he wanted was Fortier and justice. Swift and efficient.
And Irene Hardisson knew which direction he was headed. He cleared his throat. “Miss Hardisson, I’m dead tired and hot and sweaty from near twenty hours in the saddle. If you don’t mind, we’ll continue this skirmish later.”
She sent him a look that would fry bacon. “Well, I never!” Hands propped on her hips, she stood toe-to-toe with him.
Clayton stifled a groan, then spun on his heel and headed for the door. “I need some answers. I’ll be back after supper.”
“I will not be in after supper,” she snapped. “I will be at my home.”
“Fine,” he shot back. “Where do you live?”
“I did not mean for you to call, Mr. Black. I am not receiving. I meant—”
“At the hotel, then. Later. I’ll probably pick up a poker game, see what I can find out.”
With a nod in her direction, he bolted through the doorway and was gone.
Openmouthed, Irene listened to his boots clump down the boardwalk. She most certainly would not see him later! Their business, such as it was, had been completed. She had absolutely no wish to see Clayton Black ever again.
On the stagecoach she had not paid that much attention to the injured man they had loaded aboard other than to supply some pain-deadening whiskey. He had looked every bit the lowlife. Now, the man might be dusty and rumpled, but with his tanned, even features and straight, dark hair, she noted he was extraordinarily handsome. She nudged the awareness to the back of her mind. A moment ago he had stood there, assessing her with those cold gray eyes, and she had felt…well, intimidated.
So what if he is a lawman? A Texas Ranger, or so he said. That did not mean he was a gentleman. “Gentlemen,” she announced to her pile of waiting papers, “do not intimidate ladies.”
She swept to the bookcase behind the desk and retrieved her straw hat. Decorated as it was with shiny red fruit, it had cost her four whole dollars at Whyte’s in Philadelphia. She’d bought it because it reminded her of her father; he had adored cherries.
“And a poker-playing lawman at that,” she muttered. “Papa always said that was the devil’s game. That’s why he taught me to play chess instead.”
She pulled the door closed behind her, locked it with the key she dug out of her reticule, and headed down Park Street to her cottage.
Her spirits drooped. Another restless night with nothing to occupy her mind but how lonely she felt, so far away from everything familiar to her—the solid brick house she’d grown up in, her father’s library of books, her father himself, dead these past four months.
On the surface, she maintained the cool, controlled manner that had been bred into her, but inside, when she was alone, she had to face her real feelings. Her soul ached at the loss of her father. She would never see his dear, bewhiskered face again.
Her shoulders sagged. She was two thousand miles from the cobblestone streets of Philadelphia, the comfortable, welcoming home she’d always known. She longed to be there now, longed to let Nora help her out of her stays and petticoats, draw her a bath, bring supper on a tray. For all the years she could remember, the plump housekeeper had loved her and taken care of her, just like a mother. Oh, why had she ever left?
Because it was not enough, a voice inside reminded. You wanted to make your own way, be a part of the new Western frontier.
Well, now she was part of it, God help her! She supposed men like Clayton Black went with the territory. Men who hunted other men. Men who intimidated women. Men who frequented smoke-filled rooms playing…poker.
It was only a game, wasn’t it? Why had Father been so against it?
She loved games, excelled at them. Loved the feeling of control she gained when she mastered the rules. She guessed her joy in such activity was an antidote to losing her mother when she was four, and the confusion that overwhelmed her later when her father began to fail.
She had studied law not only to uphold the name of the Hardisson law firm but because it offered her a kind of emotional security. She could not predict life or death, but with intelligence and knowledge of the rules, she could dictate the outcome of a trial. Or a game.
The thought pulled at her as she turned the corner across from the town square and sped toward the white frame house that was now hers. Inside was safety and warmth. Predictability. After her encounter with Clayton Black, she felt more than the usual need for such things.
“But at least I had the last word,” she announced to her empty front parlor. She halted in front of four rolls of rose-sprigged wallpaper she’d left leaning against the stepladder. “Or did I?”
She could not remember. When he had looked at her, under her corset her heart began to hammer like a piston and her thoughts flew up and away like so many dandelion puffs.
She smoothed her palm over the carved oak banister in the hall and stepped with exaggerated dignity onto the first stair. “I am becoming a notional old maid with a silly brain that goes into flutters over a Texas Ranger’s smile! Well, I will have none of that, thank you. None whatsoever!” She reached the top landing and marched to her bedroom door.
Inside, the golden afternoon light poured in the open window, bringing the scent of roses and Mrs. Gerstein’s honeysuckle vine from the neighboring yard. Irene shut her eyes. Papa is gone.
She opened her eyes and spoke aloud to the windowpane. “And he is never coming back.”
“Cut the cards, mister?”
Clayton reached out his good arm and split the deck. He’d played seven hands, won the pot after the last one, and now his mind wandered away from the game while the dealer slapped cards down onto the scarred oak table.
Sweat crawled down his back. He felt off balance. He’d unpinned the badge on his vest to forestall questions, had been invited to join the game with no inquiries. He wondered if the five men gathered around the table would be as friendly if they knew he was a Texas Ranger. If they knew he was after information, they might clam up.
He didn’t belong here. If they knew he was half Cherokee, he wouldn’t even be allowed in. The sign in the hotel lobby said No Indians. He longed to get up and leave, but it was too early to break up the game. He hadn’t learned a damn thing about Fortier so far. Maybe he was sitting at the wrong campfire.
Irene Hardisson knew more than she was telling, he could feel it in his gut. It was her he had to talk to.
She sure hadn’t had much to say to him this afternoon!
A grin threatened to crack his dry lips. Man, she had a temper. She was starched stiff as a corset stay!
He shifted in his chair. Even after two whiskeys, his shoulder hurt and his ribs still ached. A soft bed with clean sheets beckoned upstairs—why not wait till morning to talk to the lady lawyer?
Yeah, Clayton, mi amigo. Why not?
Because she smelled good. And she looked soft and frilly and her dark hair shone like firelight licking coals, and…she smelled good. Like a woman.
And because he was hungry for something he couldn’t even begin to name. Someone to talk to. Somewhere to belong.
Just for tonight. Tomorrow he’d head out and try to pick up Fortier’s trail. It made him nervous to stay in one place too long. But tonight…tonight he wished—
“Mr. Black?”
In an instant, the entire table of men rose to their feet. Clayton’s cards slipped from his hand and scattered, most of them faceup. Without turning his head, he knew who it was. In a town like this, men stood up when a lady entered a room.
He stood up, too, removing his hat as he did so, just like his momma had taught him.
“Miss Hardisson.”
“I