Flanna and the Lawman Page 4

But she could appreciate why the people of Loveless had asked him to move on. And her own father’s doubts. Slowly, she turned to face him and what she saw almost broke her heart.

  He studied some point on the ground, a statue of a man made of muscle and flesh. His shoulders were hunched in thought and deep lines etched his face. She wondered what he was thinking…and knew the answer.

  He hated what he had become. She understood as if she could read his mind.

  Immediately she stepped forward. “You were wonderful,” she whispered. “You were like the archangel Michael with his avenging sword. The way you walked right into the gun sight and grabbed that cowboy by the neck.” She hooked her arm in his. “The man was quivering with fright and his friends were, too.”

  Trace watched her, silent.

  His quietness made her uneasy. “You did it,” she assured him. “Slayton will think twice before crossing you.”

  “He’ll be back. And when he comes, he’ll bring more men. I’ve challenged him. It’s personal now.”

  His words sobered her. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I know his kind. Hell, I am his kind.”

  “No, you’re not.” She gave his arm a squeeze, feeling the hard muscle there. “You’re a good man, a brave one. You’re no more like him than a Thoroughbred is like a burro.”

  “Yeah.” He turned from her, but she drew her hand down his arm to capture his hand.

  He looked at her, expectant. When they stood this close, she was so aware of him, of his size, of those hard silver eyes, of the long, tapered fingers rough with calluses.

  Merciful God, she was still in love with him.

  She thought she’d been over him but then there’d been the kiss…and all the arguing…and then the confrontation with Slayton—

  She dropped his hand as if it had turned into a burning ember.

  He noticed and he didn’t like it. “What’s the matter?” he said carefully.

  Her stomach did a nervous twist. She wasn’t about to admit her feelings. He wouldn’t believe her even if she did. He was not the kind of man who gave second chances. “Nothing. I’m, uh—” Words failed her, especially under his scrutiny. She attempted to recover. “What are you going to do now?”

  “Stay and fight.” He walked toward Spice, grazing by the wagon. He took the horse by the mane and guided it toward the barn.

  Flanna took after him, skipping to catch up. Placing a hand on his arm, she made him stop. “Listen, Trace, this isn’t your fight. Maybe I was wrong to draw you in.”

  His brows lifted in surprise. “You should have thought about that before you claimed to be married to me. Everyone thinks I own the land, Mrs. Cordell.”

  “Well…yes. But you were going to leave.”

  “I changed my mind.”

  She glanced at the creek where the water merrily rushed over stones. The precious, precious water. “I just don’t want anything to happen to you.” And it would. A sense of impending gloom seemed to hover over her. Perhaps she should sell.

  “Besides, maybe I like being married.”

  “Like it?” She looked up, startled. The expression on his face was indiscernible…until his gaze lowered…down to her breasts with raw, hungry desire.

  The air crackled with tension.

  Flanna didn’t dare move. She could barely breathe. Her breasts seemed to fill and tightened. An edgy tingling danced across her skin to settle deep inside her.

  And yet the sun was still shining, birds whistling, and the ground was still beneath her feet. The horse nudged Trace as if to tell him to get moving. He let go of the animal and took a step closer, raising his gaze to linger on her lips.

  She cleared her throat and then edged back. “But we aren’t married.”

  He smiled.

  “I told you earlier I’m willing to pay you for your help,” she said stiffly.

  “Like a hired hand?” he asked softly, his inflection giving the offer a meaning she hadn’t intended.

  Again she cleared her throat, surprised at how nervous she was. “Yes. Fair’s fair.”

  He nodded as if in agreement. “Well now, what is a ‘fair’ price?”

  Flanna forced herself to pretend she wasn’t aware of how tall he was, how intimidating…or how easy it would be to step into his arms. “I did save your life.”

  He laughed. His chest so close, she could feel the heat from his body. “Yes, you did. Shame you didn’t make it for the trial.”

  “But I was there in time to stop the hanging.” Her voice sounded as if she’d run a great distance and she was starting to feel light-headed. Maybe now was a good time to put a little distance between them. But as she started to back away, his hand caught her arm—just as it had in town before he’d kissed her.

  “My services don’t come cheap, Mrs. Cordell.”

  Her toes curled at his use of her fake married name. His voice was laden with unspoken promises. “I didn’t think they did.” She struggled for sanity. This was a bargain they were driving. She must keep her wits. “I’ll offer you ten dollars a day.”

  He laughed.

  Annoyed, she retorted, “It’s a fair price. More than you earned as sheriff.”

  “And how did you come by that sort of cash? From the people of Loveless?”

  A guilty heat stole across her cheeks. “By the look of you, you shouldn’t be turning up your nose at the offer of a little cash.”

  “No, I shouldn’t, should I? Especially covered in trail dust.” He pulled her closer, the light of a hundred devils gleaming in his eyes. “And it has been a while since I’ve had a good meal or other—” he gave her arm a gentle squeeze “—comfort.”

  Comfort. Oh dear. “What are you thinking?” she asked, cautious and yet so very aware of his legs now pressed against hers.

  “That perhaps I might take you up on the offer you made in town.”

  “Which offer?” she squeaked.

  Again, his gaze flicked over her breasts. “About being a wife.”

  Flanna’s mouth went dry. “I was…saving you…when I made that claim,” she explained faintly. Good Lord, she could barely think. Or move her gaze from his mouth. She’d always known Trace was a fine-looking man but she’d never noticed how sensual his lips were. Manly lips. The kind of lips that had proved they knew how to kiss.

  He grinned, his white teeth in his whiskered face giving him a roguish look. “Well, that’s the price, Flanna. You wanted to pretend to be my wife in Harwood. The way I see it, we don’t have any other choice but to continue the game.”

  For a second, the need, the desire, the wanting of him made it difficult for her to reason. Rory would never have approved. But Rory wasn’t here.

  “This is a Philistine’s bargain,” she whispered.

  “You’ve struck that kind of a bargain before.” He smiled. “It all depends on what you want.” His lips mere inches from hers, he said, “It’s what I want.”

  Merciful heavens, this was the devil’s own pact. Her traitorous body yearned for his body heat. She loved the feeling of his arms around her. He made her feel protected and safe.

  “I have needs, Flanna,” he said, his voice close to her ear going straight through to her heart. “Needs only a wife can provide.”

  She made a small sound of distress that sounded embarrassingly like a whimper of desire. “A pretend wife?”

  His lips brushed the top of her forehead. “Oh, yes. But a wife in every way.”

  Flanna feared she’d swoon. Rory must be rolling in his grave. Almost as if in a trance, she nodded. “Done.”

  “Good.”

  Then to her surprise, he started to remove his shirt.

  She looked around wildly. It was broad daylight, no later than midafternoon. He couldn’t be thinking of ravishing her now? “Wait. Trace, what are you doing?” His bare chest was rock-hard with muscle. His shoulders made others appear puny. “Oh, my,” she murmured, part in distress and part in admiration. She fluttered a hand up to her col
lar, the heat of the day suddenly overwhelming. “I mean, you can’t—I can’t— We should at least go inside—”

  He cut her off by tossing his dirty, sweat-stained shirt in her face. “Here.”

  Gagging, she removed the shirt. “What is this for?”

  “It needs washing. I’ve got another in my saddlebags. Best get busy—” He paused and added with smug emphasis, “Wife.”

  Laughing, he drove Spice into the barn.

  Chapter Five

  TRACE CONGRATULATED himself as he walked the mare into the barn. Finally, he’d gotten a bit of his own back over Flanna. She’d thought he was after something else. The expression on her face when he’d taken off his shirt had been comical. And then, when he’d thrown the shirt at her—ha! He’d made her feel like a fool. Just as she’d made him feel back in Loveless.

  No sir, she hadn’t liked that. Even now she stood holding his shirt away from her as if she’d rather burn than wash it.

  But she wouldn’t because for once in her life, she needed him.

  Trace put Spice in a roped-off stall. Outside, Bill ran around the corral, wanting attention. Or, more likely, company.

  The barn itself was a small, low-roofed soddy. Rory had put every inch of space to use. Hanging from the rafters were tools. A plow rested in the corner. A row of bulging sacks were stacked against the wall. Trace wandered over and knelt to investigate. Wheat seed. He’d heard it grew well in these parts. Of course, the seed should have been planted weeks ago…round about the time Rory had been shot.

  The lucky Irish bastard. He’d had it all. Land, a future, and a daughter who loved him.

  “Perhaps I deserved that.”

  He turned at the sound of Flanna’s crisp voice. She stood a few steps from him, his shirt in her clenched hands, her face pinched. The air in the stable grew close. Too close. He shrugged.

  She interpreted his gesture accurately. “You don’t want to talk about it, do you? Every time I bring up what happened between us you grow angry and push me away.”

  He stood, unexpectedly ill-at-ease at being half naked in front of her. What was it about Flanna that made him feel more like an awkward boy instead of a man? It was as if she could see to the heart of his black soul. His saddle and saddlebags were stacked on top of several others draped over a makeshift sawhorse close to the grain bags. He reached into his bag and pulled out his other shirt, giving her his back. It wasn’t much cleaner than the one she held. “Forget it. Loveless was a long time ago.”

  “I feel like it all happened yesterday.” When he didn’t speak, she said, “I didn’t mean for things to get as tangled up the way they did.”

  He didn’t want this conversation. He pulled his shirt over his head.

  “Trace—” she started, and suddenly he’d had enough.

  “I’m here, dammit,” he swore. “You wanted my help. You have it. Leave the past where it is.”

  “I can’t. I loved you.”

  For a heartbeat he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think.

  And then he remembered.

  “Damn, you are good.” He tucked his shirt into his pants, his movements jerky…and he hated himself because he wanted to believe. She was so lovely, so tempting, and yet—

  “You’ve said those words before, Flanna. They come easy to your lips, especially when you want something. Well, the blinders are off. I’m not the moony-eyed—” He caught himself in time. He’d been about to say “lonely.” He wasn’t the moony-eyed, lonely man he’d been in Loveless.

  But that wasn’t true, was it?

  He turned and his gaze dropped again to the sacks of seed.

  He sensed her take a step toward him. “You feel I betrayed you,” she said.

  He remained silent…and so very aware of her.

  “If I’d thought things could have been different, I’d never have left. But Rory and I milked your town dry, Trace. I wanted to stop, but it was too late and you wouldn’t have forgiven me. You still won’t.” She paused, cleared her throat. “Rory said a man like you didn’t forgive easy.”

  She moved closer until she stood right at his arm. He could feel the heat of her body. When he’d first met her, he remembered thinking she’d smelled like fresh grass on a spring day. New and green, vital, inviting. Now the scent of her filled him. It would be so easy to put his arms around her. To kiss her as he had in town but with deeper intent.

  Ah, yes, that kiss had been a mistake.

  “You said a person can make herself into whatever she wants to be out here. No matter what her past was. Were you lying to me, Trace? Because I’ve tried. I am different. Wiser.”

  The light lilt of her voice wrapped itself around him. He struggled to protect himself. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe a person can’t change.”

  “Or maybe you are fooling yourself,” she countered. “Especially if you think answers can be found in a whiskey bottle.”

  He hated the way she shot right to the heart of a matter. She’d never been one to sugar the truth…and if the truth be known, he was starting to feel embarrassed. Perhaps he had overreacted when they’d thrown him out of Loveless. He’d never been one to feel sorry for himself and yet, here he was.

  Damn Flanna. She had a talent for making him see the truth in himself. He walked over to where a coil of rope hung from the ceiling. “I’ve got work to do if I’m going to be ready for Slayton when he comes.”

  * * *

  FLANNA RECOGNIZED that she had been dismissed. Trace didn’t want to talk…but then he’d always been a man of few words. However, she sensed he wasn’t as indifferent to her as he wished her to believe.

  And she wasn’t about to leave him be. She’d made the mistake of leaving him once. She’d not do it again.

  “What do you have planned?” she asked.

  He stiffened, a frown coming to his lips.

  “After all, we’re partners,” she explained, her woman’s intuition telling her she must keep herself in front of him. No matter how angry he got, she didn’t dare let him turn his back on her. Because she knew now what she wanted—she wanted him.

  “I should know what you are planning so I can help.”

  His irritation plain, he replied, “I have it handled.”

  “Of course you do,” she agreed diplomatically, “but I need know what you expect me to do.”

  “You don’t have to do anything,” he said pointedly.

  Flanna sensed she’d best not push him. “Ah, then, I’ll be fixing the supper. And washing your shirt.”

  He glanced at her as if he thought she teased him with her abrupt capitulation. She kept her expression carefully neutral.

  “What is going through your scheming Irish mind, Flanna?”

  “You give me too much credit, Trace. All I’m trying to do is protect what is mine against Slayton.” She moved now, deliberately walking close as she passed him. “I’ll be in the house, being a good wife.”

  He shifted at her emphasis of the title, wary as if expecting her to pounce on him. Giving Spice’s nose a rub as she passed, she asked with studied nonchalance, “So what are you planning to do with the rope? Build a fence?”

  She was teasing but he said seriously, “Yes. They may come back tonight. I’ll run this rope through the trees by the creek to create a barricade.”

  “That won’t stop a band of armed men,” she replied.

  “No, but the horses will be confused when they hit the rope. They’ll balk, maybe even bolt. Slayton’s men are cowards at heart. They get the courage from their numbers. And they are lazy. If the horses act up, if this job looks like the least bit of work, they’ll run.” He yanked the end of the rope taut. “Then it will just be Slayton and me.”

  “What about the bluff?”

  He smiled, more relaxed now they were discussing something other than their disturbing history. “I’ll build a quick fence from the wood Rory has stored for the house. Again, something that will startle the horses. And I’d best get started. We have less than
four good hours left to get ready.” He escaped out the door.

  Thoughtfully, Flanna followed. Trace headed for the stream but she went on inside the soddy. The dogs, having returned from their field chase, eyed the two of them going off in different directions. Samson, the male, loped after Trace. Delilah stayed with her.

  Her one-room home was a cozy place, but as she stepped through the door, the thought struck her it must not appear like much to Trace.

  Over time, and because she and her father had built the house themselves, she’d grown accustomed to the single, windowless room. They saved their window money for the new house and when the weather was good did most of their living outdoors. The furnishings were simple but well made—a table, a few chairs, a rocker, and a bed. Her pride and joy was the cast-iron stove that Rory had planned to move to the new house when the time was right.

  Taking a pail, she fetched water for washing and then set it on the stove to boil. While waiting for the water to warm, she started a stew for their dinner. As she worked, she decided she was not displeased with matters between herself and Trace. He was doing his best to push her away…and yet she didn’t think he was succeeding.

  God had brought him back into her life for a reason and this time, she’d not let him go. Her gaze fell on the double bed pushed into one corner of the room. A nervous energy stemming from anticipation fluttered in her stomach.

  Trace thought her a tease. Yes, she’d admit part of her father’s sales had been her ability to lead men on a wee bit—but not with Trace. Never him. From the first moment she’d laid eyes on him, she’d loved him. Brave, bold, strong—he’d been the epitome of everything she’d dreamed a man could be.

  Time had proved her devotion. She’d made a terrible mistake in not staying with him. And yet, in truth, she would have made a miserable sheriff’s wife, especially in Loveless. Rory had claimed that the townspeople had been the easiest marks of his career because of their puffed sense of importance. She was not surprised they hadn’t treated Trace right.

  Still, she had not expected to find him like this. The man she’d known had been full of confidence. For eighteen long months she’d pictured Trace as going on and forgetting about her. After all, there’d been many a lass eyeing him.