Weeping Angel (42 page)

Although she wanted to know all about Frank, she feared any interrogation, no matter how subtly phrased, would ruin this precious moment. Instead, she contented herself to touch him, learn him on the outside; touching and learning him on the inside would come later.

Her hand in his hair slid to the hard curve of his shoulder and down his solid bicep. The light covering of hair on his forearm didn't disguise the crescent-shaped scar that marred him. She ran her finger over the small protrusion. “Did a piece of the moon really come out of the sky and cut you on the arm?”

“No.”

“So the rock in the saloon isn't from the moon?”

“No. I found it in the bottom of a Mojave crater.”

She traced the mark on his skin. “Then how did this happen?”

“In a bar fight. A guy used my arm to shatter a liquor bottle.”

“What were you fighting about?”

“A woman.”

“Oh.” She was sorry she asked.

“I can't remember her name. I was drunk. I don't do that much anymore.”

“What?”

“Get drunk.”

“Why not?”

He gave her a lopsided smile. “Because I own a drunkard's haven.”

She grew thoughtful for a moment before sitting up. She would have been self-conscious of her nakedness if she hadn't had her hair to hide her breasts. She used the long brown waves to cover herself as Frank rolled onto his back. His hand came toward her and he
playfully tugged on the ends of hair that fell to her waist. “Where are you going?”

“You reminded me of something.” She tried to disengage her wrapper from them, but Frank was resting on most of it. He had no problem lying there completely nude, but she wasn't used to his lack of clothing. She kept an unwavering gaze on his face, certain he could tell it was no accident she didn't move her stare lower.

“Lift up so I can get my wrapper,” she directed when he didn't budge.

“What for? I like you wearing just your wedding ring.”

“You're incorrigible.”

“I could be more than that if you give me a minute.”

Through the din of his implication, she breathed one word. “Again?”

“Oh, yeah.”

A new and unexpected warmth surged through her. “Could we wait until after I give you your present?”

“We have all night, sweetheart.” Then his eyebrows slanted in a frown. “What present? You're going to make me feel bad I don't have anything for you.”

“You're wrong. You already gave me my present.” She held up her hand. “My wedding ring, silly. And besides, my present really isn't a present. It's more like a symbol that seals our vows. So let me have my wrapper and I'll go get it.”

Frank lifted his hips and she pulled the gown free. When her arms were in the sleeves, she attempted to climb over him. He brought her down against his chest and kissed her soundly on the lips. “I don't want you going far.”

“I'm not.”

He released her and she left the bedroom, tying her wrapper as she walked. She went to her aunt Clara's room, opened the dusty, mirror-backed bureau, and
sorted through the linens. When she found what she was looking for, she padded quietly back to her bedroom.

Frank rested his head on his folded arms, one long leg bent at the knee. He'd undone the bedclothes, the end of the bleached sheeting draped across his middle. She went to him, and he slid over enough for her to sit on the side of the narrow bed.

“I have something for you.”

“What?”

She held out her closed fist. “Open your hand.”

He did. His palm was wide and large, and she dropped her gift into it. He stared at the brass key, then up at her.

“It's a key to my house,” she said proudly. “I have a key to your saloon. But now that we're married, both the house and the saloon are ours. Everything we have, we have together.”

He closed his fingers around the key. “I guess that means you finally own that piano, huh?”

She bit her lip to downplay her grin of delight. “I hadn't thought of that.”

“Am I going to find it missing one day and discover it in the parlor downstairs?”

“No. Things seem to be working out at the Moon Rock, so I think I'll keep it there until our other one comes.”

“I appreciate that.”

She smiled, so happy she was beside herself.

He smiled back and let the key drop out of his hand. It fell silently to the floor on his discarded shirt. “Come here.”

She went into his arms, and he brought her back to his side. As they faced each other, he gave her a kiss on the tip of her nose. “You know, this bed isn't going to work out too well. My feet are hanging over the edge. I guess we'll just have to stay up all night so I don't have to figure out how I'm going to sleep in it.”

“I don't want it to be morning yet either.”

“You don't?”

“No. I don't want you to see me in the light of day. Not after . . . you know.”

“You mean not after you saw Red Devils?” he teased.

Groaning, she buried her burning face against his chest, but he wouldn't let her hide. His fingers captured her chin, and he made her look into his eyes. “Don't, Amelia. Never feel like what we do is something you have to be embarrassed over. You're beautiful, and I intend to show you how much. Over and over.”

Her arms went around him, and she pressed her cheek to his. “Do you know how happy you've made me? I never thought I'd get married. I never thought I'd have somebody like you.”

“Me neither,” he whispered in her hair.

For a while, they held each other in the drowsy warmth of the bed, both quiet and thinking.

“Amelia?”

“Yes?”

Several mindful seconds later he said, “My parents aren't dead. At least I don't think they are. I don't know. I haven't seen them in twenty years. Not since they dumped me in an orphanage when I was nine.”

“Oh . . . darling,” she sighed, her heart breaking. She wasn't really surprised to hear his confession echo in her thoughts. Having his parents abandon him would explain a lot. “Do you ever want to find them?”

“No.”

She lifted her head, feeling such a love for him it almost troubled her. “Then I'll be your family, Frank. I don't have anybody else, either.”

F
rank hadn't told Amelia he loved her.

His inability to utter those three words stemmed back to his childhood. He'd never had the endearment spoken to him, nor had he said them to anyone. Not even to Harry, who he had loved.

His brother had viewed the world through uncomplicated eyes and wouldn't have understood the emotional meaning behind the words. Their communication had been based on a simple level of language, mostly centering around the subject of water.

Ever since Harry could crawl, he'd been infatuated by the water in the Frisco harbor, by the ships that moored and sailed. Growing up, the sun-glistened bay had been the mainstay of their conversations and the site of many visits before they'd been disposed of at St. John's Orphanage. Once in the home, late at night in their cots, they'd whisper quietly about what they would do when they got out. Harry always said he'd walk straight to the ocean and stare at it.

In those unlit hours when the barracks were immersed
in a black as dark as the nuns' habits, and when those inmates who were ruffians by day wept openly in their beds at night, Frank had vowed to see his brother through the misery of it all.

As a means of telling Harry how he'd felt about him, he'd shown him in ways Harry could grasp. By looking after him. By taking licks for him. By keeping him on his knees in the chapel during mass when the sisters were watching. By silently swearing to God during the long litanies in Latin to hate Jack and Charlotte, not for what they'd done to him—for he could have tolerated being abandoned—but for deserting Harry. For that, they deserved to be damned. Harry, who'd never cried, not even the day he was born, had been special and needed their love more than Frank ever had.

His little brother's boyish and blameless smile had been the only display of love Frank had ever been given. He'd grabbed onto it, like a dog starved for a bone, burying the gift deep inside of him. When the day came that he was released from the orphanage, without Harry's shadow trailing beside his, his most precious possession in the world had been hidden in his heart.

It went unsaid how they'd felt about each other. The need for words had never been there. And so he'd never learned to speak them. But he knew Amelia wanted to hear what he could not say.

His feelings for her were profound and unlike the unconditional bonds between brothers. Consciousness of being
in love
was different. He had no experience with that. There was no other passion that produced such contrary effects in so great a degree. He'd paid for love in the brothels, but he'd never had it given to him without a price. Never had the words been spoken to him from the cry of a soul, and Amelia's touched him deeply.

She loved him.

He hoped she would accept his silence, for he would show her how he felt, just as he had shown Harry.

The beat-up coffeepot behind Frank sputtered on the burner, pulling him from his thoughts. He turned away from the bar and poured an early afternoon cup to drink while he finished filling a box with his baseball equipment and fishing tackle. Right after the ceremony yesterday, he'd only taken the bare essentials to Amelia's house. Today he was moving in all his sporting gear. Tomorrow he'd tell Richard Hartshorn, the manager of the bank, his permanent address would be on Inspiration Lane with his wife.

His wife.

The dawn was barely discernible when they'd opened their eyes to each other early this morning. His stiff joints had felt the consequences of his cramped sleeping arrangements, but seeing Amelia first thing had made the kinks bearable. Half awake, he'd lifted her into the cradle of his arms, one palm on the soft cheek of her bottom—bare as a baby's.

He'd insisted she sleep without her nightgown.

She'd insisted she wouldn't be able to sleep without wearing it.

He'd insisted she leave her hair loose.

She'd insisted she always braided her hair for bed.

His argument had won on both counts—and in more ways than one—because she had fallen asleep naked with her head pillowed on his chest and her wealth of hair blanketing them both.

Amelia was the only woman he'd ever spent the night with without wanting to find his pants first thing in the morning and be on his way. He'd roused her with his kiss, touched her with a slow hand, made love to her until they fell into a pleasant exhaustion.

They'd drifted back to sleep to nearly noon. Stirring from the hot sun sloping through the window, Amelia had been frantic because she'd lazed in bed so late. She'd gone on about all the things she had to do,
untangling herself from the sheets and scooping up her discarded underfrills while she walked toward the bathroom.

She'd looked damn good in the natural, forgetting about that fact while striding across the room. Her breasts were the perfect shapes to fill his hands, her stomach flat, and her legs were slender and long. Just thinking they'd been wrapped around his thighs not more than a few hours ago had made him want her again. He'd decided he better get up, too, and put his clothes on before he hauled her back to bed.

Amelia had called over her shoulder, “I wish I had time to visit Narcissa before going to the saloon. She's undoubtedly told the ladies about our wedding. I want to find out what they said.”

Frank thought about Narcissa Dodge's caution. He had to face the facts. His one-night honeymoon was over, and he had to deal with what led him to his hasty marriage: the meddling crones. He could care less what was said about him. Amelia, though, didn't need her reputation raked through the coals. Even though they'd exchanged vows, there would still be talk. He had to prepare Amelia so they could handle things together.

Buttoning his shirt and slipping on his boots, Frank walked to the bathroom.

“Amelia, honey,” he said through the door, but the slosh of running water drowned his voice.

He knocked, then turned the knob. Amelia stood by the sink in her robe washing her face. “Yes?”

“Amelia, there's something we need to—”

The front bell rang.

“Ah, hell,” he cursed.

Amelia turned around. “I wonder who that could be? I wasn't expecting a soul. Maybe it's Narcissa.”

Frank hoped so. He could use a little help in his corner. “I'll go see.”

It turned out to be Cincinatus Dodge come to
inform him that during the night someone had knocked over and set the outhouse on fire behind the Moon Rock. It had gotten a little out of control in the alley, burning the porch post and part of the awning of his former living quarters. The mayor suspected the foul play was leftover Fourth of July antics and nothing more. But he needed Frank to check out the damage.