Authors: Siara Brandt
Hetty’s eyes opened. Suddenly he felt her body stiffen. With her palms pressed flat against his chest, she pushed him away. With surprising force. Fate, it seemed, had taken over for him when he hadn’t had the strength to resist her.
Hetty’s gaze remained fixed on something across the room. It was a black shawl. A woman’s shawl, heavily fringed and covered with rich embroidery. Her confused look changed to something else. Accusation. Reacting mindlessly to the thing she had seen, she slapped him. Hard. With all her emotion behind the blow.
Jesse stepped away from her. He did nothing to stop her from leaving. It seemed that she could not get away from him fast enough. Still struggling to compose himself, he stood motionless, silently watching as she mounted her horse.
When Hetty was out of sight, he glanced up at the turbulent sky as the first heavy drops of rain hit the ground. He opened the gate, called his horse, and, without taking the time for a saddle, he swung up onto the horse’s back. He would trail her from a distance to make sure she got back to the Circle I safely.
As he rode, he thought over all that Hetty had said to him. Someone had told her about a woman being here. That had shaken him.
Sara Cade had told him a good many things since she had showed up on his doorstep with her daughter yesterday. Drenched and starved-looking, both of them had suffered a great deal after hiding out in the woods for a very long time. Rachel’s home-cooked meals would do them both good. He had taken them there and returned just before Hetty had arrived.
He knew just how much danger Sara and her child were in. And Hetty, too, for Sara had told him who Thrall was.
Chapter 19
The man who called himself Brent Marsten rose from his chair and walked to the window. His mouth was compressed into a thin line. His rage, barely suppressed, surged like a poison through his veins.
All women were the same. They lied. They connived. They couldn’t be trusted. Well, he didn’t intend that a woman, any woman, would get the better of him. The need to punish drove him. His hands clenched into tight fists at his sides. He would crush anyone that did not yield to his will. Man or woman, it made no difference.
His lips curled with contempt. Amiline wanted out. She hadn’t been straightforward enough to come out and say it. She wouldn’t dare say it. She thought she had been hiding the truth from him all this time. But he had found her out.
Lately, during her drinking bouts, she would let things slip out that she normally would have kept to herself. She was finding a conscience now? That was good, he thought, his anger flaring. One corner of his mouth twisted into an ugly snarl.
Back in Buckhorn the whore had laid down for every cowboy that had come along with a few dollars. As far as this town was concerned, she was a far cry
from the sullen, hard-eyed woman he’d picked up in a saloon three years ago. At that time she’d gone by the name of Millie.
For these past three years she had tolerated him because he had provided her with a home, with expensive clothing, with respectability and a place in decent society. And how had she repaid him?
With contempt. And a smoldering dislike that had been growing steadily. He had seen it in her eyes. Behind the false veil she always kept in place, he was aware of those things. And she still held on to the pathetic pride. It was the pride that he hated the most. He hadn’t been able to crush that completely out of her. But she would soon learn just what that pride would cost her.
Sara Cade, too, had long been a thorn in his side. He had made the mistake of choosing the wrong man to guard her. Galen Bishop had taken her from him, hidden her and then refused to give her up. Stubbornly silent, foolishly silent about where he had hidden her, Bishop had maintained that silence until the day he died.
But Jesse McLaren loomed more prominently in his thoughts tonight. He was a man to be watched. Jesse McLaren had disrupted his plans on more than one occasion. He was losing patience with that interference. He had let it go on long enough.
He lifted a smoldering gaze towards the clouds just now drifting across the face of the moon. There was
something in McLaren’s eyes when he looked at Hetty Parrish. As for Hetty, his eyes hardened as he thought about her behavior lately.
She had cooled considerably toward him. Thus she had become the unattainable goal. The conquest that eluded him. And so she had become his obsession. He still wanted her. He intended to have her. He would possess her, willing or not.
The thought that she might prefer another man over him only added fuel to his savage mood tonight. For a moment, the flames of jealousy surged through him like a consuming fire. Yielding suddenly to the destructive rage, he picked up the empty whiskey bottle beside him and sent it crashing against the wall, startling the naked woman on the bed behind him. She continued to watch with wide and fearful eyes as he violently cleared her dresser with a sudden sweep of his hand.
He wasn’t nearly appeased. His eyes held a calculating light as he dressed. He would take care of Jesse McLaren. He had killed the stepfather and made it look like an accident. He would kill the stepson. And Pierce Champlin was a problem as well. Thanks to Amiline. He would see that those problems were taken care of, too.
Amiline gazed into the mirror with bleak eyes, hating the woman who looked back at her. She wondered that so many years had passed since she had been a carefree girl with a loving family. The following year both her parents had died and her whole world had fallen apart.
Everything seemed to be crashing down around her. And why wouldn’t it? Everything was built on lies. Lies and deceit carefully crafted to cover up evil deeds. And she had played along. She had been selfish and shallow, selling herself no matter what the cost, consoling herself with comforts she had never known before, easing her conscience with justifications that were more lies on top of other lies.
She stared down at the drink in her hand. She had been drinking far too much. She couldn’t seem to help herself even though she knew that it made everything so much worse. Drinking had helped her cope, but now it was just another problem, another thing she couldn’t say no to.
She lifted her eyes to her reflection again. She felt old. She felt worn out. She closed her eyes. She had been decent once. She had had hopes. Though she had done terrible things, deep inside her there was still a glimmer of goodness. She had to believe that.
She had been useful to Thrall, who the world knew as Brent Marsten. She had been an endless source of information for him. She kept this house for him and maintained the façade of respectability that he hid behind.
For a while, in the beginning, he had been attentive, kind even, though he had used her body to satisfy his baser needs. And then he had grown tired of her. Yes, she thought bitterly. He had been different in the beginning. When he had wanted something from her.
Lately she had become aware of the ruthless lust for power that had become an obsession to him. It was like a poison eating away at his soul. A darkness that she believed would eventually be his undoing. More and more, she was afraid of him.
She admitted it to herself. She had been horrified to learn that murder was nothing to him, that he could kill without hesitation when it suited his needs. And he was getting closer to knowing about things that she had done. Things that would infuriate him. She lived in fear of the day that punishment would come.
She froze at the sound of heavy footsteps outside her door. The door was suddenly, violently kicked open. Thrall stalked into the room, slamming the door behind him, trapping her.
“You thought I wouldn’t find out?” His eyes gleamed savagely. “How long did you think you would get away with it?”
His rage, she knew, would end in violence. It always did. And right now that rage was directed towards her. She paled and shrank back.
He suddenly leaped forward, gripping both of her arms with a merciless strength that made her cry out with pain. Her pathetic attempt to pull back from him only added fuel to the rage that drove him. He grabbed her dark hair in his fist and jerked her head back so viciously that she was forced to look up at him.
“So he knows?”
“Not everything. He’s . . . just decent. He . . . only wanted to help me.”
“So he wanted to help you.” His voice came out in a smooth, sarcastic purr. “A fine, decent woman like you? Do you think he would help you if he knew what you used to do for a living? Look at me, you worthless bitch,” he hissed between clenched teeth. “I spent a fortune on expensive clothes and on this house for you to live in. But it can’t change what you are. And what are you? Nothing but a damned whore.”
His face lowered till it was mere inches from hers. “Tell me what you are. Tell me you’re a whore. Say it,” he ordered, jerking her hair harder and bringing tears to her eyes.
Helplessly, she repeated the words, but her brimming eyes were still blazing with contempt. And hate. And that damned pride that he hated so much.
Without warning he swung a fist into Amiline’s face. He hit her so hard that it snapped her head back and slammed it against the door.
He hissed out a smothered oath and hit her again. This time he split her lip and brought blood. That would go a long way towards taking the damned pride out of her, he thought with satisfaction.
For a moment he almost yielded to the urge to take hold of that white throat and choke the life out of her. And it would be her own damned fault. She had only herself to blame.
He hit her once more before he dragged her across the room and shoved her down on the couch where she had gotten into a habit of doing her needlepoint.
“I don’t give a damn what you do to her,” he said to the man who had just walked into the room. “But she is not to leave this house.”
With a last glance down at her bruised and bloodied face, he sneered and said, “I want you to know,
Millie
, that because of you, Pierce Champlin is a dead man.”
Chapter 20
On the platform outside the train station, Pierce straightened after he set the last trunk down. The sound of a train whistle shattered the silence.
“The train is ready to leave,” Lieta said quietly.
Pierce had appeared in the doorway. He stood there for a moment, framed in the brightness behind him, his gaze riveted on the woman before him.
Lieta caught her bottom lip in her teeth. Without a word, Pierce crossed the room, took Lieta in his arms and kissed her thoroughly on the mouth much to the astonishment of everyone present.
It was a dramatic moment. When Pierce finally released her, a breathless Lieta said, “I should slap you for that, Pierce.”
An equally breathless Pierce said, “Well, go ahead. Slap away.”
Lieta didn’t slap him. She just stared up at him. “Well, you might have kissed me a little sooner, you know.”
“I kissed you before you got on the train, didn’t I?”
There was another kiss and Hetty turned away. It reminded her of a kiss that was still burned into her memory, one that she knew she must forget so that she could get on with her life.
Too many stories of Jesse had reached her ears. Stories that had confirmed the worst. She had not seen him again, not once since that time at the cabin.
Hetty shook off the unwanted memory and looked back at Pierce and Lieta. Apparently Lieta would not be going back to Boston with Aunt Fedilia.
Lieta’s trunks were loaded back into the wagon. After good-byes were said, they prepared for the trip back to the Circle I.
There was some delay, however. They had come to town with a heavily-armed escort of four riders. Two of the men could not be found. They waited as long as they could, then, with only a driver and Pierce riding beside the wagon, they started out for the trip back.