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Branch reined to a halt outside an unpainted two-story building with a pitched roof hidden behind a false front, sandwiched between Kelly's Poker Palace and the Blue Horn Saloon. Glancing up and down Main Street, Jenna calculated there must be two dozen saloons and gaming houses. McCauley might be right about Black Jack Mendoza coming to Park City. The town looked to be a haven for gamblers and crooks.
Wondering why they had stopped at this building, she looked up at the sign overhead. It read The Silver Bullion Hotel and Mercantile.
Branch dismounted and came to help her down. Her first instinct was to shove him away and tell him he was a jackass for insinuating she couldn't get down off her own horse by herself. But the instant his hands touched her, a warm shiver surged through her, leaving her helpless. He set her on her feet, his strong hands firm on her waist, his powerful body so close that she could feel his heat. His eyes formed opaque pools of green light, cold and assessing. For a long moment, they stared at each other, trying to read the other's mind. At last, he stepped back, letting one hand fall. The other remained at her waist, guiding her up the steps to the store's broad porch.
The wooden rockers of a chair squeaked as a frail-looking man rose to greet them. He wore a long gentleman's sack coat in a natty tweed and a fashionable navy vest—dangling gold watch chain and
all—combined with a miner's tan, denim work pants, and canvas-topped boots.
His wide-brimmed cowpuncher's hat looked as though a burro had chewed on it, as well as the kerchief tied around his neck in lieu of a proper cravat.
Like Branch McCauley, he was bearded, except the younger man kept his hair trimmed close to his face. The older man's flowed full and starkly white. Only the thrust of a pipe marked the location of his mouth. All he needed to complete the picture of a typical sourdough prospector was a burro and a pick.
His speech as he addressed McCauley surprised Jenna, sounding like that of a cultured and educated man, the voice clear and resonant rather than soft and feeble as she had expected it to be. The concern and affection for McCauley on his warm, weathered face filled her with longing. Why couldn't her grandfather, Benedict Treadwell, have been like this man instead of cold and stern, with an autocratic gaze that made her feel ugly and unlovable?
"Hello, Pops," Branch grinned as he shook the man's hand.
"Everything going all right?"
"You got home at a good time." Pops glanced at Jenna as though hesitant to speak in front of her. "I'm eager to get your opinion on the blasting we did in Drift No. 2."
Branch reached into his pocket for his cigarette makings. "Unusual results?"
"You might say that."
The old man's gaze on her made Jenna wish she'd had a chance to clean up. Like Branch, mud covered her from tip to toe. Her hat, also filthy, had been pulled low to hide her hair and shade her eyes.
"You aren't going to tell me this pup here is the scoundrel who shot your brother, are you?" Pops inquired. "He doesn't look mean
enough to shoot a jackrabbit, let alone a full-grown man."
Branch twisted the ends of his cigarette to seal them and chuckled. "Don't you go underestimating this 'pup,' Pops. Her bark is the most vicious I've ever encountered, and her bite's none too pleasant, either."
Faded gray eyes lowered to Jenna's baggy trousers and boy's coat. "Well, I'll be. Never know what to expect from females these days, do you?"
Branch glanced at her through the smoke of his cigarette. "Especially this one. But she's definitely female." As if to prove his words, he snatched off her hat. Her hair tumbled down around her shoulders in a wild array of dark, tangled curls. Jenna had the crazy idea McCauley's tone held a touch of admiration before he turned back to the old man. Crazy.
He straightened abruptly, his forehead crinkled with worry. "Are you all right, Pops?"
Jenna saw then that the man's face had gone pasty white, his eyes glazed. His pipe had fallen to the porch, but he didn't seem to notice.
Branch clutched Pops' shoulders with strong hands and steadied him. "Dammit, have you been hitting the sauce again?"
Pops tore his gaze from Jenna. He coughed and licked his lips. "No, I'm fine, son. Fine. Must have swallowed wrong and sucked smoke into my lungs."
Branch retrieved the pipe and handed it to him. They stood in silence while the old man busied himself cleaning the dottle from the bowl. Still scowling, Branch examined him with sharp, assessing eyes.
"By the way, have you seen any strangers ride in this morning?"
Pops looked up in surprise. "You suspect the assassin might be fool enough to return here?"
Branch shrugged. "We lost him during the storm last night in Emigration Canyon. He wouldn't dare go back to Salt Lake. If he thinks I'm still behind him trying to trail him through the mud, he might come here to hole up. No one would recognize him but me. And Eugenia here." He turned toward her then. "Sorry. Eugenia Leigh-Whittington, meet Rembrandt, my partner."
She offered the old man her hand. "You're Branch's father?"
Branch chuckled, but Rembrandt merely cradled her hand in his long, thin one as though it were made of fine china. "No, I'm only his partner and friend, I'm sorry to say. I hope you and I will become good friends as well."
"That would be nice." Feeling uncomfortable beneath the scrutiny of those intense, gray eyes, Jenna searched for a way to ease the awkwardness. She retrieved her hand, fished inside her coat and brought out a faded photograph. "Perhaps you could help me. Have you seen this man? I'm trying to find him."
Seeing the uncertainty mirrored in the smoky blue depths of her eyes, Branch stepped closer for a better look at the photograph. A woman the spitting image of Eugenia and about the same age stood with her hand on the shoulder of a man seated in a chair. Eugenia's parents; no question. The pretty woman lacked the fire and grit that set Eugenia on a plateau all her own. The man was in his early thirties, clean-shaven with eyes that sparkled as though he had the world by its tail and knew it.
"Your father?" Rembrandt asked.
"Yes, my father." Her voice was as sharp and lethal as the skinning knife sheathed at Branch's waist.
Rembrandt's hands jerked, nearly dropping the photograph before Jenna rescued it from him.
"Are you sure you're all right?" she asked.
"Yes. I'll just rest here a moment. You go on in, Branch. Maura's been frantic about you."
"All right, Pops, but I'll be back to check on you." He slid his hand possessively about Jenna's waist. "Come on. Women are outnumbered around here so Maura's liable to talk your ears off, but you'll like her once she gives you a chance to breathe."
The Silver Bullion Mercantile resembled every other small-town store Jenna had seen in the West, except for the gleaming bars of silver and gold bullion stacked on platform scales under a sign that read Express Office. Several men stood about gossiping while they watched the shipment get weighed. Fragrant cigar and pipe smoke hung in a cloud above their heads.
Shelves stacked with goods from shoes to preserves lined the walls. Among the umbrellas, lanterns, copper kettles, shovels, picks, and wash tubs suspended from the ceiling hung a single brass bird cage. Glass cases on counter tops contained pocket knives, pipes, and watches. At the end of one counter stood a fancy, red coffee grinder.
Jenna inhaled the musty odor of potatoes flavored with the bite of kerosene. Wool. Gunpowder. Cinnamon. Onions. Pickles. And peppermint sticks. Her stomach growled. They hadn't eaten since morning.
In the center of the room, midst cracker barrels and bushel baskets of produce, a half-dozen chairs sat around a glowing potbellied stove reeking of wood smoke. A table held a checkers board, set up and ready to play.
Every man in the place stared at Jenna as though seeing her as some sort of royalty. Hats were removed, cigars ground underfoot. Glancing nervously at Branch, she was about to suggest she wait outside when a teenage boy wearing sleeve protectors stepped from behind the express desk.
"Ma! Uncle Branch is back."
A red-haired woman with freckles on her nose and skin the color of cream raced from the back and threw herself at Branch. "Praise the Lord, you're back safe. I'll be saying ten rosaries tonight, ye can be sure o' that. And I'll have a novena said when Father O'Connor comes next."
"What? No candles lighted for the Virgin Mary?"
"Aye, I'll do that, too, and gladly."
Laughing, he caught her up in his arms and swung her in a circle. Her skirts flew out about them; her face nestled in the hollow of his neck. When he set her on her feet, she ran her hands over his face and down his broad shoulders, then stood back to let her gaze roam his body as if to make certain he remained in one piece. Finally, she smiled and hugged him again, her expression so full of love Jenna felt a stab of pain she refused to recognize as jealousy.
The woman sobered. "Well, did you get him?"
"Not yet, but I will."
His gaze moved to Eugenia, and she spun away, horrified he might have read her expression. Only the closeness the couple shared had caused her envy. With no siblings or friends to play with, Jenna's childhood had been lonely. But Branch would interpret her feelings to suit his male ego.
"Eugenia?" he said. "I want you to meet Maura." He hugged the woman to his side and gazed down at her affectionately. "Maura helps run the place."
The woman extended her hand along with a warm smile. "'Tis happy I am to meet ye, Eugenia. There be few enough women in this mud hole me husband's dragged me to. A new face is mighty welcome."
Husband? She and Branch were married? Remembering how he’d flirted with her, how he’d kissed her, Jenna felt an urge to strike him for his disloyalty.
She forced herself to take the woman’s small, callused hand. Leaning closer, Maura whispered loud enough for Branch to hear, "He don't speak of it, sure, 'cause he's ashamed of me, I reckon; but the truth of it, if ye can't tell by looking at us, the big lout's me brother."
Jenna allowed herself a small smile while hiding her relief.
"Don't listen to her," Branch said. "She inherited all the blarney in the family."
"Sure, and ye've none, I s'pose," Maura teased him back.
Jenna laughed. "He got his share, I'll vouch for that. I'm glad to meet you, Maura. Branch didn't mention he had a sister."
"There be two of us if he only cared enough to admit it." Maura chided her brother with a look and linked her arm through Jenna's. "Come talk with me while I fetch warm water so ye can wash and change. I be dying to hear about the latest styles. Can't even get
Godey's Lady's Book here in this godforsaken hole."
Jenna turned to give Branch a puzzled glance. "Why does Maura have such a charming accent while you have none?"
"'Tis living in Schuylkill County back home in Pennsylvania kept my accent strong," Maura said. "There be so many Irish there, 'tis almost like being in Ireland still. Besides, I was seven before our family came to America while me wandering brother here is American-born and bred. And he's had a few years away from home to lose what accent he may have had."
Jenna's brows rose in surprise. "You're older than Branch?"
"Ten years, but you're sweet to think otherwise." Maura winked at Branch. "I believe I'll do me best to keep her around, brother dear. And I'm guessing ye won't mind that much, now will ye?"
"Not a bit," he said, surprised to realize it was more than true. He winked at Maura, grateful she hadn't mentioned how he had labored to lose his accent. For a gunslinger to be too easily tagged lacked wisdom. But the less said about his reputation, the better.
While Maura led Eugenia to the living quarters at the back of the store, Branch sauntered over to join Rembrandt. The old man had shuffled quietly inside and taken a seat at the checkers table. Putting one foot on the seat of a chair, Branch rested an elbow on his thigh.
"Well, Pops, want to tell me what's troubling you?"
"I'd rather tell you up at the mine." He glanced pointedly at the men watching the door where the women had disappeared. "The matter's best discussed in private."
"All right, we'll go after supper."
Branch's attention wandered when Maura, her eldest daughter Kathleen, and Eugenia returned, each carrying two buckets of steaming water. Again, the men's hats came off. The moment the women vanished up the stairs, the boy with the sleeve protectors came to Branch's side, his pimply face flushed from embarrassment.
"Uncle Branch, the men sent me over to ask who the lady is."
Branch chuckled as he rolled a cigarette. "I knew Eugenia would create a stir, but you'd think there were no other females in town the way those clods are behaving."
"Except for whores and a few wives, she is the only female in town. Of age, anyway," Rembrandt put in. "Young ladies like her are as rare in a gold camp as a mother lode, and of the two, some of these boys would probably choose to claim her over the gold. Don't blame them. Eugenia is quite lovely."
"Yeah, well—" Branch glared at the men. "—if I catch any of them getting out of line with her, I'll throw him down the deepest mine shaft I can find. You tell them she's a friend, Paddy, and under my protection."
"Yes, Uncle Branch." Paddy returned to his customers.
Rembrandt smiled, a speculative gleam in his eye. "Are you laying claim to her yourself, son?"
For a moment, the younger man seemed taken aback. Then he frowned and growled, "Never mind that. Have there been any other problems?"
"Oh, there are always problems. I had to fire that new Cousin Jack. Blasted Cornishman had pockets sewn inside his pants and ten pounds of ore hidden inside them. There have also been complaints about the new assayer. It seems practically every specimen taken to him has been reported to be of unusually high quality. I suspect he's taking bribes so the owners can get higher prices when they sell."
Maura and Kathleen came back down the stairs with the empty buckets. Obviously, Eugenia was taking a bath. Branch's gaze drifted toward the ceiling, his mind full of imaginings.
"Did you hear me, Branch?" Rembrandt asked.
He started and then said, "Aye, maybe we should set a trap for the assayer, send him some plain rock and see how he rates it."
"Good idea. I think I'll go over to the McHenry House and see what some of the other mine owners think of the idea. Want to come along?"
Branch barely heard. Maura had emerged once more from the kitchen with a huge kettle of water. He threw his cigarette into a spittoon. "Here, sis, that's too heavy for you. I'll take it up if you'll fetch me a cup of your good coffee."
"Get your own coffee and forget your flattery. This is rinse water for Jenna's hair."
"Jenna?"
She looked up at him as though he were daft. "Aye, your lady
friend. Have ye forgotten her already, then?"
"You mean Eugenia?"
"She told me to call her Jenna. The name suits her better, I be thinking."
He responded with only a scowl, and took the kettle from her, careful to take hold where toweling padded the hot handle. "Get my coffee. Go on now."
With wisdom and delight in her eyes, she offered only a perfunctory objection. "But she's in the tub. How do ye expect her to be getting it from ye?"
He bent down and whispered in her ear, imitating her brogue, "I'll take it into her, I will, and keep me eyes closed while I'm about it, o'course."
WHEN JENNA HEARD THE door open and footsteps pad inside, she held up her hand and said "You're just in time, Maura. I've got soap in my eyes. Will you hand me a towel?"
"Glad to."
Her eyes flew open. "Branch! Oh. . ." She gasped as the soap stung her eyes and she snatched the thick Turkish towel from him. It muffled her voice as she swiped at her eyes and bawled, "How'd you get in here? I had the door locked, and Maura has the hotel's master key."
"Since I am half-owner of the hotel, I have my own master key."
The click of a bolt being slid into place accented his words.
Still blinking from the soap sting, she dragged the towel underwater to cover herself and glared up at him. "What do you think you're doing? You've gotten your eyeful. You can get out now."
He grinned. "Turnabout's fair play, remember? You got to watch me bathing."
"I remember that you can't be trusted any further than a rat with a hunk of cheese."
"Why," He feigned surprise, "you sound angry. And here I was going to offer to wash your back."
"No thank you, just clear out and leave me alone."
Her hair hung in a tangle over her right shoulder, its darkness in stark contrast with her creamy white skin, except where her scrubbing had left the mahogany strands white with soap. The strong smell of the soap rose on the steam to his nose, along with a scent he was coming to recognize as hers. The towel had soaked up the water and molded to her breasts. It pooled between her legs, a flash of pure white against the heat-flushed flesh of her knees poking out of the water.
Hellfire, but she was beautiful. The heat from her bath had her cheeks flushed. Her eyes smoldered with anger, and her mouth. . . Saint's alive, but it begged to be kissed.
The urge to haul her from the water and find out if her skin tasted as good as it looked overwhelmed him. He wanted to see every inch of her, touch her, kiss her, feel her wrapped around him while he thrust deep, deep inside her.
Only the urge to protect her, to guard her against harm, held him where he stood, swollen and aching with need.
Jenna saw his eyes soften with passion, noted the tenseness of his body as he held himself in check. She let her gaze drift down over his hard, powerful body and felt a quickening in the very pit of her being as she realized the cause of the sudden swelling beneath the denim of his trousers. Excitement and fear sizzled through her veins, heightening her sensory perception so that she became aware of the rough texture of the towel over her breasts, the heavy weight of the wet cloth on her belly. Her nipples tightened, and her breathing grew ragged.
Branch saw her eyes widen, her lips part. The hand holding the towel between her breasts jerked as if it would fling the imprisoning cloth away. He could bear no more.
"Sit up." His voice was deep and husky. "I'll rinse you off."
She knew she should order him from the room, scream down the house if need be. Instead, she leaned forward so he could pour the water over her without spilling all over the floor.
To dispel the tension, she harkened back to what he'd said before, "What do you mean, half-owner?"
He knelt beside the tub, and she closed her eyes as water streamed over her head.
"I built the place and offered Maura and her husband half-interest to run it for me."
The feel of his strong fingers tangling in her hair, massaging her scalp, made her go limp and tingle with sensations and needs only he had ever aroused in her. She wondered with equal eagerness and self-disgust, what he would do once the rinsing was done.
"Your hair's so thick." His breathy voice sounded close as though he were about to bury his nose in the wet tresses he held. "So beautiful."
She felt a tug as he spread them out to rinse the ends. The brush of his fingers against her shoulder blocked everything from her mind, and she sucked in her breath, waiting for his next move. Another tug, firmer, awakened her to the fact that he was trying to free some strands caught beneath the towel. She loosened her hold and felt cool air prickle her flesh as the hair was lifted away.
Branch's breath caught as the towel drooped, exposing most of one pale orb. A jolt of desire fierce as a thunderbolt seared his vitals. Gnashing his teeth, he concentrated on his self-set task, while an inner voice pointed out that he had no need to be there. He had only to stand up and walk out through the door. You're fooling yourself, the voice accused, to think he could keep this play under control, could continue and leave her untouched at the end. He ignored the voice.
"How long is your hair? It looks as though it would stretch clear to the foot of the tub. Shall I test it?"
Jenna shivered at the teasing brush of his fingers on her neck and shoulders as he divided the thick, curly strands and drew them to each side.
"If I straighten it, like this," he whispered close to her ear, "do you think it would reach?"
She could not speak, could not move. When had the scent of tobacco, horse, leather, and pure, virile masculinity become so arousing? Her breath came in breathy pants. Thinking was impossible. Like a fly in a web, helplessly snared by silken words and frantic sensations, she felt an unfamiliar wildness inside. To remain still became torture. She needed to move, to touch him as he touched her, to wrap herself around him, and. . . and what?
"It reaches."
Opening her eyes, she saw that he was right. She also saw how close his face was to her own and that splatters of water had molded his shirt to the thick, corded muscles of his shoulders and chest. Her eyes eased shut as she struggled to keep from reaching out to him, from begging for his kiss.
"I swear your hair must be nearly four feet long." Bit by bit he let the wet, heavy mass pull from his grasp. For a moment, it spread and floated upon the water like a fan, then slowly coiled and curled until it lay once more on her chest. Holding his breath, he reached for it again. "So lovely. I like the way it tangles and curls. I love its scent and feel."
She felt the tickle of his nose and mustache against her cheek as he bent closer to inhale her aroma. His warm breath on her ear sent shivers down her spine.
Holding his breath, afraid she would bolt, Branch combed his fingers through the long, loose ringlets. Lightly, ever so lightly, his knuckles traced the graceful sweep of her neck, the gentle curve of clavicles, down, down, to the full, lush rise of her breasts, freeing them from the confining weight of the soaked towel. Her skin felt like warm satin. He swallowed a groan and closed his own eyes to the painful throb in his groin that demanded a surcease only the joining of his flesh with hers could provide.
Fearful of pressing too far too quickly, he paused to rub her hair between his fingers, aware how her heart fluttered under his knuckles as erratically as his own did. Her head lolled to the side as though offering her neck to him. Gladly, his lips found the pulse point below her jaw, then flitted downward with the lightness of moth wings. Her lips parted, releasing a soft moan as he lapped up the water caught in the hollow at the base of her throat, and explored the texture of her skin, savoring its subtle flavor.
His fingers lay so close to the aching tips of her breasts Jenna couldn't help arching against them. Was it wrong to yearn for his touch? To give up her weak hold on the towel and let him have his way? How she wished she had listened more when the girls back home whispered of what occurred between women and men. Such conversations had made her uncomfortable then, driving her off to challenge the boys to an archery match or a horse race.
Now she realized why the girls' talk had discomforted her; she was a wanton. Deep down, she had always known and fought against the flaw by denying her femininity. She had made herself one of the boys, forcing them to accept her as an equal, snatching with both fists the safety it offered; safety she called independence.
Independence be damned, she thought, moving restlessly beneath Branch McCauley's still fingers.
Delighted with her reaction, Branch inched his hands lower until he could feel the extraordinary softness of her areolas and the pebbled peaks that hardened beneath his caress. While his lips spread kisses along her damp shoulder, he took a nipple between his first and middle fingers and lightly squeezed. Her low moan nearly undid him. Easy, he reminded himself, slow and easy.
Jenna found the rasp of his beard against her skin nearly as arousing as the gentle stroking of his callused fingers. The fire deep inside leaped higher, searing her with heat until she thought she would disintegrate, leaving nothing behind but smoldering ash, and screaming still for a release she could neither name nor imagine. He branded her with his mouth, consumed her, robbed her of her will. Old fears resurfaced making her squirm as she fought to deny him power over her.
Branch's hands cupped the fullness of her breasts now, gently kneading them, his thumbs flicking her nipples to create a new sensation that fed the wildness burgeoning inside her, sending her soaring out of control.
Greedily his tongue lapped up the water from her blazing flesh, delighting in the way she trembled at his touch. Yet. . . not enough. His body screamed for release, the ache in his groin unbearable. With courage born of desperation, he boldly licked his way to her breast, murmuring soft endearments while she moaned with pleasure. But when his tongue tentatively circled one taut tip, she gasped.
"Branch?"
"It's all right, sweetheart. Don't be scared. I won't hurt you. If you want me to stop, I will. Ah, Jenna, you're so beautiful, so delicious. Let me love you."
She almost cried out in a mixture of relief and frustration when his lips left her. She felt him urging her to lie back against the tub. His palm cupped her face, turning it toward him. Then his mouth was searing the curve of her jaw, working its way toward her lips.
She stilled inside, waiting, wanting to taste his kiss, yet wishing his mouth would return to her breast instead. The kiss, when it came, was teasingly faint. Then he took her mouth with a fierceness that matched the need inside her. Instinctively, she imitated his movements, nibbling, sucking, opening for him. She gloried in the silky feel of his moist lips, the scrape of his mustache.
Their tongues danced and tangled, matching the rhythm of his hand as it resumed its magic on her breast. She would die, Jenna thought, as she soared skyward, higher and higher, reaching for an unknown finale.
"You taste so good," he whispered against her lips. "I want you, Jenna."
She could not answer, didn't know how.
Branch stood, drawing her up with him. Her eyes opened, and she stared at him in trust and innocence, fear and desire, while he draped a dry towel around her, letting the wet one slither down her body into the water. With one arm around her shoulders, the other under her legs, he lifted her from the tub. Without taking his gaze from hers, he gauged the distance to the bed. He couldn't risk scaring her.
He set her on her feet before him. She kept one arm around his neck. The other gripped the towel firmly in place. He longed to slide his hands under the towel, but feared she would panic, so he contented himself with drawing her against him, so she could feel his need.
"This is wrong," she said, her sultry blue eyes pleading with him. She dug her toes into the damp rug, trying to force her body away.
"Then why does it feel so good, so right?"
"I-I don't know."
He slanted his mouth over hers and kissed her again. "Are you afraid?"
"Yes."
"Do you want me to stop, to go away?"
"Yes. No! I don't know."
"Relax, sweetheart, I'm not going to hurt you."
He pulled her closer, taking her mouth in a kiss at once tender and fierce; a kiss that claimed her as his own. Independence! her mind screamed as she struggled to resist. But nothing she'd ever experienced had felt as good as the pleasures he introduced her to. She wanted more.
Her fingers threaded into his hair, her lips parted, her tongue shyly met his, welcomed it, while her body melted against him, and Branch knew he had won.
Maura's voice came through the door. The knob rattled. "Supper's ready, Jenna. Are ye about through in there? Jenna?"