“I did not!” Of their own volition the words shot from Trixianna’s mouth. She had the insane urge to reach out and bite that accusing finger. It took all her resolve not to do just that. “It was an accident, pure and simple.”
“You are an accident, pure and simple.”
Trixianna glared at Chance, unable to come up with an appropriate reply.
“Now, Chance,” Annie V. said with a sympathetic glance at Trixianna. Trixianna realized Annie was trying to come to her rescue before Trixianna did or said something stupid.
Annie V. wrapped an arm around his and looked into his stern face with a slow, secret smile. “I was just learnin’ Trixianna here how to play poker. We were having us a rip-roarin’ time and just plain forgot about the oven. That is, until it started belching smoke.”
Chance, his lips set in a straight line, his body taut with suppressed anger, unclasped Annie V.’s arm and stepped away. As he moved, his booted feet made a sucking sound that caused Trixianna to wince. He swallowed hard before settling an angry glare first at her, then at Annie V. “My God, Annie. Didn’t you smell anything?”
She shrugged her shoulders, then shook her head. “Well, as a matter of fact, no, we didn’t. Pretty odd, wouldn’t you say?”
“Odd?” He snorted derisively. “Were you teachin’ her to drink liquor as well? Or maybe our Mad Maggie already has that vice.”
“Why, sheriff,” Lolly drawled. “We—”
“Were just leavin’,” Chance finished.
“Yes, we were,” Annie V. agreed with a nod of her head. “And Chance.”
He looked at her.
“We weren’t drinking either.”
Annie surprised Trixianna by struggling into her ruined dress right in front of Chance. He seemed totally oblivious.
Without a word, Lolly and Gretel gathered up their bonnets and wraps and waited for Annie V.
The front of her once-beautiful dress was all but missing, singed beyond repair. She stood before Trixianna with her hands holding the bodice to her chest, a bemused expression on her face. Trixianna took one look at the ruined garment, then rushed to her room. Grabbing a knit shawl, she hurried back to the kitchen. She gently draped it around Annie’s shoulders to cover the fire-damaged bodice.
Annie V. gathered Trixianna in a hug. “Don’t you worry about the sheriff none,” she whispered. “His bark is worse than his bite…and I’ve heard tell that his bite isn’t all that bad either.”
Annie turned, and she and her brood carefully stepped through the muck, holding their hems off the floor. Although by this time it didn’t matter, for the gowns were beyond hope: scorched, filthy and irreparable. With a wave of her hand and a light chuckle, Annie ushered her girls over the threshold and out the door.
Trixianna stole a quick look at Chance. His bite isn’t all that bad?
He’d dropped into a kitchen chair, and as Annie departed, he absentmindedly shuffled the deck of cards.
Her face grew hot as she contemplated Annie’s ribald comment about him. She wasn’t sure about the context of that statement, but her imagination painted vivid pictures. She couldn’t help wondering how Georgette would have explained the phrase. Since her marriage, Georgette was much more knowledgeable of the ways between men and women.
Trixianna eyed Chance, gauging his mood. He wore an expression of complete unconcern, his anger apparently dissipated. She was beginning to realize that Chance’s temper flared suddenly, then disappeared just as fast.
He swung around in his chair. With eyes that flashed a firm warning, he gestured to Trixianna to sit across from him. Reluctant to inflame him again—now there was a great choice of words—she did as he silently ordered.
“Well, we’ve had a busy day, haven’t we?” he said, stating the obvious. His voice held a trace of humor and his eyes twinkled.
“You could say that,” she agreed.
“You didn’t try to burn my house down?”
She straightened her shoulders. “Of course not.”
Chance sucked in a quick breath, as his gaze, soft as a caress, dropped to her breasts. Then just as quickly, he jerked his gaze back up to her face. A dark flush worked its way up his neck. He cleared his throat. “Of course not,” he repeated.
The tenderness on his face surprised her. Had he forgotten who she was? It took a moment to compose herself enough to speak. “I really am sorry about the mess. Those ladies are a mite rambunctious, and they clearly don’t know their way around a kitchen.“
His gaze grew cynical as he took in the untidy condition of the room. “Now that’s the damned truth. Those ladies nearly burned my house down around my ears.”
“I know and I’m sorry. I’ll clean it all up, I swear. The stove, the floor, everything.”
“Um,hum.”
“Really, I’m sorry.”
His head shot up. “For Christ’s sake, quit apologizing.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shook his head and rolled his eyes. A glint of humor crossed his face.
“You’re not angry then?” she asked.
“Not by a jugful.”
“Thank goodness.” She jumped to her feet. “I’ll start right away.”
He reached out and clasped her wrist. His eyes held her, more surely than his hand. “Now just hold your horses.” He let go of her hand and motioned for her to sit.
Trixianna dropped into the chair. She held her breath as a wave of apprehension rippled through her. One thought danced through her head. He’s going to put me back in that horrid jail cell.
He arched an eyebrow, then with one thumb pushed his hat to the crown of his head. He scratched his forehead where a lock of ebony hair fell across his temple. He hesitated, blinking his eyes, before his gaze settled on her. “You know something? You’ve been nothing but a pain in the backside since I first set eyes on you. You’ve near done me in. I almost wish you’d run off just so I’d have a good excuse to shoot you.”
Her stomach churned with anticipation. Blood pounded in her head. Now what would he do?
He stood up and pushed away from the table. He paced across the room with exaggerated steps, and tossed his black Stetson on the peg by the door. He turned and looked at her, then shook his head. From somewhere deep in his chest, she heard a rumble of laughter. “Have you seen yourself?”
“No.”
He undid the buttons on his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves. Propping his hands on his hips, he glanced at her. His lips quirked in a smile and he laughed as if sincerely amused. “I’ve seen cleaner hogs wallowing in the mud. You look like you had a tussle in a pigsty…and lost.”
She jumped to her feet.
He held out his hands in a placating manner. “Now, don’t go gettin’ riled on me. I meant no harm.”
Trixianna headed for the bedroom where she could see for herself. He headed her off by taking her arm. “I believe I know women well enough to know you don’t want to see. Did you see Annie V. and her girls before they left?”
Trixianna’s cheeks burned as she thought of their appearance. They’d been covered in soot and flour and muck, and soaked from head to toe.
He led her to the sink, then pumped water into the basin.
“Is there any hot water left on the stove?”
She nodded.
He crossed to the stove, brought back the kettle and added part of it to the cold water in the basin. He tested the water first, then dunked a dish towel in the water.
He wrung it out, turned to her and began washing her face. He held her hair away from her face with one hand, and with the other gently scrubbed away the grime. His calloused hands were warm on her skin.
She closed her eyes, remembering. She well recalled the two of them standing in this very spot when she’d burned her fingers and how he’d kissed her with such tenderness. How he had gazed at her. She opened her eyes, looked into his face and wondered if he remembered, too.
Chance remembered, all right. Her nearness, her female scent, al
most brought him to his knees. Despite the fact that she looked like a drowned, bedraggled pup, he wanted her. His thoughts were very un-sheriff-like where she was concerned. He’d wanted more, much more from her. He’d known then, just as he knew now, it was wrong. All wrong. Guilt rocked his gut. Why did this woman, instead of Fanny, the one woman who should bring out his desires, have the ability to make him tremble with passion?
He couldn’t help liking her. Bank robber or no, she had spunk, a fire and glow that caught his senses and sent him staggering.
Unlike other females he’d known, she didn’t break into tears by the smallest setback. No matter what, she wouldn’t be cowed.
His feelings had nothing to do with reason. And everything to do with desire.
He backed away, his hands clenched.
“Let’s get this mess cleaned up. I’ve got work to do.” His voice came out gruffer than he intended, but he got her attention. She backed away, her eyes wide, her lips parted and moist.
It took all his control to keep from wrapping her in his arms and kissing her senseless. God, she was something.
He handed her a scrub brush and a bucket. “Go to it, Maggie.”
Soft words are hard arguments.
– Thomas Fuller, M.D.
CHAPTER EIGHT
BEFORE HE arrested Mad Maggie West and settled her in his own home, Chance used to walk the streets of Grand Ford twice a day. Nothing of consequence ever happened, but it put him where the townsfolk could see him and talk to him if they wanted. Everyone felt better knowing he was doing his civic duty. He felt better just getting out of his stuffy office.
After he arrested that woman, he made his rounds six times a day, making sure he walked by his own place each and every damned time. Most times all he needed to do was take a deep breath to know she was inside. The smells of her cooking made his mouth water and his stomach grumble. Generally speaking, and with no qualms whatsoever, he sneaked a look in the windows. He felt reassured by her presence, which only confounded his feelings about her more—after all, he still considered her a criminal. Didn’t he?
Today he froze at the window when he saw Mad Maggie holding a long-handled blade in one hand. And it was no kitchen utensil.
To Chance it looked more like an Arkansas toothpick. He had seen a few in his younger days, and knew firsthand that the weapon bore a deadly double-edged tip. The blade shut into the handle and could be easily sheathed. This particular dagger was not used to slice carrots.
She stood with her back to him, the knife raised at shoulder level. It looked lethal even in her small hands. Over her shoulder, Chance could just make out the shape of a man seated at the table. With a force he wouldn’t have believed if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, she slashed the blade down, and then brought it up again. The man didn’t move so much as a muscle when she brought the weapon down. Her voice pitched low, and Chance couldn’t make out her words. The man seated at the table seemed to be listening and not replying, nor did he display any visible reaction. What in the name of Hades was going on? Was she in danger…or was the man with her in danger?
Chance strode around the side of the house, and drew his gun. He reached the side porch, leaped over the steps and landed with a muffled thud upon it. He pushed the door open quietly and stepped inside. Cautiously, he strode down the hallway, his pistol leading the way. Anticipation thrummed throughout his body. His heart pounded with each breath he took.
“I’m sorry, Trixianna, but James is no solicitor.”
“What?”
“No, I must confess, he’s my valet.”
Her knuckles whitened as she clenched the weapon even tighter in her small grasp. “Then how am I going to get out of this mess if I don’t have a lawyer? I simply can’t do this anymore,” she said.
Chance entered the room on silent feet.
“Balderdash.” Even with Burnsey’s back to him, Chance recognized that distinctive British accent. “Your sister will come around.”
Surprised that Burnsey sounded so calm considering he was conversing with a woman who held a blade above his head, Chance stepped further into the room.
The floorboards creaked beneath his feet.
Mad Maggie swiveled and in one clean motion, released the knife. It sailed through the air with a quickness that left Chance startled.
The blade lanced through the thick leather of his holster. The pointed tip just nicked his leg. The solid leather held the quivering blade straight out from his thigh.
Keeping his gun aimed at Mad Maggie, he glanced down at the shuddering blade…stuck not six inches away from his private parts. He swallowed the lump that clogged his throat.
“My God, you have a wicked aim,” exclaimed Burnsey. He half-rose from his chair, glanced at Chance and sat back down.
Her eyes wide, she started toward Chance. He lifted the gun and pointed it straight between her eyes. She stopped dead in her tracks, her hands held out to her sides.
“You startled me,” she whispered. Her voice trembled.
“I startled you?” With his free hand, he jerked the dagger from the leather. Beneath his denim trousers, warm blood trickled down the outside of his thigh. “Are you out of your mind? You could have sliced my manhood clean off!”
Chance heard Burnsey snicker. He shot him a look guaranteed to cow lesser men. The laughter stopped, then silence met his stony stare.
“I’m sorry,” Trixianna said.
“You’re sorry? Hell, if you weren’t already under arrest, I’d do it again. Where’d you learn to throw a blade like that?”
She waved a hand at his pistol. “Why are you still pointing that thing at me?”
“I’m asking the questions here.”
She brushed her palms against her dress, then clasped her hands together at her waist. In a fragile, shaking voice, she said, “My papa taught me.”
“What the hell for? Is he a wanted criminal, too?”
“Now, Sheriff,” began Burnsey.
Chance pointed the dagger at him. “You stay out of this. I’ll get to you later.”
He turned back to Mad Maggie. “Well?”
“My papa’s dead.” Tears glistened on her eyelashes. He watched her visibly swallow.
Chance felt like a mongrel dog. Her low, tormented voice ate at his innards. He knew he should apologize, but the words escaped him. This strange woman had lacerated more than his leg. She’d punctured his pride and while she hadn’t done him any serious harm, his ego couldn’t take much more. Not once, but twice, she’d nearly killed him, and it galled him no end.
And what was more annoying, it didn’t seem as if she’d done it on purpose either time.
He holstered his gun and folded the blade. She flinched when he took her by the arm. He kept his grip light and led her to the table. He pulled out a chair and gently pushed her into it. Her body shivered beneath his hand.
He pulled another chair around, and crossing his arms over the back, faced her. Tears glistened on her lashes, but he could tell she was fighting their release by the way she bit her lower lip. With her body stiff as a railroad pike, she sat with her hands folded in her lap.
“Take a deep breath and start at the beginning.”
“Why?” She stared at him from eyes brimming with unshed tears. “You don’t believe a word I say.”
He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her furrowed brow. He wanted to rub her back and console her with warm words. He did neither. He held himself still and waited. The cool steel of the knife in his hand reminded him that she was no ordinary woman.
“You can cry if you like,” Burnsey said.
Trixianna jumped to her feet. Her chair teetered, then clattered to the floor. She refused to be mollycoddled. She knew Chance was just trying to get her to confess and Burnsey was acting like her father. She straightened her shoulders and glared at both men. “We Lawless women do not cry. No matter what.”
One of Chance’s brows rose in amusement. “Oh?”
“That’s right, Mr. Magrane. My departed papa taught my sister and me how to shoot a gun and throw a knife so we could take care of ourselves. He taught us to never back down from a problem, but to face it head on. He knew there would be men out there like you—”
“Like me?” He sounded offended.
“Yes. Men exactly like you who’d take advantage of our gentle natures.”
He grimaced, then partially rose to his feet. His clear gaze came level with hers. “Gentle nature? What gentle nature would that be?”
“Mine. I’ve told you and told you, in the most polite way I know how, that I’m not this West woman. I don’t even look like her, but you insist on keeping me here thinking I’m some…some, I don’t know, some common outlaw like Jesse James.”
“Sit down.” He righted her chair, then pointed at it until she sat. “Until you prove me wrong, that’s exactly where you’ll stay, too. You’re not helping yourself none by shooting me, burning down my house or this latest…” His face turned fiery red. “—disaster.”
“Disaster, Sheriff? Not quite, but it’s very quaint phrasing,” murmured Burnsey.
“Shut up, Burnsey. Don’t you have a bottle waiting someplace?”
Grinning, Burnsey bowed his head as if in studious contemplation of the contents within his tea cup.
“I thought I explained, Sheriff,” said Trixianna. “You just startled me. I’ve never actually thrown a knife at a real person before.”
He released a disgusted huff. “What’d you use?”
“That same knife you’re holding,” she explained.
“No.” He rolled his eyes as if beseeching heaven for patience. “What did you throw at?”
“Oh. A scarecrow.”
“Um-hmm,” he began. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “You’ve never knifed anyone before. Then just what the hell were you doing with it this time?”
“I was just—”
“Good Christ,” he interrupted. “Where have you been hiding it all this time? If I’d been doing my job you shouldn’t even have had a weapon on you.”
“It was in my reticule.”