Christine Dorsey (15 page)

Her brother needed a man’s influence. He needed to be around a man. But all he had was her. And there wasn’t a thing she could do about it.

Samantha spent the rest of the day close to the house. She went to the garden once to pick the tomatoes bent close to the ground with their heavy ripeness. But the rest of the time she worked on Peggy Keane’s dress. She’d promised to have it finished by the end of the week, and if she didn’t keep at it, she’d miss the deadline sure.

Too much time had been spent taking care of the rebel, Samantha decided. Caring and thinking about him, she amended honestly. But no more. She and Will needed the cash money she earned from her sewing, and she couldn’t afford not to live up to her end of the bargain.

But more times than she could count, Samantha found her gaze straying from the purple silk toward the window. She’d lifted the stretched cotton to let in the air and allow her more light. Even though breezes sang through the wild sunflowers and riffled through the cottonwood leaves, the day was uncomfortably warm. As if wiped away by the storm, no clouds filtered the sun. It burned large and bright in the cerulean sky.

The Rebel worked on the barn roof. There weren’t enough shakes to cover the entire structure, but apparently he decided a patch job was better than none at all.

In deference to the heat, he’d removed his shirt. There was no doubt about it, he’d gained some weight. That slightly hollow-cheeked, gaunt look he’d had when he first came was gone. His chest was fuller, the ribs less pronounced. His body was bigger, brawnier.

Samantha snorted. What could she expect the way he ate? She took a few stitches in the ruching around the collar of the gown, then let her eyes stray back to him. She couldn’t begrudge him his appetite. It wasn’t as if he was growing fleshy. To the contrary, his body looked whipcord lean, the muscles gleaming hard in the sunlight.

How long had he gone hungry to become as thin as he was before?

He paused to backhand sweat from his brow, and Samantha watched him lean toward the edge. He yelled down something she couldn’t hear, but when she allowed her gaze to stray from the Rebel, Samantha saw Will.

He straddled the fence, book in hand, and appeared to be reading out loud. Samantha couldn’t keep from smiling. Will most likely didn’t like it— Samantha imagined he’d much rather be on the roof helping the Rebel. But Jacob Morgan was keeping his word about the reading. And he’d keep his word about leaving too, Samantha decided.

Reluctantly she turned back to her sewing.

By late afternoon her back muscles burned from fatigue, but she was almost finished with the gown. All there was left to do was hem the voluptuous skirt. But for now she needed to start supper.

Taking the slab of beef off its hook near the stove, Samantha began slicing off steaks. Apparently Captain Morgan planned to wait till after the evening meal to leave so she cut off several more hunks of meat. She’d let him indulge in one more big meal before he rode away.

Goodness, she couldn’t understand why thoughts of him leaving bothered her. He was rude, angry most of the time, overbearing, and arrogant, and she should be happy and relieved that her association with him was almost over.

So what if he helped out around the farm. He owed her at least that much work for all the food she fed him. Samantha let her mind skim over the fact that she shot him. There was no way she would ask him to stay on. She’d pick every darn ear of corn herself before she gave in to Will’s suggestion. Grabbing up a potato, she started hacking away at the peel.

A noise outside made her glance through the window. Neither Jacob nor Will were in sight. They’d finished the barn roof and headed out to the cornfield. Will had dashed in to tell her earlier. As he ran out the door, she warned him about trying to talk Captain Morgan into staying.

Samantha shook her head. She expected them back before now. Her eyes strayed across the flat landscape and her fingers stilled, knife in midshave down a potato.

A column of dust spiraled into the air, and it was coming toward the farm... from town. She supposed it was possible for any number of folks to be visiting from Hager’s Flats, but Samantha couldn’t shake from her mind her last group of visitors.

By the time Samantha dropped the potato and wiped at her hands, she could make out a man on horseback. When she realized who it was, she hurried to the pie safe to retrieve Captain Morgan’s revolver.

Sticking it in her apron pocket, Samantha rushed to the door, throwing it open before Bundy Atwood could dismount. She didn’t want him thinking he was welcome.

“What are you doing here, Bundy?”

The man paused momentarily, his right foot kicking free of the stirrup, and stared at Samantha from beneath his hat, his eyes dark and brazen. Then he slid off the dun-colored gelding. After giving his reins a negligent toss toward the fence, he sauntered toward the porch. “Now is that any way to greet an old friend, Samantha?”

“You’re no friend of mine, Bundy Atwood. And I want you off my property.”

Atwood braced his boot on the porch step. “Now I can remember a time you were right anxious for me to come calling.”

She didn’t answer him, but the awful truth was, she could too. He’d been new in the territory, handsome in a slicked-back, pretty sort of way. At least she’d thought so at the time. He’d visited the farm often. At first it was Luke he’d professed to be visiting, but after the third time he’d made it clear that Samantha was the reason for his frequent trips from town.

And Samantha was thrilled. She was a shy, inexperienced seventeen when he’d started courting. She hung on his every word, though later she couldn’t imagine what he’d said that was so interesting. But she’d planned their life together.

When she first heard rumors that he was riding with Landis Moore, she couldn’t believe it. They’d never really talked of politics, but Samantha was confident he had abolitionist sentiments like she did. After all, he came from Pennsylvania.

But when she dared to ask him about it, he laughed in her face. He didn’t give a damn about some darkie living in Mississippi, and he didn’t want her thinking about it either. And as for Landis Moore, he was only trying to see that honest white men had the right to bring slaves into Kansas if they wanted.

He grabbed her when she started to walk away from him. She thought for too long about her father’s lectures on the evils of slavery not to have strong feelings on the subject. But Bundy didn’t seem to care how she felt. When she protested he shook her, then grabbed her up for a fierce kiss.

She’d always enjoyed the kisses he stole before. They were so sweet and pleasant. But what he did to her that day wasn’t. Her lip split from the pressure of his teeth, and she gagged as he forced his tongue into her mouth. She fought and scratched and earned herself an ear-ringing smack for her efforts. But he let her go, with a warning that she better get used to things the way they were because he’d be back.

She refused to see him, sending a bewildered Luke to give Bundy the message the next time he called. She didn’t tell Luke why she was breaking it off with his friend. She was too embarrassed. But when Bundy refused to take no for an answer, coming by, again and again, and finally catching Samantha alone, she hadn’t needed to explain.

Luke returned from the fields, a towheaded Will by his side, in time to see Bundy tackle Samantha from behind as she ran from him. Bundy’s fist was raised above Samantha’s face, but he never landed the blow.

Luke grabbed Bundy by the neck and came close to strangling him before Samantha could pull him off. Bundy had ridden off with a warning never to return and an expression on his face that made Samantha’s blood run cold.

The war started not long after that. Atwood and Moore were rumored to be with Quantrill in Missouri. But Samantha saw Moore’s men one other time in 1861. The night they came for her father. She didn’t know for sure if Bundy was with them. But she knew she didn’t want him here now.

Atwood straightened, coming up on the porch with a lurch, and Samantha backed up, her fingers tightening on the revolver. “I’m warning you, Bundy.” Samantha tried to keep her voice calm, but knew she’d failed. Sweat broke out on her upper lip, and she resisted the urge to swipe at it with her palm.

“Hell, Samantha.” Atwood made an impatient motion with his hand. “The war’s over. Can’t we just let bygones be bygones? We used to get along pretty good.” He gave her a grin that to Samantha’s shame she had once thought beguiling.

She raised her chin, and stared him straight in the eyes. “I’m not interested in forgetting about the past. And the war’s got nothing to do with it. Now get on your horse and ride away while you still can.”

“You always was a little spitfire, Samantha. And a real looker when you was riled.”

He moved so unexpectedly and quickly that Samantha had no chance to yank out the gun. His arms enveloped her, forcing hers down to her side. She could feel his hot breath on her cheek as his grip whooshed the air from her lungs.

“What do you have to say for yourself now, Samantha? What, no threats?” His hold tightened. “I think it’s about time we took up where we left off before the war. Seems to me I had you on the ground and we was getting real chummy before old Luke stuck his nose in where it didn’t belong.”

“You make me sick.”

His dark eyes narrowed till they were not more than fierce slits of glittering mica. “Any more talk like that and you might have more problems than a few drunken soldiers shooting up your place.”

“What are you talking about?”

His grin was evil. “Just thinking what a shame it would be if something happened to that cornfield you’ve worked so hard on.” His face began descending toward hers. “Now you be nice to me and I can see that things like that don’t happen here.” His hand closed painfully over her breast as his mouth slammed into hers.

“Get your hands off my sister!”

Bundy’s lips stilled and he lifted his eyes, but kept them and his sneer trained on Samantha. “Shit, Will, ain’t nothing wrong with a little kissing.”

“There is if the lady doesn’t want it.”

That voice most certainly did not belong to a thirteen-year-old boy. It was deep and resonant, and more than a little gruff. Samantha shut her eyes and let the sound roll over her. Bundy loosened his arms, and while Samantha took a deep breath, she glanced around toward the man who’d spoken.

Jake stood beside Will, a restraining hand on her brother’s shoulder. They’d been on their way from the cornfield to the creek when they heard the commotion. He looked hot. His striped shirt was open at the neck and sweat molded to his body. Standing, legs slightly apart and eyes straight ahead, he appeared strong and dangerous. Despite the lack of a sidearm.

Bundy’s fingers tightened for a split second on Samantha’s arm—a promise of things to come—and then he stepped away from her. His hand dropped in a seemingly casual motion toward the revolver strapped to his hip. But Samantha knew there was nothing unintentional about the move. He stroked the gun lovingly, but he didn’t draw it. Instead he leaned against the porch post.

“Who says the lady doesn’t want it?” His smile was cool and confident. “Samantha and I have been... friends for a long time. Isn’t that right, honey?” With those words his hand snaked out and grabbed Samantha’s wrist, yanking her toward him.

The movement was so quick and unexpected that Samantha was plastered against Bundy’s side before she knew what had happened. She squirmed, fighting him, grasping for the gun in her pocket. Her mouth opened to tell him what she thought of his vile manhandling and even worse crimes, but then clamped shut.

From the corner of her eye she saw Will and the rebel moving toward her. And they both looked more than willing to protect her honor.

And they’d both get shot if they did. Samantha could feel the tension in Bundy’s body as his hand tightened on the gun.

Samantha stopped struggling. “He’s right,” she said, her eyes on Jake Morgan. “We are old friends.”

“Sam!”

Samantha ignored her brother’s outburst. Of course
he
knew better. Will had seen Bundy that day years ago, and even though only eight, Samantha knew he remembered.

Samantha straightened. “Bundy’s right,” she repeated, her eyes on Jake. “We are old friends. But I’ve had a change of heart.” Her gaze shifted to Bundy. “Would you please just leave?”

“Well now, I’m not real inclined to do that.”

“You heard the lady.” Jake took another step toward the porch. He wished he knew exactly what was going on here. Will seemed ready to bust a gut, and Jake purposely moved in front of him. As for Samantha, she didn’t seem overly enthusiastic about the newcomer’s attentions, but then she wasn’t exactly resisting him either. The last thing he needed, Jake decided, was to get involved in some lovers’ quarrel. Hell, he wasn’t interested in getting involved with anything.

But this man didn’t want to let it go. Turning on Jake, giving Samantha a little shove to the side, he stepped off the porch. “I don’t believe I got your name.”

“Morgan. Jake Morgan.”

Bundy swept his eyes down Jake, while his hand rested on the gun cocked out from his hip. Finally he pushed back his hat and shook his head. “Well, Jake Morgan, I’m not sure I like you hanging around here.”

“He’s just passing through,” Samantha injected. Jake stood perfectly still through Bundy’s inspection, but now his gaze flew to Samantha. He clearly didn’t like her answering for him.

“That right, Morgan? You passing through?”

Ignoring the man, whom he took at the very least for a bully, Jake looked skyward. While he watched a hawk circle lazily overhead, he tried to decide what to do. Nothing came readily to mind. The man was armed, angry, and apparently enough of a fool to mix the two. Jake had seen enough of his kind during the war to last a lifetime. They were the ones who usually got themselves along with anyone dumb enough to tangle with them killed.

Damn, he hated putting himself in that category. Taking a deep breath, Jake leveled his gaze on Will. “Help your sister fix some coffee.”

“What for?” Will looked at Jake as if he’d suggested he attempt flying.