Pistols and Petticoats (A Historical Western Romance Anthology) Page 9

  Anyway, she decided, she'd shed enough tears for him. Right now, she needed to go and get Ella from Hattie's. She craved her sweet baby hugs and the sound of Ella's voice and the scent of her hair when she pressed her face against Violet's neck and asked her to play.

  She went to the bedroom to pull on a shawl and noticed the drawer in her bedside table was open. And empty.

  She blinked. And then it hit her.

  Her diary was gone.

  Chapter 10

  "Read, Daddy."

  Ella had held a small, leather-bound book out to Ethan moments after she had squealed with delight at seeing him at Hattie's door. He'd lifted her into his arms and hugged her to him.

  Violet's little soapbox tirade had made him go suddenly and completely sober. Sober enough to know that he'd already waited too long and now it was too late. She hated him. She was staying for Ella, not him. And how could he argue with that? It's why he'd married her.

  And her brother was right. She deserved more. More than his inept attempts to reclaim his life again. With her.

  Take back your bed... let life slide by you without noticing because you're afraid it might just break your heart again, she'd said.

  He was afraid. Afraid that he might just lose everything. He'd been two steps behind Violet the whole way, and now she'd pretty much told him she was done with him.

  And naturally, the first place he could think of to go was here.

  To Ella.

  He could hardly find his voice, but when he did, he took the book from his daughter and asked, "What's this?" He sent a questioning look at Hattie, who shook her head.

  "Matthew said she brought it with her from your place. I thought it was hers."

  "Read," Ella prompted. "Mama's book."

  Ethan sat in an unoccupied chair with Ella on his lap. The little girl curled against him, ready to hear whatever he was about to read to her. She smooched his face and patted his chin fondly with her little hand.

  "Good Daddy," she said.

  Something hitched in his chest at her sweet touch. He kissed her lingeringly on her baby-smooth cheek, and opened the book.

  He scanned the first entry and knew instantly that he shouldn't be reading this. It was Violet's personal diary. But he read it anyway. He read the first and the next and the next entry, talking about her fear of coming here, her feelings for Ella and her conflicted feelings for him.

  "Read!" Ella pressed, feeling left out.

  Ethan's hand shook as he turned the page and glanced up at Hattie and Matthew, who were watching him the way one might watch nitroglycerin boil.

  "Mama says," he began, making up the words, "I love Ella and her little toes." Ella giggled. "I love her when she sneezes and when she blows her nose..."

  "When Ella bakes cookies!" Ella shouted.

  "Yes," he said. "Then, too."

  He turned the page and found Violet's list of Don'ts mostly crossed off as failures:

  Rule #1: Do not fall in love with Ethan.

  Rule #2: Do not wonder about Ethan's broken heart.

  Rule #3: Don't be afraid to fall in love with this child.

  Rule #4: Cook a meal Ethan loves.

  Rule #5: Don't be the only one in this marriage to fall in love.

  This last, broke something inside him. Or maybe it made something more resolute.

  Thumb in her mouth, Ella studied the book alongside him. "More!"

  And just then, Violet walked in the door. "Hattie? I've come for—" She stopped, her horrified gaze going between the book in Ethan's hands and everyone else.

  Ella clapped her hands. "Ella makes cookies!"

  Violet's lips parted and tears stung her eyes. "Yes, my darling, we'll make cookies. I promised you."

  "Mama sad?" Ella leapt from Ethan's lap and went to hug her. Violet lifted her in her arms and pulled Ella against her.

  Ethan got slowly to his feet and held the diary out to Violet. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—"

  Violet took it, a deep flush coloring her face.

  "Violet," Hattie said, jumping to his defense, "Ella brought it from your place. Ethan had nothing to do with taking it. She wanted him to—"

  "It doesn't matter," Violet said. "C'mon, Ella. Let's go home. Thank you so much, Hattie. Matthew. I can't repay you for your kindness."

  "Wait. Violet, wait. Please," Ethan said.

  "I think we've said quite enough tonight."

  "I haven't." Crossing the distance between them, he put his hand on her arm. "Not by a long shot."

  "Uh, why don't you two talk?" Hattie suggested. "We'll just be in the other room."

  "No," Ethan said. "I have something I need to show Violet." He lifted Ella from her and settled her in his arms. "And Ella."

  "Show me?" Violet said, her uneasy look going between Ethan and Hattie.

  "We won't be long," he said and took her hand, pulling her out the door.

  "What is this, Ethan? Where are you taking us?"

  He stopped and turned to her. "I know you're mad. More than mad. And you have every right. But give me just another minute to explain."

  She let him pull her along until she realized where they were going. It was dark and there was only a half-moon tonight.

  The loamy road that led up to the half-finished house on the hill was weed-strewn and overgrown, but they followed fresh ruts from wagon wheels that had dug into the soil.

  When they reached the house, Ethan told her to wait as he opened the door, set Ella down and lit a kerosene lantern that hung near the doorway.

  Violet moved into the room that had been transformed from the last time she'd seen it. The scent of fresh paint still hung in the air. The walls were painted and there was new furniture scattered warmly around the main room. The beautiful woodwork around the doors and windows was still mostly unfinished, but partly-done in some places in a deep, walnut stain.

  Just inside the next room, the kitchen, she saw a planked pine floor, polished and freshly laid. It wasn't half a house any more, she realized. It was a real home. Ella ran from one room to the next, leaving them behind at the door.

  Violet turned to Ethan who was watching her, waiting for her reaction.

  "How did this—? Who—?"

  "I did. This is where I've been, the last week. What I've been doing. I did it for you."

  "Why... why didn't you tell me?"

  "I meant it to be a surprise," he said with an ironic shrug of his shoulders. "Surprise."

  Cautiously, she stepped into the room, staring at it, then turned to him, uncomprehendingly. "For me? I don't understand. What does this mean, Ethan?"

  "You were right about the house. That I hadn't let my bitterness about Suzanne go. You were right about all of it, Violet. And I was dead wrong. This place... it's just... wood and nails and has nothing to do with her. So, I finished it. Well, almost finished it. There's still some work to do on it, but I did it for us. For you and me and Ella, as a family."

  She blinked at him.

  "But," he said, "if you don't want it, I'll burn it down tomorrow."

  "Oh. Ethan—"

  "Because without you in it, that's all it is, just wood and nails. It won't be a home. It won't mean anything."

  Her eyes were full of tears and she'd steepled her hands over her mouth.

  "I know you must hate me right now," he said, "and I'd deserve that."

  She squeezed her eyes shut and tears spilled down her cheeks.

  "But you see," he continued, "it came to me—a little late, because I'm a damned idiot—that I'd fallen in love with you, Violet. In spite of myself and all my warnings to the contrary, I'd fallen deeply and hopelessly in love with you. I'd tried to... I thought if I didn't love you, I could protect myself somehow and then it wouldn't matter if you left me."

  He took a step closer to her.

  "But I failed. Completely. And now I'm asking you... begging you, really, please don't give up on me. Before, downstairs, after we... I—I wanted to tell you how I felt, but—
"

  "But," she gasped, realizing it, "I wouldn't let you. Oh, Ethan..."

  He shook his head, taking a step toward her. "No. I was afraid. Afraid of what you'd say. Afraid if I told you, after what happened between us, you wouldn't believe me." His eyes met hers and he reached for her, taking her upper arms in his hands. "You asked me what I needed? It's you. I need you. I love you, Violet, with everything I am. I'm hoping that's enough for you because I'm so, so sorry for being such a damned stubborn, foolish—"

  "Shh." She hushed him with a finger on his lips. "I know who you are, Ethan. I see you. I've always seen you." She cupped his jaw in her palm. "And you're more than enough."

  Whatever remained of the wall Ethan had built around his heart crumbled with her words. He felt it tumble as surely as he felt the comfort of her touch. "Stay," he said, covering her hand with his own. "Be my wife, my real wife. Let me love you the way you deserve to be loved. Let me try to make you happy."

  "Oh, Ethan," she sobbed and threw her arms around his neck. "That's all I ever wanted for us, a chance. I love you, too." Covering his mouth with hers, she kissed him with all her heart.

  And Ethan kissed her back, soundly and well, just as a woman like her ought to be kissed. And in his arms, he spun her around until they felt Ella wrap herself around their knees with a squeal of happiness. He picked her up and they hugged her between them.

  Holding his girls, he was suddenly sure that however they'd all come together, whether it was by some random collision in the dark or by Violet's notion of destiny, family—a family who loved each other—was the only thing that mattered in the end.

  He would hold them tight to him and treasure every day, because a man only got so many chances in life. And this one he would fight for, come what may. This one he would never let go.

  The End

  Want to learn more about Chase Whitlaw?

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  CHASE THE FIRE

  The Wild Western Hearts Series

  Book Four

  Excerpt from

  Chase the Fire

  Wild Western Hearts Series

  Book Four

  by

  Barbara Ankrum

  Bestselling Author

  "Take it easy, Libby," he said. "I'm only gonna kiss you."

  "I'm not afraid, if that's what you think."

  "Aren't you?" His fingers circled her wrists and he and pulled them to his chest. The rest of her body followed, until she was as flush against him as moss on a tree.

  "Holding me this close wasn't part of the bargain."

  "I don't remember discussing any ground rules on holding," he retorted in a low voice.

  She was close enough to see the beginnings of stubble on his cheeks, inhale his scent—woodsmoke and saddle leather and the particular masculine fragrance that was his alone. Lord, Libby, now you've thrown kerosene on the fire. "This was a bad idea...."

  His eyes told her he thought she was wrong. His hands slid slowly up her arms to her shoulders, setting off waves of heat in their wakes. Deliberately, he lowered his gaze to her mouth.

  "It's been a long time since a man's kissed you proper, hasn't it, Libby?"

  Libby swallowed hard. Proper? Was there anything proper about what they were doing? "I told you, my... my husband, died two years ago in the—"

  His arms tightened around her. "I know. Shhhh," Chase's whisper implored, while his thumb lightly traced her lips. "No ghosts allowed in this kiss. This one's just between you"—his knuckle trailed a path of heat down her cheek—"and me."

  His voice was low and smooth as fine whiskey and went straight to her head. Thoughts of Lee, guilty, useless thoughts, spun away with Chase's caress of her cheek. She kept her hands curled tightly against his chest, as if she could keep him from doing to her heart what he was doing to her body. Oh, why had she agreed to this foolish bet?

  Because Chase is right, a quiet voice answered. It had been a long time. Too dangerously long. And his tender touch was reminding her of how many years she'd done without that.

  Cupping her face with his hand, Chase dipped his head down toward her. Like the whisper of a breeze that surrounded them, his lips brushed hers—once, twice—before claiming them fully. A sinking feeling of pleasure curled through her. His mouth on hers was firm, yet achingly gentle; at once, demanding and entreating.

  Beneath her fingertips she could feel the quickening beat of his heart, whose tempo seemed to match her own. Her hands explored the taut, well-defined wall of muscle on his chest. She knew in that instant how capable he was of both tenderness and great violence. But it didn't make her afraid. It made her want him more.

  Somewhere in the dim recesses of her mind, while her body turned to molten liquid, she knew this wasn't the friendly kiss they'd agreed on. But as his tongue urged her lips apart, and he explored the dark, long-untouched recesses of her, she ceased to care. Like a skein of wool, too tightly spun, Libby felt herself unraveling as his kiss deepened and changed.

  Chase hadn't meant to kiss her like this, but as he'd felt her body give in to his, the flame that had sprung to life inside him had trebled. She was sweet, so sweet, just as he'd known she would be. She smelled of fresh mountain air, pinon smoke and... wild lilacs?

  He forgot, for a moment, to think; to remember who he was, or to wish she wasn't the wife of that Reb soldier. For the moment, she belonged to him. Every fiber, every inch of her. He felt it in her surrender, in the way her hands let loose of the folds of his shirt and spread across his chest like fingers of fire. He felt it in the slow mindless dance her tongue was doing with his and in the way his blood pounded in his veins, washing away all thought and caution—and every shred of his common sense.

  Chase the Fire

  Wild Western Hearts Series

  Book Four

  by

  Barbara Ankrum

  ~

  To purchase

  Chase the Fire

  from your favorite eBook Retailer,

  visit Barbara Ankrum's eBook Discovery Author Page

  www.ebookdiscovery.com/BarbaraAnkrum

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  SHADY LADY

  Pistols and Petticoats

  Novella #2

  Shady Lady

  Pistols and Petticoats

  Novella #2

  by

  Adrienne deWolfe

  Bestselling, Award-winning Author

  Chapter 1

  OLD FLAMES

  Dodge City, Kansas

  Spring, 1879

  They said he was fast on the draw.

  Fast on the withdraw, Sadie Michelson thought snidely, watching a flushed and grinning Wyatt Earp hike his britches as he staggered for the swinging doors.

  "You're doing it again," the barkeep muttered when she draped her hip against the massive, cherry wood counter.

  "Doing what, Chalkey?"

  "Curling your lip like a queen with a brick up her arse."

  Sadie laughed delicately, hiding her balled fist in the scarlet taffeta of her skirt.

  "Don't be ridiculous, Chalkey. I'm smiling. I always smile after servicing Dodge City's noble lawmen."

  The mustachioed owner of the Long Branch Saloon snorted as he uncorked a bottle of whiskey and poured two finger's worth into a glass. The buffalo hunter at her elbow—a grizzled, sparsely-toothed ape who reeked of beast and sweat—grabbed the shot and gulped greedily before plunking down his coin.

  In Dodge City, where visitors practically threw greenbacks into the air, merchants wouldn't even consider making change for a quarter. Comforts that cost a reasonable penny in Texas were a whopping 25 cents in Dodge: Cigars. Ammo. Bootblack. A shave.

  But this knowledge came as slim consolation to Sadie. Chalkey paid for protection by making his girls rut for free with tin-stars—not that the standard rate was much more complimentary. Sadie would be damned if she sold her body
to a stinking gorilla for five dollars.

  "You're 24-years-old," Chalkey reminded her uncharitably. "That's practically a quarter of a century." With practiced flair, he slid the next shot down the length of the gleaming counter. The glass rotated and sloshed, but not a drop spilled from its glittering rim. "A woman your age can't afford to put on airs. I expect four turns from you tonight. Wyatt doesn't count, as you know well. Start walking the floor. Be nice to the boys."

  Be nice to the boys, and the boys will be nice to you.

  That's what Mama had advised that harrowing afternoon when New York carpetbaggers had confiscated the Michelson's home. Only 13-years-old at the time, Sadie hadn't understood Margaret Michelson's counsel. She'd known only that she must find shelter for her feeble-minded widow of a mother. Trudging for hours through the torrential rains of an east Texas gullywasher, Sadie had practically plowed into Pilot Grove's new town marshal outside the fourth boarding house that had tossed her into the gutter for lack of coin.

  Hearing of her plight—and ogling her sodden bodice—the Yankee marshal had offered her and Mama a cozy place in his hayloft. After subjecting Sadie to three days of his hellish pawing, he'd abandoned her and Mama on a brothel doorstep. Sadie had decided, on that day, to hate lawmen forever.

  "Don't be such a killjoy, Chalkey." She flashed the winsome smile that had charmed him enough to buy out that brothel contract five years ago and offer her a job at the Long Branch. "I'll earn my keep before your band strikes up the next Can-Can."

  He didn't look convinced.

  Sadie hid her resentment. She could sing and dance even better than she could rut. But to a tone-deaf crowd of drunks, what did it matter? Thanks to a bout of pneumonia that had nearly snuffed out Sadie's life, Liliana was the darling of the Long Branch's stage. Busty, blonde and blessed with a voice like a braying donkey, the 19-year-old giggler did more prancing and kiss-blowing than she did singing. Sadie despaired that real talent would ever oust Liliana from her coveted role as headliner.