The Gunslinger (9 page)

 

Epilogue

Five Years Later

P
U
SHING HERSELF UP
from the rocking chair on the porch, Lillian Wilder pressed her hand against her swollen stomach where her unborn child kicked. She was hoping for a girl this time.

Walking to the edge of the porch, she saw her husband strolling in from the distant cornfields, his three-year-old son perched on his shoulders, Toby loping along beside them. She watched as Chance threw his head back and laughed, and she knew Toby had told him something outrageous. She loved Chance's laughter, loved his smiles, loved him.

She heard a rumble and glanced toward the road. Her breath caught at the sight of the unfamiliar wagon. Slowly, she released her breath. Men looking to gain a reputation usually rode in on a horse. In the passing years only two had come to the farm seeking out the notorious Chance Wilder. They'd left disappointed, discovering that Chance Wilder could not be goaded, beaten, or threatened into strapping on his gun.

She didn't think the elderly couple pulling their wagon to a halt in front of her house had come to challenge Chance's fading reputation. She stepped off the porch. “Evening.”

The man looked at her with a piercing silvery gaze. “We were told this is Chance Wilder's place.”

She wiped her suddenly damp hands on her apron. “Yes, that's right. Chance is coming in from the fields now.”

The man climbed down from the wagon, and then helped the woman to the ground. Her light blue gaze was riveted on Chance as he strode toward them. The older man slipped his arm around her shoulders and drew her close as though what needed to be faced was better faced together.

Chance's stride faltered and slowed as he neared the house. Wariness guarding his features, he came to stand beside Lillian, his eyes drawn to the couple. He wrapped his hands around his son and lifted him off his shoulders, setting him on the ground between him and Lillian. A heavy silence stretched between him and the couple. Lillian slipped her hand into Chance's, surprised to find his trembling.

Tears welled in the old woman's eyes and spilled onto her cheeks. She pressed a shaking hand against her mouth. “Chance,” she whispered brokenly.

“Mama,” he croaked.

She held out her arms. “We're so sorry. Forgive us, son. Please forgive us.”

Chance shook his head. “There's nothing to forgive, Mama.”

Chance released Lillian's hand and crossed the short expanse, taking his mother into his arms, her heart-wrenching sobs echoing around them. “We were wrong, wrong to send you away,” she lamented.

“It's all right,” Chance murmured.

His father hesitated, then stepped forward to embrace his wife and son. They held each other for long moments as the years and regrets melted away. Finally Chance drew back. “I want you to meet my family.”

He held his hand out to Lillian. She stepped within the circle of his arm. “This is Lillian, my wife.”

Lillian smiled warmly. “I'm very happy to meet you. Chance has often spoken of you.”

“This young fella is Toby, Lillian's brother,” Chance said. “I consider him to be my brother, too.”

Toby beamed up at him, and Chance ruffled his hair. Then he lifted his son into his arms. “And this is our son,” he told his parents.

More tears welled in his mother's eyes. “Oh, Stephen, we have a grandchild. How wonderful! What's his name?”

Chance hesitated, shifting his gaze to Lillian. Nodding, she rubbed his shoulder.

“James,” Chance said quietly. “We named him James.”

In memory of the brother he'd lost, they had selected the name. Her chest tightening, Lillian watched as understanding dawned in the older couple's eyes. Chance had loved his brother, would never forget him, but he had finally reconciled his actions on that fateful day. They still haunted him, they always would. But rather than searching for a bullet, now Chance honored his brother's memory by tending the fields and his family. She didn't think his parents would ever truly understand what one shot from his rifle had cost him, but they were here now and it was long past time hearts began to heal.

“We were about to sit down to supper,” Lillian said. “Will you join us?”

“We'd love to,” Chance's mother said. “We have so many years to catch up on.”

“Toby, why don't you show them where they can wash up?” Lillian suggested, sensing that Chance needed a moment.

With his wife standing beside him, Chance stayed back, watching his parents stroll to the house, James between them, holding their hands. Toby opened the door and led them inside.

Lillian slipped her arm around Chance, and he drew her more closely against his side.

“They hurt you, and yet you forgave them so easily,” she said softly.

“If they hadn't sent me away, I wouldn't have you.”

“I'm not worth the years of loneliness and pain—”

He touched his finger to her lips. “Lillian, you're worth so much more.”

Lowering his mouth to hers, he kissed her deeply, tenderly. He remembered Toby's offer. He'd thought everything was a length of string, a harmonica, and a bent penny.

But everything had turned out to be love.

 

Don't miss Lorraine Heath's next spectacular historical romance!

Keep reading for a sneak peek at

Once More, My Darling Rogue

Coming Summer 2014 from Avon Books

 

Once More, My Darling Rogue

A
T THAT PRECISE
moment Drake Darling wished to be anywhere other than where he was, but he was well aware that in life one did not always get what he wished for. On occasion, he didn't even get what he deserved.

So he relied upon what he'd learned during his formative years about deception and he pretended that he was positively delighted, beside himself with joy, to be the center of attention. He much preferred the shadows to glittering ballrooms. He was most comfortable when not noticed, but he was at best a chameleon. He knew how to blend in even when the blending in took place within a room with mirrored walls, gaslit chandeliers, and the finest personages the aristocracy had to offer.

The one thing he was not feigning was his happiness for Grace and Lovingdon. He considered Grace a sister, even though their blood could not have been more opposite. For many years now he had been close to Lovingdon, a confidant on occasion, but more often a hell-raiser of late. Until Grace had captured the duke's heart.

Therefore, Drake couldn't very well not attend the celebration of their marriage. Only minutes earlier he'd caught sight of the happy couple escaping the ballroom. Normally the bride and groom didn't attend the ball held in their honor, but Grace was far from conventional. She'd wanted to dance with her father one last time. The Duke of Greystone's eyesight was deteriorating, although only the family was aware of his affliction. Another reason Drake was here: to acknowledge his debt to the man and woman who had given him a home. His presence was expected, and so he gave no outward sign to the six young ladies surrounding him that he wished to be elsewhere. He always did whatever was required to ensure the duke and duchess had no regrets about taking him in.

They were so young, the ladies who smiled and batted their lashes at him. Even the ones who were on the far side of five and twenty were too innocent for his tastes. They were all light and airy as though burdens were unknown to them, as though life encompassed nothing more than enjoyment. He preferred his women with a bit more seasoning to them, savory, spicy, and tart.

“Boy.”

An exception to his preference for the tart had arrived. The haughtiness of the voice set his teeth on edge. He should have known he'd not escape her notice for the entire evening. That Lady Ophelia Lyttleton was one of Grace's dearest friends was beyond his comprehension. He didn't understand why the sister of his heart associated with such an arrogant miss when Grace was the sweetest, gentlest person he'd ever known. Stubborn to be sure, but she hadn't a mean bone in her body. Lady Ophelia could not claim the same. Her presence at his back proof enough.

The ladies who had been gifting him with their attention blinked repeatedly and went silent for the first time in more than two hours. Because they were there, because he was striving to give the appearance of being a gentleman, he would spare Lady Ophelia the embarrassment of ignoring her. Even though he suspected he would pay a price for his generosity. He always paid the price. The lady was quite adept at delivering stinging barbs.

Slowly he turned and arched a brow at the woman whose head failed to reach his shoulder. And yet in spite of her diminutive size, she managed to give the appearance of looking down on him. It was her long, pert, slender nose that tipped up ever so slightly on the end. She had been a constant aggravation whenever she visited with Grace and crossed paths with him. But devil's mistress that she was, she was very careful to slight him only when Grace wasn't about to witness her set-downs. Because he loved Grace too much to upset her—and she would be appalled to know he and her friend were not on particularly pleasant terms—he had borne Lady Ophelia's degradations, convinced that he was walking the high ground while she was slogging along in the muck.

It made no sense to him that such a beauty could be such a resounding termagant. Her green eyes with the oval, exotic slant were challenging him with a sharpness that could slice into one's soul if he weren't careful. While he was twelve years her senior, as she had grown toward womanhood, she had mastered the art of making him feel as though he were a dog living in the quagmire of the gutters again. Not that others among the aristocracy hadn't made him feel the same from time to time, but still it irked more so when she was the one responsible for the cut to his pride.

“Boy,” she repeated with a touch more arrogance, “do fetch me some champagne, and be quick about it.”

As though he were a servant, as though he lived to serve her. Not that he found fault with those who served. Theirs was a more noble undertaking and their accomplishments far outstripped anything she might ever manage. She, who no doubt nibbled on chocolates in bed while reading a book, without thought regarding the effort that had gone behind placing both in her hand.

He considered telling her to fetch the champagne herself, but he knew she would view it as a victory, that she was hoping to get a rise out of him, wanted to prove that he wasn't gentleman enough not to insult a lady. Or perhaps she simply wanted to ensure that he knew his place. As though he could ever forget it. He bathed every night, scrubbed his body viciously, but he could not scrape the grime of the streets off his skin. His family had embraced him, their friends had embraced him, but he still knew what he was, knew from whence he'd come. If he told Lady Ophelia the truth about everything that lurked in his past, she would no doubt pale and the moonbeams that served for her hair would curl and shrivel in horror.

From the ladies circling about, he sensed their anticipation on the air, perhaps even the hope that he would put
her
in
her
place. He'd never understood the cattiness that he sometimes witnessed between women. He knew Grace had received her share of jealousy because her immense dowry had made men trip over themselves to gain her favor. But Lady O for all her dislike of him had remained loyal to Grace, had served as his sister's confidante, had been a true friend. She didn't deserve his disdain or a set-down in front of ladies who might have wished Grace less attention.

He tilted his head slightly. “As you desire, Lady Ophelia.” He turned to the others. “I'll be but a moment, ladies, and then we can continue our discussion regarding the most alluring fragrances.”

For some reason they had devised a little game that resulted in his striving to name the flower that scented their perfume. It required a lot of leaning in along with inhaling on his part, and soft sighs on theirs.

Lady Ophelia had arrived on a cloud of orchids that teased and taunted, promising forbidden pleasures that in spite of his best attempts to ignore, lured him. Of all the women, why the devil did she intrigue him? Perhaps because she offered such a challenge, had erected walls that only the most nimble could scale in order to gain the real treasure behind them. He was adept at reading people, but for the life of him he'd never been able to read her.

Twisting on his heel, he headed to the table where champagne and sundry other refreshments were being poured. He was acutely aware of her gaze homed in on his back. He suspected if he looked over his shoulder, he would see her whispering with the other ladies, warning them off. Little did she realize that she would be doing him a favor if she could ensure that he was left in peace. He had committed to three more dances, and wouldn't disappoint his soon-to-be partners by heading to the gaming salon before he'd completed his obligations. Nor was he going to give Lady Ophelia the satisfaction of ruining his evening by sending him on errands. One glass was all she'd garner from him.

He didn't know why, two years ago at Grace's coming-out ball, he had asked Lady Ophelia to dance. He had thought she had grown into an exquisite creature, and she was Grace's friend. While she had often looked down her nose on him, she'd been a child then and he'd assumed she'd outgrown childish things. He couldn't have been more wrong. With a horrified look, she had given him a cut direct. Turned her back on him without even responding to his invitation. It had not spared his pride to realize that others had witnessed the rebuff.

Snatching up a flute of champagne from the table, he wended his way back through the throng, not at all surprised to find that she had moved on. He considered downing the bubbly brew but hard whiskey was more to his liking, and then he heard her seductive laughter. How the devil could an ice maiden have such a throaty, sensual laugh, a siren's song that arrowed straight to the groin?

Irritated with himself for being drawn to the sound, he glanced back over his shoulder to spy her flirting outrageously with the Duke of Avendale and Viscount Langdon. Their families were well-respected, powerful, and wealthy. He was not surprised to see two other ladies in the group. The gents were sought-after, but just as he tended to avoid social affairs, so did they. Marriage was so far in their distant future that they wouldn't be able to see it with a spyglass. They were here only because they were close to both Grace and Lovingdon. But now that the happy couple had departed, he suspected Avendale and Langdon would be headed elsewhere for their entertainment.

Unlike Lady O they would invite him to join them.

Ophelia's laughter reached him again, only this time when the sound went silent, her gaze landed on him like a huge stone, then dipped to the champagne, and her lips tipped upward in triumph, just before she wrinkled her nose as though she smelled something quite unpleasant. Her face settling once more into deceptive loveliness, she shifted her gaze back to Avendale, summarily dismissing Drake in the process.

Unfortunately for her, he was no longer quite so easily dismissed.

O
RPHELIA KNEW A
quick spurt of panic. Darling strode toward her with purpose in his step, his large hands—a workman's hands—dwarfing the flute he carried. His expression shouted that he was tossing down the gauntlet and she feared she might have misjudged his mood tonight, that managing him might be more challenging than she'd expected, but manage him she would. She would not be cowed, not by him, not by any other man for that matter.

He was a commoner who came from common beginnings. He might wear the outer trappings of a gentleman, but she had no doubt that deep down he was a scoundrel, with a scoundrel's ways, and a penchant toward sinful behavior.

She didn't know why that thought caused her to grow uncomfortably warm. It was the crowded room, the gaslit chandeliers, the layers of petticoats, and the tight corset. She certainly wasn't imagining those hands exploring her body. She was not of the streets. She was a lady. And ladies did not contemplate such things.

But as he neared, something within the black depths of his eyes twinkled as though he knew precisely where her errant thoughts had journeyed and was more than willing to serve as her companion on a sojourn into wickedness. He was not handsome, at least not classically so. His features were rugged, craggy, as though shaped by an angry god. His nose was too broad, his brow too wide. His jaw too square. She could see the beginning of shadow, bristles that hadn't the decency to wait until later to appear. Why was she wasting her time cataloguing each and every inch of him when she had lords aplenty willing to give her attention?

As he came to a halt in front of her, he gave his gaze free rein to take a leisurely stroll over her person. Breathing became difficult, and she had a horrid fear he would find her lacking. She drew back her shoulders. What did she care regarding his opinion of her, when his opinion was of no worth?

“Your champagne.”

His rough, deep voice wove something dark and sensual around the words. She suspected he wasn't a silent lover, that he whispered naughty things into a woman's ear.

“You were so remarkably slow in retrieving it that I'm no longer of a mood to drink it.”

“Surely you'll not deny yourself the pleasure of allowing these bubbles to tickle your palate.”

He wrapped a wealth of meaning around the word
pleasure
. That he would be so bold as to speak to her with such disregard while others were near . . . it was not to be tolerated. But for the life of her, she could think of no witty rejoinder because he was studying her as though he could well imagine
her
tickling
his
palate.

“With your tarrying, I believe it has gone flat,” she said, before turning her back on him. “Avendale, I believe you were discussing—”

Drake Darling had the audacity to wedge himself between her and the duke. His eyes were narrowed, his jaw taut. “Lady Ophelia, I must insist that you take the champagne.”

“You,
boy
, are in no position to insist on anything where I am concerned.”

His gloved finger tapped the side of the flute, while his gaze bored into hers, and she could fairly see the wheels of reprisal turning in his mind. She didn't know why she sought to provoke him, yet something about him unsettled her, always had. She wanted to put him in his place, to remind him—and herself—that he was beneath her. Her father had taken a belt to her backside and bare legs when he once caught her speaking with Darling. She'd been twelve at the time, but it wasn't a lesson easily forgotten. She was not to associate with anyone not of noble birth.

“So be it,” he murmured, lifting the glass. He tilted back his head and downed the golden liquid in one long swallow. She could see only a bit of his muscles at his throat working, because a perfectly tied cravat hid the rest from view. But his neck, like the rest of him, was powerful. Moving aside the glass, he licked his lips, satisfaction glinting in his eyes. “Not at all flat. Quite pleasant, actually, like the kiss of a temptress.”

Anger, hot and scalding, shot through her. He was mocking her, ridiculing her. It didn't matter that she had begun this little drama with her earlier request. He was supposed to scurry away when he realized she no longer had an interest in the champagne. He wasn't supposed to make her wonder if any lingered on his lips, if she might taste it there. “Boy—”