Wild Is the Night (43 page)

Amanda started to get up, but one swift glance from Luke made her return to her seat like a scolded child. Frantic, she prepared several defenses, but without knowing precisely what part of the book he was angry about, she could do nothing except brace for an attack.

She was almost relieved when it came, and then horrified when it did. Casually, as if performing an everyday task, Luke picked up her book and tossed it into the fire. Amanda cried out, but flames engulfed the novel until only the hardback cover remained, and even that shriveled up, the yellow jacket becoming a dismal black.

Tears filled Amanda’s enormous blue-green eyes, and she turned to Luke in outrage, but he rose and walked leisurely toward the fire, watching the book burn. When he turned to her, his voice was calm, betraying nothing.

“I’m leaving you.”

Nothing in his demeanor matched what he was saying. Desperate, Amanda searched his face for some of the kind understanding she had come to expect from him, but there was nothing. She saw cynicism and disgust, but nothing else.

“Luke, you can’t mean—”

“Yes, I mean exactly that.” He continued, as if discussing the weather. “Amanda, I thought I could forgive you anything. That’s how much I loved you. But I can’t forgive this, nor forget. How the hell could you write all that, especially about us?”

Pale and trembling, she rose to her feet and came to stand beside him. Timidly, she placed a hand on his shoulder, then withdrew it when he looked at her as if he hated her. Taking a fortifying breath, she explained what she thought needed no explanation.

“Luke, I didn’t know that you’d feel this way. I’m a writer, and I—”

“Dissect everyone’s intimate life with a scalpel,” Luke finished for her. Amanda fell into silence, aware that he was more than angry. Rage coupled with humiliation and pain played over his face, and he stared at her as if she was some kind of monster. “Amanda, how could you? How could you take something that was so beautiful and make it into nothing more than a piece of pulp fiction, that anyone with two bits could buy?”

“Luke, please—”

“No.” He slammed his fist onto the mantle, scarlet suffusing his face. “And you even had to put that night into it, Amanda. Our first night together. Then tell the whole world that I didn’t satisfy you. Every time I think of that, and see those words written on that page, unmistakably describing you, me, and our lovemaking—the private act between two people—I want to kill you with my bare hands. Do you understand?” He glared at her, his blue eyes blazing.

Amanda nodded, tears streaming down her face. “Luke, I never meant to hurt you.”

“Well, you did.” Picking up his hat, he strode toward the door, then stopped short. “You’ve got what you wanted, Amanda. I’m out of your life for good. The ranch is yours. I’ll send a solicitor out to take care of the paperwork.” His eyes raked over her, and Amanda wrapped her arms around herself as if for protection. “I hope you’re damned happy.”

Then he walked out. The wind rushed out of her lungs and Amanda fell to the floor in a sobbing heap.

“Sam, where are you going?” Honey asked as Haskwell emerged from the bath tub and began to dress. Normally, he waited until sundown to bathe and change into his good black trousers and snowy white shirt, but since he’d come to Waco, Sam had rarely left the hotel room. Now it was barely high noon, and Sam was combing back his slick black hair and applying shaving cream as if preparing for a night out on the town gambling.

“Why, I’d say that’s none of your business, darlin’,” Sam replied with a grin, watching her flinch at the endearment. “But seeing as you won’t be around much longer anyway, I’ll tell you. I’m about to finish my business here. Remember that woman I told you about—the writer who published that book about the shooting I did?” When Honey nodded, Sam rinsed his hands of the shaving cream and then took a seat, handing Honey the razor.

“Well, I’ve found her. Seems everyone in this town knows Fess Tyson. Had no trouble finding her at all.”

Honey whisked away a dollop of shaving cream, then stared at the throat that was enticingly bared before her. Her fingers shaking, she removed the next half-inch of cream and whiskers, fighting to still the trembling in her fingers. “So are you going to kill her?”

“Yes, darlin’.” Sam sighed, closing his eyes. “That’s what this whole trip is about. But don’t you fret none. Why, with that money you made the other night, I can buy you a damned nice funeral.”

Her fingers trembled even more, and the razor slipped on Sam’s slick neck. One black eye opened and bore into her, though his voice was deceptively kind.

“You aren’t thinking about cutting me, now are you Honey? I could kill you nice and easy, or I can kill you slow. The Indians do that, you know. Tie a man to a stake, strip him naked, then pour honey all over him. Then they leave him to the ants. Ever see what happens to a man in that condition?” When Honey didn’t reply, Haskwell finished the sentence. “He’d beg you to kill him. Now finish that shave.”

Biting her lip, Honey forced down her terror and obeyed. When she completed the job, Haskwell stood up, then examined his face in the mirror. He wiped the excess cream from his chin with a towel, then tossed it over the brass rail of the bed and nodded with satisfaction.

“Good. You did a good job. And for that, I will reward you. See this gun?” He removed one of the ivory-handled pistols from his belt and handed it to her. “There’s but one bullet left in it, darlin’. I’m leaving now, and the rest is up to you. You can either take your own life, or I’ll do it for you when I get back. But remember this. The man with the Indians would have prayed to have this choice. Do you understand me?”

Tears fell from Honey’s eyes, and she stared at the gun in her hand, felt the heavy weight of it and the gleam of ivory and tooled metal. “Please, Sam,” she whispered. “I can’t.”

“The choice is yours, darlin’. Now I’ll be back within a few hours. Think about it, and think hard.”

With a grin, Haskwell closed the door and locked it behind him. Pocketing the key, he strode down the hall, whistling a tune, and wondering where he’d heard it before.

The answer occurred to him a few minutes later, when he’d reached the street. It was the song Honey had sung just the other night.

Damn, he would miss that girl.

Amanda dismounted from the wagon and pulled her bonnet more closely around her face. The morning sun blazed, but did nothing to warm her nor to lift her spirits. He was gone—as surely as the harsh cold winter followed summer, taking all of the lush green grass and crimson flowers with it. The baby moved within her, and she cradled it with her hand. She had been tempted to tell Luke the truth, but her wonderful mind stopped her. No, if Luke Parker didn’t want her, then she and the baby would have to survive alone. She didn’t want him out of pity or a sense of duty.

“It will be all right, senora.” Pedro smiled brightly, trying to reassure her. “Senor Parker will come home. These things happen in a marriage.”

He will never come back.
Amanda knew that for certain. The slight curve of her mouth faded as she recalled the expression on Luke’s face. She’d never seen him so angry, not in any of the fights they’d had. Her book had hurt him in ways she’d never anticipated, and worse, she could do nothing about now.

As if somehow her mind had formed his image, Luke walked out of the Lone Star Hotel, shading his eyes from the sun. He carried his hat, and the sunlight played on his hair, making it appear as glossy and black as a raven’s wing. Clad in buckskins, a rough white shirt, and a thick leather vest, he looked like the symbol of the frontier: rugged, handsome, and enduring. He felt her eyes on him, glanced in her direction, then put on his hat and crossed the street to the saloon as if he’d never seen her.

The hand Amanda had waved froze in the air.
Luke, how can I explain? I wrote about us not to hurt you or to make a fool of you. Falling in love with you was simply the most important event in my life. Why can’t you see that?
But the saloon doors swung shut, leaving Amanda alone on the street with her thoughts.

“Come.” Pedro saw the exchange and placed a kind hand on her arm. “We will buy the food for the evening meal. I will make you good tacos,
si?
And some warm enchiladas. You should not stay out in the sun for too long.”

Amanda obeyed, but her heart was breaking. How could Luke just walk away from her like that? Could she have meant so little to him that he could turn his back on her completely?

Mrs. Meade strode down the street toward the dress shop, her arms laden with packages. Amanda smiled in greeting, but the stout woman gave her one swift glacial glance, then hiked up her skirts and crossed to the other side of the street. Elvira followed, fanning herself as if she would faint right then and there. Mrs. Mitchell, who was congregating outside the shop with several friends, whispered something to another woman, then the two of them broke out into laughter. Hurt, Amanda stepped up to the porch of the general store, glad to be away from them and enveloped in the cool dark shade.

The whittlers stopped their activity on the porch, their knives gleaming, watching her with baleful eyes. Amanda had to step over their legs to the door. None of them moved or offered the briefest courtesy due a lady. As she closed the door behind her, she breathed a sigh of relief, but the men inside stopped talking, then one by one turned to stare at her as if she was some oddity thrown into their midst. Several looked her up and down with appraising eyes, while one of the bolder men chuckled.

“Isn’t that Fess Tyson? Hey honey, you can write about me any time. What do you say we go home and create chapter thirteen?”

“Senor, I must ask you to stop that,” Pedro protested. “Mrs. Parker is a lady, and should not have to listen to that kind of talk.”

“Why not, she writes it? What do you say, Frank?”

The storekeeper glanced up from bagging an order, and gave Amanda an evil smirk. “I say she deserves everything that’s coming to her. If it wasn’t for Jake, she’d be run out of town.”

The other men chuckled, then began to exchange more remarks. Mortified, Amanda whirled around and headed back outside. Her pregnancy made her feel weak and emotional, and with her heart breaking over Luke, she couldn’t even respond to the townspeople’s taunts.

“Where are you going, Fess Tyson?” one of the whittlers called. “Don’t like your reception?”

“Watch what you say around her,” his wrinkled companion said, “or you’re liable to be in the next book. Anyone who prints how her old man screws would write anything.”

Scarlet splashed her cheeks and Amanda got into the wagon, hearing their laughter, wanting to be a thousand miles from here. The Fess Tyson had gone from being the town heroine to the villain. And all it had taken was one little book.

The ride home felt like it took an eternity. Numb, Amanda sat in the wagon, her hands folded together, her skin thick with goosebumps. She had never been so openly rejected before, not even as a schoolgirl when she’d been the laughingstock of her family. She wanted Aesop, wanted her ink and her papers, wanted her books—

Wanted Luke.

The pain inside of her was so overwhelming, she could hardly hear Pedro’s soft consolation.

“It will be all right, senora. The townspeople are just angry and surprised. It will die down and be forgotten. You will see.”

Amanda nodded, though she had no confidence in any such prediction. “I know. I think I’ll go upstairs now. You have this evening off, isn’t that right?”

“Sí,
every Thursday.” Pedro smiled, then the light in his eyes dimmed. “But I think I should stay with you tonight. I do not wish for you to be alone.”

“Don’t be silly,” Amanda reassured him. “I’ll be fine. To tell you the truth, I’d rather be alone. I have a lot of thinking to do, and its always best to think in solitude. Someone said that, I just can’t remember who.”

Pedro watched her walk inside the house, her shoulders square, her head held high. Amanda Parker was a remarkable woman. Her just hoped her very uniqueness wouldn’t cost her happiness.

The pearl-handled pistol gleamed from the table, promising relief and an end to this existence she’d been forced to endure for far too long. Honey stared at the gun, hugging her thin body, wondering if it wouldn’t be better after all.

She’d done everything else she could think of to try and get away from this man. But somehow Sam always managed to be one step ahead of her. Like a spider, plotting endlessly, he seemed to delight in outwitting her, in torturing her not just sexually but emotionally. Drained of everything except the desire to escape, Honey picked up the gun and held it to her head.

The metal felt cool and quiet. It was so easy, so easy. All she had to do was pull the trigger. Her mother, a riverboat showgirl, had died from yellow fever long ago, and her father she’d never known. She wanted to be with her mother again, to feel safe and secure and sheltered from this monster of a man who’d made her life a holy hell.

Honey clamped her eyes closed and squeezed the trigger. The gun clicked emptily. Nothing happened. There was no loud explosion, no vast emptiness before the warmth, no death colored in her own red blood.

Mystified, she opened the chamber, peered inside, and saw that there was but one bullet. Apparently Sam intended for her to put the gun to her head and pull the trigger, not knowing whether or not the chamber was filled. She envisioned herself dead—the explosion, the blood she would never see—and then worse, the feeling that would result if the gun didn’t go off. Horror sprang up inside of her, coupled with a new wash of hatred.