Reese (14 page)

Mary didn't sleep well that night, and in the morning she awakened long before light tinted the eastern horizon. Meandering into the parlor, she blew out the lamp in the window, then opened the curtains and stared up at the steeple.

Since the first time she'd watched Reese disappear into the church and reappear in the bell tower, she'd kept a lamp burning. The thought of being up there all alone, all night long, with the whistling Texas wind in her face had made her shiver. She hadn't wanted Reese, or any of the others, to feel that alone, so she'd started leaving the lamp in the window. Whether they even saw the light or cared, she didn't know, but it made her feel better.

After dressing for the day, Mary unearthed the gun that had come with the cabin. No house in Texas seemed to be without one, but that didn't mean every owner could hit the broad side of a barn if they pulled the trigger.

Hurrying toward the hotel, Mary observed a deserted Main Street. Where was everyone? The scent of smoke reached her seconds before she sighted the man who stood at the top of the steps, leaning against the porch post. Why was Reese the only one outside?

As she approached, he blew smoke between those lips she'd kissed, then tilted his head to peer at her from beneath the wide black brim of his hat. "Where is everyone, Miss McKendrick?"

They were back to "Miss" again. There would be no mention of their passionate embrace, and that was probably for the best. Still, it irked her that the man could look her in the eye and pretend he'd never had that mouth on her neck—and various other places.

She straightened. "I could ask you the same question."

"I'm here."

"But where are the rest of your men?"

He took his time answering, drawing in a mouthful of smoke, then allowing the gray whirl to drift away on the stillness. "The two that were on watch last night are sleeping. Two more will be on watch while we work. I think I'll be enough for this morning. It doesn't appear that we're drawing a crowd."

"I'd hoped for more than me." She glanced down the street. Still empty. "I don't understand."

"How many said they would come?"

She stared at her feet. "One."

"Just you?"

"One besides me."

"Let me guess. Miss Clancy?" Mary nodded. "I wouldn't depend on her. From the reverend's manner, he doesn't like us much. No one does."

Mary lifted her gaze. "I do."

Their eyes met, and sparks ignited. He cursed and pinched the tiny butt of his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger before holding it to his lips for one final drag. Then he flicked the remains to the dirt, descended the steps, and ground the embers into nothing.

"How did you get this town to agree to hiring us? I know you manage things awfully well, Miss Mary, but the way folks are behaving, they didn't want us here at all."

"No one else had a plan—or any money."

He laughed. "Money does talk."

"They'll come around; you'll see."

"It doesn't matter if they do or they don't. I won't be here long enough to care."

"Then why do you care if they don't want you here?"

"I just don't want a bullet in the back."

It was her turn to laugh. "If they couldn't shoot El Diablo, I doubt they'll be able to shoot you."

"True enough."

Mary tightened her fingers around the barrel of the rifle. "Show me how to use this thing."

The words came out sounding like an order, and when Reese raised a brow, Mary colored. Why did she always manage everything?

Because someone had to.

"Sorry," she said. "Would you
please
show me how to use this thing?"

"What about the others? This isn't going to work if there's only you standing with us against El Diablo. The idea was to make a show of force."

"We will. Let's just continue. Once everyone sees what I'm doing, once they think on things a while, I'm sure they'll join in. If not today or tomorrow, eventually."

"We don't have until eventually."

"I can't quit before I even try."

"Why don't you let me and the others take care of this. A few weeks..." He shrugged. "They'll all be buzzard bait."

Mary winced. "Thank you for that image."

"You hired us to kill them. Let us do what we do best."

"I did
not
hire you to kill them. I don't want their deaths on my conscience for the rest of my life."

"You're crazy, lady."

"I've been called worse."

She heard the echo of her words and frowned.

They'd had this conversation before, but the other way around.

Were they so alike they were starting to speak each other's thoughts? How could she, a plain spinster schoolteacher, raised by nuns, have anything in common with a handsome captain of mercenaries? But she did. More than she had in common with any of the people in this town—even Jo. Mary felt as if she knew Reese, deep down inside, which was silly, since she knew nothing about him—not even his true name.

"I was raised to respect life," she said quietly.

"Those men respect nothing but their own desires. You can't fight people like that with Christian platitudes."

"Why not?

He threw up his hands. "There's no arguing with you."

"I'm glad you finally agree. Now, where shall we have our lesson?"

At first, Reese looked as if he wanted to shake her; then he started to laugh, a rusty sound, rarely used. When Mary thought back on the days she'd known him, she could think of few times when he'd laughed, and never like this. She smiled shyly, uncertain of what she'd done that was funny, but if it made him laugh, then she wanted to do it again.

Reese set his hand on her rifle. Mary didn't let go.

"I just wanted to carry your gun, Miss McKendrick. Kind of like carrying your books home from school."

Bewildered, she let him take the weapon. He checked the chamber then put the barrel over his shoulder. "I made a place yesterday afternoon, out past the end of town, away from the livery and the animals. Got some hay bales from the barn and some burlap flour sacks from old Baxter. That man is one cranky son of a bitch."

Mary opened her mouth to correct his French then closed it again. Baxter was exactly what he'd said. She wasn't going to waste breath arguing about that.

"Let's shoot some flour sacks, Miss Mary." He held out his arm. "Just you and me."

* * *

As stupid choices went, agreeing to teach Mary how to shoot—just the two of them—was one of Reese's stupidest.

She wasn't
trying
to drive him mad with lust. Mary wouldn't know how, which was the reason Reese remained in a constant state of arousal for the entire lesson.

Her innocence stirred him. She might be a spinster lady, all on her own in the wilds of Texas, managing a town of cowards, fools, and women as if she were Stonewall Jackson himself, but she had no idea of her own appeal, which only made her more appealing.

He'd shown her how to load the rifle. That had been the easy part. Showing her how to hold the weapon meant he had to touch her. Mary's skin was the softest thing Reese had ever known. Just skimming her pale hands with his palms made them hum to touch her everywhere.

Teaching her how to fire the gun meant he had to move up close behind and put his arms around her. She kept bumping her backside against his groin. The first time, he'd hissed in pain; after that, he'd started to like it.

She had no idea what she was doing. If she turned around and saw his state, she'd probably think she'd bruised him so badly he was swollen. Would she then want to bandage him and kiss it better?

Reese cursed.

Mary's shot went wide of every hay bale in line. "I'm sorry! I'll keep trying."

He grunted. If she kept trying, she wouldn't be looking at him, which was a good thing. But if anyone else happened to wander by, they would know exactly what was the matter with him, especially his men.

Reese tugged his shirt out of his pants so the material hung to his thighs. He did not need the men teasing him in front of Mary. They'd ruin her radiant innocence with their big mouths alone.

Of course, if she kept bumping her backside against him he'd ruin her innocence for real. And that could not happen. She might be unschooled, but he was far from it. If he took what he wanted, she'd never be the same again, and neither would he. Reese needed to stop torturing himself with promises of something that could never, ever, be.

"How long did it take you to learn how to shoot a gun?"

Reese glanced at Mary with narrowed eyes, but she was still sighting down the barrel, attempting to hit something other than nothing.

She pulled the trigger. "Oh!" she exclaimed when the bullet plunged into a corner of a burlap sack. "I hit something!"

"Was that what you were aiming at?"

She put the rifle down and glanced over her shoulder with a sheepish expression. "I was shooting at the one two bales over."

He couldn't help it; he grinned. She was absolutely hopeless with a gun. Probably because she didn't want to hurt the damn hay.

She smiled back. "How long
did
it take you to learn?"

He didn't want to share his past with anyone, but a few selected memories might cool him off quicker than jumping in the river. What harm could there be in answering such a simple question? "My father taught me to hunt when I was a boy."

"Is he still alive?"

Pain flooded Reese, recriminations too. Here was the harm. You couldn't select memories. God knows he'd tried. Memories came unbidden.

"Yes," Reese said, shortly.

"And your mother?"

"Yes."

"Where do they live?"

"At home."

"In Georgia?"

He brought his gaze, which had focused on the distant hills, back to her. Well, one thing for certain, he no longer had to worry about Mary, or anyone else, wondering what he had hidden in his pants. Speaking of home had killed any lingering, lustful thoughts.

"How did you know I was from Georgia?" he demanded, ready to kick someone's rear into the next county. The men knew better than to talk about him to anyone else.

"I didn't for certain. Your horse—Atlanta. And your accent." She sighed. "Your voice reminds takes me back."

"I thought you were from Virginia."

"I am. Your voice sounds like Virginia, only more. When I close my eyes and listen to you speak"—she closed her eyes and took a deep breath—"I can smell the trees. I can almost hear the rain. Sometimes when it would snow, just a bit, on the magnolia blossoms they resembled sugarcoated candy flowers. I've never seen anything so beautiful—not before or since."

Reese had seen something more beautiful. As good memories trickled over her face, he found himself caught up in watching her. She had the most amazing skin—pale and perfect though not white like that sugar, but with a tint of color, peach, perhaps, definitely not rose—and those freckles across her nose; he wanted to taste them with his tongue.

"I love Rock Creek." He started and yanked his gaze back to her eyes. She still had them closed. "But sometimes I miss green grass, cool winds, a real spring. The smells and sounds of Virginia are so much different than here."

Her chest rose and fell as if she were trying to capture a scent of grass and wind rather than tumbleweeds and dust, causing his attention to lower from her closed eyes.

For a thin woman she had an ample breast. He could probably span her waist with his hands, yet still run his thumbs along the ripe swell of—

Well, hell, he was having problems with his pants again.

"That's enough for today," he said.

Her eyes snapped open, and her cheeks flushed. Definitely peach. What had she been thinking of besides rain and magnolia trees?

Reese turned and adjusted his shirt. He didn't want to know.

* * *

Rico had the day free. However there was nothing to do in Rock Creek but watch the dust fly and listen to Miss McKendrick shoot. From the number of shots being fired, she was
muy mala
with a gun.

The day began to improve when someone started to follow him long about midday. That someone was pretty good too, but not good enough to be Sullivan. Sinclair Sullivan had seen Rico's gift the moment they'd met.

Rico had been fifteen, and Sullivan... Who knew how old Sullivan was. Sometimes when Rico stared into his friend's eyes, he saw a soul nearly as ancient as his own.

Sullivan had taken Rico under his wing and taught him everything he knew about quiet and deadly. As a result, only Sullivan ever sneaked up on Rico, which suited Rico just fine. He did not enjoy surprises. This was why he always made sure he was the one doing the surprising.

The footfalls behind him were so light as to be nearly indistinguishable, and if he leaned against a building as if to light a cigarette, by the time he turned just so, the follower was always gone.

If he'd been a superstitious man, Rico might think ghosts haunted him—and after all these years. But Rico was not a man who believed in ghosts—or anything much at all beyond the power of steel and the loyalty of five men. So he kept walking, waiting for his stalker to make a mistake. They always did.

There wasn't a helluva lot of town to wander through and no dark alleyways, since there was only a street and a half to comprise all of Rock Creek. But an hour after he'd first heard the shuffle behind him, another came, much closer, and Rico spun, grabbing a swatch of pale yellow before it disappeared around the corner of the last building on Main Street.

He yanked, and the little girl from Miss McKendrick's class popped out, surprising him—a man who was never surprised.

"Why aren't you in school?" She shrugged and tugged her dress from his fingers. "Won't you get into trouble?"

She shook her head, making her brown braids fly. She had big brown eyes too, and they were focused on Rico with utter adoration. No one had looked at him like that since...

A chill ran over him. Ghosts were
not
real. Just because this child looked very much like his little sister meant nothing. Anna had become an angel when she near this child's age, but that had been over ten years ago. Or at least he thought Anna was an angel; he had left before he had to watch her die.