Chapter 4
“’Nother what, now?”
He leaned forward, peering at her from across the cell, but seemed to have no desire to stand and come closer.
She was grateful for it—for his sake. She might not have possession of her valise anymore, but she wouldn’t have bet on the safety of anyone who came close enough to be kicked, not in the mood she was in.
“Never you mind,” she said tartly. “I wasn’t talking to you.”
He shrugged one shoulder and shifted back to lie down again on the cot.
His leg drooped over the side, swinging aimlessly, and he began to whistle.
It was obvious that the cot was far more comfortable than the bench on which she was perched; she shifted her weight, trying to adjust to the hardness of the seat, but she knew that if she had to spend much time there, it would become very uncomfortable indeed.
The whistling stopped abruptly.
“Now, I’m curious,” he said. “I wonder if I can guess why you’re here.”
“I would really rather you didn’t,” she said.
“Well, you’re not goin’ to tell me yourself, are you?”
“It’s no business of yours.”
“Guessing it is, then,” he said agreeably, and ticked the possibilities off on his fingers one by one as he went.
“Robbery. Don’t figure it’s that. Arson.
Could be. Murder.” He turned his head and squinted at her thoughtfully.
“Mm—maybe not this time, but I wouldn’t rule it out in the future.
What else, what else? Ah, I’ve got it—somethin’ to do with a fellow who wouldn’t leave you alone. And you—what did you do?”
She stared across the cell at him.
“How did you know that?”
He sat up again and shrugged easily, smiling.
He looked a bit self-satisfied, which she didn’t much care for, but he really was very handsome despite it.
His shoulders were narrow, but his frame well-developed; even from here, she could see the muscles rippling under his shirt.
His head was bare, revealing sandy-colored hair that was a little longer than most men wore it.
His eyes were strangely wide and innocent, a dark blue that made her think of a faraway storm.
His face was narrow, too, like his shoulders, almost foxlike.
He looked capable, strong, and a little sneaky, she decided abruptly.
Sneaky, but very handsome.
“Well, what else could it be when a girl as pretty as you ends up in a jail cell?”
It was odd to realize that the same compliment from Tom, the mayor’s son, had infuriated her—while here, from this stranger’s lips, it made her want to smile.
“Besides, I heard Deputy Morrow mention Tom,” he went on. “I reckon that’s Tom Andrews—the mayor’s boy. He’s a mite spoiled, just as our good deputy mentioned. What did you do to him?”
Despite her intentions, she found herself drawn into answering.
“I hit him.”
His eyebrows shot upwards.
“With your hands?”
“No,” she shot back defensively. “With my valise.” She nodded over her shoulder toward the corner where the deputy had placed her bag.
The young man’s gaze followed hers, and he let out a sudden bark of laughter.
It was exactly the sort of laugh she would have expected from a man who looked so much like a fox, and it was infectious, too.
Disarmed, she found herself chuckling a little, too.
“Good!” he said. “That’s no more than he deserves—considerably less, actually, now that I come to think about it. Say, maybe when Sheriff Edwards gets back and lets you out, you can find ol’ Tom and do it again. Maybe I’ll be around to watch.”
Suddenly, the reality of her situation came back to her, and she abruptly stopped laughing, turning her head away from him. It was far too easy to get caught up in that dark blue gaze—far too easy to want to stand and move closer to him, searching for the nuances of expression on his handsome face.
“I doubt it,” she said pertly. “After all, you are in jail.”
“So are you,” he pointed out.
“But I’m wrongfully imprisoned.”
“And I’m not, eh?” he retorted swiftly. “What do you know about it, miss—what’s your name, anyhow?”
Somehow, she didn’t object to his demanding information from her the way she had objected to Tom doing precisely the same thing. Ah, but Tom himself was objectionable.
“Lyla Partridge,” she said.
He stood abruptly. He was taller than she had supposed, given the almost delicate formation of his features; he crossed the room in a few long strides and held out his hand for her to shake. Biting her lip, she took it.
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Lyla Partridge,” he said, flashing her another grin that made her heart skip a few beats.
His hand was calloused and warm, the fingers strong as steel as they folded around hers, yet he held the grip lightly, careful not to hurt her.
“I’m Rhett Hammond, myself—and if no one else has made you feel welcome in West Hope, maybe I can do my part.
” He dropped her hand and spread his arms wide.
“Welcome!” he boomed, then turned on his heel and went back to the cot, settling himself in again with every evidence of comfort.
She gaped somewhat in the wake of his manner, then managed, “And why are you here, Mr. Hammond? You seem to be quite used to it.”
“Oh, it’s my home away from home,” he admitted cheerfully. “Some might say I’m a career criminal, but I reckon calling it a ‘career’ is a mite too generous.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, but he only smiled back at her innocently.
“Are you such a desperate villain, then?”
“I wouldn’t go that far, Miss Partridge—though I guess you could say I get a little desperate, now and then.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Could do with a pint of beer right now, for one thing.”
“A beer,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Does everyone in California drink, then?”
“Everyone from the babes in arms to the old folks on their deathbed,” he said, nodding. “It’s the one thing I have in common with the wealthy ranchers of the county.”
“Well, I would hardly expect you to have much more in common with rich men, I suppose.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Well, you’re here in jail, aren’t you? I daresay, whatever you’re in for, you’re hardly an upstanding citizen.”
“And so are you, I notice,” he retorted.
“I don’t reckon you’re much of an upstanding citizen yourself, if it comes to that.
I wouldn’t be surprised if my social status has gone down several rungs on the ladder just from sittin’ here and talkin’ to you.
” His rather harsh words were rendered merely teasing by the smile he wore through it all.
His eyes sparkled and danced, and she fought again against the urge to go and sit beside him.
She lowered her head, hiding her own smile, and held onto the edge of the bench tightly.
“Well,” she murmured, “I suppose they can’t simply let strange young women wander around the streets of West Hope, accosting well-meaning young men with their luggage.”
This earned a laugh. Somewhere along the way, she realized suddenly, her sense of humor had been restored to her. It must have happened within the past few minutes, for she certainly hadn’t had it when she was on the street outside with Tom.
“How long do you think they’ll make me stay here?”
“Why? Are you not enjoying yourself?”
“Oh, the company is pleasant enough,” she assured him, with enough teasing that he would not take her at her word—at least, she hoped he wouldn’t.
At least, she thought she hoped he wouldn’t.
As the moments passed, she grew more and more confused about the state of her feelings.
Her stomach had flutters in it like leaves in an autumn wind. “But this bench is rather hard.”
“Sure, it is,” he said. “That’s why I’m over here.” He waved his hand.
She smiled slightly. “Precisely,” she murmured. “And yet, because you’re over there, I’m over here.”
“Sounds like you’re fishin’ for somethin’, Miss Partridge.” He settled back again, shrugging. “But I’m quite content where I am.”
She narrowed her eyes at him.
“Have you no gentlemanly instincts?”
He made a thoughtful face, frowning upwards at the ceiling.
“Guess not,” he said at last. “Leastways, I’ve never found any.”
She was still caught between her laughter and her irritation when the door to the jailhouse opened precipitously, slamming backward against the wall with a bang.
A bull of a man stood there—tall, broad- shouldered, barrel-chested, with a short shock of iron gray hair and a surprisingly youthful face.
His eyes were wide, a pale blue as though they reflected the early morning sky.
“Miss Partridge!”
Taken aback by the sudden intrusion, she could do little but gape at him.
But already the deputy sheriff was coming up behind him, a fretful look on his face, jingling his keys in his hands as though he were nervous.
He unlocked the door and ushered Lyla out, swiftly, muttering apologies in a low tone.
The big man reached out and took her arm with surprising gentleness, turning her toward the door.
“Let’s not talk here,” he said. “Let’s get you out of here as quick as we can.”
Biting her lip, she tossed a glance over her shoulder at Rhett Hammond.
He had leaped from his seat on the cot and run to the bars—not to the door, as she might have supposed had he expected to be set free, but to the bars of the cell wall itself.
His hands were wrapped tightly around them, and he stared intently after her.
Their eyes met briefly and then passed on, and it felt as though he had taken her hand for one brief moment.
She glanced up at the tall man beside her and saw the look of fury on his face.
True to his word, though, he said nothing until she was well out of the jailhouse. The flustered deputy was still coming along behind them, making excuses.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were here to get married?” he asked of Lyla.
Lyla could not help but give him a disdainful look.
“Would you have believed me? Would you have believed anything I’d said?”
“If you told me you were to be Mr. Stephen McDowell’s bride,” said the deputy, “I’d have—well, I’d have made darn sure to check, at any rate.
” He let out one last testy sigh, as though Lyla had been derelict in her duties, and offered another apology to the man who still held her arm in the crook of his.
“Awful sorry about all this, Mr. McDowell.”
“I reckon you were just doin’ your job,” said the man beside her, though his brows were drawn in a frown. “But maybe from here on out you ought to do it a little better—or risk losin’ it.”
The deputy went on his way, shamefaced, and Lyla removed her arm from her companion’s and turned to look at him full-on.
So, this was Stephen McDowell! She might have guessed from the way he had burst into the jailhouse, as though he had a personal reason for his distress.
In truth, she knew, she hadn’t thought of him much once she was in the cell.
And when she did, she had just been about to think of giving up on him—and focus her attention instead on Rhett Hammond.
She pushed the thought away hastily. She was here because she was engaged to be married, and the man she was engaged to was Stephen McDowell.
Not Rhett Hammond at all, whatever and whoever he was.
Mr. McDowell seemed perfectly kind, nice, and polite—very polite, really.
There was no reason to take against him just because he wasn’t a strangely foxlike, handsome young man in a jail cell.
In fact, it should be even more reason to like him for it.
So why didn’t she?
By now, it was late afternoon. In the autumn sunlight, Stephen McDowell proved to be not unpleasing in his countenance.
His features were large, as suited a man of his size; his face was well lived in, at marked odds with the unlined, slim foxiness of the man she had shared a jail cell with for such a brief time.
His hair was gray, with glints of silver in the light, and yet he appeared a good five or even ten years older than the forty-odd years she knew he carried on his shoulders.
He looked down at her, and she knew that he was scrutinizing her, reading her the same way she was reading him.
Tentatively, she smiled—and was delighted to see him smile back readily.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hello, Mr. McDowell.”
He ran a hand through his hair. Almost as if noticing it for the first time, he took his hat from his other hand and put it on, casting his eyes into shadow.
“I can’t tell you how damn sorry I am about what happened, Miss Partridge. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
“No need,” she said generously; her ill will toward him seemed to have dissipated entirely. In fact, she felt rather kindly disposed toward just about everyone—with the possible exception of Tom. “No harm done, in the end.”
He raised his eyebrows, staring at her, then shook his head.
“Gosh,” he said. “Pretty as a picture and patient, to boot. That matrimonial agency sure had me pegged.”
The word “patient” had never been applied to Lyla before; she struggled to suppress the urge to laugh, to tell him how little he guessed. Oh, there would be time enough for all of that.
He would find out. After all, they were going to be married.
And there were no ifs, ands, or Rhett’s about it.