"I—" Amanda glanced away. "No, I don't. This is the first gun I've ever held, and I've never fired one. But I think I could bluff my way through it if I had to."
Jake didn't utter a single one of the swears that slammed through his mind. He didn't dare. But he thought them... with a vengeance. Was this woman insane? Had she really traveled all this way, with that brat, not even knowing how to use a gun?! Why the hell was she carrying the damn thing in the first place if she didn't know how to use it?
Then he remembered the way her delicate white hands had held the gun that morning in the woods, as though she had known her way around it. He thought of the hands of poker they'd played, and he knew that, if the situation warranted, Amanda could bluff. Of course she could. She'd bluffed her way with him from the first, and Jake had only recently discovered it. Her affect on a total stranger would be even more dramatic, more believable.
He let go of her hand, ignoring the way his palm smoldered as he placed it atop his thigh. "Let's just hope you don't have to."
"I'm sure I won't. This seems like..." A scowl furrowed Amanda's brow as her gaze trained on the fighting miners. Though both were bloody and battered, neither looked ready to admit defeat. Just the opposite, their expressions said they were trying to kill each other with their bare hands. A crowd had gathered around them; all seemed to be enjoying the disgusting spectacle. "This seems like a perfectly lovely," she choked on the word, "town. I'm sure I'll be safe at Mrs. Mulligrew's."
"This is a mining town, princess," Jake corrected harshly. "It's nothing like Boston. Yes, some of the men here came from back East, but you aren't likely to find a gentleman among them. The men here are hard-bitten miners who, nine times out of ten, haven't seen a decent woman in a long, long time. There isn't an inch of Junction City you can consider safe. The sooner you realize that, the safer you'll be."
Amanda almost, almost told him that only if he remained at her side would she feel really and truly safe. Protected. But she didn't, because she didn't want him to think her clingy. It was enough he was concerned about her. Reluctantly concerned, true, but concerned nonetheless. She said, "I'll keep it in mind."
"You'd damn well better."
This time when Amanda flicked the reins, Jake let her go. He watched the mare pick its way around the horses and flatbed wagons jostling down the street. He didn't follow her, nor did he move about his business the way his mind told him he should. Instead, he just sat and watched—both Amanda and the impact she had on the grizzled-looking males she passed.
More than one bearded mouth gaped open. More than one man's eyes widened appreciatively upon seeing her, blinked hard, then looked again, staring with open amazement.
Her calico dress didn't hide as much as Jake would have liked for it to. It clung to her breasts, nipped at her uncorsetted waist, bunched enticingly at her hips. A small portion of creamy white calves could be glimpsed beneath the hem.
The dress couldn't hide her voluptuous curves, nor could it hide the raw dignity of the woman wearing it.
Jake sighed and plowed his fingers through his hair. Where his next thought came from, he didn't know. And he didn't like it one damn bit. But he thought it anyway.
Amanda Lennox didn't belong in faded calico. Her quiet grace and dignity said she belonged in silks and satins, with swathing of intricate lace. In frilly, fashionable bonnets and thick sable cloaks, not threadbare cotton. She belonged in a richly decorated mansion with a battery of servants and a loving, devoted husband... not a cheap hotel room in Junction City with a temperamental half-breed.
Where she belonged, Jake thought miserably, was back in Boston. Not here. Not with him. Not ever.
With those thoughts eating at him, Jake nudged the white into motion, his glare trained on the hand-painted signs announcing each building. His attention fixed on the saloon to his right, and automatically he guided the white toward it.
The supplies, he decided abruptly, could wait. Right now he needed a drink. Badly.
Chapter 17
Amanda's boot-heels clicked atop the scarred, planked floor as she paced from one end of the hotel room to the other. Her arms were crossed over her chest as though to protect her from the chaotic thoughts racing through her mind. Her wrinkled calico skirt rustled with each agitated step. A scowl had been brewing on her brow for the last two hours; it now etched deep crevasses into her smooth white skin.
The first fingers of dusk threaded through the single window on the far wall. Slices of muted light cut pale purple streaks over the floor. Outside, the sounds of Junction City seemed to magnify with the coming night. Horses whickered, wagon wheels creaked and jostled, men cussed, degraded, and goaded each other at incredible volumes. Tinny piano music drifted up through the floorboards under Amanda's feet. Husky male laughter wafted up the stairwell and crept through the crack under the door.
Tired of pacing, yet not nearly tired enough to sleep, she spun on her heel and perched on the edge of the narrow bed. The straw-filled mattress crunched under her weight as her gaze scanned the room. She remembered the sign that hung above the door of the hotel, the one she'd glanced at briefly before entering. Bold, handwritten letters proclaimed Mulligrew's Hotel as the finest in the territory. One golden brow lifted skeptically, and she thought that if this was the finest the Montana Territory had to offer, she'd hate to see the worst! They were in Montana now, weren't they?
What little furniture there was matched only in that it was all old. A single bed rested against the wall beside the window, and it looked as though the rickety piece of furniture was the only thing holding the wall up. The lumpy bed didn't look big enough to fit one person comfortably. An off-balance table squatted beside the bed. That was it. The chipped crockery pitcher and basin for washing didn't have a table; instead, it had been set off on the floor in a corner near the door. The wallpaper was decorated with big, water-damp brown splotches.
She could be thankful the bedlinen was clean. Faded and dingy, but clean all the same. There was no bedspread. Two blankets had been tossed atop the mattress and sloppily tucked in at the bottom corners. They were threadbare and thin, but also clean. So was the hand-stitched cotton pillow casing. Cleanliness was something to be grateful for, considering the state of the rest of the room.
She slipped her hand into the oversized pocket of her skirt. Her fingertips stroked cold, hard metal. She shivered even as she wrapped her fingers around the carved wooden butt of the pistol.
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Slowly, Amanda pulled the gun free, her gaze fixing on it. The weapon wouldn't offer much protection. Not without bullets. And hadn't Jake known when he'd returned it that...?
The scowl etching her brow deepened, and her gaze fixed on the chamber that should hold the bullets—had she any to load it with. A nagging suspicion tugged at her.
Jake Chandler wasn't the type of man who left anything to chance. While she may not know the man as well as she would like to, she knew enough. Returning an empty pistol when he thought it might be needed for protection was out of character for him. Quite simply, he wouldn't have done it. At the very least, he would have checked the gun to be sure it was loaded.Her fingers trembling slightly, Amanda toyed with the revolver’s cylinder. Figuring out how the cylinder rotated took her a few minutes, but in the end she drew back the hammer slightly and her patience was rewarded.
More so than she'd expected.
Her gaze widened. Five shiny cartridges were now nestled within the cylinder. Only the chamber in front of the hammer was empty.