It wasn’t a question, and Old Joe knew it. He wasn’t sure leaving Hope alone with this guy was such a good idea after all. But it was too late for second thoughts. If he tried to stay, he’d have to come up with a damned good reason for his sudden change of heart, and Old Joe wasn’t that quick on his feet.
The larger eye narrowed until it was almost equal to the smaller one in size. He looked at Hope, who had suddenly gone deathly pale. She caught his gaze as it traveled from her to the sack of flour propped up in the corner near the counter. There was a pistol back there, his pistol, primed and ready to shoot.
Hope gave the barest of nods. She knew that, normally, leaving the gun behind would be risky. No man in his right mind walked the streets of Thirsty Gulch unarmed. But he had Luke to protect him. Most of the miners who trickled into Thirsty Gulch feared the big man, if only because they couldn’t guess what he was or was not capable of. Old Joe and Luke would be safe without a gun, but Hope might need it to protect herself from Drake Frazier.
A smile curved her lips as the color returned to her cheeks. Just knowing the gun was there if she needed it was enough to bolster her pitifully floundering courage.
She nodded to the door. “You two go on, have yourselves a good time.” She sent them a stern look, much like a protective mother would cast on her precocious children. “And don’t get in any trouble. Last time you went to The Button you—”
Old Joe groaned and shook his head as he plucked his hat, and Luke’s from the rack. “I know, I know,” he grumbled, tossing one to Luke before pulling the other on top of his own wispy head. “Don’t need to go remindin’ me.” He looked like a hurt dog nursing his wounds. “I paid, didn’t I?” he added as he pulled open the door and let Luke by. “And they did rebuild the place, didn’t they?”
“Did they have a choice?” Hope countered.
He sent her a thoughtful glance, his wrinkled hand poised on the latch. “Nope. Guess they didn’t at that.” With a grin, he was gone.
“Come on, Joe, hurry it up,” she heard her brother call impatiently as they rounded the corner of the shanty with a muffled crunch of dried leaves. “The good ones will all be gone by the time you—”
“Hold yer horses, young ‘un. I’s a comin’.” The voice grew fainter. “I’s a comin’.”
Luke mumbled something, probably one of the curses Hope forbade him to use in the house, but they were too far away to hear. The words were lost on the cool night breeze.
Drake let his gaze settle on the girl in the rocking chair, noting that her attention had turned back to the fire. Although she pretended he’d left with the others, he recognized her preoccupation with the dancing flames for what it was.
Tension coiled in the room, so real it was almost palpable. If he reached up, Drake thought, he might actually feel the hostile currents hanging in the air like a thick, black cloud.
As Luke had promised, the stew was good, but not good enough to hold Drake’s attention from the matter at hand. He pushed the plate away and stretched. The liquid motion caught Hope’s attention from the corner of her eye.
She shifted her weight so she could no longer see him, but it did no good. She could feel him looking at her, feel his gaze raking over her body, missing nothing; her entire body tingled with the knowledge of his eyes. The emotions this kindled within made her limbs suddenly itchy and restless. Her fingers played with the peach folds of her skirt, smudged with light patches of flour where the apron hadn’t covered it. That nervous movement wasn’t missed either. Forcing her grip to slacken, she raised a hand to her forehead and noticed her fingers were trembling.
Angry that a man’s gaze—not his hands, just his gaze—could affect her so strongly, Hope sprang from the chair as though she’d just been struck by lightning. She wasn’t pleased to find her knees shaking every bit as badly as her fingers, but at least they were concealed beneath the billowing expanse of her skirt.
She walked to the table with what she hoped was a casual step, noticing as she did how more and more of her body began to tingle with each closing inch. By the time she reached the cracked oak tabletop, she could have colla
psed onto the bench beside it in exhaustion.
Instead, she reached out and began plucking up the discarded plates one by one, scraping the remains of each into the near-empty kettle before adding them to the neat stack she’d created on the side.
It was difficult, but she found that with a great deal of effort she could almost forget Frazier’s presence and carry on with her chores in the same manner she would have employed if he hadn’t shown up at all. Almost.
The problem was, Drake Frazier had no intentions of being forgotten. “Put the plate down, Hope,” he said, his voice hard, penetrating Hope’s body as if he’d driven an icicle straight through her heart. She hesitated, but otherwise ignored him. “I said, put the plate down.”
Hope did, but she put it on the stack and reached for another. “I don’t have time for games, Mr. Frazier, I have work to do.”
A hand snaked out and wrapped around her wrist as she reached for another plate. Hope froze. She wasn’t surprised; she’d half expected it, but she was shocked that he’d done it so fast.
“I don’t like games either, sunshine,” he said through gritted teeth. Hope tried to pull away, afraid of the cold hostility in his voice. It was useless. His grip held painfully firm.
Even knowing a struggle was useless, she yanked again, almost dislocating her wrist for the effort. “Let me go!” she demanded, leaning back as he drew her up hard against the table. Her gaze flickered to the flour sack as she was forced to throw the other hand on top of the table to brace herself. It did no good. With her elbows bent, drawing her body towards him until her torso was almost lying over the table was child’s play.
“Let me go, you idiot, you’re breaking my arm!” she hissed.
“I’ll break more than that if you’re trying to welch on our deal.”
Drake dropped her arm. Hope, not expecting to be released, was forced back a step by the momentum of her struggle. Her arm ached from where his fingers had been. She rubbed the bruise that would probably be blue come morning, if not sooner. Her cheek stung from the memory of his breath.
“I was doing the dishes, Mr. Frazier,” she replied tightly, her eyes averted to the sack of flour. “How was I supposed to know you’d be offended at the sight of a woman scraping plates? Besides,” she let her gaze wander to the makeshift wooden counter as though searching for a weapon, “now that there are real women in town, I thought one of the girls at The Brass Button would be more your style.” There was a knife on the counter. A knife that still had a piece of carrot peel clinging to its dulled steel blade.
If there had been a back to this goddamned uncomfortable excuse for a bench, Drake would have leaned back and smiled. So, she thought she knew his style, did she? He’d see about that. Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned his elbows on the table top, and sent Hope a piercing glare. “And how would you know anything about my—ahem—‘style’?”