Prologue Read online

  "Travis!"

  He heard the wrath in her voice. Oh, hell, he moaned to himself. Now he had to deal with her. Damn it, he wasn't going to apologize for anything he'd said. He imagined her dragging Peterson out here and making them shake hands. No, by God, he wouldn't do it. Why couldn't she see what kind of man Peterson was?

  “Travis," Chloe repeated as she came through the doorway. She stood uncertainly for a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the low light. At least she was alone.

  "What did you do to Evan?" she demanded, finding him over by one of the stalls. "He left like he'd seen Death and said he won't be back as long as you're here."

  Travis almost laughed. "Sounds like I've done both of us a favor." He stooped over to pick up the iron he'd thrown.

  She rose to her full height, her chin out slightly. "What did you do?" she repeated. "And how dare you? You have no right to meddle in my personal affairs!"

  His patience was exhausted. He yanked at the ties of his leather apron and ripped it off, throwing it down with all the strength his anger gave him. “Then do your own dirty work instead of sending your piss-ant beau!" he snapped, his voice rising with a sharp sarcasm. "What did you expect? Was I supposed to drop to my knees and say, 'Yes, Mister Peterson, I'll stay away from the house and the Missy? Lincoln freed the slaves, Chloe, although you'd hardly know it around here!"

  Chloe's brow furrowed in bafflement. "What are you talking about?"

  Travis took long, rapid strides past the stalls to his room, with Chloe on his heels. He lifted his saddlebags from the foot of the old iron bed, and pulled open the dresser drawers.

  "You know, you told me you aren't afraid of anything. I didn't believe you then, and now I know why. If you wanted me to stay away from the house, to eat my meals out here, you should have had the guts to tell me yourself."

  He pulled his few belongings from the drawers and jammed them into the leather bag, then turned to her. "I really expected better of you." His eyes lingered on her a moment, then he picked up a shirt and put it on. "I'm going. Now"

  Chloe had no definite idea of what he was talking about but this last statement was glaringly clear. She didn't think of payments or having no place to live. No, through her mind ran a jumbled picture of the shop without Travis in it—silent, abandoned. "Going! You can't go!"

  "Wrong, Chloe." He lifted the pillow on the bed and pulled out his whiskey bottle. He held it up in the low light to see how much was left, then put it in the bag. 'When are you going to get past the notion that you ride point for the whole world?"

  It no longer mattered that she didn't know what this was about. His accusations, his very tone, were as effective as holding a match to her fuse.

  "When it honors its responsibilities!" she fired, pounding her fist into her palm. "If you will recall, McGuire, you practically insisted that I give you this job—I wasn't very excited about the idea. You said you'd work here until I make the mortgage payment. Now you're telling me you won't."

  Travis had the saddlebags on his shoulder and had begun to push past her, but that stopped him. He turned back to her slowly, his frown black. "Are you saying my word is no good?" he demanded.

  "No, Travis. You're saying it."

  She wore a self-satisfied expression that goaded him. Oh, hell! He knew he couldn't leave. He'd salvaged little of the man he once was but, for good or bad, he had to see this through. He'd made an agreement with her. Otherwise he'd be gone so fast her head would spin. He flung the saddlebags back to the bed.

  "I told you before, Chloe. You can't order me around." He forced himself to keep his hands at his sides for fear he'd throw something. "You think you're so tough, lady." He stepped closer to her, capturing her shoulders in his hands. She looked up at him, her eyes snapping green flames, and he thought a man could get lost in such eyes. "Well, I'm tougher."

  For that instant, before she could say anything more, his control slipped.

  When his mouth came down to cover hers, the kiss was not gentle. She could feel his beard against her chin, his lips briefly pressed hard to hers. He didn't hurt her, but it was a reprimand.

  She struggled against his grip, finally able to free herself. She backed away, staring at him. Anger and something else, a low, throbbing current within her, made her breath short.

  "Now you go back to the house and do your job," he ordered gruffly. "I'll do mine." His shirt was hanging open and he took it off again, throwing it over the stool.

  How could she be so furious with him, yet long to touch curious fingers to that muscled chest he was showing her? Evan was right. She had to stay away from Travis. Not for Evan's reasons, but to save her own sanity

  "I'll leave your dinner tray on the back porch," she said with a voice that shook, then turned swiftly and fled to the house.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Over the next couple of days, the two combatants took great pains to avoid each other, retreating to their respective corners.

  At first, Travis hadn't believed Chloe would go as far as to leave his meals on the back porch. Apparently he'd underestimated the level of her contempt. When he came up the steps to get his dinner that first evening, he found it cooling on the tray in front of the closed door.

  Furious, he left it there, barely resisting the urge to hurl the plate at the screen. Now he knew where he stood, as if he'd needed more proof. He went back to the shop, trying hard to ignore the racket his empty stomach made.

  He sat down hard on a small keg in the corner, leaning his back against the rough wall. His arms hanging at his sides, he stretched his legs out in front of him and let a long, weary breath escape him.

  Damn fool! He berated himself a dozen times over for giving in to his urge to dance with the Vinegar Princess and hold her in his arms. Because it had been a hard lesson to learn, he'd easily begun to forget that others, once they learned about his past, saw him as nothing more than a saddle bum with a prison record. Although now he didn't even have the saddle or a horse to put it on. He shook his head in irony as a humorless chuckle escaped him.

  The itch to leave, to save the shredded remains of his self-respect, flamed so high in him he could feel the wind at his back and the earth under his boots as they carried him down the road.

  But he'd promised to stay, and so he would, exiled to this side of the yard. From the paddock, he heard Lester nickering. He slowly got back to his feet to give the horse her dinner. At least she'd get to eat.

  After he fed Lester, Travis put on a clean shirt and combed his hair in the scrap of mirror Chloe had given him. This town had a saloon and saloons could always put a meal together. He took five dollars out of his saddlebag.

  He was in a foul mood as he walked toward the gate, feeling rather than seeing a pair of green eyes following him from the kitchen window. Let her wonder, he thought.

  He cast long shadows on the dusty street as he headed east toward the Twilight Star. When he got closer, he could hear the jangling sound of a piano and the combined scents of beer and tobacco smoke reached him. There was a certain comfort to be had in the rough, unstarched atmosphere of such an establishment, where the presence of women was the exception rather than the rule.

  There was only one horse tied at the hitching post in front. Things were pretty slow inside and Travis found a table in the corner. After he ordered his dinner and a beer from the bar, he noticed a woman sitting against the wall over by the piano languidly waving a fan. She wore a tired-looking blue satin dress with a low neckline. A cameo hovered above her ample cleavage, suspended on a wrinkled length of black velvet ribbon. In the low light, he couldn't guess her age, but her hair was too red to be real.

  She caught his gaze, then rose from her seat to saunter over. She leaned her hip against his table and gave him a long, appraising look from the top of his head, pausing at his fly buttons, down to his spurs.

  "Hi, sugar," she breathed. Her smile was hard and bright. "I haven't seen you around here before. What's your name?"

  Trav
is chuckled. Prostitutes always spotted him as soon as he walked into a place, whether it was crowded or not. He must look like he had a lot of money. He didn't want what she had to sell, but it would be interesting to talk to her.

  "My name is Travis."

  "Mmm, I like that. I'm Dove Lassiter. You got a last name?"

  "Travis is enough." He pushed the chair out for her with his foot. "Sit down, Dove. I'll get you a beer."

  She sat eagerly, arranging her skirts with great care. Now that she was closer he could see the lines in her face, put there by more than age. The barkeep brought his dinner, a big steak and fried potatoes, and gave Dove her beer.

  "Are you a cowboy?" she asked, looking down at his spurs again. "I'm partial to cowboys."

  "No, a blacksmith," he replied, wondering why her questions didn't bother him. Usually he clammed up when people got curious. He cut into the steak while she talked.

  "You must be the one working for Chloe Maitland. I heard she was running her daddy's shop again."

  "Do you know Chloe?"

  Dove ran her finger around the rim of the beer mug. "I've never talked to her, if that's what you mean. But this is a small town. I know who she is, and her daddy used to come to see me regular before he got killed last spring." Her face clouded over for a moment. "He was a real lonely man. Shoot, most of the men who come to see me are lonely. But he was good to me, used to bring me nice presents, new dresses and such."

  Travis nodded, thinking that Chloe didn't need to know she was paying back a loan that had helped to support Dove Lassiter. "Are you- from around here, Dove?"

  She shook her head. "I got left here by a cowboy on his way to a cattle drive in John Day. He said he'd be back in four months to marry me. That was two years ago." She shrugged, her hard smile slipping a bit. "I'm a littler smarter than I was then."

  He watched her, faded and brittle in her blue satin, then thought back to Adam Mitchell's proposition to Chloe. This was what sometimes happened to women who had no money and no one to turn to. The world was a hard place for them, sucking the hope and beauty right out of them.

  Travis finished his dinner and stood. "It was nice meeting you, Dove."

  She looked up at him, disappointment plain on her face. "Don't you want to come upstairs? I'll take real good care of you."

  "Not tonight, darlin'," he replied. "Maybe some other time."

  She studied him, then shook her head. "Nope, I don't think so. Some other woman's got you good. I can feel it. I don't like it when a man falls that hard. Doesn't leave anything for the rest of us gals."

  He gave her a short laugh. "No, there's no other woman." Then he leaned over and asked in a low voice, "What's your time worth to you?"

  "Three dollars," she said, preparing to take him upstairs.

  Travis took the money out of his pocket and pressed it into her hand, then pinched her chin. "Goodbye, Dove," he said.

  This time her smile was genuine. "'Bye, sugar," she called and dropped the dollars into her bodice.

  * * *

  Chloe had peeked at Travis from behind the kitchen curtains and watched him stalk away on long legs, empty-handed. When she was sure he wasn't looking, she opened the door and brought in the cold food. He couldn't hold out forever, she told herself, trying to slip out of the blame. He was obstinate but he had to eat. Hunger usually won out over stubbornness.

  But then she saw him leave, all slicked down and clean-shirted. She followed his progress, going from window to window, and knew he was headed to town.

  She still couldn't put her finger on what had started this battle. Evan was involved somehow, she knew. But that kiss Travis had forced on her, she fumed, that had finished it. She remembered the feel of his mouth hard on hers, reproving . . . dominating.

  In the morning, the breakfast tray she set out for him remained untouched, too. The bread dried out, the eggs and sausage turned cold and unappetizing. This was ridiculous. If he wanted to starve himself to spite her, then fine! It made no difference to her.

  She went on about her business, but the disharmony hung over her in a black gloom and nothing went right. She burned herself with the iron while trying to press the minuscule tucks on a camisole. She looked everywhere for her box of starch and had to open a new one when she couldn't find it. She'd even misplaced some of the bread she'd baked the day before, and began to wonder if she was losing her mind as well.

  Chloe made a special effort to avoid the shop. When she had to stand over the washtub, she kept her back turned to the shop door. She hoped that by staying away from Travis, she'd be able to stop thinking about him. The effect was just the opposite.

  Travis, withdrawn into the reclusion of his work, wondered how she could keep her back so stiff and still reach the scrub board.

  Miserable, she even made a trip out to the Tollivers' farm to see Evan, certain she could change his mind about coming to the house. It was just so much silliness for him to be this stubborn, and not at all like him.

  But when she got to the farm, he wouldn't tell her anything about what had happened between himself and Travis. He only reiterated his refusal to return while the blacksmith remained, although the oddly sly, baleful looks he gave her made her feel very ill at ease. His headaches were worse, he said, and implied that she was solely to blame. The unsatisfactory meeting left her more irritable than before.

  By the end of the third day of hostilities with Travis, Chloe found herself returning to the open kitchen door again and again to look across the yard at her father's old chair. And every time she looked, she found it empty.

  What in the world was McGuire eating? He worked hard and he was a big man. He couldn't go without food. Maybe he was buying his meals at the Twilight Star Saloon. Oh, that would really cause a stir. She could hear it now. What's the matter, McGuire? Ain't Miss Chloe feeding you? . . . Say, maybe she and Evan sent you dawn here so's they could do a little spoonin', privatelike. . .

  Oh, God, Chloe agonized. Travis wasn't a man who encouraged prying, but he might be angry enough to answer such nosy questions. Her imagination galloped onward, then suddenly reared when she remembered that Dove Lassiter still sold her favors in a room above the saloon.

  Not that she cared, Chloe tried to tell herself as she put on the kettle to heat water for her bath. That drifter's rough embrace, his mouth on hers, they weren't what stole her sleep at night. And those confused, edgy dreams about bare chests and straight, broad-shouldered backs, they were just a lot of nonsense produced by an anxious mind. And she'd had good reason to be anxious lately, with the mortgage and Evan's absurd ultimatum.

  But she'd promised Travis meals in payment for his work and she meant to keep her part of the bargain, even if she had to force him to accept it.

  * * *

  Travis headed across the yard toward the back steps, his dirty clothes wadded under his arm. He wasn't even sure if Chloe would still do his washing. He'd just dump the bundle inside the kitchen door and go back to the shop.

  It was a mild dusk, clear and fragrant, with a sliver of a new moon rising in the eastern sky. He went up the stairs slowly, reaching for the handle on the screen door while he studied the progress of Chloe's kitchen garden next to the porch.

  He looked at her potatoes and decided to bake two or three in the forge again for dinner. It had worked, last night. It wasn't that Chloe didn't provide him with food—she did. And sometimes it was hard to ignore when the aroma of her cooking floated from the kitchen. But it was left for him on the back porch with less ceremony than he used when he fed the horse. He wasn't about to give in to that kind of treatment, especially not for the simple crime of dancing with Her Highness. And he knew he couldn't go back to the Twilight Star again after that dinner a couple of days earlier. Dove would begin to expect him and he didn't need that kind of entanglement. Besides, he wasn't starving.

  Hell, when his parents were children, living on poor tenant farms in Ireland, they'd survived on nothing more than potatoes. They would certa
inly keep him going for a few days, along with the bread he'd taken two nights ago. If Chloe wasn't in the kitchen right now, he'd try to grab some more butter, too.

  But when he raised his eyes and looked through the screen, his hand froze on the pull and a hush fell on his spirit at what he saw.

  Her back to him, Chloe sat in her bathtub pouring water over her hair with an enameled pan. The lamp above the kitchen table reflected on the water falling through the long strands in crystal sheets.

  Travis had seen too much in his life, both obscene and immaculate—neither struck a deep chord in him anymore. But the beauty of the sight before him now, that of the rosy, softly curved woman in her bath, humbled him. He was surprised to feel a flush creep up his neck and face.

  He'd sat with Celia many times while she bathed. In fact, she'd made quite a flashy production of it, using it as a powerful means to arouse him when it suited her. It had rarely failed to reduce him to a sweating, desperate agony of desire. This was far different. This was just a woman in an old galvanized tub, washing with a chunk of that harsh lye soap she made. There was nothing flirtatious or romantic about it. But there was an intense intimacy to it that flustered him in a way that Celia's practiced pouting never did.

  He stood at the door watching Chloe wash her arm with an old piece of toweling, feeling like a Peeping Tom but not quite able to back away. Why did this woman so capture his interest? She often had a tongue as harsh as a rusty saw blade. She was tough and pushy, with strong opinions about the right and wrong way of things, and she sometimes made him so mad he'd pack to leave.

  But some indefinable pull she had always stopped him. He knew there was a soft side to her because he'd glimpsed it once or twice.

  He turned and quietly went back down the steps, his clothes still tucked under his arm, wondering what new torment his dreams would bring him after seeing this.

  * * *

  The following morning, Chloe brought in the last tray she was going to leave for Travis. It was foolish to continue this way. If his bad manners kept him from coming forward first, she'd just show him who the bigger person was, in spite of that kiss and—and everything.