Romancing the West (10 page)

Emily scraped her teeth over her bottom lip. This moment he didn’t look scholarly or delicate. He looked rugged and,
gulp,
dangerous. Her insides twisted and her mouth went dry. She’d never been this close to a half-naked man and though she knew she should look away, she could not. His muscled torso was most impressive. She’d seen paintings and sketches of nude men, but the real thing . . . Mercy.

He dipped his chin, took a calming breath. “You screamed my name. You blew into this barn like the devil was on your tail. You looked frightened and,” he gestured to her clothing, “quite frankly as though you’d been accosted.”

She looked down. The sash was gone and the robe gaped open. Her white chemise was sullied with soil and grass stains. She snatched closed the silk wrapper, blew meddlesome curls out of her eyes, and realized her hair was loose and most probably disheveled from the frenzied sprint. She closed her eyes and groaned.

“I thought maybe Sawyer or your blackmailer--”

“I don’t want to talk about him.”

“Which one?”

“Either one.” Her pulse slowed to a lumbering run. It helped that she wasn’t looking at his bare chest. Still, the outright mention of her blackmailer was distressing.  Pinkerton had refrained from bringing up her troubles last night. She’d been grateful, thinking he meant to honor her wishes, and not to interfere. Now, between the .45 and his being in the barn, she feared otherwise. “Why, pray tell, do you have a gun? Do you even know how to use it? I thought you were against violence.”

“Protection. Yes. And it depends.”

She blinked.

“The west is overrun with scalawags, Miss McBride.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Which brings us back to your blackmailer.”

She swallowed a frustrated groan. The man was tenacious. She almost wished he’d have another dizzy spell. “How much did Paris tell you?”

“Not much. I know he or she is demanding payment in return for silence. Other than that . . .” He shrugged, slid his spectacles back in place. They did not diminish his appeal. “Just that whatever he’s got on you, it’s tawdry. Your words, not Paris’s.”

She gave herself a mental kick for sharing that information. She’d meant to warn him off, but realized now she’d only fanned the intuitive detective’s interest. “Mr. Pinkerton.”

“About my name--”

“You have to leave. I don’t . . .” Her gaze flew to his. “What about your name?”

“Why?”

“Why, what?”

“Why do I have to leave?”

Her skin burned and she looked away.

He stood, removing his upper body from her line of vision and she released a pent up breath. “Because you saw me without a shirt?” he asked.

There was that. But mostly she didn’t want him snooping around her barn, her business. Bad enough her
Savior
had violated her privacy.

“Or because I saw your--”

“What?” Was her chemise that sheer? Had the neckline dipped, exposing a,
gulp,
breast? Or maybe he was referring to her other chest. “Saw my what?”

“Your nightshirt.” His green eyes softened as did his expression. “You have nothing to fear, Miss McBride. I’m not interested. No disrespect intended.”

“None taken.” Of course he wasn’t interested. She had the wrong, well, parts. Still, she tensed when he grasped her elbow and pulled her to her feet. Clutching the lapels of the robe with one hand, she used her other cuff to wipe her lenses which had fogged up. Goodness, it was warm in here. She flinched when he stepped in and touched her hair.

He frowned and drew back, producing a sprig of straw from the tangled mass.

“Oh,” she whispered, embarrassed by her over-reaction.

“Miss McBride.”

“Yes, Mr. Pinkerton?”

“Have I given you reason to fear me?”

“I’m not afraid of you.” He raised a brow.

“I’m just a little uncomfortable. I’m not used to being . . . touched.”

“You mean by a man.”

“By anyone.” She’d always been envious of the way Paris’s brothers showered their sister with affection. Hugs and hair ruffling had been commonplace in the Garrett household. When they’d been alive, her friend’s parents had been equally demonstrative. Perhaps because they were theater people.

Emily’s people, her parents, had been less . . . warm.

Realizing Pinkerton was looking at her with curiosity, and knowing she’d revealed too much about her-self, again, she went on the offensive. “Why
aren’t
you wearing a shirt, Mr. Pinkerton?”

“I worked up a sweat.”

She could see that. His entire torso glistened with the evidence of physical labor. She attributed her dry mouth and erratic pulse to rising panic. What if his exertion was due to him nosing about and finding her treasure chest? Although, these days her treasured collection felt more like a curse. “Doing what? I’m sorry, but, this
is
my property. What business do you have--”

“Repairing the stalls?”

She swallowed the word
snooping
and her tongue with it. She stared at the man and flushed from head to toe.

He snagged his shirt, and eased it over his head. “Yesterday, I noticed your porch steps were loose. I’d hate to see you or Mrs. Dunlap take a spill. Easy enough to fix but I needed tools.” He spread his hands wide. “Figured I’d find them in here. Thing is, once I looked around, I noticed the disrepair of the stalls. Your horse is fine in the pasture for now, but come a storm, come winter--”

“I had every intention of hiring someone to handle repairs,” Emily butt in, lest he think she was neglecting her human and animal boarders.

“But you lack the funds.”

Her skin flushed hotter. She needed to escape this inquisition and the rising mid-morning heat, but she refused to leave him behind. In the barn. With her chest. “Presently, yes.”

He gathered and placed several rusty tools into a splintered box. “I’m surprised a member of your father’s congregation didn’t offer his services.”

“Someone probably would have if they knew the property was in need. I don’t get many visitors.”

“A neighbor then.”

“Mr. Bellamont sent over his sons. I sent them away. I was polite about it, of course.”

“Naturally.”

“Cole offered and I declined. I don’t want to be beholden.”

“To your neighbors?”

“To anyone.”

“I’m not just anyone, Miss McBride. I’m a friend of the family.”

“All the more reason I can’t impose.”

“You’re not imposing.” He regarded her with a sidelong glance. “Truth told,” he said after a long moment, “the manual labor spurs my creative thoughts.”

She blinked. “It does?”

“I composed a poem while reinforcing the loose boards of the stall,” he said, while setting the tool box on a warped workbench.

“You did?”

“Fiddled with an idea for a short story while tightening the hinges of the gate.”

Thoroughly sidetracked, she edged closer to the man she wanted to escape just seconds before. “Would you mind sharing?”

“The poem or the short story?”

“Either one.” Talking craft with a fellow writer. She’d never been in this position.

He tilted his head as if giving her request serious consideration then balked. “I’d rather not. They need work and I’m not fond of sharing anything less than my best.”

I know what you mean!
she wanted to cry. She felt the same way about her own writing. She obsessed over every word, every aspect. Sharing one’s creation meant opening oneself up to criticism. Oh, yes. She understood his trepidation very well. She wanted to offer her help. Lord knows she could stand a fresh perspective on
her
current story. But what if he laughed or took exception? Wary of rejection, the old Emily held her tongue. Still, even the thought of exchanging ideas with another writer greatly lifted her spirits.

He buckled the holster around his waist and started for the main door, toward fresh air and sunshine. She followed, wondering how else to engage him in artistic conversation. She was thinking about the pacing of a short story versus a novel when he stopped and turned. “About your frantic entrance.”

Drat.

“You do understand my initial reaction? You burst in here in your nightclothes, shoeless, no less.”

“Yes, well . . .”

“Why?”

She stared down at her damp stockinged feet, trying to conjure a rational explanation without revealing the truth. She licked dry lips, cleared her throat, and spun a tale. “Imagine my distress, Mr. Pinkerton, when I woke to find you gone. I thought maybe . . . I was worried you’d succumbed to that concussion. I thought maybe, that is, when Mrs. Dunlap said you were in the barn . . . I thought about the . . .
disrepair
of the building and worried you’d slip, trip, hit your head or something.”

“You were rushing to my rescue?”

“That’s right.” She met his glittering gaze. “You think that’s funny?”

“A little.”

“Because you’re a man and I’m a woman?”

“Something like that.”

“I can take care of myself and Mrs. Dunlap. And you, too, if need be,” she added for good measure.

“And the blackmailer?”

“Him, too.”

“Paris was afraid you’d feel that way.” He braced his hands on his hips.

“I apologize for catching you unaware.”

“Pardon?”

“Shirtless.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll do my best not to make you uncomfortable if . . .”

“Yes?”

“Allow me to stay on for awhile. As a paying boarder. Paris will be appeased, knowing I’m contributing to your flagging funds. Maybe your blackmailer will perceive me as a threat and fade away. Lastly, you were right. Something about this region inspires me.”

Something about the way he looked at her made her jumpy. “It does?” Her voice sounded hoarse. She fingered her throat, cleared it.

“Creatively speaking.”

The clarification didn’t help. Every time he said the word
creative
or anything of a literary nature, her skin prickled with excitement. She didn’t want to confide in Pinkerton regarding her blackmailer, but she was dying to connect with another writer. “Creatively?”

“That’s right. I’d be obliged. I know you’re not interested in my deductive skills, but if I can assist you in any other way . . .”

She glanced at his holster. “How good are you with that gun?”

He smiled.

“That good, huh?” Suddenly, she wasn’t so miffed with Paris for sending along Phineas Pinkerton. Suddenly, she saw an advantage or two to his being here.

“You should do that more often,” he said.

“What?”

“Smile.”

Her joy was genuine and she didn’t try to curb it. She so seldom laughed these days. Scenes from last night flashed in her head. Pinkerton engaging Mrs. Dunlap in lively conversation at the dinner table. Pinkerton listening intently as the forgetful woman told the same story three times in two hours and reacting as though he were hearing it the first time every time. How engrossed he’d been in
Around the World in Eighty Days
and how he’d delivered Verne’s prose with passion.

She realized now that she’d felt safe enough with her guest to fall asleep in the same room. Her physical reaction to his naked torso and handsome features were unsettling, but she’d gladly weather the discomfort if it meant exchanging creative ideas. She hadn’t felt this inspired, this connected to a person since, well, Paris.