The Union (26 page)

"Tell me what you're doing, Keel."

"I just took my dress off."

"So I heard. You want the curtains closed or not?"

"I'm unbuttoning my shoes."
 

He smiled. Though his back was turned to her, he imagined very clearly her slender fingers running nimbly the length of the shoes. Thump. Thump. Then a subtle rustling of skirts, a swish as they hit the floor.

"Underskirts," she said. "The ones with lace inserts we got in Spokane."

How did she make her voice sound like silk, sweet and breathy enough to take his away? She was silent a moment. He had a notion to turn around, but liked the game she played too well. "Lass?"

"Just wiggling out of my corset cover."

"Wiggling, eh? I'd like to see that."

She ignored him. "I like the idea of being spotlighted by moonlight. There's nothing back there behind the house but an old hillside. You mind it watching?"

His heart hammered amid his ribs, pounding out a rhythm, drilling inside him like a sledgehammer against a pin in a mineshaft. But he needed to be drilling Keely. "I mind nothing as long as you don't."

She laughed. "Garters, silk stockings long and soft, bustle."

He heard the thud and made a mental inventory. "That leaves, what, a corset and a pair of drawers?"

"I'm unfastening the corset, a hook at a time now."

He spun around. "Now don't do that, lass. That's my job." He'd seen whores, rich women, and others, in every imaginable ensemble of lingerie created, but not one ever looked as good as Keely did wearing plain cotton drawers and a corset.

"I believe that we're unevenly matched now, lass. Turn around while I even the score." She turned slowly, looking in the moonlight like a pale, white angel—his angel, love personified.
 

He ached for her now, but he would not rush this night, this last time. He always made love to Keely to a wild, reckless tempo, always trying to shut out himself, always trying to forget McCullough's shadow, the ghost he'd become. Not the real McCullough, he was no threat at all, never had been, but the McCullough Dietz had created, the man Keely believed she loved. Tonight he intended to take it slow, to make love to her as himself, John Dietz, that she might, when she remembered, remember him as the best. But it was not for her alone. Keely had shown him who he was—not actor, not chameleon, but a man who loved her. He intended this night, for himself, to make love to her as that man.

He pulled off his boots and set them by the bed, then shed his shirt and other clothes. He stood barefoot, wearing only his pants as he came up behind her, circled her in his embrace, and nuzzled her neck. She smelled of lavender. "Flowers, Keely?"

"Lavender on the bedside table, from the garden."

He hadn't noticed, but now that she mentioned them, a lump rose up in his throat. How was he going to live without her and her flowers? Would a garden ever be as sweet? "On you, lass. I smell lavender."

She giggled. "I tucked a nosegay into my corset."

She had no perfume. How had he been so negligent? "When this is over, I'll buy you all the toilet water a girl could want." He made an empty promise. Once a liar, always one, but so help him, if he could, he would have. He pulled her to the bed and onto his lap, facing away from him, stroking her from behind. Soft scents, soft skin, soft curves.
 

She wrapped her legs and bare feet around his calves, spread her legs, and settled in on him. "Keely," he whispered, stroking her thighs. She made him forget his technique, his carefully crafted lovemaking process. All he had to do with Keely was follow his senses, touch her, play her body. Loving her felt as natural as breathing, as easy as eating sweets. No one had to teach him this.

"The corset, McCullough."

"Not yet, lass." Making love in a corset was like a knight making love in armor, but for the moment, he liked the breathless quality it gave her. A woman cinched tightly could never breathe properly.

He rocked her on his lap, against him as he rubbed her thighs and touched between her legs, staring over her shoulder at her bouncing breasts. He loved little things about her—the shadow of her breasts, the curve of her hip, all the rounded contours of her body, the way she quivered when she got excited.

"Ian."

He hated that name, but tonight he would not let it spoil things. He unlaced the corset and unmolded it from her body, tossing it carelessly away, reaching for the touch of her under the lace vest she wore beneath the corset. Her breath came in a gasp. He pulled the small spray of lavender from its resting place between her breasts, imagining himself nestled there. He could no longer stand the ache. He stood her in front of him and shimmied out of his remaining clothes, watching her do the same. Then he pulled her on top of him and thrust upward.

They rolled on the bed. He rocked into her, undulating slowly, reining back until he could stand it no more.

When it was over, he rolled from her, watching her in the moonlight, realizing there had been only two in the bed.
 

"Oh, McCullough, look at me." Her voice trembled with joy. "My legs are still quivering from the force of it."

He loved her forthrightness. Other women, even whores, didn't speak of their pleasure. But his Keely did.

"Sometimes, after it's over, like tonight, I can still feel you in me, your fullness." She traced his chest with her fingers. "I hate when the feeling goes away. I'd gladly walk like a cowboy the rest of my days, legs straddled, feeling full up with you, if only the feeling would stay."

She would not forget him. The thought hit him full force. He had never been so thankful. If he could never forget her, neither could she forget him. He knew it would never be the same with another woman. Lust was just lust, and the act the act. Afterwards mattered most, when the person you were with made all the difference. What he felt for Keely went beyond the physical. Knowing the emptiness to come, he should have been ashamed of his gratefulness that he left his imprint in her. But he felt no guilt now, only fulfillment.

She lifted her face to his. He kissed her mouth, then her neck, then her breasts. "Lavender will always remind me of you, Keely. I promise." He sat up, hearing for the first time since they'd come home the ruckus outside in the streets. He had work to do. "I've got to go. I've got business to attend to."

She nodded. "Will you be back tonight?"

"I don't know." He really didn't. He hoped so. "I love you, Keely. I do." He stood and dressed, feeling her watchful gaze upon him.

Chapter 16

Dietz slipped into his own room, grabbed his Winchester rifle, and filled his pockets with ammunition. Someone had to warn Monihan at the Gem mine about the coming attack. With Patterson under tight surveillance, he'd inherited the job. He sneaked out the back door of the boarding house, skirted town by way of the woods out back, slipped into the culvert again and wound up behind Patterson's store in a timbered swamp near the bank of Canyon Creek. A movement out in the water, underneath the overhanging trees caught his attention. Dietz froze.

A man waded through the creek in front of him, holding a rifle over his head, looking like a captured prisoner surrendering. Patterson? Dietz called out to him softly, a whisper on the breeze. The man froze, turned, looked at him, waved him on. Patterson sure enough.

"What are you doing out here?" And why were they
both
risking their necks to get to the Gem, Dietz felt like asking.

"Don't go getting annoyed with me, boy. I have to warn Monihan—"

"What do you think I'm doing?"
 

"You obviously didn't see my little incident at Dutch Henry's." Patterson pressed on, wading farther out into the creek. Dietz moved with him. The creek water felt like ice, so cold through his boots that his toes ached. He'd be glad enough to reach shore.

"What happened?"

"The union boys have got two of Monihan's men over at Dutch's, getting them drunker than skunks."

"What are scabs doing out and about town?" Blasted, foolhardy scabs. They made Dietz peevish. Because of their foolishness, tonight both he and Patterson risked their necks. "You'd think since Mr. French's visit this morning the boys at the mine would have sense enough to stay home. If the union thugs are brazen enough to make an attempt on the Secretary of the Mine Owners' Union in broad daylight, what's to stop them from messing with a few insignificant scabs after dark?" Dietz had little patience with men who took needless risks.

"French came on a fool's mission. Guess he felt it necessary to make an attempt to settle things peacefully. He should have known better." Patterson paused and looked up at the stars through the rustling leaves of the bushes overhead. Evidently satisfied that they hadn't been detected, he continued on.

"Should have." Dietz kept his voice low. "Back to the point—there's nothing illegal about getting a couple of scabs drunk, so what brings you out?" All this talking made him nervous. The night air carried sound better than any medium he knew. He didn't want to be blasted in the water like a sitting duck, but Patterson seemed intent on telling a story.

"One of the union boys told me they're going to kill those two. That's the point of getting them juiced up. I went up to Dutch's to warn those two boys, but they wouldn't listen. One of them is as big as a bear, too big for sense. He claims he can defend himself." Patterson sighed. "That may be true sober one on one, but the union boys don't play fair. I'm off to warn Monihan." Patterson paused. "The Gem seems the safest place for me, all things considered. Now that you know I'm out, you can go back."

Patterson's speech placated Dietz somewhat. "Could." He kept pace with Patterson, who laughed quietly.

They reached the edge of the creek. The open bank provided no cover. Down stream union guards stood duty on the bridge. Dietz dropped to his belly to avoid detection. He and Patterson crawled combat style, side by side, in silence. Ahead, cover loomed dense, dark, and enticing.

Every scratch, every slither, every clink of their gun belts seemed to echo around him, magnified by his fear of detection. Dietz scratched his elbows on the rocks and branches protruding from the bank. Muck caked his shirt and his elbows ached by the time they snaked across the banks to the railroad bed. Shit—gravel.

Dietz slid over the metal tracks on his stomach. Even so gravel crunched beneath his boot toes, loud and ugly. Voices floated down to him from the bridge, laughing, boasting. Fortunately the union boys, caught up in their own tales, overlooked him.
 

Patterson reached the woods. "Run!"
 

Dietz pushed up and sprinted toward the mine entrance.

They found John Monihan, Mine Superintendent, in his office. He didn't seem surprised to see them. "Trouble?" Monihan spoke calmly, but worry lines were etched around his eyes and mouth.

"Looks like you're expecting some," Dietz said.

"Union boys streaming into town, guards on the bridge between here and there, what's a man supposed to think?" Monihan pointed out his window.

"We came to warn you," Dietz said. "Word we got is the union has something big scheduled for tomorrow. But we don't know specifics, just that it will be bigger than what happened in Pennsylvania earlier."

"You should have saved yourself a trip," Monihan said dryly.
 

"That isn't all," Patterson spoke up. "They're planning to murder two of your boys tonight. They've got them over at Dutch Henry's." As Monihan swore under his breath, Patterson related his story. "I went to Dutch's to try and warn them, but while I was seated at the saloon I saw a crowd gathering, watching me. Earlier someone recognized me as a private detective and told the union brass. I resigned my post today.

"Anyway, before I could convince your boys of the danger, Old Shoemaker came up to me and told me to duck my nut out of there, which, though I hate being bossed around, I did. The one fellow of yours, the big one, seemed to think he could handle them, but I tell you, he's wrong."

Just then a knock sounded at the door. One of Monihan's guards poked his head in. "Boss, the constable is here. He's got Big Pete with him. He looks bad." Even in the dim light, the guard's face looked pale, and his voice shook.

The constable's voice rang out from the distance. "Put him in his boss's office, boys." His tone sounded almost gleeful, the bastard.
 

"We can't let them find you here," Patterson said to Dietz, and shoved him under Monihan's desk. Crammed into the tight cubbyhole with a chair at his back, Dietz cursed silently. Patterson and Monihan stepped around in front of the desk to block any view of him. Moments later, Dietz heard the constable and his cronies enter the room. A thud sounded as they dumped Big Pete onto the floor unceremoniously. Dietz's heart thudded wildly for a second when Monihan left the desk to bend over Big Pete. Fortunately, the constable didn't deign to bend over and join Monihan in inspecting Big Pete's wounds further. If he had, he would have seen Dietz huddled beneath the desk. All Dietz got was a fine view of the constable's boots.

"He needs a doctor," the constable said. "Good luck getting him to one. He's a heavy son of a bitch."

Monihan mumbled something to the constable that Dietz couldn't quite make out. Thanks? That hardly seemed appropriate given the constable's attitude. But then, the constable was one of Judge Brown's henchmen. Maybe this represented a good will gesture, or just the prisoner's last meal, Dietz thought wryly. The constable walked to the door and without further comment, took his boys and left, slamming the door shut behind him.