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After a long nap and a supper of Maura's steaming chicken soup with fat, fresh noodles and big chunks of carrots, Jenna sat by the window to watch dusk glide like a thief over Park City, robbing the day of light and warmth.
She gritted her teeth as she attempted to separate the tangled, plaited strands of her hair, neglected since she took that bullet four days ago. The greasy, dirt-encrusted braid had come partly undone on its own, allowing her stubbornly curly hair to snarl dreadfully.
While she worked, she allowed the lilting voice of a miner, singing as he rode past, to distract her mind from the pain. The clatter of horses' hooves and the rattle of his metal lunch pail accompanied the ballad: "For the mine is a tragic house, it is the worst of prisons—in bitter stone excavated, in barren depths located. . ." His horse was the color of night and as weary and somber as the miner's song.
The sight of the horse, so like Satan, brought Branch to mind. With a sigh, Jenna let her hands drop to her lap. How could she keep him away from her, stuck here in his own hotel? She had already learned it did no good to lock her door against him.
But every time he got close to her, she seemed incapable of maintaining control over her own body, her own emotions. Merely thinking about him, about the things he did to her with his hands, his mouth, ignited flaming arrows inside that sizzled clear to her toes and filled her with yearning. Worse, she was beginning to like him. Danger, pure and simple—one she meant to avoid at all costs.
As if conjured by her wayward thoughts, Branch rapped once on the door and burst into the room, grinning.
"I hear you've been learning to play checkers." He plopped down on the edge of the bed as though they'd never argued earlier in the day. "I hope that old scoundrel let you win a game or two."
Jenna's hands lifted to complete the chore she had started. The movement caused the neck of her robe to separate, inadvertently allowing Branch a glimpse of cleavage through the thin fabric of her camisole.
"That sweet old man didn't have to let me win," she said. "He won the first three games, and then I won one. All on my own, thank you very much."
The miner's song faded as he plodded on up the street, replaced by the distant thud of hammers as another building went up. Closer, pigs snorted as they rooted in the refuse tossed outside the kitchen of the Regan House. From farther down the street came snatches of hellfire and damnation as "John, The Baptist" put aside his miner's pick and took up his Saturday night ritual of trying to save souls outside the Blue Goat Saloon.
Jenna drew her hair over her breast and took up her brush. She grimaced and yanked harder as strands became wrapped and tangled around the brush. The movement brought a piercing pain to her side. She put her hand on the wound and moaned.
"Here, let me do that." Branch came to his feet.
She waved him back. "No, I'll get it."
But she couldn't. His presence on her bed, looking so handsome and pleased with himself, made her so nervous her hands trembled. She worsened the pain and entangled the brush even more. Branch shook his head. "Sit over here and let me see what I can do." He patted the bed beside him.
"No. I just need to rest a moment. Tell me how my prisoner is holding up."
"He's fine, a lot better than you. Now get over here so I can get that brush out."
"McCauley—"
"My name is Branch." He came to his feet, took her by the arm, and drew her, gently but forcefully, to the bed. Ignoring her glaring eyes and taut, angry mouth, he positioned her in the middle of the mattress and sat on the edge behind her.
His hands on her hair brought Jenna vivid memories of their first day in Park City when he had invaded her bath. Liquid sensations shot through her core, making her tremble inside.
Branch felt her shudder and smiled. He, too, remembered. The look, the feel, the smell of her. Clean, soapy, beautiful. It was all he could do not to pull her back against him and seek out the exquisite passion he saw spring to life in her that day. But this time, there would be no stopping him. And no matter how much he wanted it, wanted her, he had no doubt making love to her would be a mistake.
Infuriating as she might be, Eugenia Leigh-Whittington was the kind of woman a man married—not dallied with, then deserted. And he never wanted to become tied to one woman again. He'd tried marriage once, and that had been enough.
Nor did he believe in love. That was another fantasy Lilibet had cured him of for good.
"Oww!" Jenna reached behind to grab his hand. "What are you doing, ripping my hair from my head to get the brush loose?"
"Sorry. I got distracted for a moment."
"Look, I didn't invite you in here or ask you to brush my hair, so if you have other things to do, please feel free—"
"Whoa there, little hellcat." Branch chuckled softly. "Don't get your fur ruffled. You've got my undivided attention. Besides, I think I almost have this untangled." He pulled the brush free. "Now let's see what we can do with the rest of it."
"I can do it, McCauley."
"Shut up, or I'll turn you over my knee."
She folded her arms over her breasts. "Then get it over with."
"The combing? Or the paddling?"
The room darkened as dusk deepened, but Branch lighted no lamp. Handful by handful he brushed out the dirt and chaff ground into her hair when she fell from her horse after being shot. The soft scrape of the bristles on her scalp, the gentle tug as he worked the brush down the long length to the ends, felt so good Jenna couldn't get herself to argue further about it. She closed her eyes and gave in to the pleasure.
The silence in the room grew lengthy, but neither of them noticed. The companionable silence required no voice to render it comfortable.
Branch lost himself in the texture and the myriad colors found among the strands, from deepest mahogany to a dark golden brown. As he finished each handful, he let it spill onto his lap, wondering how it would feel on his naked flesh. His body reacted to the fantasy building in his mind. "It seems even longer dry than it did wet."
The whisper of his breath invading her ear sent a shiver down her spine. She faked a cough to hide the reaction and forced herself to sit straighter. "Fuller, maybe, but I doubt it's longer."
"Feels like shredded silk."
His voice sounded like silk. "It's filthy."
"It curls around my fingers as though it doesn't want me to stop."
His fingers brushed her neck as he took up another handful of hair. This time, her shiver was undeniable. He smiled, pleased despite himself to see her as affected as him. Her bare nape was more than he could resist. He pressed his lips to the satiny softness in a fairy-light kiss. "Umm, delicious."
His lips feathered down her neck to her shoulder, nudging the wide strap of her camisole aside until it slid off onto her arm. With a groan, he nuzzled her skin, abrading it lightly with his beard.
Jenna couldn't help but moan with the ecstasy of it. Her lips parted, and her head fell back, baring her neck as if begging for more.
In one graceful movement, he scooted closer, nestling her bottom in the vee of his long legs. The fairy-light kisses continued down the smooth column of her slender neck to the hollow at the base of her throat, which he tasted with the tip of his tongue.
The wetness of his tongue found a corresponding moisture in her body, a liquid heat that awakened her as though it had slumbered for a hundred years. Her heart fluttered like the lace wings of the fairies whose magic, spread by Branch's lips, snared her in its spell.
"Hell, Jenna. You taste so good like peach brandy. I'm drunk on the sweetness of you.
"I want to taste you, too.
But he busied himself scattering swift, urgent little kisses over her cheek, her ear, her temple. Her resolve to keep her distance from the man fled beneath the onslaught of sensation he aroused in her. She wanted only to drown in the rapture of it. She turned and found his mouth with hers, savoring his taste with a strange, unfamiliar hunger that both frightened and enthralled her.
Taking her hair in two thick handfuls, Branch swept it over her shoulders. Then he drew her back against him, cradling her as he might a child. With the tip of his tongue, he traced the outlines of her lips and the moist seam between until they parted, allowing him to plunder the treasure inside.
Jenna's tongue shyly explored the texture of his and moved on to the slick satin of his inner lip and the hard, even edges of his teeth. Branch growled with pleasure and deepened the kiss. He felt the faint vibration of Jenna's answering moan clear to his loins where his body grew tauter, more eager. The discomfort of his tight denims became a torture he had to ease.
Blindly, he yanked off his loose, canvas-topped miner's boots and shoved them from the bed. Bringing up his leg, he shoved the bedclothes aside with his foot, at the same time sliding his hands beneath Jenna's warm bottom. He straightened his legs and snuggled her tight against his crotch. Then he leaned back against the headboard, and a groan of bliss escaped his lips.
In some recess of Jenna's brain, she knew Branch had crawled into her bed. Knew it to be wrong. Stupid. Dangerous. Crazy.
Wasn't this what she had worked so hard to avoid? Or was it only falling in love that enslaved a woman to a man? This didn’t count as love, after all, only a physical act that had nothing to do with one's heart. She had denied herself marriage and children. Must she miss out on this joy, too?
Branch's change of position took only moments and stole nothing from their kiss. She smelled earthy and sweet at the same time, a headier fragrance than all the wildflowers in the meadows of Parley's Park. Her shy, innocent touch aroused him more than the most experienced lover he had ever known. His need to possess her, to make her his, overwhelmed him.
She was English. Protestant. A maddeningly stubborn little hellcat that would drive him insane. A danger to his freedom, to the safety of his fiercely protected heart. Yet, he had to have her.
The sensation of Branch's hand stroking her waist drove Jenna crazy. His tongue plunged again and again into her mouth in a wild rhythm that her body wanted to answer but didn't know how. Then she felt his other hand move slowly down the long length of her hair. As he neared her breast, the wildness in her grew. Her heart pounded. Her breathing became erratic.
As though he sensed the change in her, his kiss gentled. He suckled first her lower lip, then the upper one. Jenna found it unbelievable the slow sweep of his tongue along the sensitive inner surface of her lips and the soft nipping of his teeth could be even more thrilling than the frantic, demanding thrusts of his tongue. Then the hand at her waist glided onto her belly. His fingers drew circles on her skin through the cotton of her drawers, making her tingle everywhere. She held herself still, waiting to see what he would do next.
She didn’t have to wait long.
Beneath the silk of her hair, Branch fit his palm to the fullness of her breast. He found its pebbled peak and gloried in the way it blossomed beneath his thumb—a treasure more priceless than anything the Silver Bullion Mine could produce.
Gently he squeezed and caressed. He taunted and teased until
Jenna squirmed and pressed closer, desperate for more.
And while one hand tormented her breast, the other continued etching ever-widening circles on her belly, dipping closer and closer to the secret sweetness he knew he would find between her legs.
He shifted his body to the side and lifted his hand from her breast to sweep her hair out of the way. She let out an inarticulate cry and grabbed his hand to pull it back.
"Easy, darlin.'" The words came to her in a hoarse whisper as he lowered his lips to the fullness of her breasts peeking above the camisole.
Once more his thumb sought her nipple. She moaned and melted into his arms.
Branch doubted how much longer he could last. He ached with a need so fierce, a bullet might be preferable. It was all he could do not to rip off his trousers and plunge into her, again and again, until satisfaction drove the desperate need from his body.
But no fulfillment he might find in her body would be enough unless he made it good for her as well. More than good. That required patience.
Still, he could not help inching his hungry fingers toward the seat of that fulfillment—the warm, moist core of the woman he held in his arms, the woman he wanted more than he'd ever wanted any before her.
Through the thin cotton, his fingers detected the coarse texture of hair. Close, Heaven lay so close now. His heart echoed the swift, erratic beat of her own beneath his hand. Though he never stopped kissing her, he was sure he had stopped breathing.
Impatient with the abundance of fabric keeping him from the reality of her flesh, he fumbled with the tiny buttons at the neck of her camisole. They popped and scattered as he grew frantic to taste more of her. As his lips closed over her nipple, she murmured and arched against him.
At that moment, he drove his questing fingers home. His touch in that private spot no one had ever touched before sent white-hot spears of ecstasy through her.
It was too much.
It wasn't enough.
She cried out and twisted in his arms, seeking an end to her torment.
Then she screamed.
"What is it?" Should he hold her away to see what had hurt her? Or draw her closer so he could comfort her? "Did I hurt you?"
"My side." Her voice broke as she stifled a sob. "Oh, Branch, it hurts."
He scooted away and settled her on the bed. Even in the dim light of the turned-down lantern, he could see the small red stain seeping through her camisole where she’d been shot.
REMBRANDT OCCUPIED a table in a far comer when Jake Longan entered Pape's Saloon. Slow Sally and a Scotsman the miners called Scottie almost collided with Jake as they twirled past in a wild version of the Berlin Polka. Jake waved off Slow Sally's shouted apology and stepped up to the bar.
When Jake set a glass of whiskey in front of him, Rembrandt slid the drink aside and continued scribbling on a large pad of paper.
"Thank you, but I never drink anything other than sarsaparilla."
Jake sat with his back to the other wall. "That's for kids and old ladies. I brought you a man's drink."
"Well, you may drink it for me."
"I've got one of my own." Jake shoved the glass back. Rembrandt sucked in the delicious scent. No cheap stuff, this, he noted. Prime Irish whiskey. He licked his lips and concentrated on his sketch.
If Pape had known whom Jake had ordered the second drink for, the barman never would have poured it. The rule in town forbade whiskey from being sold to men with families who needed the money or to men who had consumed too much. Or to Rembrandt.
Pape and the other saloon owners had great respect for Branch McCauley. If not for the man, then for the way he handled a Peacemaker. And Branch had passed the word. One more drink would pickle Rembrandt's brain for life. Branch intended to keep his partner alive and healthy. That meant sober.
Jake took a sip of his drink, smacked his lips with pleasure, and grinned as Slow Sally's skirt flew up, affording him a glimpse of
her plump naked thigh. "Piano player's got fast fingers, ain't he?"
Rembrandt nodded and added a few strokes to his likeness of the dancing couple. Jake leaned over to look. "Hey, your fingers ain't so slow neither. That why they call you Rembrandt? Cause you can draw like that?"
"That's the reason."
"Don't think I ever heard your real name."
"Been so long since I've heard it, I believe I've forgotten it."
Longan was a pleasant enough fellow, but while in a sketching mood, Rembrandt preferred solitude. He sniffed in another whiff of the whiskey. It smelled better all the time. He could almost taste it.
Jake laughed. "Go on, drink up. The night's young, and I'm buying."
"What's the occasion?"
"I got my first pay envelope from the Silver Bullion today. Tonight, I move out of that freezing tent into Mrs. Power's boardinghouse. That's worth celebrating, wouldn't you say? Come on, drink a toast with me. To my new home."
It would be rude to refuse, Rembrandt told himself. Especially since Jake had paid good money for the drink. One little sip wouldn't hurt anything. He picked up the glass and tapped it against Jake's.
Jake signaled Pape for another round. "That woman McCauley has at his place sure is a looker, isn't she?"
"Eugenia?"
"Is that her name?" Jake fished in his pocket for cash. "You know, she makes me think of my own young'un."
"I wasn't aware you had children."
"I lost her and my missus a long time ago. My girl woulda been around that Eugenia's age, though. Hard to imagine. What about you? You got any family?"
Rembrandt put the glass to his lips and allowed his tongue to taste the rich flavor of the whiskey. Lord, but it was good. And life did torture a man with its bitter twists and cruel ironies. Whiskey helped.
An hour later Jake Longan excused himself and left the saloon. Outside, he mounted his horse and headed toward the outskirts of town. He'd had an interesting evening, but it wasn't over yet. He turned onto a narrow trail that wound up the mountainside, careful to take the correct forks that would eventually lead him to the Silver Bullion Mine.
As mines went, the Silver Bullion was a small operation. The main drift ran at an angle back into the mountain several hundred feet, then veered to the right to follow a vein of oxidized lead and silver ten inches deep. A second drift, drilled in the hope of locating the mother lode, had been suddenly closed off a couple of weeks before.
The mine employed fifteen miners, not including Branch McCauley and his partner. Jake had been there only a week. The older employees had been forbidden to enter that second drift, but Jake had a plan.
When he drew close to the mine, Jake steered his horse off the main trail. He left the horse in a deeply shadowed stand of quaking aspen and went the rest of the way on foot. But he didn't go to the main drift. He worked his way through the shadows to a spot that provided a good view of the second drift. Logs had been sunk vertically on each side of the entrance and a heavy door attached to the logs. A length of chain and padlock secured the door.
Every half hour or so one of the men from the main drift wandered over to make sure everything was all right. Jake had watched for more than two hours one night and had yet to see anyone go inside though McCauley and Rembrandt spent time in there every day. Jake suspected the boarded-up drift held more than the explosives Rembrandt swore were stored there. The first chance he got, Jake intended to find out.
THE NEXT MORNING BRANCH shoved open Jenna's door in time to catch a glimpse of bare back. She yanked the top of her woolen underwear up onto her shoulders and stuffed her arms into the sleeves, keeping her back to him.
"What in blue blazes are you doing now, woman? Why aren't you in bed?"
"I've got too much to do to lie around all day." She fastened half the buttons on her woolies and grabbed her shirt. "You said Constable Moore and Judge Street wouldn't be back for another week, so I'm going to Salt Lake City. You know, McCauley—"
"Branch."
"—just because I let you kiss me a few times doesn't give you the right to barge into my room without so much as a polite knock."
He slammed the tray he held onto the table beside the bed and whirled to face her. "We've shared a bit more than a few kisses. Now get undressed. You're not going anywhere."
She fisted her hands on her hips and bent toward him, forgetting her unbuttoned shirt and gaping woolies. "You don't own me. I go where I please when I please and with whom I please."
"You're not going anywhere except to bed," he growled, lunging for her. "Even if I have to climb in with you to keep you there."
She dodged him before he could do more than snag the hem of her shirt, ripping the seam. Ducking behind the dressing screen, she thrust one foot into her trousers, then the other.
"Dammit, you little hellcat!" Branch grabbed the screen. It flew across the room and crashed into the bed table, spilling her breakfast tray onto the floor.
Jenna caught a whiff of coffee, hot cinnamon-flavored oatmeal, and rich cream as he hauled her up against him.
"Do I have to tie you to that bed?" His snarl came out low and husky, a sure sign he was becoming aroused.
She didn't dare let him kiss her, or she would be lost. Her open palm connected with his cheek in a stinging slap. Before she could hit him again, he snared her wrists, pinning them behind her with one big hand while the other brought her hips into intimate contact with his.
"Have you forgotten so soon that you broke your wound open yesterday? Dammit, woman, you scared me half to death. I don't want it happening again."
"It only bled a little. Have you forgotten how it happened?" She couldn’t help noticing the pulsing hardness pressing against her.
He knew he should let her go, but couldn't convince his body. "What do I have to do to get you to behave?"
"Let me go."
Will you get back in bed?"
"Only until you get the hell out of my room, you arrogant papist, you. . . bog trotter."
The old slur against his heritage rankled, but he kept it from his face, knowing it was only her anger talking. "Then maybe I'll have to climb in with you if that's what it takes to keep you there."
Sapphire eyes narrowed to slits. "If you think for one moment, I'll willingly appease that 'Irish toothache' of yours, you're crazier than Mad Rose."
Her vulgar reference to his sexual state proved more than he could handle. Shoving her from him, he stalked to the door and slammed it shut with a vehemence that shook the entire building. He leaned his forehead against, his hands fisted on his hips, afraid to turn and face her for fear he'd lose total control. "Where did you learn about Irish toothaches?"
She knew him well enough by now to know that the deceptively soft tone meant trouble with a capital T. Taking a deep breath, she fought to subdue her own temper. Then she walked to the bed and sat down. Her side throbbed, but she refused to acknowledge the pain.
"Please, Branch, I could be doing things in Salt Lake to find my father. Sitting here doing nothing is driving me crazy."
The sweet sound of his name on her lips and the plea in her voice dissolved his anger and shattered the last of his resolve. Walking to the window, he leaned a shoulder against the wall and took out his cigarette makings. "Tell me about him, Jenna. What do you remember about him?"
Pain, that's what she remembered. The pain of finally accepting he was never coming back. She closed her eyes and dug for the anger she had used as a shield all these years. It wouldn't come. Instead, her mind drifted back to the string of miserable cabins in one gold camp after another, to the memories she rarely let see the sunshine of her mind.
"Gentle hands," she said softly. "Laughter, full and hearty as though he was as big as I remember him being. The dollop of shaving cream he’d dab on my nose while I watched him sharpen his razor. The way Mama giggled in bed with him at night. Hope. Optimism.” She sighed. “So sure, a rich, wonderful life waited for us around the corner. He wanted to show Mama's father she had done well by marrying him, after all."
Jenna's eyes opened. She gnawed a fingernail. "He showed Grandfather, all right. When Mama and I went back to Illinois after we had heard Papa was dead, Grandfather wouldn't even see us. He'd told everyone Mama was dead, and to Grandfather—right to the day he died—she was."
Branch tossed his half-smoked cigarette out the open window and pushed away from the wall. Tenderly he drew her to her feet and into his embrace. His lips brushed the top of her head. "Write down what you want done, darlin'. I'll leave for Salt Lake right away and run your errands for you. We'll find him."
"I need to see about my father myself, McCauley."
"You're not well enough." He released her and moved to the door. "When I get back, you'd better be here. We have unfinished business, you and me."
"If you're talking about last night—"
"I'm talking about a whole lot more than that. Just make sure you're here."