His Wicked Dream (Velvet Lies, Book 2) (23 page)

Sera's and Claudia's jaws both dropped.

"The
lemonade
booth?" Claudia grimaced, shaking her head. "No wonder you ain't married, niece. Why in the name of Sam Hill would you want to squeeze some dang old lemons when you could be kissing the socks offa some bachelor?"

Sera nodded.
"And
making Michael jealous."

"I don't want to make Michael jealous."

Claudia folded her arms. "Why not? Didn't you like the way he kissed ya the last time?"

Eden sputtered, tempted to crawl under the counter and die. Who had turned traitor and tattled? Sera or Jamie?

"It's hard to believe you got the Collier blood running through yer veins," Claudia continued in dire tones. "I ain't never met a woman who needs more schoolin' than you do in the ways to catch a man."

"I think I do perfectly well on my own, thank you."

Sera covered her mouth and giggled.

Is there a law against throttling friends?
"This conversation is unworthy of you both," Eden retorted.

"Being hoity-toity ain't gonna win you any fellers," Claudia snapped.

"Oh, Eden.
Someone's
got to marry my brother. Why shouldn't it be you?"

Why shouldn't it, indeed?
She tried not to stare too forlornly at Jamie, whose hand had all but disappeared in Michael's bear-sized fist. Bonnie was beaming as she chatted beside them, and Eden couldn't help but imagine the family they might make: Michael with his feet propped up, relaxing with the evening paper in his father's old, red and green-striped armchair; Jamie kneeling on the carpet, staging a mock battle with tin soldiers; Bonnie humming an off-key lullaby as she rocked her new baby by the hearth...

Eden blinked the vision away and drew a shuddering breath. Jamie idolized Michael. And Michael clearly doted on the boy. Even Sera couldn't deny that Michael's affection for Jamie gave Bonnie an edge over all her female competitors.

"Maybe I will fill a kisses jar," Eden said in resignation. With Michael's lips haunting her dreams, she hadn't thought she could bring herself to kiss another man—at least, not until Cupid's arrow struck her for some other beau.

But maybe Claudia was right. The kissing booth was a perfect opportunity to invite a flirtation. After all, she wasn't getting any younger.

"That's the spirit," Claudia crowed, jumping off the counter and rummaging through a box beneath the columbine-blue crepe of the drapery. After a series of clanks and rattles, she straightened triumphantly, plunking an empty canning jar in front of Eden. "You got at least an hour to convince some man to bid on yer basket, so pucker up and get to work."

Eden sighed, reaching for the paintbrush to label her jar.
One hour to hope that Michael comes by. One torment for every minute he doesn't.

Claudia heaved herself back onto the counter. "Git me my shotgun," she fussed at Sera, who grimaced, reaching for the barrel the way she might have reached for horse dung. Claudia snatched it from her hand. "Now git outta the way. I'll show you fillies how to rope a stallion."

Eden and Sera exchanged wary looks.

"Hey!" Claudia thumped the gunstock on the counter for attention. "You there in the tight breeches. Yeah,
you
know who I mean, Four Eyes. You didn't put them pants on to be ignored, I'll wager. Get your pretty mug over here for a kiss."

The sodbuster straightened his spectacles, took one look at Claudia, and fled.

She scowled. "Dang. That boy must be deaf as well as blind. Bad breeding stock."

Sera's nails dug into Eden's arm. She was trying so hard not to laugh, she looked like she might cry.

"Hey!" Claudia bellowed next at the blacksmith's boy. "I got a round of buckshot with your name on it, son. Git yer big, brawny self over here fer a kiss!"

"I'll kiss you, old woman."

At the sound of that rumbling Kentucky drawl, Eden caught her breath. She suspected she didn't hide her shock particularly well as Chance McCoy strolled out of the crowd. Lithe and rangy, he moved with a predatory grace that exuded a titillating danger. Claudia stiffened at his approach. Sera turned an intriguing shade of pink.

"Afternoon, ladies." He tipped his black slouch hat, which bore the trace of some pleasantly pungent tobacco.

"Git on with ya," Claudia growled, swinging her barrel into point-blank range. "You ain't kissin' nobody. Least of all, me."

Chance didn't even flinch. He simply gazed up that long double barrel yawning six inches from his chest, and grinned. His smile was a slash of white in a face nearly blackened by the sun. "Now don't go getting coy on me, ma'am."

She glared back, her agate-colored eyes locking with emerald steel. "I know what ye're about. Don't think I don't. 'Sides, you ain't got the money."

In answer, he fished inside his breast pocket and slapped three silver dollars on the counter. "One for each of you."

Sera tossed her head and sniffed.

Claudia grunted. "Yeah? So where'd you steal 'em from?"

"Auntie." Eden gingerly pushed the gun barrel away from Chance's chest. "That's enough. If Mr. McCoy would like to spend his money at the kissing booth, he has every right."

"We're closed," Claudia growled.

"That's right," Sera chimed in loftily. "I was just saying how blazing hot it's getting—wasn't I, Eden?—and that we could all use a splash of lemonade. I'm sure you understand, Mr. McCoy. Will you excuse us? I do believe I see Kit waiting for us by the sycamore."

"Must be one of those heat mirages, ma'am," Chance said. He leaned against the counter, unconcerned that Claudia's shotgun dangled a hair's breadth from his jugular vein. "I've known Kit since he was in short pants. He never did cotton to family picnics and such."

"You're wrong about Kit," Sera flared. "He is too coming to the jamboree. He promised."

"I reckon you'd know best, then."

Eden fidgeted. She wasn't sure what to think of Sera's antagonism. She was even less certain what to think about Kit.

"Come along, Auntie," Sera said crisply.

When Claudia squatted, as if to jump down, Chance offered her a hand. She slapped it away, grabbing Sera's shoulder instead.

"You
are
coming, aren't you, Eden?" Sera demanded, her arm now linked through Claudia's.

Eden glanced at Chance. He returned her gaze evenly, no ire, no prevarication. She suspected there was something more to the man than Claudia and Sera were seeing.
Strange.
Why would Chance offer to kiss Sera if it meant subjecting himself to her public contempt? Surely he must have known by now she didn't hold him in the same high esteem she reserved for his cousin.

Eden took a deep breath. And a leap of faith.

"Perhaps you could bring some lemonade back for me," she answered quietly.

Sera's mouth formed an O. Claudia's eyebrows slashed down like twin thunderbolts.

"Have you lost yer cotton-pickin' mind?"

"Oh look, Auntie," Sera exclaimed, the high pitch of her tone a thin veil for her warning. "I see Sheriff Truitt just over there." She nodded in the direction of the caramel apples cart, where the pot-bellied lawman was doling out confections to three eager, jumping toddlers. "I suddenly have quite the taste for apples."

Claudia slapped her shotgun on the counter. "Truitt or no Truitt," she growled, "if this slanty-eyed bastard lays a hand on you, niece, don't think twice."

Eden blinked, taken aback. Sera dragged Claudia in the direction of the sheriff.

Chance said nothing. He simply watched them go.

"Um..." She caught herself twisting her skirts. The habit was a deplorable one, developed at the age of six, when her father had first coaxed her onto his medicine show stage to sing. Hastening to smooth out the wrinkles, she cleared her throat and tried to seem at ease with this man whose cartridge belt rode so low across his hips.

"I'm sorry about my aunt. She can be a bit crotchety at times. Please don't take her rudeness to heart, Mr. McCoy."

"Chance is good enough for me."

While his features remained as serene as any veteran poker player's, a hint of bitterness roughened his voice.

"I'm sorry," she said more gently this time.

Sun-crinkled eyes, more sharp and green than pine needles, at last darted her way. With his crooked nose and square jaw, she wasn't sure she'd classify him as handsome. He looked to be about twenty-six, not an incompatible age for her—or even for Sera.

But Sera didn't like her sweetheart's cousin. Eden wondered if Chance's sixshooter was to blame. She had to admit, the man didn't exactly fit the average husband seeker's definition of
civilized.
He was too unpredictable, too unnerving. He smoldered with an undeniable sensuality, like an ember waiting to combust. His mere presence made women stammer. Eden had watched her neighbors gather their skirts and hurry across the street to avoid passing him on the sidewalk. Even so, they'd tossed hungry, covetous looks his way.

Why was it that Chance McCoy, in a town short on bachelors, didn't have a single bell-chasing sweetheart trotting at his heels?

Thin, predatory lips curved, as if he'd intuited her train of thought.

"Mind if I smoke?"

He was fishing in his breast pocket again, the gingham of which precisely matched his eyes. She hesitated. In polite society, a gentleman would never light tobacco in a lady's presence. But Chance didn't strike her as the byproduct of polite society. He already had the cigarette and match safe in his hand.

"Well," she said slowly, "I suppose it would be all right. If you stayed downwind."

"Reckon you mind, then."

She couldn't tell if he was amused or annoyed. The cigarette disappeared back in his pocket. He did, however, pull a match from the safe to chew on the headless end.

"Lots of folks here today," he observed companionably. He'd turned his back to the counter and leaned his elbows upon it. The pose let him do what he liked to do best: study his surroundings. She realized she'd never seen him do much else. He was always watching, always vigilant. Each time he'd come into the store, his gaze had roamed continually from the windows, to the customers, to the door. While Kit liked to boast and flirt, Chance shunned attention. He preferred corners, shadows, and silence, like a man who... well, like a man who had reason to wear a gun.

"The whole county must have turned out for this shindig," he added casually. "Sodbusters and horsetraders. A couple of cowhands, too. Say, have you seen Black Bart yet?"

"B-Black Bart?" She choked on the outlaw's name.

"Sera said he's an old friend of yours."

"I can't imagine why she would say such a thing."
Least of all to you!

He was observing her subtly. He hadn't shifted; he hadn't even turned his head. Even so, she recognized his heightened awareness. It loosed a shiver down her spine.

"I ran into Black Bart once," she felt compelled to defend herself.

"Yeah? Must've been exciting, meeting a war legend."

"Black Bart isn't exactly known for his heroics around these parts."

"You don't say?" The matchstick rolled nonchalantly to the other side of his mouth. "So how'd you meet him?"

She blew out her breath, loath to continue the conversation. Unfortunately, her righteous side felt obligated to cure Chance's idyllic image of the man. "Bart tried to steal my horse about eight years ago in Whiskey Bend. To be honest, I didn't know who he was. I figured it out a day or so later because of the gossip."

Chance had grown still. As still as a pond in midwinter. He was careful to betray no outward sign of feeling. Even so, she sensed the rise of something dark in him. "Did he hurt you?" he demanded in a gravelly voice.

"Oh no. Michael—that is to say, Dr. Jones—came along and scared him away."

"Jones, eh?"

Eden blushed. "I'm sure he doesn't remember."

Chance's shoulders relaxed. The ghost of a smile lightened the shadows that chiseled his face beneath his hat brim. "You must've been just a kid."

"Well... not
exactly."

Those keen eyes flickered her way. "I meant no offense."

"I know. It's not your fault. I mean..." She heated another degree. "Never mind."

He shoved his hat back with his thumb and bent his knee, tucking his heel under his backside. A moment passed as he surveyed the three-legged race, the leapfrog tournament, the quilt-judging team... and Sera talking a mile a minute to Sheriff Truitt. She kept glancing anxiously toward the Kissing Booth.

"I've heard it said Doc Jones is sweet on you."

Eden started. "You have?" She was momentarily elated. Then her most logical deduction sank in and crushed her fledgling hope. "Sera must have told you. She does talk a lot. I'm afraid she has a tendency to see things that aren't always... well, there."

"Oh, it's there all right." He directed her attention back to the orphan's tent. Michael was ignoring Bonnie completely, despite the widow's skillful coquetry. In fact, he was staring in Eden's direction, his brow so thunderous, one might have thought he'd spied her committing some heinous sin.