Romancing the West (12 page)

“I just . . . I need my parasol.” She waved him indoors. “Do step in out of the heat. Please. I’ll only be a moment.”

He stepped inside, but as she turned away, he nabbed her wrist and pulled her against him, closing the door and shutting out the world in one fluid move. If she’d resisted in any way, signaled or verbalized outrage or disgust, he would have released her.

She kissed him.

He didn’t have time to respond. He’d been too stunned and she wrenched back, much too soon, wide-eyed. “Oh, dear. I’m so sorry, Mr. Garrett, I--”

He silenced her apology with his mouth. Lips, teeth, tongue. Hard, hungry.

She reciprocated, her response fevered, as if she couldn’t get enough of him. As if she’d fantasized about him as well.

She set him on fire.

He backed her against the wall, knocking over a footstool and a stack of books along the way. If she noticed, she didn’t say, then again her tongue was tangled with his. He pressed into her and explored her curves. Her hips. Her breasts. The more bold his actions, the more eager her response. It had never been like this with Jocelyn.

That thought stopped him cold. He planted his hands on the wall, on either side of her head and pushed away.

“What’s wrong?” she rasped.

“This.”

“I was too aggressive. You’re appalled.”

“On the contrary. Your enthusiasm is indescribably . . . attractive. You, Mrs. Dillingham--” “Kaila.”

“--are . . . I’m not sure there are words to describe your beauty.”

“Those will do fine.”

“Me being here. Like this. I don’t want to tarnish your reputation.”

She swallowed hard, looked earnestly into his eyes. “I am twenty-eight years old. I have acted in a responsible and proper manner for each and every one of those years. I am here to tell you that a sparkling reputation is overrated.” He smiled at that.

“I don’t want a commitment, if that’s what’s bothering you. I’ve experienced marriage and found it lacking. I cherish my freedom. It is why I am in the Americas and not at home. It is why I am here in the west. I’m keen on an adventure, Mr. Garrett.”

He dropped his forehead to hers. “Ah, Mrs. Dillingham--”

“Kaila.”

“Kaila. You’re making this too easy.”

“Good.”

“There are things about me you don’t know.”

“A man of mystery. How exciting.”

“There’s no future in this. In us.”

“One passionate moment could make for a lifetime of contentment.”

His heart hammered. “Meaning?”

She nabbed his lapels and peeled off his jacket. “You better make this bloody good.”

Napa Valley, California

Y
ou’re making this very difficult, Mr. Pinkerton.”

“I thought we decided on Phin.”

“We did. But I guess that doesn’t work for me any more than Phineas. What was your mother thinking? No disrespect intended.”

“None taken. What would you like to call me, Emily?”

Her breath caught just like the first time he called her by her Christian name. Silly. He wasn’t being familiar; after all, he preferred men. That didn’t work for her either. She couldn’t imagine. How could she be so aware of someone so totally unaware of her? Then again, she had the same relationship with Rome. For all her adoring, he couldn’t be less interested. Clearly, she was clueless where men were concerned.

“I don’t know,” she said on a huff. “Poet. When I think of you I think
Poet
as you surely have a way with words. Anyway, that’s beside the point.”

“The point being?”

“It’s hard for me to concentrate when you’re hovering.”

“Hovering?”

“Yes. Hovering. Crowding me. As if you’re afraid I’m going to cause someone serious harm except there’s no one around for me to injure.” They were in Weaver’s Meadow, a lush open area stretching between her property and Bellamont Winery. Rolling hills surrounded them on three sides. Due north, a dense patch of woods. They were very much alone with the exception of the targets she’d set on stumps and fallen logs. “I’m pretty sure empty wine bottles don’t have feelings.”

“Right.”

“Or empty tin cans.”

“Doubly so.”

“Can I fire now?”

“Be my guest.”

She took aim, jerked the trigger and . . .
yes!
The can flew off of the tree stump even though she only nicked the rim. “I winged it!”

“You can do better.”

“Of course I can. With time and practice--”

“You can do better now. Improve your technique and you’ll improve your marksmanship.” Why was he walking on egg shells? “I can help, but . . .”

“What?”

“I’d have to hover.”

“Oh.”

“It gets worse. I’d have to touch you.”

She looked over her shoulder, astounded and impressed that he had taken words uttered this morning to heart. His sensitivity melted her reserve. “Then by all means, touch me, Poet. I’m eager to learn.”

He mumbled something, stepped in behind her, his front flush against her back. “Your stance is all wrong. Look at your feet. Squared off parallel like that? Compromises proper balance. You want a power stance, a fighter’s stance. Think of your lower body as a triangle. Left leg forward, right leg back.”

She complied, though it was hard to concentrate on the precise directions. His warm breath tickled her ear and his husky tone sent shivers to her toes. His closeness was unsettling and at the same time exhilarating. If she was this distracted by Pinkerton, she couldn’t imagine what she’d feel like if Rome were giving her hands-on instruction.

He grasped her hips, adjusted her position. “Pelvis at a 45-degree angle.”

Mercy.

“Shoulders forward. Not that much.” His hands shifted upward. “Like so.”

“Sorry. I’m nervous.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No! I mean, I’m fine.”
Liar.
“Please go on.”

His palms glided down her arms. “For now, use both hands. You want a high grasp on the grip for premium control. Thumb curled down for strength, index finger on the trigger like, yes, good.”

No, bad. She couldn’t breathe. With his hand wrapped around hers, his body pressed against the length of her, his mouth close to her ear. She felt faint.

“Your grip is excellent. A hard grip ensures less kick. Also makes it tougher for someone to snatch or knock away your gun. Emily. Em.” She licked dry lips. “What?”

“Relax.”

“I’m fine.” “You’re trembling.”

“Anticipation. You can step back now,” she croaked. “I’ve got it.”

“Not yet. Aim for the first bottle. Focus on the front sight. Got your target?”

“Yes.”

“Focused on the sight?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m going to ease off now. When you’re ready, fire. Slow and smooth on the trigger. Understand?”

“Slow and smooth.” She breathed easier when he broke contact, her concentration no longer divided. Strong stance. Tight grip. Focus. Fire--slow and smooth.

Glass popped and shattered.

Emily whistled low.

“Nice,” Pinkerton said with a smile in his voice. “Do it again.”

There were three more wine bottles lined up on a decaying log. She hated those bottles. Shattering them to Kingdom Come would be a pleasure. But even more, she wanted to impress the man behind her. The approval in his tone soothed an ancient void.

She took a calming breath. Strong stance. Tight grip. Focus. Fire--slow and smooth.

She fired. Once. Twice. Three times.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
Three direct hits.

“Shit.”

His vulgar curse only half registered. The shots rang in her ears as did her own inner shouts of glee. She whirled, ready to whoop her joy. Instead, she shrieked. “You’re bleeding!”

Pinkerton’s shirt sleeve was torn, the white fabric stained red.

“What happened? How . . . ?”

Grim-faced, he stalked toward her, grabbed his gun and shoved her down in the grass. “Stay here. Stay low.”

He disappeared into the woods.

Heart racing, Emily shoved to her feet and followed. She burst into the copse of trees full speed. Her toe clipped an exposed root and she flew forward, plowing into Pinkerton and knocking him into a mighty oak.

“Dammit!”

That curse she heard loud and clear as they’d shouted it in unison. “Merciful heavens,” she said when he turned. “You’re bleeding!”

“I know.”

“No, I mean your forehead.” He’d smacked the tree hard, and although it only looked like a scratch, blood liberally trickled down his face. She rushed forward and tried to stem the flow with the cuff of her sleeve. “I’m so sorry. I tripped and--”

“I told you to stay put.”

“I was worried. Your arm.” She transferred her ministering to his first injury, hurriedly rolling up his left sleeve. “What in the world?”

“Grazed by a bullet.”

“What bullet?
My
bullet? How . . . did one of them ricochet? But you were behind me. Weren’t you?” Hands trembling, she yanked her shirt tail out of her britches and ripped off a long section of the hem.

Back up against the tree, he sighed and holstered his piece. “What are you doing?” he asked even as she wound the fabric around his bicep and tied a tight knot.

“Stemming the bleeding.”

“It’s nothing, Emily. A flesh wound.” Tears welled. “I feel awful. I don’t know how--” He grasped her chin, looked calmly into her eyes. “It wasn’t you.”

“Then who?”

“That’s what I was trying to find out before you waylaid my search. Whoever it was is long gone.”

Her brain scrambled to make sense of his words. It was hard to think straight with him holding and gazing at her the way he was, all tender like. As if reading her thoughts, he broke contact and sleeved away fresh blood threatening to drip in his eye. Jolted out of her daze, she ripped more fabric from her tail.

“Keep that up and you’ll be as shirtless as I was this morning,” he said with a teasing grin.

“How can you joke? You’re bleeding something awful.”

“I’ve suffered worse.” He pushed off of the tree, grasped her elbow and guided her back into the meadow, looking over both shoulders and across the way.

“Why would anyone want to hurt a poet?”

“Remember how Paris’s father died?”

“How can I forget? She was devastated. Mr. Garrett was shot by a stray bullet. A bullet meant to silence the comedian on stage.” She nudged away his hand when he tried to pick up the picnic basket, and looped it over her own arm. “You’re hurt.”

“I’ll live.”

“I can’t believe people shoot at you in your line of work.”

“Believe it.” He started the long walk back to her house at a brisk clip.

She hurried to keep pace. “But you’re not on stage now.”

“No, I’m with you.”

She pondered that. “You don’t think . . .” She shook her head, pushed her glasses firmly up her nose. “Cole’s bullheaded and fights like Kilkenny cats, but he wouldn’t shoot you.”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“I’m thinking someone was hunting in the woods and a bullet went amiss.”

“Or maybe they hit their mark. Maybe they figured on scaring off the likes of me.”