Samantha James (58 page)

If only he could find forgiveness as easily.

"You didn't do anything wrong," he said softly. "But you're too much woman for an ornery old cuss like me, Daisy." He pressed a coin into her palm at the same time he pressed a fleeting kiss upon her lips. "Find yourself a better man than me for the evening, sweetheart."

He picked up his glass from the bar, turned and walked to a table in the corner... alone.

Hands on her hips, Daisy watched him disappear into the crowd.
Lordy, but he's a strange one.
She shrugged. With a flounce of her skirt, she twirled to the man on her left.

At the table, Kane wondered why the hell he was here. The ladies were getting to him. He was tired of their simpering and giggling. His head ached and the air was thick with smoke and the smell of stale whiskey. No one else seemed to notice. Everyone was rowdy and rambunctious and having a whale of a good time.

Yet the thought of his room upstairs held little appeal. The room was too small, the bed too empty ... and so was he.

He studied the glass in his hand, aware of a gnawing pain in his gut. The glass was chipped, the contents dark gold and faintly cloudy. With a brooding half-smile, he tipped the glass to his lips and drained it.

When he lowered it, his eyes were watering. For the first time, he understood why this stuff was called rotgut. He'd tasted some strong liquor in his time, but this was powerful enough to burn clear through a man's belly.

Maybe it wasn't the whiskey at all. Maybe it was guilt that forged that searing hole inside him.

But right now Kane didn't care. He didn't give a damn about much of anything these days, and hadn't for a long time. With a flick of his wrist, a tilt of his chin, he raised his glass high and signaled the bartender.

In the back of his mind, he wondered if he'd go to hell for what he had done—

Shit. Maybe he was already there.

For the second time that day, Grady crushed his hat in his hands. He glanced at the saloon. He wasn't sure about this. He wasn't sure at all.

"Miss Abby," he ventured, "you sure you want to do this?"

"I'll be fine, Grady." She squeezed his arm in silent thanks. "Tell Lucas and Dorothy to take care. I'll be back as soon as I can."

His reluctance obvious, Grady took his leave. Abby watched him round the corner where their horses were tethered. It wasn't until he had urged his mount into a trot did she let out a long pent-up breath, marveling that she'd managed to sound so convincing.

What with the piano, the laughter and the shouting, the noise was enough to make her want to cover her ears and run. She'd managed to conceal it from Grady, but one look through those swinging wooden doors had given her the shock of her life. Of course she'd expected the Silver Spur's patrons would all be men. After all, it was a saloon. What she hadn't expected were the women, so scantily dressed! It had been on the tip of her tongue to blurt out that they'd forgotten half their clothes at home.

Again she cast a furtive peek inside. This time there was a woman seated just inside the door. The reason for the smiling cowboy across from her wasn't lost on Abby. Her dress—what there was of it—was made of scarlet lace and barely covered her knees. The bodice was completely sheer. Why, she couldn't possibly have on a single stitch beneath it! And the way she leaned forward provided the cowboy an unobstructed view of what was clearly a very ample—and unfettered—bosom.

Abby bit back a gasp. Lord Almighty! Now the cowboy was sliding his hand beneath the hem of her skirt!

Abby fled unthinkingly. Once around the corner of the building, she collapsed against the wall with a silent groan of distress. She couldn't go into the Silver Spur after Kane—not dressed the way she was. Why, every eye in the place would be on her!

The shuttered doors swung open. With a swish of silk and the clatter of heels, someone swirled around the corner.

The girl had clearly just left the Silver Spur. Abby tried to keep from staring, but a nervous giggle bubbled up inside her. Mrs. Rutherford wouldn't have called this girl a lady either. Her red satin dress wasn't as revealing as the one the woman near the door was wearing, but it was still rather daring.

That was it! If she was dressed like one of the saloon girls, she wouldn't look out of place. But what if someone recognized her? She squared her shoulders. It was a chance she'd simply have to take.

Her feet moved apace with her mind. She tapped the girl on the shoulder. "Excuse me," she said.

"Yes?" Painted red mouth pursed in annoyance, the girl turned to regard her.

Abby was stunned to see the girl was several years younger than she. She cleared her throat awkwardly. "I know this may sound rather odd—" she began. She leaned forward to whisper in her ear.

When she finished, the girl let out a cackle of laughter. "Honey, that's more than I earn in a month, so say no more. Why, I don't even want the damned thing back!" She linked her arm through Abby's. "Come on, sweetie. My room's right over there."

A scant fifteen minutes later Abby poked her head from a small boardinghouse and hastily glanced outside. The dress—or lack of it—made her cheeks flame with embarrassment. The full skirt dipped only halfway to her ankles. The black silk stockings on her legs made her feel indecent as sin. The bodice was so tight that with every breath she took, she felt as if her breasts were about to spill free. All in all, she felt as bare as a baby's behind.

Thankfully, the streets were deserted. Praying that her luck would hold, she hurriedly stuffed her clothes into her saddlebag and led Sonny into the narrow alley behind the Silver Spur. From there she retraced her steps to the front entrance.

There a flurry of anxious panic gripped her. Could she go through with this? she wondered frantically. The morals of a lifetime stabbed at her. Pa would have been horrified to see her dressed like a soiled dove—and going into a bawdy house yet! And Dillon would have thundered from here to kingdom come if he'd found her here. . .
Dillon
. Just the thought of the danger her brother faced from Stringer Sam made her cringe in fear.

And she knew she had no choice... no choice at all.

Eyes dark and anguished, she stiffened her spine, gave a futile tug at the top of her dress, collected her courage and stepped through the swinging doors.

She was scarcely inside before she felt herself bombarded on all sides. The noise was deafening. The sound of piano music and boisterous laughter seemed to bounce off the walls and ceiling. The stench of male sweat, whiskey and smoke was overpowering. She felt as if her nostrils were burning.

Swallowing her distaste, she inspected her surroundings more closely and found she was standing alongside a wide walnut bar with a brass foot rail. Hanging on the wall for all to see was a huge painting of a smiling nude woman sprawled out on a sofa. Abby bit her lip.
Now there was a woman bare as a baby's behind
, she thought.

A man jostled her arm. His eyes lit up when he saw her. He gave her a leering grin. "Say, gal," he said on a ninety-proof breath of air, "how about a little dance, jes' you 'n me?"

Abby lurched sideways to evade his groping hands. She opened her mouth to deliver a stinging rebuff but she never got the chance.

The barkeep stabbed a finger at her. "You there," he barked. He slapped a tray on the bar and jammed a tall bottle and a small glass on it. 'Take this to the fella in the corner."

There was no chance to refuse. The barkeep thrust the tray into her hands. And then refusal was the last thing on Abby's mind.

Her head spun wildly. The man in the corner... it was him.
Kane.

Her feet carried her blindly forward. When she finally stopped at the edge of his table, her heart was thudding so, all she could hear was the blood pounding through her ears.

He looked up.

For what was surely the longest moment of her life, Abby stood paralyzed, staring at him. His eyes left her totally unprepared. It was just as Grady said, she thought vaguely. Startlingly light in a starkly masculine face, it was as if he looked not at her, but through her, scalding her, burning her inside and out. Not at all comfortable with such relentless regard, Abby felt her throat tighten oddly. It took every ounce of willpower she possessed to banish the unaccustomed impulse to turn and run as fast and as far as she could.

Her confidence shaky at best, she eased the tray onto the table. "Here's your bottle," she murmured quickly.

If Kane heard, there was no sign of it. This girl. . . he hadn't seen her last night. And she was pretty, he realized suddenly. He was drunker than a man had a right to be, but it wasn't enough to dim her beauty. Her hair was caught up in a velvet ribbon at her nape. He stared at it, momentarily fascinated. The dull, dismal surroundings did nothing to hide the rich, vibrant color. Deep chestnut strands shone with tiny glimmers of gold.

A profusion of curls fell over her shoulder as she bent forward. Unable to stop himself, Kane reached out and tangled his fingers in her hair; the long, chestnut tendril clung greedily, displaying a life of its own. He rubbed the strands between his fingertips, marveling at the silken texture. He found himself battling the urge to crush the lock of hair in his fist and carry it to his nose and mouth, knowing it would smell like a soft scented breeze on a warm spring day.

Caught like a fly in a spider's web, Abby inhaled sharply. Uncertain of his next move, she could only wait for what the moment would bring.

She was pretty, he thought again. The ugliness and sterility of his life suddenly mocked him with a vengeance. Indeed, she possessed the face of an angel. Despite the fact that she worked in this hellhole, she looked as if she'd never suffered a hardship in her life.

The observation triggered a gut-twisting resentment. He'd seen things—done things—that would drive a sane man to the brink of madness. A bitter ache gnawed at his belly as he recalled all the horrors he'd witnessed... Dammit, he thought violently. She had no right to look so—so goddamned angelic! She reminded him of all that had gone wrong in his life... and the little that had gone right.

He dropped the lock of hair as if he'd been burned and leaned back in his chair, boldly meeting her gaze. He nodded at the bottle. "Pour," was all he said.

His voice was low—dry and slightly raspy from drink, she guessed. Oddly, it was not unpleasant. But he still hadn't relieved her of that unnerving silvery stare. Abby endured it as best she could, flustered but determined not to show it. She lifted the bottle and set it on the table, then poured the glass full of whiskey almost to the brim. The task complete, she wet her lips and began to straighten.

Kane's eyes followed the movement of that pink-tipped tongue around her lips with a scowl. But when it appeared she would withdraw, his hand shot out and clamped around her wrist.

"Sit," he ordered on a grating breath of air.

Abby didn't move. Her thoughts were disjointed and tinged with panic. She couldn't seem to control them any more than she could tear her eyes from where Kane's fingers curled around the fragile span of her wrist. His hold was firm and unyielding, yet not hurtful. His fingers were lean and dark and not the least bit fleshy or dirty. She stared as if in fascination. So these were the hands of an outlaw... the hands of a killer. Why wasn't she repulsed by him? she thought wildly. His merest touch should have made her skin crawl, yet she felt all shivery inside. He smoothed his thumb across the fleshy skin of her palm in what was almost a caress. Bemused and dismayed by her unpredictable reaction, she tore her eyes back to his face.