With a cheeky smile, Detra pivoted on her heel and made her exit without bothering to shut the door.

  "Get the door, Michael," Ethan ordered. When she simply sat there he barked at her again. "The door, Michael."

  Michael scrambled to her feet. She latched the door quickly and hurried to the bed, turning away as Ethan reached for a towel and started to rise from the water.

  "Don't let Dee bother you," he said. "She's just trying to gauge the threat you are to her. The more possessive I am, the happier she is. She's counting on me to keep you away from Houston."

  She nodded slowly, not quite meeting his eyes. "Then, thank you. I wouldn't have wanted to go back down there tonight. Do those men really think... what Dee said?"

  "Probably. We've told them you're my mistress, remember, not my wife. I suppose they think I should be a little more accommodating. Share you more."

  "You mean they think I should be more accommodating."

  "Something like that." He fastened his drawers and rubbed his hair briskly with the towel. "The other girls do more... entertaining. It's natural for them to expect the same from you."

  "What about Detra?"

  He shook his head. "She's Houston's woman."

  "Perhaps if I was Houston's woman..." She let the sentence trail away.

  "You wouldn't have to worry about the men. I told you before: Detra would kill you."

  "Is it true she poisoned her husband?"

  "So you heard the story. That didn't take long." He checked the fire in the stove. "I can't say if it's true one way or the other. It supposedly happened long before I got here. I don't have any reason not to believe it though. And if you think I'm saying that to frighten you, you're right." Ethan got the blankets from the wardrobe and snapped them out beside the bed. He took one of the pillows from the bed and tossed it on the floor, then blew out one of the lamps, leaving the one on the bedside table for Michael. He stretched out on the floor. "Houston was asking me questions tonight. About you. About me. About you and me. He let me know he wants you."

  Michael moved to the edge of the bed and peered down at Ethan. She considered telling him Houston had had a similar conversation with her earlier in the day. She decided against it.

  "But he thinks I'm your wife."

  "It doesn't weigh that heavily on his mind, Michael. He thinks he's done his part just by telling me his intentions. I can't say that I'm all that eager to fight him over you."

  Michael hoped they killed each other. She took off her spectacles, folded the stems carefully, and laid them aside. Patting down her hair, she found the pencils and put them aside also, then she turned back the lamp. Michael lay on her side, one arm curved under her head, the other hugging the pillow. "I don't want you to kiss me anymore."

  "Tell me that when I'm kissing you and I'll stop."

  "Do you think I can't?"

  "I don't know. Shall we find out now?"

  "No!"

  Ethan chuckled. "Don't worry, Michael. The moment's past. I'm miserably tired, my shoulder aches, and I have to do some more blasting in the mines tomorrow. Go to sleep."

  She bristled at his directions. "I'm tired of your orders." She was physically exhausted but mentally alert. Sleep seemed impossible.

  "Fine. Don't go to sleep."

  Twenty minutes later he heard her breath catch in a soft snore. Ethan removed the bullets from his gun, put them in the drawer, and returned to his bed on the floor.

  She was the most irritating woman he'd ever known. Most of his dreams that night were about kissing her.

  * * *

  Ethan was gone again when Michael awoke. It became a familiar pattern over the next two weeks. Ethan's bed on the floor was always removed, his shaving instruments put away, and his clothes from the day before were stuffed in a laundry bag just inside the door. He always left Michael fresh water in the pitcher and sometimes a note on the table telling her if he planned to be back early or late from the mines.

  Michael realized that over time she had become, if not precisely comfortable in Ethan's presence, then accustomed to it. There were times that she forgot she was not free to come and go as she pleased, times when she was almost content to be in Ethan's company. When she realized she was feeling that way she fought against it... and Ethan. The evenings that started out the best ended in the worst arguments.

  Rehearsal for the evening's routines was just after breakfast. Michael took part because she always danced in the first show, if not the second. After the first night it seemed useless to pretend she had never take
n part in the evening's entertainment. When rehearsal was over Michael did her share of the chores, whether it was polishing brass or watering down the liquor. Detra was never far away while Michael was working on the main floor. It was Detra's continual presence that reminded Michael she was a prisoner in the saloon.

  The other girls warmed to Michael's presence in varying degrees. Kitty was invariably kind, Josie just a little less so. Lottie and Susan were the most helpful during rehearsals but didn't talk much to her outside of them. Carmen made no secret about wanting Ethan in her bed again. Her jealousy could have taken a venomous turn except, unlike Detra, Carmen tempered her feelings when Ethan wasn't around.

  No one in Madison was enterprising enough to start a town paper so most of the news that reached the community came from the telegrapher's office and was passed by word of mouth. It was inevitable that someone always got the story wrong and just as inevitable that no one really seemed to care. Occasionally papers were brought in from Stillwater. The most reliable news came from Denver's Rocky Mountain News.

  There were several accounts over a period of time about the robbery of No. 349. It was a chilling experience for Michael to read about her own death along with that of her colleagues. She was never identified by name, only as a passenger from the East, with no mention of her work for the Chronicle. She supposed she should have been thankful for the anonymity that protected her, yet mostly she was just angry that the reporter hadn't gotten the story right.

  There was something else about the accounts that bothered her, but the only conclusion she could draw from it was so fantastic, and so at odds with what she had witnessed with her own eyes, that it couldn't have been true. Yet as time passed, the more credible the incredible seemed.

  "You're frowning."

  Michael didn't raise her head, only her eyes. She looked at Houston over the rims of her spectacles. His face was cast in shadow as he blocked sunlight from the window behind him. "Was I?" she asked. "I hadn't realized." She glanced around the saloon. Dee wasn't at the bar, but Kitty was sweeping off the stage, and Lottie was practicing a new piece at the piano.

  Without waiting for an invitation, knowing better than to expect one, Houston pulled out a chair and seated himself next to Michael. He nudged one of the papers Michael had in front of her and skimmed it briefly. "Where did you get these?" he asked.

  "Ethan gave them to me. He said there was nothing in them I couldn't read. Is there some problem with that?"

  "No, no problem. I can't see why you'd want to though. Reporters never get their stories right. Worse, what they don't know they make up."

  There was a shade of bitterness in his tone that Michael had never heard before. "Is that why you wanted all those reporters killed? Did you hate them personally or was it principle in general? The only good newspaperman is a dead one?"

  Houston drew back slightly, surprised by her effrontery. His cold black eyes narrowed as the line between his brows deepened. "You don't know a thing about it," he said finally.

  Michael had half suspected he would hit her. He looked as if he wanted to. "Tell me," she said quietly.

  He considered it for a long moment. "Some other time."

  "All right." She saw that she had surprised him again by not pressing the issue. She also had no doubt he would eventually tell her. Michael knew she might have to advance her questions and then retreat a half dozen more times between now and then, but in the end she would know something important about Nathaniel Houston. "Would you like some coffee?" she asked. "There's some fresh back in the kitchen. It's no trouble to get it."

  "Let's both go back."

  Michael hesitated. She looked around the saloon again wondering who might be in the kitchen. "I'm not sure..."

  Houston leaned back in his chair. "You don't like being alone with me, do you?"

  "I... I'm not... no, I don't like being alone with you."

  "At least you're honest." He placed his large hand over her wrist, stood up, and pulled Michael to her feet. "C'mon. I can smell that coffee. Besides that, I have something for you."

  Michael frowned, wondering what he meant. She began gathering up the papers.

  Houston held her fast. "Leave them. They'll be safe right where they are."

  Michael obeyed reluctantly.

  In the kitchen she poured coffee for Houston and herself. "Have you had lunch?" she asked. "There's some cold chicken here somewhere."

  "Sit down. You don't have to wait on me like I'm one of the customers."

  "No, you're the owner."

  "Which means I can get whatever I want when I want it." He pushed out a chair that was at a right angle to his.

  Michael ignored it and chose one that was directly across from him. "You said you have something for me."

  He smiled, reaching across the table to flick back a curl that had fallen against Michael's cheek. Even before he touched her he realized she was steeling herself not to flinch. He hoped that what he had for her would soften her view of him. "You're as greedy as Dee," he said.

  The criticism stung. "I didn't mean—"

  "I know." He withdrew his hand and flipped it over, palm up, showing her it was no longer empty. "I have this for you."

  Michael stared at an ivory cameo framed in gold filigree, not quite believing what she was seeing. Slightly dazed, she lifted one hand to her ear as if something else might appear. Her hand dropped away slowly. "It's my brooch," she said. "The one you took on the train."

  Houston nodded. He reached for her hand and dropped it in her palm, then folded her fingers around it. "I meant to have it as a memento of a rather remarkable encounter. It seems unnecessary with you here."

  Tears pricked her eyes. Michael told herself that she shouldn't be grateful for receiving something that was hers in the first place. She told herself that she should give him the sharp edge of her tongue. "Thank you," she said quietly. She bent her head, blinking rapidly as she fiddled with the pin. She felt Houston's forefinger under her chin, forcing her to look up.

  "Here," he said, taking the brooch from her shaking fingers. "Let me." He came around the table and fastened it to the center of her high collar. "This is what you were wearing on the train."

  "Yes."

  His dark eyes slid over her briefly. "It suits you."

  Michael was very much afraid he meant to kiss her. She ducked her head quickly. He stood there a moment longer, looking down on her bent head while her heart beat madly with fear and uncertainty, then rounded the table and returned to his seat. Michael grasped for any conversational gambit. "I've been asking Ethan if I could venture out in the afternoons," she said, the words fairly rushing out. "Has he asked you about it?"

  "He's mentioned it. Ethan's busy in the afternoon. Who would you go with?"

  "Dee?"

  "I don't think so. Not often anyway. She's tired of playing nursemaid to you."

  "You could always let me go alone."

  Half of Houston's mouth lifted in amusement. "I don't think so."

  "Then one of the other girls?"

  "They don't understand the importance of keeping you close and I'm not taking them into my confidence."

  Michael's shoulders slumped a little. "Then there's no one."

  "No one besides me, you mean." He folded his hands around his coffee cup, warming them.

  "I wouldn't want to bother you."

  "It's no bother. I make rounds every afternoon. Talk to the folks, make sure they know I'm around if they need me. I'm not a bad sheriff, Michael."

  He really believed it, she realized. As if taking care of Madison somehow compensated for the fact that he robbed trains and murdered innocent people. It was such an appalling concept that Michael was struck dumb.

  "This afternoon, for instance, I'm free to escort you."

  "It's my turn to work the bar."

  "I'll talk to Dee."

  "I don't think-"

  "Talk to Dee about what?" Detra asked. She was standing on the threshold of the kitche
n, two ledgers in the crook of her arm.

  "I'm taking Michael out for the afternoon. She's been cooped up in here too long."

  "You're a fool, Houston. She means to go the first chance she has and you're playing into her hands." Dee put her ledgers on the table and poured herself a cup of coffee. "What's Ethan say about you sniffing after his wife's skirts?"

  Michael set down her cup. It clattered in the saucer, nearly covering the small choked sound that came to her lips. "I'll be at the bar."

  "Get your coat," Houston ordered. "We're leaving now. I'll wait for you at the bottom of the stairs."

  Michael fled the room. When she was gone Houston turned to Dee. "Your jealousy isn't flattering any longer, Dee. It's boring. I suggest you do something about it." He left the kitchen.

  Detra stared after her lover. "I intend to," she said softly. "I fully intend to."

  * * *

  Ethan was lying on his back on the floor, his head cradled in the palm of his hands. Except for the dim light from the stove and the lamp on the bedside table, the room was dark. Michael was sitting up in bed, recording the day's events in her diary. Ethan read it regularly, usually when she wasn't around, and thus far had found nothing objectionable in it.

  "Are you almost done scribbling up there?" he asked. "I'd like to go to sleep."

  "So?" Michael leaned over the edge of the bed. Her spectacles slipped down her nose. "Go to sleep."

  "Can you write in the dark?"

  "Of course not."

  "Well, I can't sleep with the lamp burning."

  "I'll hurry."

  "Please." He listened to her scribbling a little while longer. He was getting used to the sound, he realized. It was part of their nighttime ritual, just like taking turns with the bath, making up his bed on the floor while she brushed out her hair, or keeping the fire in the stove from going out. "Are you writing about your outing with Houston?" he asked.

  "I suppose Dee told you about that?"

  "No, Houston did. He must have been feeling generous today. Taking you out and giving you that brooch."

  "Did he tell you about the brooch?"