California Caress

An intoxicated giggle escaped her lips before she could clamp a hand over her mouth to stifle it. She’d just try every damn door until she found the one that housed the man she was looking for. Should be easy enough, she thought as she staggered for the door straight ahead.

“Don’t knock first,” he had said. Hadn’t he? She couldn’t remember. Shrugging, she grabbed the handle and turned. The door wouldn’t budge.

Not that one, she decided as she moved on to the next. Ah, now that handle turned quite easily. Too easily, if the unclothed occupants of the room had anything to say about it.

“Sorry, honey, you’re too late,” a brassy, feminine voice cackled as Hope quickly closed the door. The girl wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know. At the first sight of the man’s blond hair she had already guessed it to be the wrong room.

She staggered to the one across the hall, realizing as she went that she hadn’t tried the one nearest the stairs. That one would be next, she decided as she grabbed the door knob. Which doorknob? At the moment she was seeing three of them spinning before her eyes. Her hand lurched for the middle one, though her mind hadn’t given it permission to do so. Miraculously, it turned.

The door swung open into a vacant room illuminated in the soft orange glow of lamplight. This was the room, wasn’t it? Oh God, she should never have drunk that last glass of whiskey! Now she was seeing two beds in the center of the room instead of just one. And her stomach was—

Sick! She was going to be sick!

Without thinking, she raced to the closed door to the left. Flinging it wide, she collided into what felt like a brick wall, a very fuzzy, very warm, very muscular brick wall.

Hope staggered backwards, and by the time two large hands had wrapped around her upper arms to steady her, she had passed out cold.

Chapter 2

The last time Hope remembered feeling this awful was on the ship that carried them around the Horn, bound for that cursed place called California. Her stomach had heaved for nearly the entire voyage, and by the time they’d finally reached port, she was ten pounds lighter.

But this was worse. While the soft thing beneath her now wasn’t rocking, it might as well have been. Even with her eyes closed, she felt the world spinning in slow, agonizing circles. Perhaps if she had something to focus on, she thought. Maybe that would help stop the dreaded rotation of the dark world she was desperately trying to lose herself in.

Slowly, bit by painful bit, Hope opened her eyes. The light, a pale orange glow reeking of kerosene, pierced her eyes, and she felt as though a dagger had been thrust clear through to the back of her skull. Stubbornly, she refused to give in to the pain. As she opened her eyes a little more, the fuzzy blur of a wood planked ceiling came into view.

Ah, much better. With her gaze focused on the cracks between the planks, and the tiny nail heads that held them together, her world blessedly stopped spinning. This did nothing to relieve the throbbing in her temples, however.

Deciding her mind needed something else to think of, she let her gaze drift over to the hastily constructed end table by the side of the bed. It was a crude little thing, she thought, confident that Luke could have produced a better piece of furniture than the carpenter who had built that atrocity. The wooden wardrobe was even less elaborate, as was the squat, rectangular table resting against the wall near the foot of the bed. The porcelain washbasin and pitcher atop the rickety table looked like they had seen better days. And as for the chair the man was sitting in, well, that was—

Man!?

Hope’s eyes widened in surprise, then squinted as she tried to focus on the boots so casually crossed atop the chipped oak bed rail. They were black, those boots, with low heels worn down where the sole first touched the ground. The leather was cracked, molded to curve over the large feet within. Where the surface had once been shiny, it was now dulled with a fine coat of dirt. Her gaze rose to where the top of the boots disappeared beneath the hem of blue denim trousers. The sinewy legs encased in that rough material had muscular calves and thighs that extended for what seemed to be miles before tapering off into lean hips, a taut stomach, and a broad, virile, completely naked chest; a chest that brought a vague sense of familiarity to the outskirts of her memory. There was a V-shaped pelt of soft golden curls there, disappearing just as the broad, muscular shoulders came into view. The tendons beneath the sun-kissed flesh were well defined. It didn’t take much exertion on Hope’s part to imagine how the muscular biceps would ripple with even the slightest movement.

The nausea that had been forming in her stomach was suddenly forgotten. Boldly, her gaze rose. She wasn’t at all surprised to see the thick cord of neck that smoothed itself up into a hard, square jaw. There was just the slightest indentation in the chin resting below sensuous lips. Even the light, bristly coat of stubble shadowing the jaw and lower part of his face could not conceal the high, rugged cheekbones or the enticing hollows beneath. His hair was sun-bleached blonde and shaggy, accentuating the mold of his cheeks as it swept away from the high, broad brow. The color reminded her of endless fields of wheat, rich and steady to harvest as it basked under a midday sun.

Then there were his eyes. Narrow beneath the bushy, golden brows, they were the same shade as the tumultuous seas that had carried her to this godforsaken land. A deep, almost translucent shade of green shot with shimmering silver flecks, eyes that had a penetrating quality about them that both shocked and mesmerized.

“Should I ask how

much you’ve had to drink?” His voice was a deep, husky whisper that tingled its way down Hope's spine. A smile curled his lips, a gesture not mirrored in the piercing gaze.

Hope scowled, then immediately regretted the impulse. The result was a feeling akin to a renegade herd of cattle stampeding through her head.

“Drink?” she asked, her voice a hoarse, dry whisper. Whiskey, she remembered with a groan, I drank some whiskey. It took a few more seconds for the memory of what had transpired in the bar to come flooding back—as well as her mission for going there in the first place. “Two glasses of whiskey,” she answered finally, squinting at the man as she sent him a weak smile. “No, maybe more. I don’t remember exactly.”

Oh God, I’m in the wrong room. It was the first real thought to pierce the haze of alcohol fogging her mind. She winced as the pain of the realization shot through her already throbbing temples. And what would happen if Luke decided to disobey her instructions and come looking for her? The last thing she needed was for her brother to find her lying in a stranger’s bed, with the stranger in question half-naked to boot!

The stranger nodded, his cold smile turning into one of pure deviltry. “Good, we’re making progress. Not only have you rejoined the world of the living, but you’ve also proven you do indeed have a voice. All this in the matter of a few short seconds. Now,” his voice grew hard and the smile disappeared as though it had never been, “why don’t we move on to what brought you barging into my room in the middle of the night, drunker than a river rat, and who the hell sent you here?” His gaze narrowed. “Keep in mind, I’ll settle for nothing less than the truth.”

“No one sent me,” she replied indignantly, hoisting herself up by way of her elbows as she slid her legs over the side of the bed. The world around her swam with the suddenness of the motion, and her stomach rolled. Gripping the edge of the bed, she waited for the nausea to subside before attempting to stand. Her knees were still weak, but at least they held her weight, albeit with a slight sway. “I—I was looking for someone. Apparently, I picked the wrong room.” She cleared her throat, mentally willing the slur from her voice. “It was an honest mistake.”

“If it was a mistake.”

The voice, filled with mistrust, made Hope slowly turn back toward him. A scowl etched her brow as she peered into the penetrating depths of his eyes. “Of course it was a mistake,” she scoffed, slowly plucking up her cloak from where it had been carefully folded at the foot of the bed. “Why wouldn’t it be?” Flinging the cloth around her shoulders, she tied a poorly shaped knot beneath her chin.

“I was hoping you’d tell me.” The smile was back, but there was nothing at all endearing about it as the man reached behind him and extracted from his belt loop the glistening curved blade of her bowie knife. Hope’s eyes widened, her hand awkwardly groping at the pocket of her skirt. She sighed in relief when she felt the small but solid form of her revolver tucked beside the two nuggets of gold. Her relief, she was quick to find, was painfully short-lived.

“Don’t bother,” he informed her coldly, his eyes glistening with an emotion she didn’t dare contemplate. “It’s as good as worthless without these.”