Promises Reveal (22 page)

She snapped the knife down. The serrated edges bit into the hardwood of the cutting board. Yanking it up, she angled it at him. “You beat me, and you won’t be waking up in the morning.”

He snagged the handle of the breadboard and spun it toward him. In a move so quick her fingers were still closing on air after the knife was gone, he took it from her grip. As if he hadn’t done the most extraordinary thing, he put the blade to the bread. “I stand advised.”

He didn’t look advised. He looked completely in control and unconcerned. While she, looking at him and then at her hand that still bore the sensory impression of the knife, was stunned. How had he done that? With smooth efficiency, he cut four slices.

“I could finish cutting that.”

A full smile tugged his lips. “I have a policy of taking over the cutting when anyone starts threatening to gut me.”

Evie sat down because there didn’t seem to be anything more for her to do. Brad had taken over cutting the bread, his lunch . . . her life. All with the same lazy never-saw-it-coming competence.

“Do people often threaten to gut you?”

“You’d be surprised by how often preaching the good word gets people’s dander up.”

She couldn’t resist. “It might not be the good word, but the way you preach it that gets them riled.”

His smile turned completely charming, disarming if one didn’t look beneath the surface. “You just don’t have it in you to be cautious, do you?”

There was no sense lying. “Probably not.”

He started spreading mayonnaise on the bread. “At least you’re honest.”

“Sometimes.”

As he layered the white meat on top of the bread, he asked, “And is this one of those times?”

Surprisingly. “Yes.”

“Good.” Sprinkling salt over the top, he asked, “What the hell were you doing in that lawyer’s office?”

She poured lemonade from a pitcher into two glasses. “Finding out what my options were.”

He put another slice of bread on top, put it on the plate, and pushed it over to her. “Because you woke up alone this morning?”

It wasn’t a question. “It certainly didn’t make me happy.” She licked her lips. “Where did you go?”

There was the barest hesitation before he started on a second sandwich. “An old friend needed help.”

The only reason a man would hesitate to tell his wife about an “old friend” was if that old friend was female. “Is she your lover?”

Another look from under his lashes. “I’m a married man.”

He didn’t deny the person was female. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

“It sure as hell should.” He slammed the top piece of bread down on the sandwich, smashing it flat. He was upset.

She didn’t really care. “But it doesn’t. Is she your lover?”

“It’s as good an answer as you’re going to get.”

“So, when you think I’m getting too close to another man, you can drag me around in some archaic display of male strength, but when I have the same concern, I have to take it on faith?”

“Pretty much.” He caught the glass she shoved at him. Lemonade sloshed over the top. “However, I don’t see any need for me to drag you anywhere.” Holding her gaze, he leisurely lapped the liquid from his hand. Heat that had nothing to do with embarrassment poured through her. She took a hasty drink. The flush that had just left her cheeks came back. “Not when there’s a perfectly good table right here.”

The swallow, caught halfway down her throat, turned into a hacking cough. Standing, she wheezed for breath. Brad stood and slapped her back. She pitched forward against the table in almost the same position in which he had taken her before. His fingers lingered, tracing her spine, from between her shoulder, past her waist, to the top of her buttocks. “Would that be an invitation, darling?”

The breath she’d managed to suck in exploded out as that wicked hand came around her front, opened over her stomach, and pulled her back into the strength of his chest, the hardness of his thighs. Even through the layers of her skirt and petticoat, she could feel the thrust of his cock. Between her legs, the flesh throbbed a welcome.

“You can’t possibly want to make love again! I’m still wet from last time.”

She only realized what she’d said when Brad froze and his fingers curled into her stomach. His chin tucked into the curve of her shoulder and neck. His mouth brushed her ear as he whispered, “If you’re trying to discourage me, darling, you’re going about it all wrong. Reminding me that my seed is still nestled between those sweet thighs is only going to make me want to give you more.”

“That’s crude.”

“That’s honest. Nothing a man enjoys more than marking his woman.”

She touched her neck. “You are beginning to sound as if you’re a dog instead of a man!”

Steady pressure turned her around, despite her efforts. She rose up on her toes, resisting, but all that did was make it easier for Brad to arch her over his arm, capturing her between the strength of his chest and the hardness of the table. His expression was very serious as he said, “The most important part of that sentence is the word
man
.”

He shifted his grip, knocking her off balance. She grabbed for his shoulders. His hand brushed her hip, then her thigh before hefting her skirt with two tosses.

“What are you doing?” And why wasn’t she resisting?

“Checking for myself how wet you are.”

His callused fingers skimmed up the inside of her thighs, slipping into the slit in her new drawers, finding her as wet as she’d implied—but not with his seed. Her desire was what he found. She closed her eyes, mortification rising faster than a fresh blush.

“Damn.”

“It’s your fault.”

His fingers swirled gently against her opening. “Sweetheart, there isn’t a man alive who would mind taking the blame for this.”

Another swirl of his fingers emphasized the dampness she couldn’t seem to help. As he had before, he probed lightly with one finger, inserting it just a little. It caught on her raw flesh. She bit her lip to fight back a cry, but when he inserted a second one, she couldn’t help but flinch.

His palm flattened over her vulva. “Sore?”

He was always so matter-of-fact about these things. She didn’t know how he did it or why it excited her so, but it was almost a relief when he straightened, taking her with him, holding her close. Her skirt fell about her thighs, gathered in the middle, hugging his arm.

“Are you sure you’re a man of God?”

Another hesitation. “Are you asking because I have a man’s appreciation for your body?”

“I’m asking because you have an understanding of my body that even I don’t have.”

A burst of laughter reverberated down her spine, mocking her. She shoved at his arm and elbowed him in the stomach. He let her go as far as she could, which wasn’t very, considering she was still trapped between him and the table.

His hand came up. “Look at me.”

She batted it away. “I know where that’s been.”

“That was my other hand.” Inexorably, he tipped her chin up. “I owe you an apology.”

“For forcing me to marry you?”

“No, that doesn’t need an apology.”

“Then what does?”

“I lost my temper earlier. I had no right to humiliate you.”

He was apologizing for their interlude? How dare he? “No, you didn’t. Anyone could have come in that church. My mother almost caught us.”

That devil smile was back on his lips. He stroked the back of his fingers down her cheek. “That wasn’t humiliation, sweetheart. That was fun.”

This conversation was getting her nowhere. “If you weren’t apologizing for that, what were you apologizing for?”

“Dragging you through the streets.”

“I think a hundred residents cheered.”

He grimaced. “And that was wrong.”

“Are you saying you’re never going to get mad at me again?”

Another stroke down her cheek. “Heck no. I imagine you’ll get my dander up four or five times a week.”

“But?”

“How we resolve that will be just between us.”

“You’re sparing my pride?”

“I like your pride. I don’t like seeing it ground into the dust.”

She noticed his knuckles. They were bruised.

“You got into a fight?”

“I had a bit of a discussion with someone.”

She also noticed the blood spots on the right knuckle. He hadn’t fought last night.

Anger left her in a rush. She touched her fingers to the darkest bruise.

“Someone made fun of me, didn’t they?”

He took a step back so fast that she had to catch herself against the table. “He won’t make that mistake again.”

“You’re a minister.”

“You keep harping on that.”

“Ministers don’t fight.”

With a shrug, he said, “So I’m a bit Old Testament.”

No, he wasn’t. He was the most understanding preacher their town had ever had. Sunday sermons were full, and people who hadn’t gone to church in years showed up to bend his ear. Cattle Crossing had become a town rather than a mud pit solely through his popularity.

And he’d fought for her. When he’d been right and she’d been wrong, simply because . . . She didn’t know why. She caught his hand before he got back to his seat.

“Why?”

He looked surprised, as if she should know the answer ahead of time. “You’re my wife.”

The elation fled. It was his pride he’d been protecting, not hers. She should have known.

“You’ve got my support, always.”

She blinked. Not his pride. The tears came out of nowhere, burning her eyes, clogging her throat. Oh shoot, now she was going to make a fool of herself?

“Are you crying?”

“No.”

He sighed. “You are.”

“Well, what do you expect?” She took a swing at him. “You fought for me.”

He caught her fist. Tears blurred her eyes, blocking his image. “You’d rather I let some yahoo drag your name through the dirt?”

“I’m trying to hate you, darn it.”

“Evie, that doesn’t even make sense. I’m your husband.”

“Who I was planning to divorce.”

He pulled her against his chest. The shake of his head vibrated against her cheek. It was natural to bury her face in his shirt, to breathe in the comfort of his scent.

“How can I hate you when you do something like that?”

“Give it time. I’m sure I’ll give you cause.”

“No, you won’t. You’re a saint.”

“I’m about as far as a body can get from sainthood.”

“Not in my eyes.”

He tipped her chin up. She didn’t even know with which hand. What’s more, she didn’t care. “Give me time, I’ll likely do something to horrify you.”

“Then I guess we’re pretty much suited to each other, because I’m sure I’ll horrify you, too.”

“You tend to make me smile.”

She liked the thought of that. Her stomach rumbled. His immediately answered with a rumble of its own. “And if we don’t get something to eat soon, the congregation will find us propped against this table, dead of starvation.”

“We can’t have that.”

She searched his gaze, seeing nothing but the truth in the darkened depths.

“Never doubt that I’m proud of you, Evie.”

His hand slid down over her neck, opening over her chest before contracting around her breast. “So, how sore are you?”

Sore, but when she thought of how he’d defended her, something no one had ever done, of the sense of loyalty that had him doing that despite the fact that her behavior had to have embarrassed him, she took a step closer and snuggled his cock into her stomach. “Not that sore.”

His smile was soft, tender, hot. “Good. Because I thought we’d try something different.”

“Really?”

His fingers threaded through her hair, tugging softly, sending erotic pings of awareness through her body. “I wouldn’t want you to get bored.”

IT WASN’T UNTIL three days later that she realized he’d never answered her original question. And she might not have realized it then if Nidia hadn’t come into Millicent’s restaurant. Not as big as her first restaurant in Cheyenne, Millie’s II had the same garish exterior, the same bursting-at-the-seams clientele, and the same mix of proper with improper. Millie’s determination to make a buck and the banishment of anyone who complained were the definitive levelers of most social conflicts.

But Millie’s was a place of equal opportunity for everyone, and Nidia did walk through the door, looking stunning as always in her smart navy dress that showed off her curvaceous figure and snapping brown eyes. Her hair glowed a glossy black in the bright light and her lips glistened, a full pouting red.

The woman fascinated Evie to nearly the same extent that Brad did, and for the same reasons. Nidia owned the Pleasure Emporium, the whorehouse that operated above the saloon. She was a woman who should be hard, and
was
by all accounts hard, but whenever Evie painted her, another image appeared. Like it did with Brad, her artist’s eye saw Nidia as other than what she pretended to be. Something softer, more vulnerable. Another puzzle to be shifted through.