service of a government trying to reassure its terrified people.
The only folks he’d seen take issue with his work were men and women of the cloth, but Moira didn’t appear to be the religious type. Not with her saucy mouth and assessing eyes.
But as he had watched Walking Bear’s tribe move quietly, happily, about their settlement, Del was gripped by a need to ask her why. Why, why, why, and then maybe he’d know who she was and how she came to be in Red Creek and why she hovered in his mind like a damn wraith. There was no reason for her to be so firmly and immediately entrenched beneath his skin, the memory of her a wracking cough he couldn’t shake. He barely knew her. He didn’t want to know her. He shouldn’t want to know her.
Yet he did.
Observing what appeared to be six Cheyenne children of various ages playing together and running about had made him think about the children Moira was likely running herd on at the schoolhouse that day. In his few stolen moments with her since his arrival, he’d gleaned that she was a compassionate woman and averse to violence. As a man whose life was defined by violence, both done toward him and meted out to others, she was a foreign entity. Even the women he’d known back home were more than a little bloodthirsty.
Moira wasn’t a shrinking violet by any means. She’d handled her own injury with aplomb, and not only that, had rushed toward an injured Indian with no thought for her own safety. It made her brave and stupid at the same time, and Del suspected he admired that backbone of hers, more than was healthy for the sake of his sanity.
He wasn’t staying in Red Creek. She was a woman who, aside from the location of her cabin, reeked of propriety—if propriety had a sharp tongue and a quick frown and thousands upon thousands of countable freckles, that is. The Moira Tullys of the world required proper attention, like courting, and Del knew next to nothing about courting. He’d considered himself too young to seek out a wife when he lived on his family’s plantation, leaving the female company he sought out, for purposes of recreation, solidly on the more tarnished side of propriety. And damn, he’d liked it that way. Preferred it, even. The brothels of Savannah welcomed him with open arms, and before the war, he’d gladly fallen into those lush, oftentimes expensive limbs with nary a thought.
It had been so long since he’d had sex that the ache had grown dull. It wasn’t an insistent need so much as it was a remembered longing for physical release, one that his hand could fairly easily take care of when the time arose. Some of the soldiers he’d fought alongside had let lust follow immediately on the heels of violence, but Del had never been such a man. Death and destruction, and the adrenaline brought on by wartime, dampened his desires.
He’d been thankful for it.
But he wasn’t staying in Red Creek, and even if Moira Tully intrigued him, what conscience he had left wouldn’t allow him to start something with such a woman. Each time he thought of her, it was like a hot poker to the dead mass of his hardened emotions, and such an uncomfortable feeling that it had led him here, to the Ruby Saloon, where he waited for his whiskey to do its job and freeze him inside again.
In the mirror over the bar, he observed the patrons of the saloon drinking and carousing. There were more people here than he’d figured inhabited Red Creek, and he realized many of the miners must make camp outside the town. No wonder so many businesses were thriving in such a small locale.
A comically dandyish man in a bowler hat sat at a piano in the corner where a whore lounged against the instrument’s side, smiling sensually down at the pianist. She was a lush, dark-haired thing, with her curves encased in a vibrantly blue satin corset. As he sat at the counter and studied her reflection in the mirror, he watched her painted mouth open and a husky, heated singing voice
The only folks he’d seen take issue with his work were men and women of the cloth, but Moira didn’t appear to be the religious type. Not with her saucy mouth and assessing eyes.
But as he had watched Walking Bear’s tribe move quietly, happily, about their settlement, Del was gripped by a need to ask her why. Why, why, why, and then maybe he’d know who she was and how she came to be in Red Creek and why she hovered in his mind like a damn wraith. There was no reason for her to be so firmly and immediately entrenched beneath his skin, the memory of her a wracking cough he couldn’t shake. He barely knew her. He didn’t want to know her. He shouldn’t want to know her.
Yet he did.
Observing what appeared to be six Cheyenne children of various ages playing together and running about had made him think about the children Moira was likely running herd on at the schoolhouse that day. In his few stolen moments with her since his arrival, he’d gleaned that she was a compassionate woman and averse to violence. As a man whose life was defined by violence, both done toward him and meted out to others, she was a foreign entity. Even the women he’d known back home were more than a little bloodthirsty.
Moira wasn’t a shrinking violet by any means. She’d handled her own injury with aplomb, and not only that, had rushed toward an injured Indian with no thought for her own safety. It made her brave and stupid at the same time, and Del suspected he admired that backbone of hers, more than was healthy for the sake of his sanity.
He wasn’t staying in Red Creek. She was a woman who, aside from the location of her cabin, reeked of propriety—if propriety had a sharp tongue and a quick frown and thousands upon thousands of countable freckles, that is. The Moira Tullys of the world required proper attention, like courting, and Del knew next to nothing about courting. He’d considered himself too young to seek out a wife when he lived on his family’s plantation, leaving the female company he sought out, for purposes of recreation, solidly on the more tarnished side of propriety. And damn, he’d liked it that way. Preferred it, even. The brothels of Savannah welcomed him with open arms, and before the war, he’d gladly fallen into those lush, oftentimes expensive limbs with nary a thought.
It had been so long since he’d had sex that the ache had grown dull. It wasn’t an insistent need so much as it was a remembered longing for physical release, one that his hand could fairly easily take care of when the time arose. Some of the soldiers he’d fought alongside had let lust follow immediately on the heels of violence, but Del had never been such a man. Death and destruction, and the adrenaline brought on by wartime, dampened his desires.
He’d been thankful for it.
But he wasn’t staying in Red Creek, and even if Moira Tully intrigued him, what conscience he had left wouldn’t allow him to start something with such a woman. Each time he thought of her, it was like a hot poker to the dead mass of his hardened emotions, and such an uncomfortable feeling that it had led him here, to the Ruby Saloon, where he waited for his whiskey to do its job and freeze him inside again.
In the mirror over the bar, he observed the patrons of the saloon drinking and carousing. There were more people here than he’d figured inhabited Red Creek, and he realized many of the miners must make camp outside the town. No wonder so many businesses were thriving in such a small locale.
A comically dandyish man in a bowler hat sat at a piano in the corner where a whore lounged against the instrument’s side, smiling sensually down at the pianist. She was a lush, dark-haired thing, with her curves encased in a vibrantly blue satin corset. As he sat at the counter and studied her reflection in the mirror, he watched her painted mouth open and a husky, heated singing voice
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