Justin's Bride (2 page)

“Afternoon, Megan.”

She spun toward the voice. Mrs. Greeley, the butcher's wife, strolled by her.

“Good afternoon.” Megan almost choked on the words. She'd forgotten that guilt made her throat dry. “Fine weather we're having.”

The older woman hiked up her skirts to almost her knees and waded through the mud. “If you don't mind a little mess,” she called over her shoulder.

Megan stared at the front door. Indecision gripped her. Oh, just get it over with, she told herself firmly. She had to do it now before someone else she knew came along. What was the worst that could happen?

She gripped the door handle and turned it. The door swung open silently, and she stepped inside. Until that moment, Megan hadn't realized she'd never been inside the sheriff's office before. She'd had no reason to come here. She'd never sworn out a warrant against another or been accused of a crime. Her father had conducted his business with the sheriff in the small office in the back of the general store.

Standing by the door, she slowly studied the room. The walls hadn't been papered. Posters of wanted men hung on the bare wood. Dappled sunshine highlighted the floor scarred by boot heels, spurs and tobacco burns. Three desks, two smaller ones on each side and a larger one in the center of the room, took up most of the space. There were two doors leading into the back. Both of them were closed. Except for the furniture and herself, the room was empty.

She stepped inside and breathed a sigh of relief. There was no one to witness her potential humiliation at the hands of Justin Kincaid. Of course, there wasn't any Justin Kincaid, either.

She moved closer to the large desk. A box sat on top. The cover had been pushed aside and she could see pencils and papers, along with a pair of handcuffs. She saw the edge of a pocketknife at the bottom of the box. Initials had been carved into the side, but she couldn't read them. She didn't have to. Justin had always put his initials on his pocketknife. No doubt the JK carved on this knife would match the one she kept in the bottom drawer of her jewelry box.

It
was
him. He'd come back.

“This is a surprise.”

She jumped when she heard the man's voice, and her head jerked up. He stood by the back door, beyond the afternoon light filtering through the windows behind her. She had trouble making out his individual features. Even so, she knew the man. She recognized the broadness of his shoulders, the tilt of his head and the easy grace of his stride.

As he walked toward her, he moved in and out of the shadows. For a second, his face was clear to her, then hidden, then clear again. She hadn't realized she was backing up until the desk was between them. It should have made her feel safer, but it didn't. She took one more step to the side and the sun illuminated him fully. She wished she'd left him in shade.

His hair was as dark as she remembered, and as long as ever. The dark brown layered lengths reached to the bottom of his white shirt collar. Equally dark eyes flickered over her face and body with all the impersonal appraisal of a horse buyer inspecting a brood mare. But she was too intent on her own study to take much offense. The lines by his eyes had deepened. Was it from the weather or had he had reason to laugh and smile these last seven years? The hollows of his cheeks made his mouth look fuller than she remembered. His square chin and angular jaw were still thrust forward in stubborn defiance. She'd told him that once. He'd asked what other kind of defiance was there.

She'd laughed then, and he'd joined in. Their laughter had led to kisses, and then he'd touched her waist. His hand had slipped higher and—

“So. You've come to welcome me back,” he said, taking the straight-backed chair in his hands. He turned it neatly and straddled the seat, folding his arms along the top of the back. “I'm honored. Is it me, or do you welcome all newcomers to town?”

She stared, not quite able to believe that he'd actually taken a seat without offering her one. She shook her head. Why was she shocked? He was behaving exactly like the Justin she remembered.

“Come now, Megan, are you here simply to stare at me? Has it been that long since the carnival came through town? I don't remember your being this quiet.”

She gave him her best glare. “Welcome back, Justin. No, thank you for the kind offer of a chair, but I prefer to stand.”

He raised his dark eyebrows. “Oh, a temper. I don't remember that, either. Did you want me to get you a seat? You'll have to forgive me. Being the town bastard, I tend to forget my manners.”

She flinched as if he'd struck her. Before she could gather herself together enough to think about leaving, he rose to his feet and grabbed a chair from behind the desk on his right. He carried it over and placed it next to her.

“Please.” He motioned to the chair, giving her a mocking half bow.

They stood close, now. Close enough for her to see the pure color of his eyes. No flecks of gold or green marred the deep brown irises. She'd never been able to see what he was thinking, and today was no exception. She was close enough to count the individual whiskers on his cheeks. Close enough to study the scar on his chin. Her fingers curled tightly against her palms as she remembered what it was like to touch that chin. The contrast of textures. The rasp of the stubble, the hard line of the scar, then the damp heat of his lower lip.

His scent surrounded her. The fragrance of his body, a unique blend of man and temptation, filled her lungs and made her knees tremble. It had been so long, she thought as she swayed toward him. So very long. His eyes locked on hers. She felt her fear fade as a fiery weakness invaded her. Her breath caught in her throat and she exhaled his name.

“Sit down, Megan,” he growled, holding the chair in one hand and pushing her shoulder with the other. “Sit down and tell me what the hell you're doing in my office.”

His anger completed the job his nearness had already begun. Her knees gave way and she sank onto the seat.

“I'm sorry,” she said. Embarrassment flooded her, making her duck her head in shame. How could she have reacted to him that way? She stared at her hands, twisting them together on her lap.

She didn't hear him move, but when she finally gathered the courage to look up, he was back behind his desk, straddling his chair. Nothing in his expression gave away his feelings, but his anger lingered in the room. She could smell it when she breathed.

“This was a mistake,” she said. “I should never have come here.”

“Why did you?” he asked and folded his arms on the back of the chair.

He wore a black vest over a white shirt. Convention required that all the buttons be fastened, even on the warmest of days. There was still a bite of winter in the air, but Justin wore his shirt open at his throat. She could see the hollow there, his tanned skin and the hint of the dark hairs on his chest. Once, when they'd sat on the edge of the creek on a summer night, once, when she'd sipped from his flask and felt the heat in her belly and the languor in her limbs, she'd kissed that spot. She'd tasted his skin and felt his heat. Once, he'd moaned in her arms.

Foolish memories best forgotten, she told herself. He was angry at her. She couldn't blame him, of course. He had every right to be angry, more than angry. He should hate her.

“I came to find out if you were really back.” Megan reached up and unfastened her cloak. It slid off her shoulders and onto the chair back. “And you are.”

His gaze narrowed. “Don't play your games with me, Megan. You could have asked any number of people if I was back,” he said. “Why are you here? What do you want from me?”

“Oh, I couldn't have asked about you. People would have wanted to know why. I couldn't have them think—”

She bit back the rest of her sentence, but it was too late. For the second time, he rose from his seat. He didn't bother concealing his anger. It flared out from him, tightening the line of his jaw and pulling his mouth into a straight line. His arms hung loosely at his sides, but his hands were balled into fists. She shrank back as he approached.

“
What
couldn't you have them think?” he asked. He came to a stop in front of the desk.

“I—I didn't mean to say that, exactly.”

“What
did
you mean? Exactly.”

She couldn't look at him. She couldn't bear to see the censure in his eyes. He did hate her. She saw it as clearly as she saw the man before her.

She buried her face in her hands. “I'm sorry,” she whispered. “So sorry for all the things I said.”

“But not for what you did.”

He spoke so softly that at first she thought she'd imagined the words. She looked up. He sat on the corner of the desk in front of her.

“You're sorry you called me the town bastard, but you're not sorry you didn't come with me.”

He said the words flatly, as if they had no meaning. She searched his eyes, hoping for a clue to his feelings. Nothing. The brown depths offered nothing except tiny twin reflections of herself.

“I'm sorry I hurt you,” she said, hoping her apology would be enough.

“Oh, no, Megan. It's not that simple.” He moved quickly, stepping in front of her and crouching down. He stared at her face. “It's the words you used that bother you. Not the deed.”

“Stop it,” she commanded, but her voice was weak, and she had no power to make him stop. She couldn't even escape. She would have to push him away. To do that would require her touching him, and as surely as she knew her name, she knew if she touched him, all would be lost. “What do you want from me?”

“The truth, Megan. For once in your sorry life, tell me the truth. I'll accept that instead of your apology.”

Now
her
temper flared, quarreling with the confusion inside of her. She didn't know this angry stranger. He wasn't the Justin Kincaid she remembered from her childhood, or the young man who had made her fall in love with him seven summers ago. He was hard and frightening, mocking and cold. She wanted to run away and forget she'd ever been here. She wanted to forget the heat of his stare and the scent of his body and the way his hands reached for hers, holding them tight.

“The truth,” he growled. “Say it.”

His fingers squeezed hers. His hands had always been hard from his long hours working in the livery stable. Time hadn't changed that. He pressed until her fingers dug into her own palms. The sharp pain shocked her into action. She jerked free of his touch and sprang to her feet. Stalking across the room, she drew in deep cleansing breaths.

“Yes,” she said loudly, turning to face him. “Yes, I'm sorry I said those things, but I'm not sorry I stayed here. I'm not sorry I didn't go with you.”

He stood and smiled at her. There was no humor or kindness in the curve of his lips or the flash of his white teeth. She felt chilled and folded her arms over her chest.

“Are you satisfied?” she asked.

His smiled faded. He returned to his seat. “No,” he said without looking at her. “But you told me the truth. At last. Does your husband know about your habit of avoiding the unpleasant?”

“Husband?” Oh, Lord, he thought she was married. Megan was glad her gloves hid her bare left hand from him. Married. When he found out she wasn't, was he going to assume she'd waited for him? Oh, he couldn't. She hadn't, of course. There were plenty of reasons she hadn't married, and none of them had anything to do with Justin Kincaid.

“I don't avoid the unpleasant,” she said, staying well away from him. “What about your wife? Does she know you accost strange women in your office?”

This time his smile was genuine. She'd forgotten about the dimple in his left cheek, and the way his eyes crinkled when he was amused. Against her will, her own lips turned up at the corners. Justin had always had the ability to charm her, no matter how hard she tried to hold on to her anger, or her sensibilities.

“You were hardly accosted, Megan.”

“You know what I mean.” Cautiously, she approached the chair he'd given her. She sank onto the edge of the seat, prepared to spring up at the least provocation.

“No, she doesn't know I accost women in my office.”

His words shouldn't have surprised her, but she felt as punctured as a pincushion. Who would have thought he had married? She recalled her worries of that morning. How she'd wondered what she would do when she came face-to-face with him. She'd been torn between hoping he would remember what had gone on between them, and fearing that he would want to continue the relationship. Now there was no question of that. Married.

“Who is she?” she asked, hoping he wouldn't notice that her smile had faded.

He folded his arms over the chair back. “Who?”

“Your wife.”

He gave her a lazy wink. “What wife?”

She sighed. “Justin, even you cannot treat your wife with such disrespect. Who is the woman you married?”

She could see his humor fade, and with it the man that she remembered. The cold, angry stranger returned. “You mean, even the town bastard should know how to treat a lady? What makes you think I married a lady?”

“Your time away has taught you a quickness I cannot match.” She picked up her cloak and drew it over her shoulders. “I apologize for any insult I may have spoken. It was, I assure you, unintentional. I wish you and your good wife well.”

“There is no wife, Megan. A widow woman tempted me once, but I managed to escape.”

Her anger was gone, battered by his overwhelming presence. She wasn't afraid, what with half a room and his desk between them. Her knees still trembled from his handsomeness, but she would be able to overcome that weakness. Which left only confusion. Why did he toy with her? Was this his punishment for her actions seven years ago?

No. If he sought punishment, that would mean he still cared for her. It couldn't be true. Even if it was, nothing had changed. He was still Justin Kincaid and she was—