“Betsy! You ornery old mule, give me that!” The miner lunged but the mule turned her huge head, keeping the prize just beyond the man’s reach. He waved a fist above his own hatless head. “Why can’t you be like other mules? Why in tarnation can’t you just do as you’re told, without giving me so much trouble?”
The crowd chuckled when Betsy snorted a reply. The motion sent the brim of the man’s hat flapping, which added to the hilarity of the street spectacle.
“Looks like Betsy’s a handful, doesn’t it?”
An unladylike snort, oh-so soft but still discernible, escaped his companion. It had been a long time since anyone surprised him, but the way her mouth drew into a thin line, lack of amusement over the mule’s behavior evident, came as a bit of a shock. Everyone around them openly laughed, or at least smiled, but she was definitely not entertained.
“A handful? Why?”
The intensity of her eyes reminded him of stormy seas. Her displeasure vexed him, so he attempted to lighten her mood with a glib reply.
“It’s obvious, isn’t it? Betsy’s giving that poor fellow fits—and all because she won’t do as she’s told.”
He received a snort of derision in reply. This time, she made no bones about her feelings by trying to subdue her reaction.
Her glare seemed hotter than the sun’s.
“‘Won’t do as she’s told’?” The words fell like bricks. “Maybe if she was asked to do something she might be more agreeable. But why should she simply ‘do as she’s told’—when it’s apparent the poor, sweet thing wants to do something completely different from what is being forced upon her? Why should any woman do as she’s told, just because some man tells her to do something? It makes no sense, not in this day and age! Why, aren’t we women endowed with the very same—and often far superior, if I may be so bold to add—intellects as men are? Why, then, should we—”
The tirade came to a screeching halt. Twin blossoms of color bloomed on her cheeks. Her gloved hands clasped at her slim waist.
He waited a short measure without speaking. When he thought she might be composed enough to continue, Jack said softly, “We were talking about a
mule
here, weren’t we, Miss Marsh?”
Her gaze met his, and confirmed his suspicions. Written in the blue eyes he saw the truth, as plainly and as vibrant as the sky above. The speech had not been over an animal, but had a more personal bearing. He waited again, hoping she might elaborate.
Instead, a tiny nod. “We were.”
The desire to delve deeper into the mysterious Miss Marsh’s history was strong but Jack resisted the impulse to pry. If he was lucky, she might loosen up as their friendship deepened. At this point, it seemed appropriate that she keep secrets. Heaven knew, he kept some himself. However, the pull to know more about her was as powerful as any he had experienced in his lifetime.
With a sigh, Jack recognized his duty and let the outburst die a natural, socially acceptable, death.
“That’s what I thought,” he said, resolving to revisit this moment in the future. Surely there would be an appropriate time for shared confidences—wouldn’t there? More fervently than he cared to admit, he hoped there might be many opportunities for revelation yet to come between himself and this beguiling woman. Forging on, lest he be tempted to prod her on the point, Jack said, “Anyhow, it looks like Betsy and her, ah, friend have reached an understanding.”
They turned their attention to the pair in the street. Somehow, the miner had retrieved his hat. It was back on the man’s head, with one conspicuously absent ragged chunk in the grimy brim. Betsy, finally on her feet, had stopped braying.
To a smattering of applause, the animal followed the miner down the street. No one seemed surprised when the man tied the mule to the hitching post in front of the saloon, and with a wave of his fist, left her there.
The idea of refreshment appealed to Jack, particularly as the crowd dispersed and sent a fresh cloud into the air around them. His companion raised a hand to cover her nose, saving her lungs from breathing in the fine red dust. He held his breath and scanned the storefronts.
Two doors down seemed a suitable spot. Jack nodded to the place, put his hand beneath her right elbow and guided her into the open doorway. When they were out of the worst of the dust and dirt, Jack flashed a smile.
“Would you care for something to help wash the dust out of your throat?” He had meant to sound debonair but the words were much less suave spoken aloud than thought in his head.
Nothing in Jack’s previous dealings with the opposite sex had prepared him for this feeling of unsteadiness, this confounded sensation that when he stood beside Kristen Marsh nothing in his world was as cut and dried as it usually was. As it had always been. As it might, he realized now, never be again.
Heaving a deep sigh, Jack briefly wondered if he might be suffering the effects of heat stroke. Long hours in the saddle, journeying to Brown’s Point while his head baked beneath the blazing sun like a flapjack on a griddle iron, could have left their mark on him. On the other hand, maybe it was the infernal red dust that blanketed this place…surely that could cause a man’s mind to become unhinged, couldn’t it?
When she smiled up at him, relief etched clearly on her lovely features, he knew there wasn’t a single, solitary thing wrong with his head. It was his heart, pure and simple, that caused these odd sensations.
Fortunately she saved him from having to deal with the sudden knowledge his heart had betrayed him by pledging its allegiance without consulting him first.
“I would like that very much, thank you.” One fingertip swept delicately along her upper lip. “I hadn’t realized Wyoming would be so hot.”
The opening was too good to pass up, so as they wove their way between the dozen or so small, square tables that filled the eatery, Jack asked, “Oh? So you’re not originally from around here?”
He pulled out a chair for her. When she was settled, he sat on the chair beside hers. He removed his hat, slapped it against one knee, and then laid it on the corner of the table. Running a hand through his hair, he lifted a questioning eyebrow and waited for her response.
Loosening her bonnet ties got more attention than was necessary. Finally, she gave him a tiny shake of her head. “No, I’m not.”
“From where, then?”
He knew it was a forward question, and knew as well that had his grandmother been beside him he never would have ventured to ask it. But she wasn’t, and he wanted to know, so he shut the notion of proper conversation out of his head and reminded himself that they were, after all, not in a parlor but in the Wild West.
Leaning close, he hoped to invite a confidence.
She looked like she might refuse to answer his question. When she raised her gaze and met his he saw, yet again, storminess in her dazzling eyes.
“Easterner, born and bred. Can’t you tell, Jack? Why, I’d have thought my accent gave me away the moment you and I became acquainted. But then, you and I weren’t exactly on speaking terms when we…um, when we first met, were we?”
He admired the way she turned the tables on him. Directing attention away from her, especially by bringing the close nature of their gunfight introduction to the conversation, was a brilliant move.
The woman has brains, guts and beauty
.
A triple threat,
no doubt about it.
He nodded, acknowledging her point, all the while wondering what else hid behind the fresh-cheeked, bright-eyed female façade.
“Point well made, Miss Marsh.” Throwing caution to the wind, Jack leaned even closer. A whiff of lavender, reminiscent of their moments in the stagecoach, filled his head. He inhaled deeply, savoring the scent, before he continued. “Honestly, I wasn’t paying much attention to your accent when we first met. But, really, now that we have so many—” Jack paused, deliberately letting the silent moment lengthen. He cleared his throat, then said, “Now that we do have so many shared, ah, interludes, don’t you think it’s about time you allow me the honor—and privilege—of addressing you by your first name?”
A thoughtful look crossed her face. She studied him quietly, so pensively that Jack held his breath.
He heard the pounding of his heart, clear and loud, in his ears and wondered if anyone else could hear it. He hoped not. It was not in his nature to be so openly smitten, and the knowledge he was made him feel silly.
When she nodded her agreement, he released the breath he had held and smiled.
“Yes. Your behavior shows me you are a man I would not mind being on a first-name basis with. Please, Jack, call me Kristen from now on.”
Sitting back against the hard wooden chair beneath him, Jack felt his first true burst of satisfaction since he had left home. There had been many moments of pleasure in his life, particularly in his business endeavors, but there were few to rival the heartwarming sensation inside him now.
“Kristen.” The syllables rolled off his tongue, their song sweet to his ears. His smile grew when he stood and said, “I’ll just go order our refreshments,
Kristen
.” She waved a hand at his display of foolishness, a small giggle escaping her lips. Jack raised an eyebrow and asked, “Something to drink? Or should I see if they’ve got something to snack on as well?”
“Just something to quench my thirst would be delightful, thank you.”
Temptation sat on his shoulder, urging Jack to turn and see if she watched while he strode to the order counter, but he steadfastly refused to give in to it. It was bad enough he had behaved like a giddy schoolboy. It would ruin his image altogether if she was, in fact, watching his movements and he did turn and check to see if she did so.
When had his life become so complicated? This whole episode could have easily happened to someone else, but to him—Jack Sterling, the businessman? Turning renegade rescuer had seemed incongruous enough, but now this romantic twist was almost more than he could fathom. Years behind his desk had not prepared him for any of this.
Keep my wits, that’s all I can do
. Jack paid for, and then grabbed, the two mugs of sarsaparilla placed before him.
At least keep what’s left of them, anyhow
.
Pulling a deep breath into his lungs, and resolving to try not to make a bigger fool of himself than he had already done, Jack turned back to the crowded room. His stomach dropped when he saw who stood beside the table.
Three or four long strides brought him back to his chair. Jack placed Kristen’s drink down in front of her, careful not to let his annoyance show.
“Sterling, isn’t it?”
Patrick Godsworth held his right hand out in greeting. Jack grudgingly shook it, giving it a hard squeeze before releasing it. The gesture was childish, he knew, but the frown that flashed in the other man’s eyes made the digression worthwhile.
“That’s right.” Jack pulled his chair out, exaggerating the move to give the other man a hint to leave. “Jack Sterling. And you’re the preacher’s son, aren’t you?”
“Grandson,” Kristen corrected. “Patrick is Pastor Godsworth’s grandson. He’s the one who went for help when we were ambushed, remember?”
“Right.” Jack gave the interloper a curt nod. “Well, it was nice seeing you again. Take care.”
Jack prepared to sit down, hoping the message was clear enough for even the preacher’s grandson to comprehend. It had to be, didn’t it? The dismissal bordered on rudeness, but his desire to be alone with Kristen spurred him on.
“I’ve invited Patrick to sit with us.”
The words made Jack want to scream but instead he forced himself to smile. He sat, motioned to the vacant chair beside his. “By all means. Please, join us.”
Jack had not become one of Carroll Junction’s wealthiest men by behaving foolishly. He knew better than to refuse a woman’s wishes.
There were a lot of things Jack was willing to do to ensure Kristen Marsh only had eyes for him. An awful lot of things. Bending his elbow across the table from Godsworth’s smug face was only one of them.
Chapter Five
Brown’s Bank. Just the sight of the large red brick building, with its glass windows, made her think of all she had left behind.
A wave of homesickness filled her heart, making the bright day seem somehow more dismal by far. Had she had her way, she never would have left her home, family and friends—all that she held dear. However, she reminded herself with a swift shake, she had very few options. Moreover, when a woman was forced into a position not to her liking, she had no choice but to find a way out of the situation.
Looking back would not help her go forward, so Kristen took a deep breath and attempted to admire the bank before her rather than lament what was behind her.
The bank was by far the nicest building she had seen since crossing into the Wyoming Territory. It sat squarely in the center of town and seemed to proclaim that there was hope for the less prestigious storefronts to someday rise to the muted grandeur it so proudly displayed.
Kristen paused beneath the spindly branches of a lone elm tree growing near the edge of the bank’s lot. The tree cast a small shadow but the shade was adequate, and she took full advantage of it. As she fanned her perspiring cheeks, she looked around and noted that none of the other women in town seemed as adversely affected by the heat as she was. Perhaps it was one of those things that, given time, a body grew accustomed to. She certainly hoped that was the case, because as she sucked in a deep breath and prepared to step inside the brick building, Brown’s Corner felt more like the devil’s doorstep than a refuge.
Fortunately, the interior of the bank was cooler than the air on the street. A wall of tellers behind metal bars flanked one side of the cavernous room. Their jackets hung neatly on wall pegs; the lower halves of their shirtsleeves were protected by black half-sleeves and they all wore matching dark gray suspenders and eye visors. Busy with strong boxes and cash drawers, none took notice of her sudden appearance.
To the left of the entrance a man in a business suit sat at a wide wooden desk. He peered over the top of a thick ledger, through a pair of thick-rimmed spectacles and smiled at Kristen. She returned the nicety, then walked over and stood before the desk.