Ashes and Memories (14 page)

His expression grew pensive. “The pain will dull after awhile, Emma. It just takes time.”

Tears threatened her composure as she slowly surrendered to the solace she drew from his understanding, from his tenderness. She wanted to lean on him, to feel his strong arms around her again. She’d never expected to feel so safe there, so sheltered.

“Are you sure?” she managed to ask.

He laughed bitterly, lifting her chin gently so that she looked directly into his eyes.

“If it didn’t,” he said soberly, “none of us would be able to survive past the age of fifteen.”

Her heart pounding, Emma leaned toward him, drawn by his warmth and his strength. He brushed a tear from the corner of her eye with his thumb, and the breath that had been lodged in her throat escaped on a sigh. His gaze flickered downward to her lips, and she knew he was going to kiss her before he leaned toward her, before his lips touched hers with a tenderness that spread an aching fire throughout her body.

The gentle hardness of his mouth against hers stole her breath, and the feel of his arms going round her set her body trembling. She closed her eyes, surrendering to the warmth of his breath on her lips, the soft tickle of his beard against her skin, the intoxicating way his mouth moved on hers.

Her body molded to his, a raw need building inside her, and he responded by deepening the kiss, by holding her more ardently, by running a warm, strong hand down the curve of her back. Fear flashed through her at the intensity of his response and she nearly drew away, but her body reverberated with unaccustomed feelings, and she found to her dismay that she was more afraid he would stop than she was that he would not.

The innocence of her kiss touched his raw emotions, burning in his soul like salt on an open wound. Her lips tasted as sweet as nectar and her body yielded artlessly to his caresses. He kissed her gently, his tongue barely grazing her lips, and the tremor that stole through her body sent a torrent of blood rushing through his own.

His teeth tugged gently at her lip, eliciting a surprised gasp of pleasure from her. Suppressing the groan that rose up in his own throat, he deepened the kiss, nudging her lips apart and tasting the sweetness within. Instinctively she pressed her body closer to him, and he nearly lost control.

The soft fullness of her breasts against his chest drove the last shred of decency from his soul. Sliding his hands over the firm roundness of her hips, he drew her against him, his breath rasping in his chest as he trailed kisses down the column of her throat.

Her heart pounded against his, and he knew in the way her mouth opened beneath his, even as a new wave of tremors racked her body and a low, uncontrolled moan escaped her lips, that she had already surrendered to him.

And God how he wanted her.

His body hardened as he imagined what she would look like naked, what she would feel like beneath him, how sweetly he would take her -- gently, fiercely.

His mouth trailed down to the sensitive place just below her ear, and he felt her pulse leap beneath his lips.

Her responsiveness surprised and excited him. She might be inexperienced, but the depth of passion he sensed within her fired his blood.

She would save him from the shadows, give him back his soul. And in return he would give her....

He would give her anything, everything, the world. The realization sobered him and he pulled away, gazing into her passion-glazed eyes. What was he doing? She was a child, probably no more than ten years younger than he in age, but a thousand years younger in experience. What could he offer her? Not love, not devotion, nothing.

She didn’t belong in his world. Perhaps she could shine her light into his darkness, but he didn’t think he could bear the illumination. And his darkness would inevitably extinguish her light because she would want him to be something he was not.

He had come here to begin a campaign that would culminate in her seduction. He’d meant to control her as he controlled everyone else in his life, to claim her light for his own, conquer it and use it as he saw fit. But he let the moment slip away, watching with a twinge of regret as reality, embarrassment and confusion crowded the passion from her eyes.

Reece started at the sound of pounding downstairs. He heard a door creak open and drew his pistol as he crossed the room.

“Miss Emma!”

The sound of Ralphy’s voice sent relief through his tense body. He glanced at Emma and saw his relief mirrored in her eyes before she looked away nervously.

“Upstairs, Ralphy!" she called, her voice shaking slightly.

The way she avoided his eyes told him she was as off balance as he.

He wished he hadn’t come here tonight, hadn’t kissed her. He wished he hadn’t felt the painful sweetness of holding her in his arms. That kiss, that embrace had shaken him far more profoundly than he would have thought possible, and he didn’t know what he was going to do about it.

“Mr. MacBride!" Ralphy called as he skidded to a halt just inside the door. “The sheriff sent me. He needs you quick.”

“What’s the matter?" Reece ran a hand over his lips where he could still taste the lingering sweetness of her kiss.

“It’s the prisoner. He’s real sick! And the doc ain’t back yet....”

For once, Reece was glad for his men’s incompetence. It gave him an excuse to put an end to this situation that had gotten too far out of hand. He turned to Emma and met her gaze. His heart gave an odd lurch, and he steeled himself against desire and tenderness.

“Will you be all right?” he asked because he had to. He had no idea what he would do or say if she said no. But of course she wouldn’t. They were in the uncomfortable position of having allowed a moment’s madness to push their acquaintance beyond its proper boundaries, and now they were reduced to the formal politeness of strangers.

“Yes, I’m fine,” she murmured, the relief in her voice unmistakable.

“I came to tell you Doctor Stevens was called away unexpectedly and won’t be able to meet you for dinner. I’ll have something sent over from the hotel,” he offered as his stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten either. “You must be hungry.”

“No, don’t bother,” she said. “I really don’t think I could eat.”

“If you’re sure.”

She nodded, and Reece forced a smile before donning his hat as he turned to go.

“Mr. MacBride?” she said tentatively.

Reece turned to face her, waiting for her to continue.

“Reece,” she corrected herself with a shy smile that sent an arrow of longing through his heart. “You’re not really going to hang that man without a trial, are you?”

He couldn’t answer that, couldn’t give her the answer she wanted anyway. And he couldn’t stand here and argue with her. He needed to get away from her, to handle whatever was going on at the jail.

“Don’t worry about it,” he told her, knowing she would misunderstand. “I’ll take care of it.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

He couldn’t see in the absolute darkness, could scarcely breath for the stench and the stale air and his own fear. But he could hear. The screams set the hairs on the nape of his neck on edge. They tore into the depths of his soul, into the place where he kept the only part of himself that hadn’t been touched by terror or pain, the last kernel of who and what he had been before they’d reduced him to nothing more than an animal.

The screams stopped abruptly, and his shallow breathing was the only sound in the taut silence.

Would they come for him tonight? And if they did, would he be able to endure the pain once more? Or would this be the time when he would finally break, finally surrender what little was left of his honor and his dignity.

He started at the sound of a door slamming. Footfalls scuffled in the corridor, growing louder, louder, until they stopped, and he could feel the presence beyond the door before he heard the key grating in the lock.
 

Reece sat bolt upright in bed and reached for the money pouch on the bedside table, his hands shaking as he dug inside until he found the silver dollar he’d kept for twelve years. He read the date, and his panic lessened.

Minted in 1866.

He fell back on the bed, expelling a deep breath, and willed the trembling to stop. It subsided slowly, and he cursed under his breath. He was free, the war was over. He didn’t need the reassurance of the date on a coin to tell him that. At least he hadn’t in a long time.

Over the years, he’d found he needed its reassurance less and less often, but there were still times when he awoke just before dawn and the only thing that could calm him was holding the silver disk in his hand.

He’d fallen asleep on top of the covers without bothering to undress beyond his vest and boots, something else he’d come to do less frequently with the passage of time. When he’d first come here, the only thing that had made him sleep at all was a combination of exhaustion and whiskey.

Night after night he’d lain awake on this bed, reading and drinking until fatigue finally overtook him. Before that, the exhaustion he needed in order to sleep had been provided by vigorous, mindless sex with Yvette -- lovely, passionate, vacuous Yvette.

Yvette hadn’t understood him, hadn’t wanted to, and that had been fine with him.

No complications, no attachments, no questions. She had provided him a much-needed sanctuary, a place to heal and begin redefining himself.

Closing his eyes, he let his mind wander back to St. Louis and the large, voluptuous bed they’d shared for months. He’d thought nothing in the world could be as soft, as sheltering as that bed and Yvette’s supple body.

The tension drained, and he surrendered to the soft morning grogginess he’d learned to appreciate again with Yvette. His body grew hard as another kind of tension stole over him. He remembered the practiced skill of her hands, the soft fullness of her breasts, the way her eyes would glaze with passion when he made love to her.

Reece opened his eyes with a start, the blood pounding through his veins. Yvette’s eyes were brown, but the eyes that had stared back at him in his fantasy were blue, clear crystal blue.

Emma Parker’s eyes.

He sat up and threw himself out of bed with a curse. Ever since he’d stopped to help Emma bury her father, his careful control had been slipping by degrees. All the walls he’d built between himself and his past seemed to be crumbling faster than he could shore them up again. The nightmares he’d conquered years ago had returned with terrifying vigor, and the old yearnings plagued him again.

Had he survived a war, imprisonment, and the loss of his entire family only to be undone by a woman and her dead father?

He stumbled to the bureau where he found a fresh pitcher of water left by his housekeeper the evening before. He poured water into the bowl on the washstand, then scooped it out with his hands. The cool wetness felt good on his face and helped clear the fog from his brain.

He’d kissed her. What the hell had he been thinking? That was just it, he hadn’t been thinking. Emotion and desire had clouded his judgment. He’d been drawn to her vulnerability and her strength, a powerful combination he could not resist, even if it meant navigating the treacherous sea of feeling and memory that churned inside him whenever he got close to her.

It was quite possible that Emma Parker posed the greatest threat he had faced since the war. Where she was concerned, he risked more than his life. He risked his very soul, his sanity, and the world he had built for himself.

“
The killing left shadows in his eyes,”
she’d said, referring to her father.
“But I think it was prison --”
 

The cell they’d put him in was only wide enough for a threadbare mattress. The only light came from a dirty window high up on the wall. In winter, he shivered from the bitter cold; in summer, the stench of offal and the stagnant air made it nearly impossible to breathe. He was a condemned man, captured behind enemy lines, a criminal, a spy, not a prisoner of war.

A growl of protest rose up from his soul, and he doused his head again. He would not think about it. He’d put that behind him, started over.

He had a town to think of, responsibilities. He’d come in late last night, after another confrontation with Mr. Garrett. As he’d suspected, the outlaw hadn’t been sick. He’d just wanted another opportunity to make threats about his gang and what they would do to Providence if he were hanged.

And Reece had to admit there was a chance Garrett’s prediction might come true. But that was a chance he had to take. Garrett’s men would exploit the slightest sign of uncertainty on his part. The only thing that might deter them was a very swift, very public hanging. And if they attacked the town anyway, he’d be ready for them.

The one thing he would not do was hesitate. He’d learned long ago the consequences of hesitation.

He should have shot Corporal Prescott the minute he’d learned of his betrayal. God knew he’d wanted to. But he’d opted instead to abide by the unwritten law that any man in John Singleton Mosby’s command accused of misconduct stood before the Colonel who dispensed justice with impunity. But they’d been two days’ ride from Mosby’s headquarters. Had he executed Prescott, the colonel would have approved his actions. But Reece hadn’t had the stomach for summary executions, hadn’t wanted Prescott’s blood on his hands.

As always, he’d had the conflicting voices of his father and his grandfather to contend with, the one urging him to ruthlessness, the other advocating mercy.

Now because of his hesitation, he had the blood of his own men to carry in his soul for the rest of his life, that and the memory of eight months of hell in a Yankee prison camp.

Had he dealt with Prescott when he should have, the corporal would not have been there that day to denounce him, to seal his fate. Caught behind enemy lines out of uniform and identified by a Union spy as a Confederate spy. They’d sentenced him to death, and then commuted his sentence to life in prison for reasons he’d never understood. And for equally mysterious reasons, they had released him at the end of the war.