Chapter 19
L oralee yawned and curled closer into the warmth of the comforter. She couldn't remember the last time she'd slept in a comfortable bed. Alone . It was downright sinful. A girl could get used to it. She stretched contentedly then let her eyes slowly flicker open.
Sunlight filtered through the faded curtains, dappling the bedclothes in soft light.
Heaven. With a blissful sigh, she threw back the covers and sat up, marveling at the fact that the day was hers.
Totally hers. Unless Amos Striker arrived .
She shivered, her mind conjuring a picture of Corabeth's lifeless body.
Not for the first time, she was grateful that Mary was safe with her sister.
She slid out of the bed, crossing over to the dresser in the corner.
A small mirror was the room's only adornment.
She pulled her long hair over her shoulder and began to braid it, then twirled the finished product into a ring around her head.
A halo. She smiled at the thought, and fastened her hairpins into place.
Almost passable. With a quick smile at the face in the mirror, she reached for her dress, skipping the corset in favor of breathing room.
Slightly immodest, but it wasn't as if she had a reputation to ruin.
Loralee laughed; the thought oddly freeing.
Finishing the last of her buttons, she peeked under the bed, searching for her shoes, her mind turning to her evening with Patrick Macpherson.
The man had no idea how charming he was.
A real innocent. And that was a rarity in her line of business to be sure.
Men like Patrick Macpherson simply didn't frequent the cribs.
Loralee struggled into her boots, wishing she had a button hook.
No, she'd done right to ignore Patrick's obvious interest. A fancy feat of acting if she did say so herself.
The boy was smitten all righty. But she couldn't take the chance.
Patrick wasn't a one night kinda man, and if she let him…
Her hand drifted across her gingham-clad breast, then down across her abdomen, her eyes drifting shut as her imagination took control.
Oh Lordy.
She forced her eyes wide open. Yes siree, she was better off on her own.
A man like Patrick Macpherson was the most dangerous kind.
Wholly approachable, and completely unobtainable.
If she ever had a taste of him, she'd only want more.
And that was something she was determined to avoid at all costs.
No sense in setting herself up for a fall. No sense at all.
A rap on the door, brought Patrick to hazy consciousness.
He opened one eye, the last of a very provocative dream bursting like a soap bubble.
"Go away." He sighed and reached for a pillow.
Maybe if he covered his head, the knocking would stop, and he could find his way back to dreamland and Loralee.
Loralee . He smiled, wrapping his arms around his pillow, his imagination pulsing into high gear.
The knocking continued and Patrick threw the pillow at the door. "Patrick." There was a definite whine in Arless' voice. "You seen Loralee? She promised me breakfast this morning."
"She's sleeping in Michael's room, Arless, just hang onto your drawers. I'm sure she'll be there directly." He snuggled back down into his bed, closing his eyes, picturing Loralee's perfectly formed rear end. It was so soft. So sweet.
"Patrick?" Arless again.
"I told you —" Lord, couldn't a man be left to his own fantasies?
"But, she ain't in there."
He sat up, sleep vanishing in an instant. He ignored his pants, grabbing his rifle instead. If Loralee was in trouble there was no time for niceties. Hopping on one foot, trying to pull on a boot, he reached for the door, almost toppling over when Arless yanked it open.
"False alarm." The Irishman's grin broadened when he saw Patrick's relative state of undress. "She was just in the privy."
Loralee's face appeared in the space above Arless's shoulder, her angelic smile, belying the wicked twinkle in her eye. "Mornin' Patrick. I see you're up and dressed." The head disappeared, but he could hear giggling.
"What are you staring at, Arless?" He scowled at the man. "Haven't you seen a man in his underwear before?"
"Sure have, Patrick. Just never seen anyone turn that color afore. And you ain't even been drinkin'." Arless backed away from the door, leaving it standing open.
Patrick reached for his pants, his dignity hanging on by a thread. "Would somebody please shut the damn door?"
Fifteen minutes later, he emerged from the bedroom, boots in hand.
Loralee was dropping batter onto the griddle, the picture of domestic tranquility.
His heart quickened at the sight. Ah, sweet Loralee.
The whore, the little voice in his head sternly reminded.
And he wasn't surprised at all that the voice sounded an awful lot like Owen's.
"Glad to see you're finally up and dressed." She shot him a crooked smile then turned back to her cooking.
Arless was sitting at the table, lost in his own kind of bliss. "She's making griddle cakes."
Patrick pulled on his boots and straddled a chair. "I kinda figured that."
The other man, inhaled deeply and sighed.
"Arless, doesn't Lena cook for you?"
"Not like that she don't." He gestured to a sizzling pan of sausage.
Patrick's mouth watered. "Well, it does smell good." He was rewarded with another of Loralee's smiles. "Where's Pete?"
"Said he was going to feed the stock." Arless' eyes never left the stove.
Patrick was enjoying the view himself, although he was far more interested in the cook than the fare. Loralee expertly flipped the griddle cakes. "If one of you boys will go get him, I think breakfast is about ready."
Arless stood up. "I'll go. Might as well do something to earn my keep."
He ambled toward the door, shooting a last loving look in the direction of the food. "Don't you go eatin' it all while I'm gone, Patrick."
"Don't worry, Arless, I'll leave some for you."
Satisfied, the man opened the door and stepped onto the porch.
A shot rang out, its report echoing through the house.
Patrick jumped out of his chair, already reaching for his rifle. "Get down."
Loralee dropped to the floor, her face ashen. "What is it?"
"Probably nothing. Stay here. I'll go see." Crouching below window height, he ran across the room, slowing as he reached the open door. Carefully he edged into the doorway, his gaze darting around the barnyard, trying to locate the source of the noise.
"Arless? You out there?" He waited, holding his breath, silence permeating the air. When nothing moved, he took a cautious step out onto the porch, the floor creaking beneath him.
A low moan broke the stillness. "Stay back, Loralee.
" He tossed the words over his shoulder, his gaze moving along the ground in front of him, trying to locate the source of the cry.
A crimson stained mound about halfway between the porch and the corral shifted.
Arless. The old miner lay in the grass, clutching his middle, his shirt red with blood.
Patrick had just started to step off the porch when Pete burst from the confines of the stable, his Colt drawn, motioning Patrick to stay put. Reaching Arless, he knelt beside him, one hand assessing the damage while the other held the gun ready.
It was quiet again. Almost too quiet. A shiver of dread ran up Patrick's spine. Pete slowly stood up, pulling Arless with him. The other man was dead weight and it took him a minute to find his balance.
Patrick scanned the trees that surrounded the place, but if anyone was out there, he was well hidden. Pete took a step forward, Arless draped against him. Another shot rang out. Pete's eyes widened and he dropped Arless as he fell backward. Patrick had never felt so helpless.
"Loralee, get out here." She was beside him in an instant. "Can you shoot this thing?" He held out the rifle.
"I can manage." She took the gun.
He nodded, relieved she wasn't the swoon-in-a-crisis type. "All right. Here's what we're going to do. I'm going out there?—"
"No." Her hand shot out and she clamped her fingers around his arm.
He ignored her panic, keeping his voice low and soothing. "I want you to cover me. I've got to try and get them back to the house."
She released his arm. "All right. But how will I know where to shoot?"
"You won't. Just keep moving the barrel each time you fire.
Hopefully, that'll keep whoever's out there busy enough to buy me some time.
" She squared her shoulders, lifting the rifle.
"Don't fire unless he does. There's a small chance he's gone.
And we don't want to waste bullets." If he was right, they were going to need all the bullets they could get.
"Patrick?" He met her frightened gaze. "Be careful."
He grinned with a bravado he didn't feel. "All right. I'm going." He crouched as low as he could and scrambled across the yard, running in zigzags toward Pete and Arless. Bullets shattered the dust at his feet. Answering shots rang out from the porch.
Reaching the fallen men, he dropped to his knees. Arless was on his back, sightless eyes staring at the clouds above him, his gut torn open from the impact of the shot. Pete was face down in the dirt.
Patrick shifted over, flinching as another shot rang out. He couldn't tell if it came from their assailant or Loralee. A deep red stain had blossomed across the back of Pete's thigh. Gingerly, Patrick rolled him over, relieved to see the even rise and fall of the man's chest.
"Pete, can you hear me?" Pete wasn't a small man. Without his help, Patrick wasn't sure he could manage.
The older man groaned and opened his eyes. "What the hell happened?"
"Don't know for sure. Someone's shooting at us."
Pete nodded. "Arless?"
"Dead."
Pete closed his eyes, regret tightening his face. "Damn it to hell."