A Wanted Man (22 page)

Maddie served supper in the kitchen, on sturdy dishes with flowers painted on the edges, and the meal was delicious.

Maddie and Lark laughed a great deal.

Sam and Rowdy were more subdued, though they exchanged the occasional word or two.

“Are you coming to town for the dance tomorrow night?” Lark asked Maddie, and then wished she hadn’t brought up the dance, because Rowdy had said he was going to do
that
to her again, before or after.

If not on the way home that very night.

“If the weather holds, we’ll be there,” Maddie said. Mischief shimmered in her brown eyes. “I would surely
love
to make Sam O’Ballivan dance.”

Sam grinned, shifted a little on his chair. But he didn’t say he
wouldn’t
dance. Lark concluded, a bit wistfully, that Maddie could probably get him to do almost anything.

Too soon, the meal ended, and the dishes were done, and Sam and Rowdy went back out to the barn for the team.

“I wish you’d stay the night,” Maddie fretted.

“Suppose another storm comes up?”

“We’ll be fine,” Lark promised. “And Maddie?”

Maddie paused, looked at her curiously. “What?”

“Thank you for tonight. It was wonderful.”

Maddie smiled, approached and squeezed both Lark’s hands in her own. “You’ll have to come back,” she said.

A few minutes later, when all the goodbyes had been said, and Lark and Rowdy were driving away from the ranch house, the lilting strains of the spinet reached Lark’s ears, rippling over the melting snow like a silvery river.

She began to cry.

The moon was out, and they didn’t need lanterns to see by, so she couldn’t hide her tears from Rowdy.

“What is it?” he asked gently.

“The music,” Lark said. She’d lied for so long, about so many things, that she wasn’t sure of anything anymore, but she still mourned. “The music.”

Holding the reins in one hand, Rowdy tucked the blanket around her with the other. Held her against his side for a long moment.

She felt dangerously safe there.

They’d gone a mile or two, perhaps, when Lark reached out from under the blanket to touch Rowdy’s gloved hand.

He glanced at her, confused.

She swallowed.

“Lark?” he prompted.

“Do it to me again,” she said, appalled at the brazenness of her words. “What…what you did before. Stop the wagon and make me feel all those things again.”

Rowdy drew the wagon up alongside the moon-washed road, under the arching branches of an oak tree. Somewhere in the near distance an animal howled, the sound so lonely and forlorn that it stuck in Lark’s heart like a nettle.

“You’re sure?” he asked.

She nodded.

He climbed over the back of the wagon seat, made a little nest of the blankets there. Then, crouched, he held out his hand to Lark.

She let him help her into the bed of the wagon.

Let him lay her down.

He took off his hat, set it aside, and lifted her skirts.

This time, he removed her bloomers entirely. He bent her knees, parted them and lowered himself to her.

Lark gave a sob of welcome, and entangled her fingers in his hair, holding him close, seeking him with the motion of her hips.

He tongued her.

He suckled.

And she cried out to the wintry silver stars overhead as she spiraled up toward them and became a part of the night sky.

R
OWDY RETURNED
the hired team and wagon to the livery stable, after he’d seen Lark safely inside Mrs. Porter’s back door and heard the lock turn behind it, and as he walked toward the jailhouse, he wondered why he hadn’t kissed her good-night.

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t done plenty else.

He smiled at the memory of Lark’s responses, still felt the press of her smooth, bare thighs against his ears. Damn, but it had been all he could do not to claim her in the back of that wagon, on that pile of scratchy blankets.

She’d have taken fire, pitched beneath him like a wildcat. He knew she thought she’d released all her passion—but she was in for a surprise. She’d barely scratched the surface of what burned beneath this first surrender.

But he’d made up his mind to have Lark Morgan in a bed before anyplace else, and until that sacred time came, he’d be content to keep unwinding that watch spring, every chance he got.

The jailhouse was dark, meaning Gideon had probably locked up for the night, so Rowdy made his way around back. He smiled, wondering if Lark would stitch up that tear in her bloomers or wear them as they were.

He’d find out tomorrow night, after the dance.

There were lamps burning in his house, the light glowing yellow at the windows, and he heard Pardner barking and clawing at the door. It opened, and the dog shot out and rushed him, galloping around him in gleeful greeting.

Rowdy bent and roughed up Pardner’s ears.

Gideon loomed on the doorstep, a shadow rimmed in the glimmer of the lanterns. “Coffee’s on,” he called.

“Good,” Rowdy replied. Thinking of Lark, and the way she’d shouted out his name when she reached her climaxes, he needed to walk around in the dark for a while. Cool off. “I’ll be right in,” he added. “Just want to see to the horses.”

Gideon nodded and stepped back inside the house.

The lean-to was dark, but Rowdy could see his breath in the air. He reached for a lantern, struck a match to the wick.

And that was when he saw the paint, standing in his regular place.

Payton’s black gelding was gone, and there was a note stuck through a nail on one of the weathered poles holding up the roof.

“Keep your damn horse,” Pappy had written, in his curiously elegant copperplate.

When Rowdy had risen that morning, having slept on the cot in the jail cell, he’d known his pa was already gone, and he’d headed for the lean-to barn, right away, to confirm his suspicions and to mourn Paint’s leaving, if not his father’s.

The black gelding had been right where Paint was now. Gideon’s livery-stable nag was still there, too.

Shaking his head, Rowdy ran an appreciative hand along the animal’s side. Pappy had come back—God only knew when—and swapped Paint for his own mount.

What, exactly, did that mean?

With Pappy, it was hard to tell. He might have done it because he knew how highly Rowdy valued the pinto, but it could have been a petulant gesture, too. The note certainly implied the latter, but Rowdy wasn’t sure.

And he decided not muddle his brain by debating the matter.

He made sure Paint and the other horse had plenty of hay and water, Pardner getting underfoot throughout the process, then headed back toward the house. He was fit to be seen now, but his groin still ached, heavy with the need to finish what he’d started with Lark.

The fire was high in the stove, and the coffee smelled better than good.

Rowdy hung up his hat, took off his coat and gun belt and glanced at Gideon, who was sitting at the table with a book open in front of him.

Pardner lay down where it was warmest and sighed.

“Was Pa here tonight?” Rowdy asked, and he watched his brother closely while he waited for the answer, because he knew Gideon might lie for a variety of reasons.

Pappy might have told him to, for one.

Or he could be covering for the old reprobate.

Gideon shook his head. No color rose in his face to refute the silent assertion. His gaze was direct, and there was no apparent restlessness in his hands or feet. “Me and Pardner, we been here ever since we shut up the jail at suppertime.” He smiled. “Mai Lee brought a basket by, around sundown, and we had ourselves a feast. Fried chicken and biscuits.”

“That’s good,” Rowdy said, instantly reminded that he’d had a couple of feasts himself that evening, outside the one at Maddie O’Ballivan’s supper table.

In his mind he heard Lark’s voice again, repeating a fevered litany with increasing desperation. Rowdy—oh, Rowdy, please—

He shoved a hand through his hair, turned his back to Gideon to pour a mugful of steaming-hot coffee. Maybe he should have stayed out there in the cold a little while longer and pondered the mysterious workings of Payton Yarbro’s mind.

Gideon frowned. “Why’d you ask if Pa had been here?”

“Paint is back,” Rowdy said.

“What?” Gideon asked, sounding surprised. “I went to the barn right after supper, and Paint wasn’t there—only my horse and Samson.”

Rowdy risked turning around. He was still so hard he hurt, but the lantern light was dim enough, and he was settling down a little.

“Pa
must
have come back, then,” Gideon mused.

“And not very long ago, either,” Rowdy agreed with a nod, after a sip of his coffee, “if it was around suppertime when you checked on the horses.” He frowned. Was Payton still lurking around out there in the dark someplace, he and the black gelding? “He left a note. ‘Keep your damn horse.’ That’s all there was.”

Gideon grinned. “I know you and Pa get along about like lamp oil and well water, but it sounds to me like he was trying to do something good for you.”

Rowdy gave a contemptuous snort, but deep down he wondered if Gideon wasn’t right. Even hoped, just a little, and against all good sense and reason, that it might be so.

Gideon’s chair scraped against the floor as he shoved it back, and his grin was gone. “Why do you hate him like you do?” he demanded tersely. “He’s your
pa
.”

Rowdy considered that undeniable fact. Whether he liked it or not, and whatever he called himself to escape the fact, Payton Yarbro
was
his pa. Not John T. Rhodes. He’d never be his real self, for better or for worse, until he took back his right name.

And that, of course, was never going to be possible.

Suddenly he felt bleak inside. Hollowed out.

While Rowdy was pondering all these things, Gideon waited stubbornly for an answer.

“I don’t hate him,” Rowdy said, and realized in the moment he spoke that it was true. He didn’t need the old man’s admiration, or even his approval. If he never saw Pappy again it would be a month too soon, but he didn’t hate him. Not even close.

“You act like you do.”

“I’m not the one who knocked him clear back into the lean-to when he tried to leave the first time,” Rowdy pointed out lightly.

Gideon reflected on that, sagged a little around the shoulders. “Was he really such a bad pa to you?”

Rowdy shrugged, took more coffee. “He could have been worse. The fact is, he wasn’t around enough to tell what kind of pa he’d have made.”

“Pa never laid a hand on me,” Gideon said. “Not even once. That’s why I feel so bad about breaking his nose and all.”

Rowdy had known a much younger Payton, with a much hotter temper, especially when he began to get restless. Once or twice when he was little and his old man had hauled him off to the woodshed for a switching, Rowdy would have loved to break that arrogant Yarbro nose, just as Gideon had done.

“Pa wants you to go to college when you finish your schooling here in the territory,” Rowdy said. “He asked me to make sure you do.”

Gideon averted his eyes. He fancied himself a deputy marshal—Rowdy knew he’d worn that beat-up old badge to school that morning, pinned to the inside of his coat—and most likely he was about to argue that college would be a waste of time and money.

He ought to just get on with being a deputy.

Rowdy had a response at the ready. Gideon
would
make a good lawman, in part, ironically, because he had a streak of outlaw in him, along with that youthful idealism of his, but he’d be an even better one with an education.

Finally Gideon looked back at him. Swallowed hard. “I reckon I’ll go when the time comes,” he said. “To that college back east, I mean.”

“Good,” Rowdy said, surprised.

Suddenly Gideon grinned. “In the meantime, I don’t mind looking at Miss Morgan every day.” He gave a low whistle, one that would have raised Rowdy’s hackles coming from anybody else but his kid brother. “She was
something
in that fancy blue dress she wore today.”

Rowdy grinned into his mug, nodded. Lark had been something with that fancy blue dress up around her waist, too. Sweet and warm and juicy as a sun-ripened peach.

“Miss Langston—she was my teacher in Flagstaff—never wore anything like that blue dress. Folks would probably run her out of town on a rail if she did, and, anyhow, she’s about a hundred and she’s
square
.”

“Square?” Rowdy asked, mildly confounded. In his experience, women were round, or they were angular, or something in between, but he’d never run across a square one.

“Ruby says it’s because of her corset,” Gideon said wisely.

“Oh,” Rowdy replied, frowning. Still trying to work it out.

“I guess you’d have to see her for yourself to understand.”

“Guess so,” Rowdy agreed. “Speaking of Ruby—”

“I know,” Gideon said, evidently anticipating what Rowdy had been about to say. “I’ve got to go back to Flagstaff, soon as I can, and let her know I saw Pa and he’s headed for Mexico. And give back the livery-stable horse, too, so they don’t hang me for a horse thief.”

“I’ll go with you,” Rowdy said. “We’ll leave in the morning, at first light, if the weather allows.”

Gideon looked worried. “Do I get to come back here? Because I really like it better, even if I can’t visit Rose’s grave. I like being a deputy and going to school.”

“If you want to come back,” Rowdy told him, “you can.” He liked having Gideon around, and Pardner clearly did, too. He just hoped he wouldn’t have to leave them both behind, one dark day, to fend for themselves.

“You’re not dodging that dance tomorrow night, are you?” Gideon asked forthrightly. “Miss Morgan told that big farmer you hauled out of the wagon the other day that she was going with you.”

Rowdy had been about to raise his cup to his lips again, but at the mention of Roland Franks, his arm froze in midair. “He came to school?”

Now, why hadn’t Lark mentioned that, when they were together all that time tonight? They hadn’t been busy the
whole
time, after all.

Gideon nodded, frowning a little. “She wanted him to stay and take up his lessons again, just as if nothing had happened, but he stomped out of there meaning to ask Lydia’s mother if
she’d
go to the dance with him, and Miss Morgan was upset after that. She put her hands over her face and made a real peculiar sound—I thought she was crying, for a second.”

“But she wasn’t?”

Gideon shook his head. “She got over it real quick, and started up the lessons.”

Damn,
Rowdy marveled silently. Lark still thought she could handle Franks. Get him settled right back into the third grade. For an intelligent, spirited woman, she sure had some sappy ideas.

Rowdy was briefly tempted to saddle up, ride out to the Franks place, wherever the hell it was, and convince Roland that his school days were over.

He was even
more
tempted to walk over to Mrs. Porter’s, drag Lark out of her bed, try to get it through her boney little head that Franks wasn’t longing for the delights of higher education.

He had another kind of delight in mind.

Rowdy sighed. Franks wouldn’t be bothering Lark tonight, or even tomorrow, in the broad light of day, not after that scene in front of the jailhouse.

And if he, Rowdy, roused Lark out of a sound sleep and tried to reason with her, she might just be peeved enough to stitch up the seam in her bloomers.

Besides, he needed to get some sleep, especially since he and Gideon were making a fast ride to Flagstaff and back the next day.

He’d speak to Lark tomorrow, he decided.

Before the dance, since he had other plans for after.

L
ARK LAY RESTLESS
beside a soundly sleeping Lydia, her face flaming in the darkness of the room they shared.

What had possessed her to throw herself at Rowdy the way she had?

All right, the first time, when he’d said all those things about watch springs, and ducked under her skirts, he’d taken her by surprise. She’d practically been in the throes of—she swallowed—
passion
before she realized what he was going to do.

But on the way back from Sam and Maddie’s, she’d
asked
him to pleasure her again, like some hussy.