up and stared at the wall as he whisked the garment from her hips and legs and tossed it into the sodden pile beside the bed. He folded her gently into the bed linens then and raised her arm to clamp his half of the cuff onto the iron bedpost.
“Sleep tight, Miss Edwina Cassidy,” he murmured. He gathered up her clothes and walked softly out of the room.
* * *
The string band stuttered in the middle of its tune when Gideon pushed through the batwing doors into the dance hall. He felt the keen appraisal of every eye in the smoky room, and he heard the telling shift in the rhythm of everyone’s breathing, the way voices stilled a second, then softly rose again as he crossed to the bar.
A perverse pride welled in the back of his throat, and his gut tugged a little as he thought of so many other rooms he had entered with his cousins—with Jesse and Frank and Dwight. The young desk clerk had done his job just right. The word had been spread. The name of Gideon Summerfield had gotten around. And its magic was still there. But it wasn’t magic, as Gideon well knew. It was fear that was rippling through the room. It was the rush from the wings of the angel of death.
“Name your poison, Summerfield,” the bearded bartender said.
Gideon leaned an elbow on the carved sweep of walnut and lifted a boot onto the rail. “Rye, if you’ve got it, otherwise anything’ll do.”
As the barman turned to retrieve a glass from the wall behind him, Gideon surveyed the dimly lit room. A dozen men. A sprinkle of whores, including the one who was sashaying toward him now.
“You’re a hell of a long way from Clay County,” she purred, fitting her hip against his, slipping her fingers between the buttons of his shirt.
“You, too, darlin’, judging from the sound of you.” Gideon immediately recognized the flat border state drawl. He tried to ignore her inquisitive little hand as it traced over his belly. He tried and failed to ignore the tightening in his groin.
“Born and bred in Liberty,” she said. “How ‘bout you?”
“Colton.”
“Never heard of it.”
Gideon’s mouth twitched. “It wasn’t much, even before the Yankees burned it. I’m looking for somebody from home. Maybe you can help me.”
“Maybe.” She slipped a button on his midriff to allow her hand freer, warmer access.
Gideon reached back for the glass on the bar top, tilted his head and downed the liquor in a single swallow. He tapped the empty glass on the counter, raising an eyebrow to signal a refill. “And one for the lady,” he drawled, returning his gaze to the painted, fine-handed redhead.
“Who’re you looking for, honey?” she asked him, angling her blue-lidded eyes up to his. “Other than me, of course.”
“My wife,” he said in a low, level tone.
The redhead blinked. “Word is you’ve got one of those upstairs right now.”
Word, thought Gideon, traveled fast. Good. “I’m looking for my first wife. The one who walked out on me.” He narrowed his gaze on the whore’s curious face. “With Dwight Samuel. You know him?”
Her expression seemed to melt. Only two bright dabs of rouge remained to color her suddenly pallid face. Her red mouth opened, hung slack for a moment, then snapped closed.
Gideon sipped his drink. That was answer enough for him, he thought. “Dwight get to Cerrillos often, does he?”
She eased her hand from his shirt and took a small step back. “I don’t know nothin’. I don’t want to know nothin’.”
He caught her wrist in an iron grip. “Tell him I’m looking for him.” His lips sliced into a grin. “Do that for me, sugar, will you? Tell my cousin I’m looking to join up with him again.”
Chapter Three
Honey woke slowly. Like a lazy fish, a languid swimmer rising to the surface of warm, dark water. At first she thought she was back at school in St. Louis, but then she remembered her long train ride back to New Mexico. This wasn’t her room, though. She wasn’t home. Where in the world...? Then her mind broke through the murky barriers to reality.
“Oh, Lord!” She moved to sit up, but steel clinked on iron, and the metal cuff bit into her wrist. “Hell and damnation,” she muttered.
Unable to sit up, she lay there, taking bleak inventory of her situation. The last thing she remembered was staring ahead at the rough, moonlit contours of the hills, trying to ignore the dull ache in her bladder, trying desperately to stay awake. Obviously, she thought now, she hadn’t. The ache was gone, and she shuddered to even think about that. She shuddered, too, at the feel of the scratchy linens against her skin.
Gideon Summerfield had left her—naked as a jaybird—cuffed to the bedpost. The idea of that desperado taking off her clothes was enough to set her blood boiling, but even worse at the moment was the thought that he had escaped with the bank’s money.
Lifting her head, Honey searched the moonlit room, then breathed a small sigh of relief when she saw the canvas sack leaning against the washstand. Thank heavens. If the money was still here, she still had a fighting chance to get it back for the bank. But her sense of relief was fleeting. If the money was still here, then so was Gideon Summerfield. And she was hooked to the bed like a fish on a line. A naked fish at that.
Jerking on the steel cuff did nothing but hurt her already bruised wrist. With her free hand, Honey tossed the covers off, then clambered up on her knees. If that damn bandit had opened his half of the cuffs, then surely there was a way...
A key scraped and turned in the lock on the door. Honey dived beneath the covers just as light from the hall wedged into the room. She held her breath while the door clicked closed and the bolt shot home.
Her wildly pounding heart was crowding the breath from her lungs now. She made a fist of her free hand beneath the covers. If he so much as touched her, she thought, she’d claw his eyes out. She’d rip his flesh with her teeth. She’d...
The sound of water splashing into the washbasin sidetracked her panicky thoughts. Then came the soft rustle of fabric, followed by more splashing. Honey opened one eye and peeked over the covers.
The moon seemed to sculpt his broad, wet shoulders and cast in dark pewter the cords of his neck. Silvered water streaked down his ropy arms. He shook his head, sending quick beads of diamond water into the air. As he started to turn, Honey caught a glimpse of the hard-carved muscles on his chest before she squeezed her eyes closed again. She didn’t dare let him know she was awake. No telling what he might do. Worse, she’d die of shame if he knew she’d been watching him with such outright curiosity.
She swallowed, then gritted her teeth, hoping he hadn’t heard the dry contraction of her throat, which had sounded loud as a thunderclap to her.
She heard the clink of his belt buckle, the pull of leather against cloth, and the dull thud of his heavy holster settling against the bedpost. The mattress dipped under his weight then, and Honey held her breath. She lay so still she could feel her heart crashing against her ribs.
Gideon exhaled wearily as he pulled off his boots and let them drop on the floor. The sponge bath hadn’t done much to clean up his mood, but it beat being hosed off with icy water once a week. He hated being dirty almost as much as he hated being locked in a cage. What he wanted, he thought, was a hot bath in a big copper tub where he could sink to his chin, breathe in the rising steam, close his eyes and let every muscle and nerve relax.
A bed was the next best thing. Although sharing it with the little bank teller wasn’t his idea of the perfect way to relax. Maybe he should have spent an hour or two with one of the girls downstairs, he thought now, just to take the edge off. But it hadn’t seemed worth it at the time. Their dull eyes dispelled the promises of their warm hands.
Anyway,