CHAPTER 5

?^?

M ax let himself in the door, absorbed with thoughts of the letter he had posted to Philadelphia and her father, turned toward the living room, and stopped short.

Low Down waited near the window, wringing her hands together and peering at him with an anxious expression. He knew it was Low Down because he expected to find her in the suite, but if this woman had walked past him in the lobby, he would not have recognized her.

As this was the first time he'd seen her when she wasn't wearing a hat, what he noticed immediately was her hair, a warm reddish brown, which she had smoothed back into a glossy knot at the nape of her neck. His sister, Gilly , would have referred to the style as work hair. But Max believed an explosion of frilly curls looked faintly ridiculous on a tall woman, and he silently applauded her wisdom in avoiding an elaborate arrangement. In fact, the simplicity of the style imparted a surprising hint of dignity.

No amount of scrubbing could have converted her tanned face and hands into the creamy paleness so coveted by women of fashion, but tonight she glowed with the same shiny golden health and vitality that he associated with his mother. That also surprised him. Previous to this moment, he would not have believed that Low Down had anything in common with his mother "You're staring at my face," she murmured, raising both hands to her cheeks. "I rubbed some lamp oil on my… but the oil was too shiny, so I rubbed it off again, but it wouldn't come off completely, and my face is still shiny, damn it, but I don't have any powder… "

Now he placed the scent he had detected: lamp kerosene beneath a strong soapy smell that reminded him of wash day at the ranch. And he noticed the clean natural arch of her eyebrows, and the feathery length of her lashes. Her nose was undistinguished, just a nose, and he couldn't tell whether she'd rouged her mouth, as her lips were pressed into an anxious line. If she didn't have powder, she probably didn't have rouge either, but tonight she looked like a woman.

Finally, he examined the ugliest dress he'd observed in a while, certainly not one his sister or Philadelphia would have chosen for an evening out. A shopkeeper's wife might have selected this dress for Sunday meeting; it was high-necked with plain sleeves to the wrist and boasted nothing whatsoever to distract the eye, no trim or fancy tucks that might be considered attractive. Moreover, the fit was wrong. The molded bodice clung too snugly, the waist hung too loosely, and he suspected the skirt required a larger petticoat frame in order to hang properly.

But his gaze lingered on the tight bodice that revealed full rounded breasts that astonished him. He'd had no inkling, none at all, that a beautifully statuesque figure existed beneath Low Down's sloppily loose, shapeless vest, shirt, and long johns. If he'd thought about the subject at all, he would have guessed that she was straight up and down with no curves.

"Will you say something, for God's sake? I'm a nervous mess. Do I look proper enough to eat supper in a hotel dining room?"

He made a twirling motion with his forefinger. "Turn around," he ordered in a strangely husky voice.

She rolled her eyes, then slowly turned for his inspection. Just as he'd suspected. The seat of the dress had begun to shine and show wear, and the poof looping over the bustle was a slightly different color, suggesting it had been replaced at some point.

"Damn it, Low Down! You bought seconds after I told you not to!"

"The important thing about that conversation was not what I bought, but who paid." Her wedding ring caught the lamplight when she smoothed a hand along the draped material at her waist. "This is a perfectly good dress, hardly warm at all. There was only one small tear under the arm, and I fixed that.

Now tell me the truth. Can I be seen in public without people laughing at us?"

This was the woman who continued to swear that she didn't care what people thought of her, Max thought, suppressing a sigh. But she'd been truthful when she warned him that she wouldn't obey.

"You'll be fine," he said, deciding not to make an issue out of buying seconds. The hour was too late to send her out on another shopping expedition.

"Thank God!" The air ran out of her as if she'd been holding her breath. "I have another dress in case you didn't approve of this one, but it would have taken forever to change. You can't imagine the contortions required to put together a rig like this." Her hands fluttered up in helpless exasperation. "I thought I never would figure out this bustle contraption. Why fashion wants women to look like they have a butt the size of a wagon, I don't know, but I can tell you it sure feels strange. And a corset!" Letting her head fall backward, she blinked at the ceiling. "No person can wrench their arms around to lace it up by themselves. You have to twist the thing around front, lace and tie it, then twist it back around, and then you get pinched spots and you can hardly breathe. And I'll tell you something else I learned. You better put your stockings on first because you sure can't bend over while you're wearing a corset, lest ways not this one, so you have it take it off, put on your stockings and start all over."

No woman, not even Gilly, had ever mentioned a corset or stockings in his presence. And he could sooner imagine the women of his acquaintance doing somersaults through the lobby of Howard Houser's bank than he could imagine them commenting about butts as big as wagons.

Max cleared his throat and removed his gloves from his pocket. "If you'd like to fetch a shawl, gloves, and your bag, we'll go down to dinner. You did buy a shawl, gloves, and a bag?"

"I have two shawls. This is the evening one." She lifted a length of fringed paisley from the back of a chair and whirled it around her shoulders like a cape. Grace was not her strong suit. "And this is my evening purse," she said, showing him a drawstring bag that made a light clinking sound when she lifted it.

He couldn't imagine what she would carry that might clink. "If I hold it facing this way, no one will notice that some of the beadwork is missing." She seemed proud of this point.

"Maybe we should sit down and have a drink before we go downstairs." Right now he wanted a whiskey.

Horror widened her eyes. "No! We can't sit on those chairs." Color rose in her cheeks. "They're just to look at." When he lifted a baffled eyebrow, she hurried past him on the way to the door, trailing the scent of soap and kerosene. "What if we accidentally left a smudge or a scratch or spilled something, and someone discovered it and threw us out of here?" Turning, she leveled a hard warning look at him. "This is the only time I'm ever going to stay in a place like this, and I don't want to ruin it by getting thrown out.

So don't sit on those chairs!"

She disappeared into the corridor, wobbling a little on what he assumed were nearly new high-heeled shoes.

Max rested his forehead in his hand for a moment, then went after her, catching up at the landing.

"Maybe I better take your arm again," she muttered, eyeing the staircase. "If I fall down the stairs," she added in a low dry voice, "and end up sprawled at the bottom in front of all those swells, I'm going to pretend that I'm dead. You tell someone to haul me off to the nearest boardinghouse, then go have your supper."

If someone had told him this morning that he'd find something to laugh about today, he would not have believed it.

She glared at him, then slowly a smile appeared. "That's the first time I've heard you laugh."

When he placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him, it was also the first time he had touched her. Beneath the soft paisley shawl, she was as solid as granite.

"Listen to me," he said, looking into her eyes. "You're not going to fall down the stairs. And no one is going to pay any attention to us. No one is going to throw us out of the hotel. Stop worrying." He recalled her comment that she'd never stay in a place like this again. Very likely she was correct. "Enjoy the evening."

"I don't belong here," she said, sliding her eyes away from his. "If Mrs. Olson—the woman who adopted me—if she could see me now, she'd tell you so."

"Just for tonight, pretend that you do." He extended his arm, and she gripped it with surprising strength.

"Ready?" She nodded, lifted her skirts, and they slowly descended. Low Down kept her gaze on the floor until they reached the dining room, then she raised her head for a quick look around and he felt her draw a deep breath.

"It's so beautiful! Well, take a look at that!" she whispered, leaning close to him. "There's the man in the green uniform!"

"No," Max said, careful to keep any hint of amusement out of his voice, "that is the ma?tre d'. He'll seat us."

When the ma?tre d' held her chair for her, she looked at Max with wide, amazed eyes, then, when he draped a napkin across her lap, she clapped a hand over her mouth and laughter sparkled in her gaze.

"Would you care for a drink before dinner, sir?"

He wasn't certain, but he thought it possible that Low Down was strangling. "Are you all right?" he inquired, leaning toward the candles in the center of the table.

"I'll have a whiskey," she gasped.

The ma?tre d' arched an eyebrow as if her request for whiskey explained the awful dress and her crimson face.

"The lady will have sherry, and I'll have a whiskey," Max said in a firm voice.

"Oh Lordy," she gasped when they were alone. "I couldn't believe it when he put the napkin across my lap! Did you ever hear of such a thing? And then he draped one across your lap, too!" She fanned her fingers in front of her face. "I swear I didn't know whether to laugh or belt him one for being so familiar.

Oh, Max. Did you ever see anything like this room? There's fresh flowers on every single table, did you notice?" Dropping her hand, she fingered the edge of the cloth, then informed him, "This is real damask.

When I worked for the Chinaman, we washed a lot of tablecloths like this. If you think my new duds are expensive, you should check what a damask tablecloth costs. It's enough to make your eyeballs bulge."

"I didn't think your new clothing was particularly expensive." He knew for a fact that Philadelphia had spent more on one hat than Low Down had spent for her entire new wardrobe.

Now she noticed the array of silver gleaming against the damask and her hands dropped to the beaded bag in her lap. "I guess I didn't need to bring my spoon."

Her comment revealed more than she could guess about her background. Only the cheapest boardinghouses required a lodger to furnish his own eating utensils.

"Remember? I showed you my spoon. It's real silver, just like these." Pride and defensiveness firmed her tone and her chin lifted as if she were challenging him to say something.

"I recall your spoon was very pretty," he said, feeling at a loss.

But she seemed mollified. "Yes, it is. It's one of my prized possessions." Frowning, she touched a gloved finger to the row of forks. "Why do we need so many extra forks and spoons?"

He started to explain, then gave up and advised her to watch and follow his lead when it came to choosing her utensils.

Once their drinks arrived, and he'd smiled at Low Down's contempt for sherry, he relaxed and enjoyed the excitement dancing in her hazel eyes. Earlier today, he had dreaded everything about the idea of spending a night in a hotel with her. But, oddly, there was something interesting, maybe touching—he couldn't pin down the precise reaction—about sharing another person's firsts. The first glimpse of an elegant hotel lobby and a suite. Her first foray into the world wearing a dress, at least in recent years. Her first awed impression of the ma?tre d'. Her first taste of sherry; her bafflement and then pleasure at the sight of a full setting of silver.

To extend her day of firsts, Max ordered fried artichokes, duchess potatoes, and lobster salad. For dessert, he chose peach canapés, prepared in a chafing dish beside their table, enjoying her amazement and wide shining eyes.

After the canapés, she politely covered a satisfied burp with her fingertips, then leaned forward to confide, "I loved everything except the coffee. This is the weakest coffee I ever tasted. They must have a new pot that ain't—isn't—broken in yet." An anxious look appeared in her eyes. "I want to remember all of this, every little detail. What was the name of the pastry meat again?"

"Beef Wellington."

"And lobster! I could eat a barrel of that. I'll bet that lobster cost the earth." When he told her the price of the lobster salads, she fell back in her chair and stared at him in shock.

"Max, seriously. Are you rich?"

The question made him laugh. "My family is comfortable, I suppose you could say. Land rich and cash poor. Staying here is a treat for me, too, and I'm paying for it with some of the color I panned out of Piney Creek."

A frown puckered her brow. "Don't you need that money to buy cows or something?"

"This time of year ranchers sell cattle. We buy in the spring."

"Since you're sort of rich, I should have bought a feather or a cloth flower to stick in my hair," she mentioned, sliding a peek toward the other tables. "The shop lady said so, said I needed earrings, too, but I didn't want to add to the cost."

"You look nice just as you are."

She would never be a beauty, would never be a woman who attracted attention for her appearance or style. But if she had looked like this four days ago, she wouldn't have lacked for volunteers to father her baby.

"You don't mean that," she said with a look of naked pleading that begged him to assure her.

"I do," he said stiffly, uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken. He decided she was easier to deal with when she had the chip on her shoulder and her chin thrust out. Uncertainty and vulnerability were not qualities he associated with the woman who had cursed, kicked, shouted, and willed him to survive the pox. A deeper glimpse into her character wasn't something he welcomed.

After placing his napkin beside his plate, he glanced toward the door. "Would you like to take a walk?

It's warmer at this altitude, and it's a pleasant night. If you like, we could walk up to Broadway and view the electric lamps." When she didn't appear enthusiastic, he offered another suggestion. "Or perhaps you'd care for another cup of coffee. We can stay here and enjoy the music. Or take our coffee into the lobby."

She crossed her arms on the table and tilted her head to indicate the string quartet at the back of the dining room. "The music isn't too lively."

"Lively music isn't considered beneficial to digestion."

"And a walk…" She hesitated, then spoke in a rush. "Actually, if you don't mind too much, I'd like to get the poking over with." Circles of color burned on her cheeks. "The longer we put it off, the more nervous I'm getting about the whole thing. And the way I figure, tonight would be a good time. I might not look this good again."

Of course, he had known the moment was coming. He couldn't avoid it forever. And he'd halfway promised that tonight would be the night they made the first attempt toward the baby she wanted.

Suddenly he felt the presence of the Piney Creek prospectors. A prickle along his neck raised the uncanny impression that if he looked over his shoulder, he'd see the miners standing behind him, waiting to hear him deliver the correct answer.

"We could do that," he said reluctantly, frowning and tugging at his collar.

"Good!" A relieved smile curved her lips, and for a moment she looked almost pretty. "Let's get to it, then."

This time as they crossed the lobby and climbed the staircase he was glad she kept her head down and her gaze fixed on the floor. He didn't want her to note his unwillingness, even though he couldn't imagine that she'd fooled herself into believing he was eager to bed her.

The first thing he did upon entering the suite was walk directly to the drink cart and pour himself a generous splash of whiskey. The scent of soap and kerosene announced she'd followed.

"I'll have one of those, too."

He gave her the whiskey he'd fixed himself and poured another.

Raising her glass, she tipped it against his. "I sure hope this works the first time." After she'd drained half the whiskey, she stepped back from him and pressed her lips together. "How do you want to go about doing it?"

He was doing a lot of throat clearing tonight, especially in the last few minutes. "Why don't you go into the bedroom and get ready," he suggested uncomfortably, turning the whiskey glass between his fingers.

"I'll join you in a few minutes."

"You mean I should get out of this rig before you come, so we don't waste any time. All right." Their shoulders collided as they both turned to the drink cart, and she jumped back as if he'd scalded her. Max stepped aside and let her pour a refill. She tossed down the whiskey and filled her glass again. "Can I trust you not to sit on the chairs while I'm in the other room?"

This was not the moment to argue about sitting on the chairs. He nodded and filled his whiskey glass to the brim.

"I didn't like that sherry," she said, carrying her whiskey toward the bedroom. At the door, she straightened her shoulders and turned back to him. "There's a couple of things I need to say before we get started."

Of course, he thought with a sigh. This was not a woman who regarded silence as a virtue.

"First, I want to thank you for taking your duty seriously and for living up to your promise to the boys and to me."

"Do we have to talk about that?" Even from across the room and in dim light, he noticed her fingers were shaking.

"I told you already that I did this before a long time ago. I didn't like it much, and I wasn't good at it, so don't get your expectations up. Just do what you have to do and don't dawdle around."

Without thinking, he sat down and crossed his ankles on the ottoman. "Damn it, Low Down, tonight won't be the first time I've been with a woman. I don't require instructions."

"I knew I couldn't trust you about this! I just knew you'd sit on a chair!" Her chin came up and her eyelids narrowed, and for the first time tonight she looked like the woman he'd known in the schoolhouse. "As for the other, all I'm saying is get to it and get done with it." Whirling on her heels, she slammed into the bedroom, but not before she gave him a stony look and muttered something about getting thrown out of the Belle Mark and it would be his fault.

Never in his life had he felt less like making love.

Rising, he walked to the window and pulled back the drapes, gazing down at the young trees lining Fourteenth Street . A set of carriage lamps appeared, then passed his line of sight.

If his life had proceeded according to plan, he would have married Philadelphia in a matter of days.

Instead, he was about to take another woman to bed. He lifted the whiskey glass to his lips with one hand and gripped the green marble with the other. Nothing about this felt right or honorable.

"Max? I'm ready."

Turning from the window, he caught sight of a billow of nightgown, then heard the bed springs squeak.

Grimly, he drained his whiskey glass, then rubbed his palms against the legs of his trousers. The only thing that could make this situation worse was if he couldn't perform at the critical moment. On that issue, he had to trust that his body wouldn't know that his mind was unwilling. Or that he was damned near as nervous about the next few minutes as Low Down appeared to be.

Feeling the men of Piney Creek pushing from behind, he crossed the living room and walked into the bedroom. She had pulled the shades and the draperies and extinguished the lamps. He couldn't see much of anything.

Maybe that was best. Stepping out of the shadowy light spilling through the doorway from the living room, he took off his jacket and vest and removed the studs from his shirtfront and cuffs, then looked around for the bureau.

"The dresser is right behind you."

She was watching. Frowning, he placed the studs on top of the bureau, then peered toward the bed. All he could see was a pale blur that might have been the sheets or might have been her nightgown. She'd seen him stark naked when he was ill, so why undressing in front of her made him uncomfortable was a mystery, but it did. Before he stepped toward the bed, he removed his tie and his trousers but decided to leave on his shirt.

"Damn it!" Grabbing his toes, he hopped around on one foot, cursing.

"What happened?"

"I stubbed my toe on the bedpost," he said between clenched teeth. His next thought was the memory of Preacher Jellison promising God's retribution if the men didn't do right by Low Down. His stinging toe felt like a warning.

Stumbling to the side of the bed, he sat heavily on the edge, massaging his toe and wishing he were a hundred miles away. At length, he pulled back the sheets, plumped up the pillow, then slid into bed and sat against the headboard. Now she had her back to him and was curled into a ball.

"I'm not taking off my nightgown, so if you were thinking I would, forget it," she stated in a muffled voice.

She'd crunched down and pulled up the sheets and all he could see of her was the back of her head.

"Do you plan on helping things along any?" he asked, exasperated. It would have been more conducive to the moment if she'd taken down her hair, and if she didn't feel so strongly about removing her nightgown, and if she'd at least face him.

Her answer was so long in coming that he began to hope she'd fallen asleep. "Why do you need help?

Can't we just get this over with?"

"Contrary to some women's belief, a man needs a little stimulus to make things work." The back of a woman's head wasn't the most alluring view he could think of.

"Well, what kind of help do you have in mind?" came the muffled question. "This sure sounds like dawdling to me."

"Well, I'm sorry, damn it, but sometimes poking requires a little buildup. If that seems like dawdling, that's just too bad, because there's nothing I can do about it!" Anger was not going to improve the situation. After drawing a breath, he ground his teeth together, slid under the covers, hesitated, then curled around her body. She made a hissing sound between her teeth, and he inhaled a whiff of whiskey fumes and the strong scent of kerosene.

On the positive side, her warm firm buttocks pressing against his groin caused an involuntary stirring that was powerfully encouraging.

"It would help if you'd try to relax," he said against the nape of her neck. Her hair, at least, didn't smell like kerosene. The silky coil beneath his nose smelled clean and soapy.

"Now, how can I relax?" She spoke into her pillow and held herself rigid. "I don't know what you're going to do next."

He didn't know either until he heard his answer. "I'm going to reach up under your nightgown and touch your skin. Think of it as preparation, not as dawdling."

Placing his hand on the nightgown covering her thigh, he paused to let her get used to his touch, then he moved his fingers and began to inch up her nightgown in what he intended as a provocative and hopefully seductive act for them both. He inched at the material, kept inching at it, pulling at it, tugging on it, until a sizable wad had bunched up between his hand and chest. What the hell? "How big is this thing?" There was no end to the nightgown, no hem that he could find and heaven knew he was trying.

"The big one was the cheapest."

Throwing back the covers, he blinked and tried to see what he was up against. At once he realized the nightgown was a hugely voluminous tent with a drawstring tied at her throat. Where he'd gone wrong was pulling sideways instead of straight up, and that was not going to work. He'd still be inching along when the call to judgment sounded. "There must be thirty yards of material here." He'd never seen such a voluminous nightgown or even suspected such a thing existed.

She rolled on her back inside the nightgown and heaved a sigh. "I can see that I'm going to have to take a hand in this or we're never going to get it over with."

"Well, thank God. A little help would be greatly appreciated," he said, staring down at her. "Could you start by taking that damned thing off?"

"No," she said emphatically. "Get back under the covers."

Her stubbornness about the damned nightgown meant he'd be working blind. All right, if that's how it had to be, he'd cope. Once he was alongside her again, he felt her hands tugging at the nightgown under the sheets and thanked heaven for small favors. Then she rolled back on her side and sort of wiggled, which he interpreted as an invitation to curl around her and begin again.

This time her bare buttocks pressed against him and his reaction to skin and heat and curve was immediate despite the huge wad of material bunched at her waist. Closing his eyes, he tentatively stroked a hand over her bare hip, surprised by the taut smoothness of her skin. On the upward stroke of his palm, he continued tracing the curve of her waist, then slid his hand up under the cursed nightgown almost to her breasts.

"This feels very much like dawdling," she whispered in an oddly breathless voice. But she didn't shove his hand away as he'd given her an opportunity to do.

Seizing on the lack of protest, he continued his exploration, amazed that he had ever supposed she had no curves. Her hips narrowed to a small waist and farther up he found the swell of her splendid breasts.

Soft, yielding warmth filled his palm, and her body shifted against him as if she'd shivered. Wishing he could see even a patch of actual skin, he brushed his fingers lightly across her nipple until he felt it bud and stiffen. Then he slid his palm down her belly and stroked the nest between her legs until she made a strangled sound and pushed his hand away.

"That's enough dawdling," she gasped, rolling onto her back.

His own breath was ragged as he lifted over her, wishing she was naked, half feeling that he was making love to a nightgown instead of a woman. After slapping aside his shirttail and shoving a bulky roll of nightgown away from her thighs, he entered her, then froze when she stiffened abruptly.

"What's wrong?" he asked in a husky voice, peering down at her. "Am I hurting you?"

"No. It's just that I don't know what to do with my knees," she whispered. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he could see her staring up at him. "Or where to put my hands, and I don't know if I should close my eyes."

"I thought you said you'd done this before." He was whispering, too, and had no idea why.

"I also said I wasn't any good at it."

"Raise your knees." A film of perspiration heated his brow, and a tiny voice deep in his head congratulated him on having the control to stop the proceedings and issue instructions. "Put your hands on my shoulders. Open or close your eyes, whatever you want."

"That's a good idea. This is a lot more comfortable," she confided in the same breathless whisper after she'd raised her knees. "You can go ahead now."

"You're sure? There isn't anything else you'd like to discuss at this crucial moment?"

"If it won't make you nervous, I think I'll watch."

It did make him nervous. He couldn't really reach stride until she turned her head to the side, then he rushed toward crescendo before she looked at him again. In the end he forgot to notice if she watched, losing himself in the sweet mysterious force of a ritual that had begun at the dawn of time.

Afterward, he lay beside her in the darkness, catching his breath and feeling strangely unsatisfied.

"Max? Thank you," she said softly, her head turned away from him. "This was an amazing day, the most wonderful day in my life. I'll never forget a single detail."

Tossing back the sheets, he padded across the room and found his jacket and his cache of cheroots. In the flare of the match, he noticed that the pins had come loose from the coil on her neck and long strands of dark hair spread across her pillow. He waved out the match with an irritated gesture.

"Do you mind if I smoke?" he asked, coming back to bed. As he'd already lighted the cheroot, the question was moot.

"I like the smell of a cigar," she murmured drowsily.

After propping his pillow against the headboard, he smoked in silence, thought about what had transpired, and questioned the anger building in his chest. It wasn't difficult to identify the source. He had betrayed a woman who didn't know yet that he wouldn't be marrying her, a woman he had intended to remain faithful to for the rest of his life. Guilt twisted into a knot behind his rib cage.

He hadn't done well by Low Down, either, he realized, frowning into the darkness. He'd done his duty and nothing more. He hadn't kissed her, had shown her no particular tenderness. He'd indulged just enough foreplay to ensure that she was ready for him, and then he'd proceeded with little thought for her satisfaction or pleasure. That wasn't how a man expressed gratitude for his life; it was how he coupled when he was paying for his pleasure.

Lowering his head, he rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, regretting everything about the last twenty minutes.

Low Down.

His head snapped up, and he stared at the sleeping form beside him.

He'd been married to this woman for four days, he'd just made love to her, and he didn't know her name.

Appalled, he dropped a hand on her shoulder and gave her a shake. "Wake up."

She bolted upright, instantly alert, her hands slapping at her waist where her Colt would normally have been strapped. "What's the matter? What's wrong?" she said, starting to swing out of bed. "Are they throwing us out of the hotel?"

Max caught her arm. "Nothing's wrong. I'm sorry I woke you, but I have to know something, and the answer won't wait until morning. What's your real name?"

"You woke me up to ask my name?" After a minute, she laughed and eased back into bed. "Louise Downe."

"How did you get from Louise Downe to Low Down?" The instant he asked the question, he knew he didn't want to know the answer.

"Well, you remember how I told you about Mrs. Olson?" She covered a yawn. "When I was little she used to shout at me. She'd say, come here you low-down, good-for-nothing little piece of … well, you can guess the rest. I got it in my head that Low Down was my name. Then, after I ran away, I heard a man from Washington talking about being low down on a totem pole. That seemed to fit, too. And so—"

"I don't want to hear any more." After a minute he opened his arms. "Come here."

"What?"

There wasn't much he could do to make up for a performance that had been perfunctory at best, but he could end an intimate act in a more honorable fashion than rolling away from her as if he'd paid for her favors.

Reaching, he guided her head to his shoulder, sensing her surprise and hesitation. At length she relaxed against him, and eventually he felt the soft rise and fall of her magnificent breasts against his side and knew she'd fallen asleep.

He finished smoking the cheroot, his thoughts a dark kaleidoscope of shifting images. Philadelphia . His summer in the mountains. The ranch. The period in the schoolhouse when he had believed he would die.

And the stranger in his arms, his wife.

There was no way out of this mess. No way to set things right with Philadelphia or her father. No way to shield his family from scandal and shame. Tonight he and Low Down had sealed their misfortune by beginning a marriage neither of them wanted.

But he'd done his duty. Preacher Jellison and the men at Piney Greek must be laughing their butts off.