Nobody's Darling

She lay steeped in a haze of wonder until the ragged rasp of Billy’s breathing coaxed her eyes open. He was no longer holding her, but sat a few inches away with his elbows propped on his knees and one of those long-boned wrists of his gripped in his other hand. His knuckles were stark white.

The rain had stopped and a shaft of moonlight pierced the musty gloom, illuminating the raw beauty of his profile. A muscle beat beneath the taut skin of his jaw. Esmerelda glanced down, seeing herself as he must see her—a wanton stranger with her breasts bared to the kiss of the moonlight, her nightgown twisted around her waist, her legs sprawled apart in reckless invitation. Shame flooded her as she realized just how generous he’d been and how selfish he’d allowed her to be.

She scrambled to a sitting position, jerking her bodice up and her gowntail down. “Oh, Lord, Billy, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Hush,” he said harshly, still not looking at her. “You don’t owe me anything. Especially not an apology.”

He looked so rigid that she was afraid he might shatter if she dared to touch him. But she dared anyway, running her fingertips over the day’s growth of golden bristle that shadowed his jaw.

He caught her wrist with the grace of a striking rattler, then turned her hand to press a rough kiss to her palm. Before she could recover from her breathless shock, he swept her up in his arms and started for the barn door.

“Where are you taking me?” she blurted out, struggling to clutch her bodice to her breasts and cling to his neck at the same time.

Billy’s eyes narrowed in a mean-eyed squint that sent a primitive shiver rippling down Esmerelda’s spine. “To bed.”

Billy spent the longest night of his life watching Esmerelda sleep in his bed without him.

As the rosy blush of dawn crept across her cheeks, he sat in the old rocker with his bare feet propped on the edge of the straw mattress. Somewhere outside, a lone rooster warbled a plaintive how-do-you-do. A board directly over his head let out a mighty creak, warning him that Zoe was already awake and stirring.

Esmerelda looked so beautiful lying there on the narrow bedstead he’d slept in as a boy, with her hair spilled across the quilt his ma had stitched, that Billy had to rock backward every now and then just to catch his breath. Having her there was like having one of his more vivid boyhood fantasies fulfilled. He could still remember lying on that bed alone, gazing out his window at the Missouri moon and dreaming of a girl just like her. The kind of girl a Darling could only dream of having.

But he was no longer a boy. And Esmerelda was a woman grown. He wanted her badly. It wasn’t right and it wasn’t fair, but he wanted her anyway. The only thing that stopped him from taking her was knowing that if he went back on his word now, he would be no better than Jasper or Bart Fine or any of the other meanspirited sons-of-bitches who believed they could steal what they wanted without ever once having to pay a price.

There had been a moment last night, when Esmerelda had lain vulnerable and trembling in his arms, her naked breasts still flushed from her first taste of bliss, when he would have paid any price to climb between those milky thighs of hers—even his soul. Billy dropped his head into his hands, wondering if he’d ever again taste anything as sweet as the rain on Esmerelda’s skin.

At first he thought the rumble of distant thunder was only the taunt of his memory. But that was before the first gunshot rang out, shattering the morning calm.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“Winstead!” Billy hissed before springing out of the rocker and scrambling for the open window.

That first shot was followed by a torrent of hoofbeats and a gleeful barrage of gunfire. Billy pressed his back to the wall and stole a cautious peek out the window, half expecting to be gunned down by a spray of bullets.

When he saw who was making the racket and why, he almost wished he had been. He groaned aloud before biting off one of his more descriptive oaths. He nearly jumped out of his skin when it was greeted by a scandalized gasp.

“Why, William Darling!” Esmerelda cried, sitting bolt upright in the bed. “I know that chair isn’t very comfortable and you tend to be grumpy in the morning, but you ought to be ashamed of yourself for using that kind of gutter language in front of a lady.”

Billy reached behind him and snatched the burlap curtains together, wishing he’d thought to slam the window when he had the chance. At least he no longer had to worry about a stray bullet striking either of them. “Oh, I am, honey. Deeply ashamed. Now, you just go right back to sleep and I’ll get Ma to wash out my mouth with some of her strongest lye soap.”

Esmerelda yawned, the tumble of her hair making her look deliciously rumpled. Billy suffered a sharp pang of regret. He should have crawled into that bed with her when he’d had the chance. If she got a gander at what was outside that window, he might never get another one.

“What’s that dreadful noise?” she asked, knuckling her eyes.

“It’s probably just Ma shooting her some breakfast. You know Ma. When she gets a hankering for chicken gizzards, there’s no dissuading her.”

Esmerelda lowered her hands. “Your mother shoots chickens?”

For once in his life, Billys glib tongue failed him. He strode toward the bed. “There’s really no need for you to rise this early. Why don’t you let me tuck you back in?”

He jerked the quilt out from under her and threw it over her head, hoping it would muffle the worst of the din. It barely succeeded in muffling her outraged protests. She finally managed to bat it away, but before she could do more than sputter in indignation, the gunfire ceased and a male voice boomed like cannonshot, making them both jump.

“Hey, little brother! You alive in there?”

Billy winced at that familiar bellow. A bellow even Esmerelda couldn’t fail to recognize. He closed his eyes briefly and cleared his throat before calling out, “Yeah, Virg, I’m alive.”

“Well, come join the party, then,” his oldest brother roared in an invitation too jovial to resist. “There’s a young feller out here who’d like to have a word with you. Turns out he’s mighty sorry for shootin‘ you up like he did. He’d like to make peace with both you and his Maker before we string him up from this here oak.”

Esmerelda went pale, then white. Their gazes locked for a frantic moment before she went bounding out of the bed and Billy went bounding over it, both racing for the gunbelt draped over the doorknob. Despite his well-honed reflexes, Esmerelda got there first.

She wrapped her fingers around the butt of the pistol. He wrapped his fingers around hers. They wrestled over the weapon, neither willing to be the first to let go.

“If you put another bullet in me,” he muttered through clenched teeth, desperately trying to steer the barrel of the weapon away from all four of their bare feet, “I’m not going to be quite so inclined to overlook it.”

“Then let go!” she demanded, straining against his relentless grip.

He did.

Esmerelda was so surprised, she stumbled against the wardrobe and nearly fell. From her triumphant look, Billy knew that she’d failed to take one thing into account. He still stood between her and the door.

He asserted his squatter’s claim by leaning against it and folding his arms over his chest. “I can take the gun from you by force, but I’d rather you give it to me.”

“They’re going to hang him,” she wailed softly. “They’re going to hang my baby brother.”

“No, they’re not.” He held out his hand. It was as steady as it had ever been without a gun in it. “For once in your life, woman, you’re going to have to trust somebody besides yourself.”

Although Esmerelda’s face was still ashen, her eyes glittered with pride. A pride she had clung to without complaint or compromise ever since her parents had left a lonely, frightened twelve-year-old to fend for herself and her little brother. Billy held his breath. If she relaxed her white-knuckled grip on the gun, she would be offering him a gift even more precious than the generous liberties she’d allowed him in the barn.