Only My Love (50 page)

Frustrated, Ethan raked his hair with his fingers. "What about the baby, Michael? Is it worth risking the baby's life just to put me in my place, just because you hate me so much?"

She gasped a little and her hands went instinctively to her swollen abdomen. She hadn't thought it was possible to hurt anymore than she already did. "How dare you say that. You are angry because I
did
slip out right under your nose. It's your pride that's wounded, nothing else. It wasn't a deliberate swipe at you. I was
hungry.
Your incredible nerve to come here this way is not to be believed. You charge back into my life as if you have every right, as if there's not been seven months gone by without so much as a word from you." Her voice rose a fraction and her breathing came faster. Michael's green eyes were luminous with the strength of her own anger. "And to pretend you care so much as
this—"
she snapped her fingers, "—about me in order to capture Houston and Detra is
reprehensible.
Even after all you've done I wouldn't have believed it of you. Until today, that is. Today you proved to me that you are totally without conscience." She pointed to the tray on the table beside her. "Take your dinner and get out now. And get out
all
the way, Ethan. I don't want you lurking in the hallway. If I could blast you out of this hotel I would."

She turned on her heel and headed for the doorway on the left of the sitting room. Without a backward glance, confident that her directions would be followed, she disappeared in her bedroom and shut the door behind her.

Ethan sighed and pushed away from the door. He wondered when she would come out again and discover he had no intention of being ordered around. He sat down on the plump sofa and pulled the tray on his lap, uncovering the dishes and setting the lids on the table. The food was still hot but it had lost much of its appeal. He ate now because he knew he needed to, not because he was particularly hungry. When he was done he set the tray in the hallway and brought in the chair. He bolted the door and turned the key in its lock, then investigated Michael's suite.

The sitting room was decorated primarily in maroon and cream, accented with dark wood and large fringed area rugs. There was a mirror above the mantel that reflected gaslight from the milk-white glass globes on either side. There was a delicate porcelain vase on the mantel filled with fresh pink roses, baby's breath, and greenery.

Ethan took off his hat, tossed it on the sofa, and grimaced as he studied his reflection in the mirror. He could hardly blame the St. Mark's manager for hesitating at the prospect of having him as a guest. He needed a shave and a bath and twelve hours sleep, judging by the shadows beneath his eyes. He swore there were a few more iron gray strands at his temples. Ethan rubbed his chin with the back of his hand and turned away. Shrugging out of his duster, he threw it down beside his hat and unfastened his gun belt. He laid it on the table and continued his exploration.

There was a room opposite Michael's bedroom. She had made it into a study and used it for writing. Books were scattered on top of the desk, stacked on the floor, and lined the window sill. The large overstuffed armchair held more books. The surface of the desk and floor around it were littered with crumbled pieces of paper, the unsatisfactory drafts of her work, he supposed. His hands drifted across the desk, over the papers and books, her spectacles, and finally the pencils. He picked up one, rolled it between his thumb and forefinger thoughtfully. He imagined it tucked in Michael's hair, just behind her ear. The picture in his mind made him smile.

He put the pencil down as his eyes fell on her notepad. The leather binding, slightly worn and beaten was achingly familiar. He picked it up, running his fingers along the spine, hesitating a moment before opening it. He hooked his hip on the edge of the desk and began to read.

Her crisp prose brought it all back to life. He saw Madison as clearly as if he had been standing in front of Kelly's Saloon again, and in some ways, more clearly. Michael made him remember the men behind the hard and ravaged faces she described, the hopefulness in their eyes as they talked of finding the big strike, their pride in the skilled wielding of hammers and drills. She wrote touchingly of Ralph Hooper's shyness as he asked her to dance and frankly of Kitty's philosophical approach to her above-stairs job.

He skimmed the pages, leafing ahead to the point when they arrived in Stillwater. There was no entry about the mine or the arrests. Nothing about the trial or her journey east. Nothing about him. Disappointed, not certain what he had expected to find or how it might have helped him, Ethan started to put the journal aside. His thumbnail slipped along the pages and the journal flipped open to a page where there was a single entry.

He raised the notepad closer and read.

I am pregnant... I am having a baby... I am with child. There is no way to say it that will soften the blow. I can hardly admit it to myself. How will I tell Mama? And Mary Francis? Mama will be so worried for me; Mary Francis will be so disappointed. Rennie will support me, but she will not understand. Not about this. I do not think I can bear to look at Maggie and Skye, not when I have disgraced my family.

It hurts, knowing how they will hurt for me. I think it is probably good to hurt a little now. I have not felt anything for so long. No pain, no anger, no ache, no fear. The numbness seemed a sweet blessing at first, a way to get through each day pretending confidence and strength, but it is better behind me. I do not think I can heal if I do not care for the wound. No one can help me if I do not acknowledge the wound exists.

It exists.

It sears my heart.

I will have to tell Jay Mac. Tomorrow will be best. No, tonight. I should tell him first so he can be there to support Mama. He will want to find Ethan, of course, and demand that he marry me. I shall have to let him rant and vent his outrage and scheme his schemes and remind him very gently that he is in no position to cast stones. My surname is Dennehy, not Worth. He will be perfectly indignant that I could be so impudent and rightfully so, but it is too late for either of us to change. And neither of us wants to.

Through everything I've never doubted my father's love. My child will never have the same assurance.

A thin trail of ink followed the final period. There was a smudge where a tear had splashed the page and been hastily wiped away. It wasn't Michael's, but Ethan's. Blinking, sucking in his breath, he closed the journal and set it down. She could have come to him, told him about the baby—not just
the
baby, but
their
baby. He'd always known she hadn't loved him, but that she could have come to feel so little for him that she would keep his child from him left Ethan stunned.

Feeling the numbness she described not as a sweet blessing, but as a curse, Ethan slowly moved away from the desk. He was stepping out of the study when he heard her scream.

For a moment he thought his worst fears had come to pass, but the scream was not about Nathanial Houston or Detra Kelly. The door to Michael's suite was still bolted and locked; his Colt lay undisturbed on the table top. Ethan's heart stopped hammering. It was a different sort of scream, one originating from a vague fear, not a specific one, one he remembered that came to Michael in the middle of the night.

He turned the knob on her bedroom door, and pushed it open.

Ethan stood at the foot of the bed. She was lying across it diagonally on her side. She was still fully dressed, even wearing her shoes. Her gown twisted around her as she moved restlessly. It was clear that Michael had lain down with no intention of falling asleep. The tear stains on her cheek told their own story.

Saying her name brought no waking response. Ethan moved around the bed and sat on the edge. He did not touch or reach for her, but said her name again, this time more firmly than gently. He saw her eyelids flutter, then finally open. For a moment she was frightened of his shadowy figure in the dimly lighted room.

"It's Ethan," he said. He rose from the bed and drew back the curtains at the French doors. Gaslight from the street lamps illuminating Broadway filtered across the small balcony and into the room. He watched the scenes playing out below him, people rushing across the busy thoroughfare, elegant coaches taking their passengers to private clubs, then he turned away from the windows slowly. Michael was sitting up on the bed, taking pins from her hair. Ethan's blue-gray eyes were impassive. "You had a nightmare."

Michael nodded, not looking at him. "I remember."

He watched her comb out her hair with her fingers, an absent, guileless act on her part that sent waves of heat rolling through his middle. "Do you have it often?"

"A few times a week," she said, shrugging. "Since the mine it has more substance." In her dream she had reached out for him and he wasn't there. It was always the same; the emptiness she well and truly feared had come to pass. "The blackness holds more terror." She heard his indrawn breath and paused in combing out her hair and raised her face to him. She was careful to keep her voice calm and even, afraid he would hear the lie and know the depth of her fragile state. "It's all right, Ethan. I've quite accepted it."

She put the pins on her bedside table, then got up from the bed and went into the adjoining dressing and bathing room. When she returned a few minutes later all evidence of tears had been washed from her face. She had changed from her gown and was wearing a nightshift and robe. Her feet were bare. "I thought you'd be gone," she said when she saw Ethan still silhouetted at the window.

"Marry me, Michael."

She jerked a little in surprise. Her fingers fumbled with the sash of her robe, tightening it just below her breasts. Her pregnancy became more evident with the gesture. "It's good of you to offer, Ethan," she said without emotion, "but there's no need."

"Perhaps not for you," he said.

For a moment she was hopeful then his eyes wandered to her belly. "I see," she said quietly. "You mean the baby's needs." She walked out of the bedroom. He followed her.

"Why shouldn't my child be assured of her father's love?" he asked from behind her. "The way you were?"

Michael spun on her heel. Except for bright angry color of her emerald eyes her face was pale. She glanced at the open door to her study and then back at Ethan. "You read my journal."

He nodded.

"You had no right." She hugged herself, the feeling of being violated total. "You had no right," she repeated, more softly this time as accusation was replaced by hurt.

"I know. But I'm not sorry."

At her sides her hands clenched. She wanted to strike him. Instead she struck out. "Of course you are not sorry. You would have to have a sense of what is decent, of what is respectful. I have been managing on my own. There is no better proof that my baby and I don't require anything from you." She looked around, wanting nothing more than to put distance and barriers between her and Ethan. Her glance fell on his Colt lying on the side table. Before he could divine her intention she scooped it up and aimed it at his midsection.

Ethan did not move. He watched her, not the gun. "That's loaded, Michael," he said.

"I hope so." The gun was heavy in her hands. Her outstretched arms were already shaking. "It would not be much of a threat otherwise."

He stood his ground, waiting her out. "Why did you never tell me about our baby?"

Her brows arched skeptically. How could he not know? "Because you would offer to marry me, perhaps even force the issue, and I didn't want that."

"I wouldn't force you to marry me. I would have hoped you'd see the sense of it."

Her laughter held no humor. The gun wobbled in her hands. "Seen the sense of marrying someone because he thinks it's his duty? Well, you've made the offer, Ethan, and I've refused. You are not obligated to do anything else and neither am I."

"Are you going to shoot me, Michael?"

She stared at the Colt for a long moment. Her aching arms were the only connection she had between herself and the gun in her hands. She barely recognized herself and even the part she recognized repelled and appalled her. Michael lowered the gun. "No, I'm not going to shoot you."

Ethan approached her and removed the weapon from her nerveless fingers. He laid it carefully on top of the table then he took Michael's wrists in his hands and held her loosely, drawing her hands to his chest. "Look at me, Michael."

Her eyes came up reluctantly but she could not hold his smoky stare. "I wish you would go," she said wearily. "What do I have to do to make you go?"

"I'm not leaving you until Houston and Dee are caught and then I'd rather not leave you at all. This isn't all about the baby, Michael, though I'll understand if you don't want to believe me. When I spoke of needs before I wasn't only thinking of our child. I was thinking of me and what I want. From almost the beginning I've known what you felt for me."

She sucked in her breath a little, and embarrassed, tried to pull away. He wouldn't let her go. "I hadn't realized..." she said, her voice trailing off. "I didn't know it was so obvious."

"It's nothing to be ashamed of," he said. "I admit I was flattered. It was difficult to remember that it wasn't real."

Now she pinned him with her eyes, her brows raised in question. "Not real?"

He nodded. "I was your protector—not a good one as things turned out—but there was no one else. It was a natural progression of events that you should imagine yourself in love with me."