Rocky Mountain Rose (Rocky Mountain Bride Series Book 3) (4 page)

She remembered how he held her, how the gentleness in her blue eyes made her heart ache. What would it be like to have a man in her life who would look at her that way? Who would hold her every night and wake her with a kiss? If she closed her eyes, she could still feel Lyle Wilder’s arms around her, see his beautiful profile watching over her in the darkness.

No. She would not think of him.

Tugging her bag up onto her shoulder, she pushed her hair out of her face savagely and stomped away from the building. The smell of fried onions and potatoes wafted through the alley, but Rose kept hurrying on. There was no time for breakfast if she was to find a horse, or a wagon ride before noon.

When she stepped onto the main street, she realized her first mistake. Men stood on the street, pulling horses and talking. One by one, their heads whipped around as one as she walked by. Women weren’t a common sight in Colorado Territory, much less pretty redheads.

Cursing her telltale hair, she hurried down the boarded sidewalk. One man stepped out to accost her, and she met his gaze boldly. She’d learned early; never show fear. Most men would take cues from her and pounce only if she showed weakness.

She reached the end of the sidewalk and her luck ran out. Two men, muscled and ugly, stepped onto the porch and blocked her way.

“You’re Rosie May,” one said.

She tried to push past them, but they caught her in a grip, dragging her back. One ripped her sash, and her Nelly fell out with a clatter, only to be kicked away. Helpless, Rose’s first thought was to shout for Lyle, but when she started to cry out, one attacker slapped her. Together the thugs manhandled her down an alley and into a building she hadn’t seen since she was with Mary.

At this hour of the morning, the bar was empty, though it still smelled of beer and unwashed bodies.

Rose’s cheek throbbed where the man hit her, but she struggled a little as they dragged her up the steps. She would’ve gotten another blow, but one of the thugs stopped his partner.

“Don’t mark her,” he said. “She’s Doyle’s now.”

A chill went through Rose’s body as she recognized the name of the man who had peddled her sister’s flesh.

They pushed her into a small, dark room, and all of a sudden, Rose was a little girl again, hiding under her sister’s bed while their drunken father raged, and then, later, listening to the sounds of the men Mary entertained so they’d have food to eat the next day.

Sinking down onto the floor, Rose put her head into her arms and rocked back and forth.

After a while, the image of Lyle rose unbidden behind her closed eyes. Tall and dark, handsome as an angel and wicked as a devil, he was the prince Mary had believed would save them. It had been years since Rose had allowed herself to think on it, but there, in the dark, she prayed for her hero to come.

Doyle’s men left her in there for hours, no doubt to wear her down. Noises started to seep through the doors as night fell and the saloon filled up. Rose took to pacing, checking every crack and corner for a way out, and finally forcing herself to stand in the middle of the room and do breathing exercises for her voice.

Finally, the door burst open, and the men dragged her, cringing, into the light. At the end of a hall, one thug held Rose while the other knocked on a door.

“Enter,” a voice intoned. Rose recognized the familiar timbre as if it belonged to the devil himself. Five years, and there were two men she hadn’t forgotten. One was Lyle, the fallen angel. The other waited for her behind the door.

Her captors pushed her into the center of a room, and she straightened her clothes, schooling her face into a haughty expression.

A man with a black mustache waited for her at a desk, writing by candlelight. His slick hair and fine suit didn’t fool her; this was Beelzebub in human form, known in this town as James Silas Doyle.

Time had been kind to him. Doyle looked lean and strong, with healthy dark hair on his head and face. Almost handsome, if it weren’t for the evil in him. Rose barely suppressed a shiver, and forced her spine straight, as if she’d spent an afternoon in leisure, rather than as a captive in the dark.

Doyle smiled. “Miss May? Or should I call you Rosie?” He didn’t bother to rise, but waved a hand for her to come forward. When she didn’t move, one of the henchmen grabbed her arm and pulled her closer to his boss, before stepping back to guard the door.

The man behind the desk smiled at her as if she’d come to visit. “Drink?” he offered, lifting a decanter on his desk and starting to pour two glasses.

She shook her head.

Doyle shrugged and toasted her. “To the lovely Rosie May. Quite a show you had last night.”

It was her turn to shrug.

Toying with his glass, Doyle cocked his head, studying her. “I hear it went quite well, up until it turned rowdy. One of my men—my right hand man actually—lost his brother in a brawl.”

“It’s a dangerous world,” Rose said, lifting her chin. “I lost a friend, too.”

Doyle glanced at one of his men. “Is that so? Someone else died?”

The henchman shrugged. “Just the molly at the piano.”

“A Miss Nancy,” Doyle chuckled. “And Rosie May. Must have been one hell of an act.”

“Are we done here?” Rose asked, letting their mocking comments about Sam slide even as her eyes shot daggers.

His eyes narrowed at her over his glass. “I must say, my man was intent on seeking you out for revenge. You may have heard of him: Otis Boone, deadliest shot in the Territory. I managed to talk him into sparing your life until I spoke to you. Out of the kindness of my heart.”

Rose’s lip curled.

“I could pay him off for you,” Doyle continued. “But I’d need some sort of return on my investment.”

“I’m not a whore, Mr. Doyle.”

His eyebrows went up. “Who said anything about whoring? I have a saloon; you know how to dance...” He spread his hands as if offering her a pile of treasure. “Wouldn’t it be nice to settle down in one town and make some real cash? The men who pour in here from the silver mines, they’d pay anything to see a fine woman’s ankles.”

“I don’t think so.”

Doyle’s expression hardened. “This isn’t an offer I make lightly. A man out there wants you dead, and I’m the only one standing in his way.”

“No,” boomed a voice at the door. “I am.”

The two henchmen moved, one grabbing Rose, and the other whirling, reaching for his gun. Both stopped when Lyle stepped in, a pistol in each hand aimed at the thugs. “Doyle, let her go.”

The man behind the desk didn’t even flinch. Rose couldn’t help but notice the similarities between the two dark haired men. Both were tall, powerful, with their gaze locked in combat, two predators sizing each other up before they fought to the death.

“Now, you look familiar.” Recognition lit Doyle’s eyes. “Wait.” The man looked from Lyle to Rose and back again. “I know who you are. You stole away my redhead...what was her name?”

“Mary,” Rose blurted. “She was never yours.”

“And you’re the sister,” Doyle went on as Lyle shot Rose a look, warning her to keep silent. “What a lovely reunion.” Doyle chuckled. “You’re taller than your sister. Blossomed into a beautiful Colorado rose.”

“I’m not going to say it again,” Lyle spoke. “Let her go.”

Doyle leaned forward, losing his joking manner. “Who is she to you?”

“She belongs to me.”

Rose felt a pang go through her, not of pain but some other strong, aching emotion she hadn’t felt in a long, long time. Hope.

Then the thug’s grip dug in, and she whimpered.

Lyle’s jaw tensed. “Unhand her. She’s mine.”

“Oh ho!” Doyle sat back. “Moving through the whole family, are you? Lucky, lucky man.” He then addressed Rose. “You know Mary’s dead.”

She nodded, trying not to flinch.

“If my Mary’s dead, then the debt she owed passes on.” Doyle turned to Lyle and pointed at Rose. “To her.”

“She never was your Mary,” Rose spat. Doyle glanced at her, and she regretted speaking. His look made her skin crawl.

Lyle spoke. “It’s over, Doyle.”

“What will you give me for her?”

“Your life.”

Doyle’s eyebrows went up disbelievingly, and Lyle nodded to the open window behind the desk.

Doyle twisted to look. “Is there something I’m supposed to see?”

“Across the street,” Lyle explained casually. “My brother has a room, and his window is open.”

They all looked out the window, and Doyle stiffened.

“Yep, that’s him,” Lyle said softly. “The man with the rifle trained on you. Maybe you’ve heard of him...Jesse Wilder? Some call him the best shot in the Territory.”

Turning back, Doyle snorted. For a man with a gun on him, he was as cool as a snake. “That’s not saying much.”

A gun fired, and a bullet snuffed out the candle on Doyle’s desk. The thug holding Rose jerked down, bringing her with him. There was nothing but harsh breathing in the room until Doyle struck a match and relit the candle. His men were all rising to their feet, looking warily at the window for the threat.

Rose shivered at his look of hate. He and Lyle faced off, but it was clear who had the upper hand.

Finally, with a short chop of his hand, Doyle barked the order. “Let her go.”

Rose staggered forward, and Lyle caught her, pulling her towards the door. Doyle watched them go, black eyes burning in the dim light.

“Watch your back, Wilder. That’s twice now you stole from me.”

*

Rose and Lyle wasted no time rushing out of the saloon. Lyle pushed her ahead of him, covering them both with his pistols. They headed down another alley, twisting and turning until Rose had no idea where they were. Finally, Lyle opened a door and led her into a boarding house from the back, and into a room smaller and meaner than the last.

He closed the door, and before she could say anything, pulled her into his arms.

“My God, Rose,” he breathed. “I thought I’d lost you.”

She stiffened at first, then, as she felt his warmth and scent envelop her, she finally felt she could breathe. For a moment, she melted into him, enjoying his solid arms around her and firm chest under her cheek.

“How did you find me?”

“Your gun,” he said, releasing her enough to look at her face. “Jesse found it in the mud. It was near Doyle’s; from there it was only a matter of time.”

He drew her in a second time, then kissed her forehead and set her back a pace.

“You all right?” His blue eyes searched over her.

Normal Rose would have a sharp response for that question, but right now she could only nod.

“Good. I’m going to see that you stay that way.” His hands squeezed her arms lightly before he released her.

Mouth dry, she nodded again.

“I brought some of your things so you can change.” Lyle held up a bag. “Do it quickly. We leave tonight.”

Rose stared at his offering. Her own bag, with all her favorite possessions and money were all gone. She had nothing.

“Come on, Rose,” Lyle encouraged gently. “We need to move.”

She took the proffered pack, and he started to turn away. “Wait.” She caught his hand. “We can’t leave. Not without burying Samuel.”

“Rose, that will take precious time we don’t have. Otis Boone wasn’t at that meeting, but once he finds out what happened, he won’t be happy Doyle lost his chance at revenge.”

“I know,” she whispered. A day in a dark room, and a confrontation with the most evil man she knew drained all her attitude from her. She rested her hands on Lyle’s chest, half leaning on him as she pleaded. “I can’t leave Sam. Please, Lyle. He was the only family I had.”

Lyle cursed.

Three sharp raps sounded at the door, and Lyle moved to open it, still looking unhappy.

Jesse walked in. “Ready to go?”

Lyle jerked his head no. “Change of plans. We spend the night here and collect Sam’s body in the morning.”

“Sam?” Jesse asked.

“Her partner. The deceased.”

The younger brother blew out a breath. “This isn’t wise,” he told Lyle. “Otis is out for blood. He wants Rose. And if you think Doyle will back down after that...”

“We’ve moved hotels so we won’t be found. I won’t be run from a town, Doyle or no. It’s my decision.”

Jesse gave Rose an unhappy look, but he slung his shotgun over his shoulder and marched out.

“He’ll stake out nearby.” Lyle shrugged off his long duster and laid it over the only chair. “May as well get some sleep, Rose.”

Feeling relief, she set the pack on the bed and rummaged through it. He’d packed a nightgown and slippers, as well as extra drawers and a green riding dress. She started to undress then paused, frowning back at him.

“Are you going to leave me alone?”

Sitting in the chair, arm flung over the back and booted foot propped on the opposite knee, he grinned back at her. “Nope.”

Faced with his cheekiness, she found her hackles rising. “Will you at least leave while I change?”

He shook his dark head, his cocky attitude somehow making him more alluring. “Nope. Best part of guarding a pretty lady. Get to take in the sights.” Tipping the chair back, he folded his arms behind his head, as if waiting for a show.

With a huff, she took the nightgown and turned her back. “You’re a scoundrel, you know that?” she muttered.

“What did I tell you about calling me names?”

She felt a prickle in her bottom at his warning, but her feistiness had returned, full force. “A gentleman would turn his back,” she informed him with a haughty sniff.

Again, he flashed his broad, happy grin, but to her surprise, he stood and turned his back. She would’ve preferred him out of the room, but decided not to push it. Stripping down quickly, she put on the nightgown and laid out the riding dress for tomorrow.

Before she finished folding the rest of her things, she felt Lyle at her back.

“Can I help you?” she asked tartly, refusing to look at him.

“I’ll wait until you’re done,” he murmured, and her heart jumped a little. His heat hit her and set her body tingling.

After prolonging things as long as she could, she turned to face him.

He’d folded his arms, watching her with that mocking half-grin that drove her crazy. She pretended to be unaffected.