Sullivan (9 page)

Not that he had any right to feel possessive, not that it made a damn bit of difference to him
who
licked Eden, when the time came. She'd taste good, though, wouldn't she? She'd smell good, too, with his nose right against her skin, with his tongue...

"You got a claim on her?" Cash asked.

"Nope," Sullivan answered without hesitation and without a hint of emotion in his voice. "If you want her, she's all yours."

A soft, harsh bark of laughter was Cash's answer. "Jesus, I wouldn't touch Jed's little sister with a ten-foot pole if you gave me a dozen saloons like this one to do it. Do you know what happens to men who trifle with women who have brothers like Jedidiah Rourke? I do," he said without waiting for an answer. "And I
like
my nuts."

Sullivan looked Cash in the eye.

"If you like yours," Cash added in a lowered voice, "you'll quit daydreaming about little Miss Rourke."

Nate came in, stumbling over an invisible obstacle near the swinging doors. His citified suit was rumpled; his hair was cut so short it couldn't possibly be mussed. His eyes were bloodshot and he needed a shave, as usual. He looked like he'd been drinking all day, maybe all week. The ex-preacher claimed a table in the corner and ordered a bottle.

Sullivan ordered his own bottle from Yvonne and joined him. At least Nate wouldn't preach. He'd given up that calling long ago.

Chapter 5

Breakfast in the hotel dining room had been as glum and unappetizing as dinner the night before. Lydia was just as antisocial, but Eden refused to allow herself to be dismayed. She had plans for the day. Perhaps she couldn't do anything about the condition of the hotel, but she could certainly make improvements in her room.

The children helped with the enterprise, Millie sweeping and Teddy washing the window and wiping down the walls. The door, as well as the window when Teddy didn't need it closed for washing, remained open in hopes that a bit of fresh air might carry away the sour odor that permeated the room. She didn't want to spend another night in a room that smelled like someone else's sweaty feet. They'd just been working a few minutes when a raspy voice in the doorway startled Eden.

"What the hell are you doing?"

She spun around to see a thin old man leaning against the doorjamb. His skin was so wrinkled he looked a hundred years old, his eyes were sunk into his head, and his sparse white hair looked as if it had just left the pillow; it stood out in all directions.

"C-c-cleaning," she said, her nervousness making her stutter. "Isn't that all right?"

The old man rolled his eyes. "If this room is clean,
everyone
will want a clean room," he mumbled, his voice weak and watery.

"Oh, you must be Mr. McClure," she said with a wavering smile. "I understand you've been ill." In truth, he looked like death warmed over. "I do hope you're feeling better today."

"No," he snapped, "I am not feeling better."

"You'd best get back to bed, then," she said firmly. "Why, whoever is looking after you will be worried if they find your bed empty."

His eyes narrowed. His already thin lips thinned a bit more. "No one's taking care of me, missy. Don't need no one. I can take care of myself."

Eden's heart went out to the old man. It was terribly sad to be old and alone, sick and without anyone to care for you, and too stubborn to admit to the need for help. She couldn't possibly allow him to continue in this way.

"My grandmother had a home remedy that was sure to cure any ailment," she said in her most sensible voice, giving Mr. McClure a warm smile. "It's just a simple tea with a few secret ingredients, and I promise you it's quite tasty. Perhaps you'd allow me to make it for you."

"I don't need any damned tea," he rumbled.

Eden's smile faded. "Please don't curse in front of the children," she said in a lowered voice. "It isn't proper."

Mr. McClure didn't argue with her; in fact, his sunken eyes filled with tears and his lips trembled slightly. "You sound just like my mama, God rest her soul."

Eden couldn't bear to see the old man make the effort to stand there any longer, so she promptly escorted him from her room, offering her arm for support and leading him down the dusty hallway to his own quarters. Impossibly, the room was in worse shape than her own, with a broken chair by the single window and an odor of illness that would probably never wash out.

He crawled into bed, and Eden opened the window. "It's a lovely day," she said. "The fresh air will make you feel better."

"I don't like fresh air," Mr. McClure grumbled.

"Well, you're going to get it anyway," she said with a smile. "When was the last time you ate?"

"I had some beef yesterday about lunchtime."

If it had been prepared by the same woman who'd prepared her own dinner and breakfast, Eden was quite sure he hadn't eaten much. And he looked so weak! "I'll make you some tea and soup."

He made a face that was, impossibly, more sour than his normal expression. "I hate Lydia's soup."

"I'll make it myself," she said.

"I don't want any damned soup," he grumbled. "Get out of my room."

Eden sighed and made her way to the kitchen. Some people, and perhaps all men, just didn't know what was best for them.

* * *

It was nearly noon when Sullivan left his room. His head pounded, a consequence of drinking too much whiskey last night, and the bruises on his body ached in a way they hadn't when he'd been on the road. He felt like everything had caught up with him at once.

He descended to the second floor slowly, each step calculated. In a couple of days the ache would be gone, and he could head back to Webberville for a short visit.

Lifting his head, he caught sight of a vision in blue, and he ached all the more. Eden Rourke, a smile on her face, her pale hair piled loosely atop her head, a slight, feminine sway in her walk, came toward him with a tray in her hands. The bowl on the tray she carried steamed enticingly.

"Surely you're not just now rising?" she asked, her smile widening. "Really, Sinclair, how decadent of you."

Decadent? When he looked at her, he felt nothing
but
decadent. He wanted to rip that plain blue dress off of her, take down her hair, and forget all his aches and pains. He did his best to put that fantasy aside.

"I didn't get much sleep on the trail," he said.

Her smile faded as they met in the hallway and each came to a halt. "Of course you didn't," she said in a voice that was intimately soft and inviting. "You were much too busy watching over us to get much rest. How could I have forgotten that? Did I ever thank you?"

"I'm sure you did."

"Well, in case I forgot in all the excitement, thank you, Sinclair Sullivan." Her fetching blue eyes widened. "What would I have done without you?" Gentle and sweet and almost unbearably tempting, she looked up at him. And he was a goner.

"Did I ever thank you for saving my skin in Webberville?" he asked.

"I don't believe so," she said, her voice intimately low.

"Thank you, Eden Rourke," he whispered. "What would I have done without you?"

All was silent for a moment, as he looked into blue eyes and remembered the night he'd kissed her. He'd tasted her passion, felt her response to his very bones. Maybe she was a beautiful woman; maybe she was a lady; maybe she was Jed's sister. Right now none of that mattered. The ache in his ribs subsided, but was replaced by a more insistent, more demanding ache much lower.

She leaned slightly forward, her face tilted up. He leaned carefully forward and down, until their lips met somewhere above the soup.

It was a soft kiss, a thank-you. An impulsive test, perhaps. The kiss didn't last nearly long enough, but it was plenty enough to ruin what was left of Sullivan's day. How was he supposed to think of anything else when Eden was right
here
?

When they both pulled back, he set his eyes firmly on hers, searching for a sign. He saw warmth and a flicker of untested passion. She licked her lips.

"Would you open Mr. McClure's door for me, please?" she whispered, her voice wavering slightly.

"That's his soup?" Sullivan asked.

She smiled up at him again, the kiss not forgotten but lingering in her eyes. "I made a big pot. Go downstairs and get yourself a bowl."

He opened Grady's door and got quite a shock. The room was clean, the window was open to allow a fresh breeze to waft in. And Grady smiled as Eden entered the room.

"That smells good," the geezer said weakly.

"It is good," Eden insisted, "and I expect you to eat every drop."

Grady's smile dimmed as his gaze lit on Sullivan. "Look at what the girl did for me," he said, tears coming to his faded eyes. "She put fresh sheets on the bed, and made me some kind of godawful sweet tea, and fussed at me every time I said goddamn it."

"Mr. McClure," Eden said sternly, "please don't use such language."

"See what I mean?" Grady asked fondly. "She's an angel, come to take care of me while I die."

"I'll have no talk of dying," Eden insisted as she sat beside Grady's bed and lifted a spoonful of soup to his mouth.

In truth, Grady really was dying. He'd been going downhill for months, looking smaller and older with every passing day. Until today, he hadn't grown any less disagreeable. Eden seemed to bring out the best in the old man.

Sullivan watched her feed the ailing man, content, for the moment, just to be in the same room with her. Just to watch her feed an old codger soup. Every move she made was graceful; every word she said so sweet the sound of her voice made him ache.

He wanted her. Jedidiah Rourke be damned, he wanted Eden with everything he had, in a way he'd never wanted anything before. He craved her, he needed her, and another kiss over steaming soup was not going to be enough. Having her would likely cost him everything he held dear: his home, his friends, maybe even what little heart he had left. Surely a woman was not worth such sacrifice. Not even this one.

She lifted her head and smiled at him. She said so much with a smile, with her eyes. No one had ever looked at him this way before, and likely never would again.

"Go get yourself a bowl of soup, Sinclair. You look like you could use a little nourishment, yourself."

Yep, he wanted her bad. He
needed
her, and one way or another he was going to have her.

* * *

She hadn't intended to spend her first full day in Rock Creek doing laundry in a tub just outside the hotel kitchen door, and cooking and caring for a sick old man, and cleaning, but as far as Eden was concerned she had no choice. This was her home now, and she was determined to make it a suitable place for the children.

She'd never worked so hard, and by the end of the day she was exhausted. It wasn't a bad feeling, she acknowledged. She had accomplished something today; she'd made this place a little bit her own.

Less than an hour earlier she'd tucked the children into clean beds. Teddy now slept on a small cot instead of a pallet on the floor, and Millie was deep asleep in the same bed Eden herself would crawl into later. Once she was sure they were sound asleep, she'd turned out the lamp and come downstairs for a breath of air and a quiet moment alone.

The front of the hotel faced the saloon, and she had no desire to watch the comings and goings of that sinful place. Besides, watching a saloon was surely no way to find peace and quiet.

Beyond the rear door of the lobby was a small enclosed area. There had once been a garden here, but the area was dry and barren and as untended as the rest of the hotel. A rickety old bench had been placed against the wall, and this is where she sat. The quiet was blissful, and after a long day of hard work simply sitting still was a pleasure.

What a shame that the hotel had been neglected for so long. She could imagine this as a wonderful place to sit at the end of the day, if there were roses blooming. With a proper flower garden, there would be morning birds everywhere, she imagined, making it a nice place to have a cup of tea or coffee before a busy day began. Instead the garden area was brown and lifeless, devoid of color and the fragrance that should fill the air.

Sitting on the bench and allowing her muscles to relax, she leaned against the hotel wall and closed her eyes. It had been an exhausting, trying day, but one small moment had carried her through it on a cloud. Sin had kissed her again. In the hallway, over a bowl of soup, he'd leaned forward and taken her mouth with his. He'd kissed tenderly, longingly, sweet with just a touch of wickedness. He must care for her, at least a little, to kiss her that way.

"What are you doing out here?"

She smiled and opened her eyes at the sound of that familiar voice.
Thinking about you
. "Nothing," she said, turning her head to glance at Sin as he stepped through the door and closed it behind him. "Just resting. And thinking," she added, to be honest.

He sat down beside her, making the bench rock slightly. Strange, how comfortable it felt to have him sit so close to her. She felt as if she'd known Sinclair Sullivan forever, not just for a few days.