The door stood ajar. He gave it a push, his gun hand ready. The door creaked as it swung open. Hesitant to step inside, he stood beneath the lintel scanning the empty room. Even under the most ordinary circumstances, a woman’s bedroom made Chance uneasy. He had a nightmarish vision of an irate father toting a shotgun and an unwilling groom and a weeping bride standing before a preacher. He gave an involuntary shiver.
Inside, the bed was unmade. A white coverlet had been haphazardly thrown over the head of the iron bed. The sheets lay tangled at the foot. Her pink night rail lay puddled on the floor near his booted feet. Chance knelt down to pick it up, then stopped, his thumb just brushing the satin fabric. He yanked his hand back. He sucked in his breath as warmth curled deep in his groin and his head spun with unbidden thoughts. He released a slow breath. A breeze floated through the open window, fluttering the curtain and sheets. Her scent lingered in the room, surrounding him, exciting him. He turned to leave.
As he spun, his boot struck something soft and unfamiliar and a screech not unlike a pig squealing pierced his ears. He looked down. A white cat, the long fur along his back erect and his tail twitching, stared back with furious yellow eyes. Chance quickly lifted his foot and reached down to soothe the angry feline. The cat hissed, scratched his outstretched palm, then skittered away.
“What are you doing to that poor kitty, Sheriff?” The silky voice of Annie V. startled Chance. His face burned, but he didn’t dare turn around quite yet. His half-aroused body was slow to quiet.
She sidled around him to stare up into his face. “Ah, honey, did I surprise you?”
“Well, hell.” He shoved his Stetson lower on his brow.
She stood beside him, peeking into the room. “Ooh,” she crooned. Her avid gaze took in the rumpled bed. She turned her animated face upward and looked, good and long, at his face before she whispered, “Honey, you haven’t visited us in a while, have you?”
“I’ve been busy, Annie V.,” he grumbled.
“Sure you have, honey. I heard. How’s the shoulder?” She kept her avid gaze on his face, but one of her hands rested lightly on his arm.
He shook his head and smiled as he steered her outside onto the porch. He would catch hell with the busybodies in town just explaining how he and the owner of the Annie V. Saloon had come to be alone in the bedroom of the minister’s home.
“I hear you fainted.” Her tone was conversational; her eyes twinkled with amusement.
He swore aloud. “I didn’t faint.”
Annie V. chuckled. She bestowed a kiss on his heated cheek. “Whatever you say, honey.”
“What the hell are you doing here anyway, Annie?” He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the porch rail, doing his best to look unperturbed.
She was dressed as if she were on her way to a fancy shindig, in an unladylike, but easy on-the-eyes, low-cut dress. The thing was striped in two shades of god-awful purple, and she wore pink stockings and pink shoes. Her ripe breasts looked plumb ready to burst out of the damned dress. She looked about as out of place on the streets of Grand Fork as that Mad Maggie woman did in his jail. Startled by that thought, he wondered where it had come from.
“I always pick up Trixianna’s apple pandowdy at noon,” she said.
“Trixianna?”
“You know, Trixianna Lawless? That nice lady whose bed you were just slobbering over. The lady who shot you and made you swoon. The very same lady you’re holding in your jail. The—”
“All right,” he interrupted. “All right.”
“I was just hoping she made my pandowdy before you hauled her away. Do you honestly think that sweet, innocent Trixianna could do something like rob a bank? Really, Chance, I thought you were smarter than that.”
“Innocent?”
“As an angel in heaven.”
He stared at her.
“As a newborn lamb.”
His lips twisted as he tried to hold back a smile.
“As a June bride.”
A laugh worked its way up his throat.
“And as pure as the driven snow.”
“Her?” Chance threw back his head and roared with laughter. “So am I, Annie V., and so are you.”
Trixianna had watched Sheriff Magrane leisurely finish his coffee before he’d locked her away in the jail cell. Before leaving, he’d handed her a dried-out biscuit he’d pulled from his top desk drawer. It looked as tasty as baled hay, but she took it and, because she was brought up with good manners, had thanked him all the same. He’d informed her in no uncertain terms that it would have to do until supper. Next, he’d warned Burnsey to keep his hands off the keys and to start minding his own business.
He’d left then, backing out the door, his eyes staring daggers at the both of them. Burnsey had found his clothes in a bundle on the floor, and had also left, with a promise to return with his eminently respected attorney, who, he’d promised, would waste no time in releasing Trixianna from that horrid cell she now occupied.
By late afternoon, the eminently respected attorney had yet to arrive. Trixianna found herself bored and anxious and staring at the wanted poster that had begun this whole mess. Under scrutiny, she and the woman depicted there really looked nothing alike. That woman’s nose was bigger, much bigger, and her eyes were as cold as snow.
She admitted to herself that she could see the similarities and how the sheriff might mistake her for this Mad Maggie person…though her own face wasn’t nearly as round and her eyes weren’t quite as squinty. She could certainly understand how the sheriff could misconstrue her reasons for shooting him. What she couldn’t comprehend was how, after talking with her and hearing her explanations, he still thought she was a criminal. How could he still think she was Mad Maggie West?
She, Trixianna Lawless, who had never done anything remiss in her entire life. She was honest, open-minded and optimistic. She considered herself a forward-thinking woman. For twenty-five years she had been a dutiful daughter, a considerate sister, a generous and faithful churchgoer. She had been her papa’s willing cook and housekeeper in Abilene until his death a year ago.
After her papa died, she and Georgette, her twin sister, had continued living in the house that had been their family home. When Georgette married four months ago, her husband, Jonathan, had naturally moved in with them. Papa had left the house to the girls equally, and both sisters had agreed the only thing to do was to continue to share the house.
But now Trixianna was alone, estranged from Georgette because of a misunderstanding that started out so simply…and ended so wretchedly. She remembered the day vividly.
“Why, Jonathan, it’s a dove. Georgette will love it.” Trixianna had held the delicate porcelain figurine up to the sun shining in the bedroom window. She turned it this way and that so that its tiny features caught the glimmer of light. She smiled at the fragile simplicity of its design.
Jonathan’s eyes glowed with pleasure. “I sure hope so. Our three-month anniversary is tomorrow and I wanted to get her something special.”
“You’re celebrating your three-month anniversary?”
Jonathan blushed. “We celebrate every month.”
“I never knew you were such a romantic, Jonathan.” She kissed his heated cheek in an attempt to ease his embarrassment. “I’m sure she’ll be pleased.” Trixianna carefully rewrapped the statuette in brown paper and placed it back in the box from which Jonathan had removed it.
She got down on her knees to put it back under the bed where it would stay hidden until tomorrow. As she pushed, the box snagged on a wooden floorboard. Trixianna thrust her head under the bed. She slid the package farther back. Although the box was now concealed from view, in the process the front hem of her skirt got stuck on a nail sticking out of the floor.
“Is something wrong, Trixianna?” Jonathan lowered his head and peered at her.
“Yes, I’m stuck.” From where she was, half under the bed, she yanked, but the fabric refused to budge. “Could you pull m
y dress to the side? I’ve caught it on a nail and I really don’t want to rip it.”
Jonathan leaned over her back, pushing her skirt aside and partially baring her legs.
“That’s good, dear,” she stated. “I’ve almost got it.”
“Can I do anything more to help?” he asked. “Perhaps if I get under the bed, I could free it.”
“No, no. No sense you getting stuck under here, too. I just need to scoot to the side a bit.” Trixianna wiggled sideways, tangling her skirts even more.
Jonathan discovered he was standing on her skirt at the same time she wiggled. He lost his balance and fell forward onto Trixianna’s bottom. He clutched at the coverlet to keep from falling. She cried out as his weight toppled over her. “Jonathan!”
It was at this unfortunate moment that Georgette walked into the room. Her screech resounded against the four walls, sounding like a cat with his whiskers caught in the milk separator.
Jonathan scrambled to his feet, pivoting to face his wife. His hands still clutching the coverlet, he pulled it completely off the bed when he turned. Trixianna ripped her dress free and backed out from under the bed as fast as she could, but as she did, the quilt caught her skirt and effectively raised it up almost to her waist. She flushed miserably as she stood and tried to straighten out her skirt with one hand while holding onto the box with the other. She glanced at Jonathan, who also wore a pained expression. As she watched, his face turned from crimson to white as fresh milk. His mouth opened and closed, but no words came forth.
Georgette had a hand pressed over her mouth, and she was visibly trembling. She gulped hard, tears streaming down her face.
“How c-could you?” she choked out, her watery eyes on Jonathan but her words aimed at Trixianna. “With my own h-husband.”
Georgette spun toward Trixianna, turning hurt-filled eyes on her. “I despise you.”
A violent shiver ran down Trixianna’s spine. She had never seen such wrath on her sister’s face. In desperation, she spoke. “You’ve misunderstood what’s going on here, Georgette. Nothing! Nothing is going on. Honestly.”
Georgette snatched the box from her hands. Roughly, she unwrapped the package. “So now you’re getting presents, too.” She threw the lovely figurine across the room, where it hit the wall with a resounding crash. Crystalline shards rained to the floor like hot teardrops.
Georgette burst into deep, tortured sobs and ran from the room.
Jonathan gave Trixianna an apologetic look. She shooed him away with a wave of her hand. Her voice shaking with apprehension, she said, “Take care of your wife.”
There was no consoling Georgette that day or the next. She blamed Trixianna. She would not accept their explanations so Trixianna had left Abilene, feeling disgraced and humiliated for something she hadn’t even done. As she’d boarded the train for Grand Fork, Kansas, an unknown town chosen simply because it was the train’s first stop, she’d hoped Georgette would come to her senses soon and allow her to return home…
Trixianna’s stomach grumbled with nausea as she recalled that dreadful day.
But nausea wasn’t the only reason her stomach grumbled. She’d eaten only one stale biscuit all day. Hunger gnawed at her as well.
When the door swung inward, she breathed a sigh of relief. She hoped Burnsey’s lawyer was here to release her.
No such luck.
Sheriff Magrane sauntered inside, tipped his hat, then tossed it onto a chair. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the desk. As he studied her with something akin to male satisfaction, his clear blue eyes glittered.
“So, Miss West, how are we doing?” he drawled.
His emphasis on the name didn’t go unnoticed by Trixianna. From her perch on the cot, she raised her eyes to his, and pierced him with what she hoped was a withering glance.
He gave her an amused chuckle.
So much for withering glances. She stood up suddenly and as she did, her heavy chignon finally slipped its pins and tumbled down her back. She grimaced, then stepped close to the bars of her cell, her hands clasped together, her head held high. Much to her chagrin, her unruly hair tickled her neck and fell into her eyes. With a quick shake of her head, she tossed the burnished mass over her shoulder. She kept her hair tightly bound on purpose. When she wore it loose she felt it made her look girlish, and apparently so did the sheriff, for he gaped at her, his eyes wide with shocked surprise.
My God, she’s beautiful.
Chance stared, tongue-tied. With her rich, glowing russet hair loose, she managed to look downright erotic even dressed in her prim, high-necked gown. Her hair caught the scant afternoon light and surrounded her with a luminous halo of red-gold. The mist of her hair framed an oval face of near perfection—smoldering green eyes, ivory and rose complexion and a full mouth that begged to be kissed. And a handful of kissable cinnamon freckles. His lips tingled at the thought of doing just that while he ran his fingers through the heavy mass of her hair. While lying on that mussed iron bed back in her—
What the hell was he thinking?
Chance straightened and turned his back on his prisoner. His blood pounded, his face grew hot. His trousers became uncomfortably snug. With painstaking care, he moved around his desk and gingerly sat down. He kept his gaze on his desk, pretending to read the opened newspaper that lay there, until he felt he could look at her again without making a fool of himself.
He glanced up and gulped. She stood with her hands still clasped together in front of her, her delicate brows slanted in a frown. Her unwieldy hair flowed about her like a shimmering russet waterfall. He gulped again, glad of the desk in front of him and the bars that separated them.
“Are you all right, Sheriff? You look a little pale.”
“Huh,” he muttered, keeping his eyes down. He drummed his fingers on the wooden desktop, feigning disinterest, when all his thoughts were centered on the lady bank robber in his jail and all the indecent things he wanted to do to her. She had rattled him so badly his hands shook.
“Sheriff, I know you’d like to go home and rest, so why don’t you just release me under my own recognizance? I promise to stay put.”
“Huh.” Jesus, Mary and Joseph. He sounded like the town idiot. He felt like the town idiot. He glanced up and blinked. She was observing him with an intensity he found unnerving. She was obviously trying to catch his eye.
“Recognizance,” she repeated. “You know, you release me, I stay put until I have to appear before the judge or the marshal or whomever.”
His gaze on the newspaper, he answered, “I know what the damn word means, but my answer is no.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t trust you, that’s why not.”
“Look at me, Sheriff.”
She had no idea how sensuous her voice was. He looked at her, drinking in her beauty. How could he have not noticed her before?
“I’m hungry, you’re tired and we both just want to go home and forget this day ever happened.”
“Amen,” he muttered. He concentrated on his aching shoulder, and the heaviness in his groin slowly eased. If he kept his gaze below her eyes and above her breasts, he could do fine. That stubborn nose of hers reminded him that she was a criminal and not one of Annie V.’s good-time girls.
Suddenly, the door banged open and in burst Burnsey, followed by a well-dressed man, who looked somewhat familiar to Chance, and Annie V. Following close on her heels came Bertram Sinclair and, God save him from interfering relatives, Tildy O’Hara.
They all bore dinner trays in their hands.
Chance moaned aloud.
“Well,” Tildy asked, her voice like soured milk, “were you planning on starving her to death?”
“Lord, Tildy, she robbed a bank. She shot me.”
“So, that means you can’t feed the poor child?”
“Well, hell. It kind of slipped my mind what with all the confusion.”
Tildy scowled at him. He remembered the look fr
om his youth. He was now treading on extremely thin ice.
“She’s not a child, and I was gonna feed her—eventually.”
Tildy snorted before giving Chance an unpleasant glance. Uh-oh, he was in for it now.
“Well, I was.” Christ, now he sounded like a kid, defending himself. He forced himself to settle down. Glancing at the group crowded into his small office, he murmured, “Do you think she needs four meals?”
“I just brought her a little something from the diner,” admitted the store owner with a grudging scowl. “You know, for all the pies she’s brought me and all.” He dropped the tray on the desk and scuttled out the door, glowering at anyone who dared to comment.
For a moment, all was silent until Annie V. spoke, “And I consider Trixianna a friend—”
“Thank you, Annie.”
Chance had almost forgotten his prisoner. He looked over at her now. Her deep, green eyes glittered with what looked like genuine tears of gratitude. He almost choked on his disbelief. How could a cold-blooded criminal be grateful about such a little thing?
“—so I was going to share my supper with her.”
Burnsey spoke last. “I was coming with my lawyer anyway, and I thought she might be hungry.” The short, submissive man with Burnsey looked none too thrilled to be in the jailhouse. In fact, Chance thought he seemed likely to faint, and he looked about as lawyerly as Chance’s gelding down at the livery.
“Now, wait a doggone minute,” Chance bellowed. Everyone but Tildy jumped. “Who is this fella? I don’t recall seeing his shingle hanging anywhere in Grand Fork.”
“I’m not from Grand Fork.” The deep bass that sprung from the lawyer surprised Chance. He’d been expecting more in the way of a squeaky outhouse door, not the somber tones of an English aristocrat.
“And you are?”
“James,” he replied. “I’m originally from London. And, no, I haven’t put out a shingle as you so quaintly put it. I don’t need to.”
“Why’s that?”
”Chance,” said Tildy. “That is neither here nor there. This woman needs to be fed. Open up her cell immediately.”
“Aunt Tildy,” he remonstrated. “This is none of—”