An Impassioned Redemption: A Defiant Hearts Novella Page 6

  “I’m sorry you looked suspicious,” she managed, watching Lucille’s thin-lipped mouth straighten in an annoyed line.

  “Perhaps Miss Holland should leave, so everyone knows how we handle trouble,” Ben suggested.

  “Trouble!” Jo exclaimed. Good God, she’d never been declared trouble before. Actually, of course she had! But not in this way. “I’ve never been thrown out of anywhere in my life.”

  “I feel very frightened,” Lucille said in a shaky voice looking at Jo, “by you. I’d like her to go,” she added, turning her glistening eyes to Carter.

  He sighed, then glanced around the room to see if customers were still watching, along with his other ladies. “It’s probably for the best, Jo, if you leave now, though of course you can come back any time.”

  When hell freezes over, Jo thought. That’s when she’d step back on this cussed boat. How dare he invite her and then tell her to leave! Without another word, she turned around and walked away—slowly, gracefully, and with as much dignity as she could muster considering she’d been rolling on the rug a few minutes earlier.

  Carter caught up to her by the time she reached her carriage.

  “I’m sorry, Jo. It’s just . . . I think Ben is right, only for tonight.”

  “I think that’s bull,” she said, startling him into stepping back as she settled herself on her carriage’s padded and upholstered dickey and arranged her skirts. “You should be man enough on your own boat to tell Ben you’re in charge and to instruct Lucille to pull herself together. After all, she wasn’t shot at.”

  “You tackled the girl!” he reminded her sharply, perhaps smarting from the remark about him not being man enough.

  She glanced away, an uncomfortable sheepish feeling creeping up on her. After all, she understood about running a business. He couldn’t have women brawling under his gaming tables any more than she could allow fisticuffs at her saloon. But this was not how she’d wanted their evening to end. Apparently, he felt the same way, for he jumped up on the running board and looked her in the eye.

  “I’m sorry.” And he looked like he meant it. “Business is business, but I appreciate that you were looking out for my best interest. If Lucille had had a gun, then Ben and I would be thanking you right now.”

  She nodded, hating how foolish she felt. A goddamn cigar! “That’s fine. Now, get off my carriage.” She wished she didn’t sound like a shrew.

  “Please don’t go away angry.” His imploring gaze reached directly into her heart, thawing the last of her resentment.

  She took a deep breath to relieve the tightness banding her ribcage. What would she have done in his position? Probably the same thing.

  “I’m not angry,” she told him.

  “Really?” His face brightened so readily that she felt a small smile tug at her lips.

  Heartened by that apparently, Carter leaned forward and kissed her. He put his hands to her shoulders to hold her there. Deepening the kiss by slanting his mouth, he touched his tongue to the seam of her lips, and she opened them with a sigh.

  At last, when he lifted his head, she took a ragged breath.

  “You can’t keep doing that,” she told him. More than anything, his kisses undermined her self-reliance, making her feel as if she had to have another one to survive.

  “Clearly, I can.” He grinned.

  Her small smile became a broader one. “What do you mean by kissing me like that?” She picked up the reins.

  “Mean?” he asked. “Why, I guess I’m showing you that I like you.”

  Her insides fluttered at his confession. “And do you kiss everyone you like?”

  “No, only you. And I want to get to know you better. Are you interested?”

  She paused a moment, gazing into his soft brown eyes that glittered in the light of the dock lamps. What was his ultimate intention?

  “I’m interested.” That seemed enough of a confession for the moment, so she put a hand to his strong chest. “Time to disembark, Captain Carter.”

  He nodded and stepped down to the ground.

  “Hiyah.” She flicked the reins, and her horse started off at a trot that soon became a canter.

  That man is dangerous. She’d just told him she wanted to know him better. What if he wanted one thing from her and that was the end of it? But what if he wanted more? For the first time, she allowed a seed of hope to plant itself in her heart. A life with Jameson Carter—perhaps even living under the same roof. Possible? Perhaps. Desirable? Yes, definitely yes.

  Chapter Four

  Jameson didn’t know what made him go up to the wheelhouse in the wee hours of the morning except for the incessant thoughts of Jo that kept him from drifting off to sleep. Even when she wasn’t with him, thoughts of her kept him company, so much so that he hardly thought of anything, or anyone, else.

  The sky was still dark, and a million stars twinkled overhead. When he looked into the water, the stars seemed to be floating on the river as if they’d dropped from heaven to keep the fish company.

  He let the breeze that had sprung up the evening before lift his hair, and he turned his face into it, inhaling the tang of the Mississippi. Could he ask Jo to be his ladylove? Did she want that type of arrangement? He knew he did. Now that she’d told him she didn’t take any of The Pork and Swallow’s customers to her bed, and having seen there was no other man in her life, he would like to fill that position.

  A banging sound brought him out of his reverie and directed his full attention to his boat.

  “What the hell?” he said aloud.

  He looked over the side in the direction he thought the noise had come from. Occasionally, a log or a large branch drifted down river and rammed the hull. Tonight, he couldn’t see anything, even with the pale moonlight reflecting on the water—except maybe a dark mass next to his boat.

  “Crack!”

  Jameson thought the boat shuddered that time. Quick as a mongoose, he flew down the steps to the second level and charged down the stairs to the next deck, where he ran to the port side to take another look.

  Damn! He could definitely see something now, something big, that was banging against the side of his boat, and apparently, it was stuck fast. There was no one to ask for assistance. There was only him and the ladies on board. Ben lived on land, as did his bartender.

  He grabbed the nearest line from the deck, neatly coiled as all his ropes were. Quickly tying one end to a steel cleat, he judged the distance to the water and tied the rope around his waist about halfway along its length. He wished fervently that he had another pair of hands. Going over the railing, he did his best to lower himself down slowly, but ended up falling most of the way and slicing into the cool water right beside a monstrosity of wood and metal that was scraping its way and banging along the hull.

  Fortunately, the destructive object, which turned out to be a small, derelict barge or raft, had already cleared the stern’s “bustle”—the bulge below the waterline that prevented debris from jamming the rudder. However, some lines drifting behind the barge had caught on the paddlewheel and were holding the blasted object from drifting away from his boat and farther down river.

  The slight wind and current were causing the mass to crash continuously against the hull. With both his boat and the barge bobbing, it was beyond difficult to get the thing loose. Treading water, Jameson worked in the dim light with his pocketknife, feeling the sweat pouring into his eyes. Any moment, he expected to see a hole open up in his beloved boat as the scow banged and scraped at it.

  Shit!

  At last, he got the slab of wood and metal free. Exhausted, he pulled himself onto the barge, shoving it away from the hull of his boat and clinging to it so he could maneuver it farther out into the current. He rode it about a hundred feet until the trailing snarl of rope was well clear of his boat and dock. Then he jumped into the inky water and struck out for shore. He waded up the slippery, muddy bank, resting only a moment before running back to the dock.

  S
oaking wet, he crossed over the planks and charged into the main cabin. Going directly below to the ladies’ sleeping quarters, he located the one where the scow might have caused damage. He pounded on Darla’s door.

  “Open up. It’s Jameson,” he said, and the door was wrenched open a few seconds later.

  He pushed past the startled woman and lit the bedside lamp.

  “You all right?” he asked. “Anything amiss?” Carefully, he examined the interior of the hull. It looked fine but it could be compromised.

  “Enough noise to wake snakes,” Darla answered groggily. “A lot of bumping and scraping got me up about twenty minutes ago.”

  “We had a collision.” He ran his hand over the wood behind her bed and could feel movement, like a loose board or maybe it had splintered. “I don’t want you sleeping here until I can have the boat’s exterior checked over by a shipwright. I’d hate to spring a leak and ruin your pretty hair. OK?”

  She paled, most likely at the thought of sinking to the bottom of the river in her sleep.

  “Where shall I go?” She grabbed her robe and slipped it over her shoulders.

  None of the other rooms had a second bed, except the one Lucille already occupied.

  “Go to my cabin. I won’t be able to sleep tonight anyway.”

  After she left, Jameson returned to the main deck, peering down at the shadowy side of his boat. Even with the barge most likely now floating somewhere near Warsaw, he remained on edge.

  Pouring himself a shot of whisky, he went back up two flights to the wheelhouse. He knew he would spend the rest of the night looking over into the darkness where all was blissfully silent, save for the gentle lapping of the river against the hull. If he’d been asleep in his cabin in the prow, he might never have heard the ruckus or discovered the problem until it was too late to do anything but watch his boat sink.

  That was assuming he and his ladies had made it off alive. It wouldn’t take much of a hole with a steady leak for them all to be at the bottom of the river.

  In the morning, after coffee, he slipped into his cabin to get a change of clothes. He averted his eyes from his bed and the sleeping woman in it, and went to his bureau. Darla wasn’t on duty until after lunch, so she might as well sleep. The room was dim with the curtains drawn, and he tried not to look at her in case she was uncovered.

  Just as he was leaving, he heard a soft moan that raised the hair on his head. It wasn’t the sound of someone in peaceful slumber. He dared a glimpse at his best dancer.

  “Christ!” he exclaimed, seeing a stain of blood that had bloomed and dried on his sheets. Darla!

  He tossed the sheet back to see her bleeding from her shoulder or high on her chest, he couldn’t tell. She’d obviously lost a lot of blood and passed out, but he could see her breathing shallowly.

  “Hang on, honey,” he said and backed out to race to the galley. Christine, his other longtime employee, was having eggs and salted bacon at a small table between the cookstove and the window.

  “Darla’s been shot,” Jameson exclaimed without preamble.

  “What?” She jumped up so quickly, pushing her chair back, that she spilled her tea in her haste.

  “Go sit with her,” he ordered, “and see what you can do to make her comfortable. I’ll go fetch the doctor.”

  She started out the door, making a wrong turn.

  “She’s in my room,” he called to her, and she paused to look back at him.

  “No, not that,” he said. “We had trouble last night and her room wasn’t safe.”

  “Apparently, yours wasn’t either,” Christine said and hurried off in the direction of his stateroom.

  She was right. Blood drained from his head as her quip hit home. If he’d been in his room as he ought to, he’d have been the one shot. Someone wanted him dead! His thoughts turned immediately to Jo, and his heart stopped on a downstroke. Good God! Could that same someone be targeting her, also?

  Jo jumped at the fierce rapping on her door. Someone was in an all-fire hurry to see her. The shooter from the other day flashed into her mind as she rose from her chair.

  “Who is it?” she asked, hating the feeling that she had to be cautious, never having had an ounce of trepidation in her life.

  “It’s Jameson. Are you all right?”

  She opened the door to see a decidedly harried man, shirt untucked, hair disheveled, clothing that oddly enough looked as though he might have bathed in and allowed to dry while still wearing it.

  “What happened to you?” she asked.

  “A helluva night. May I come in?”

  She stepped aside and ushered him into her room, closing the door behind her. “Go on. Have a seat. Tell me about it.”

  He plunked down on the side of her bed, looking as weary as a hard ridden horse. She leaned back against her desk, her hands resting on either side of her hips on the oak desktop.

  He cast his gaze about, seeming to hunt for the best place to start. “First, I think someone deliberately tried to sink my boat,” he said.

  She gasped at the thought of his beautiful boat under water, not to mention its occupants.

  “Then I found one of my ladies had been shot during the night.”

  “No,” she exclaimed. “That’s terrible. Is she going to be all right?”

  “I don’t know yet.” He ran a tired hand over his equally tired-looking eyes.

  Jo frowned. “And you came here to see if I’d met the same fate?”

  He nodded.

  “Do you think this is related to the previous incident?” she asked.

  He nodded again and stretched his neck from side to side.

  She narrowed her eyes. “If you ask me, we have a crazed killer on our hands. First the fire with no reasonable cause, then the shooting, now your boat and another shooting.”

  “Not a killer yet. Leastwise, I hope not. The doctor said Darla has a chance to pull through. Not a good one, but a chance.”

  Jo nodded.

  “The bullet was meant for me,” he added.

  “How so?”

  “Darla was in my bed.”

  Jo’s heart seemed to plummet to her feet. She was glad she had the solid desk firmly behind her rear end because his words felt like a punch to her stomach. “Oh.”

  “It wasn’t like that,” he said wearily. “I told you, I don’t dally with my ladies.”

  “Then how—?”

  “Her cabin was near where the boat’s hull was compromised. I didn’t think it safe for her to sleep there.”

  “I see.”

  “You believe me?” he asked with a curious expression, as if he’d expected to have to plead his case.

  She had no reason to think he’d lie. “Of course.”

  He heaved a sigh, but then he frowned. “You think the fire at The Pork was deliberate?”

  She nodded. “I do. I didn’t say anything to Pete. I have no proof, but the kitchen was closed, the girls were asleep. I got in late and checked the lamps myself. No reason for it to burn.”

  He nodded.

  “It seems an odd coincidence, all this bad luck,” she added.

  “I agree.” Then he yawned broadly.

  “As you can see, I’m perfectly well. Why don’t you stretch out there and take a nap,” she suggested.

  “What if someone found me in your room?”

  They blinked at each other and then burst out laughing. He slipped off his boots and lay down. In about thirty seconds, Carter was snoring peacefully, not a terrible wood-sawing buzz. In fact, the steady sound was rather soothing, reminding her of the drone of bees on a summer day. She sat back down at the desk and returned to her work, making supply lists and trying to determine costs.

  In a short time, they’d gone from strangers to acquaintances to dancing on the edge of something much more. And she was a little surprised at how pleased she felt and how she was looking forward to whatever came next. That was, if whoever was meddling dangerously with their lives was brought out into
the light.

  When she finished with the new saloon’s business, she turned her chair to face him and watched him sleep. Another hour passed with her gazing at him, feeling quite content, though she would choke anyone who ever found out. She wasn’t yearning exactly, just studying him. There was something so restful and alluring about the relaxed lines of his face, the way his eyelashes fanned his proud cheekbones. What a looker, he was!

  At that moment, Carter stirred. When he opened his eyes, he gazed directly into hers. He grinned.

  “What is it?” she asked, wondering what could bring on that sensual smile so quickly.

  “I can’t remember ever waking up to a more welcome view in my life.”

  She shook her head. “You are a sweet talker.”

  His face turned serious. “No, Jo, I mean it.” In the next second, he held open his arms, beckoning her.

  She caught her breath, hesitating. She knew what he was offering. At least, she thought she did. And if she accepted his offer, there was no going back, at least for her.

  Almost involuntarily, she stood up and took a step toward him. Then another. Is this what I want? she asked herself. Or did she want more than even he could give her?

  He took hold of her hands and pulled her down on top of him. There she was, sprawled across Jameson Carter, reveling in the bay rum scent of him and the warmth of his body.

  His hand found its way into her hair, cupping the back of her head, drawing her down. A last glance into his eyes before she closed hers confirmed a blaze of desire as keen as her own. She let him bring her the last few inches until their lips met.

  And she melted. Every bone in her body became jelly, and her limbs were inexplicably languid. His tongue explored her mouth, slowly and thoroughly, until she sucked on it, halting its progress. She heard him groan, and something deep inside her shifted.

  He lowered both his hands to grasp her buttocks and pull her tightly against his maleness. She gasped, startled by the potency of the craving coursing through her. It had been so ridiculously long since . . .