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  Rachelle Morgan’s Sensuous New Romance

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  Chapter 1

  Last Hope, Colorado

  1886

  She didn’t know who looked worse: the man, or the horse he rode in on. Both carried the mark of miles of weather in their slouched postures and dust-caked hides: both looked as if they hadn’t seen a meal in ages, and both seemed incapable of taking another step without toppling over.

  From her room above the saloon, Honesty McGuire watched the lone rider as he drew closer, stirring up dust on a street that hadn’t seen traffic in months. She couldn’t see much of his face past the heavy growth of whiskers around his mouth and jaw. Rust-brown hair fell past the collar of the duster covering him from neck to spur. He was a bit too thin for her tastes, too, but a girl in her position couldn’t afford to be too choosy.

  As much as she wished otherwise, Honesty needed a man. One capable enough to withstand the rigors of travel yet obedient enough to do her bidding without question. At least he was sober. And young. And breathing.

  So that left only one question: since the ore mines had been stripped, only two kinds of people showed up in Last Hope anymore—those looking for someone or running from someone. Which was he? The hunter? Or the hunted?

  A drink, a meal, and a bed. Jesse Justiss craved all three so badly he’d have given up his four-dollar boots for just the sight of them.

  He navigated his horse around a pot hole to the warped hitching rail and dismounted. A spear of agony shot through him the instant his boots hit the ground. Knees on the verge of buckling, he leaned his sweat-drenched forehead against the saddle and cursed ten ways to Sunday through gritted teeth. He’d taken bullets twice before, and hadn’t taken this long to recover. Maybe he should have heeded the doc’s advice and given his shoulder a couple more weeks to mend before tearing up one side of the Rockies and down the other. Maybe then he wouldn’t be feeling as if hot railroad spikes were being driven through his chest. But then, Jess never had been very good at taking advice.

  Once the pain had subsided to a tolerable ache, he pushed away from Gemini’s side and circled the horse, inspecting him carefully. The mustang had been a gift from the prettiest horse thief he’d ever had the pleasure of knowing. Jesse had laughed when Mustang Annie told him he’d never find a finer mount or more faithful friend, but over the last eight years, he’d lost count of how many times Gem had proved her right.

  The sight of blood on Gem’s front foreleg caught Jesse’s eye. “Hell and damnation,” he swore under his breath. “What have you done to yourself this time, old pal?” He knelt and ran his hand along Gem’s leg, careful to avoid the ragged gash just below his knee. A fresh cut, probably from the trip down the mountain. No swelling, and no limping—both good signs. But that didn’t mean the animal hadn’t pulled a muscle or suffered an even more ruinous injury. It just meant Jess had caught it in the early stages.

  Jess wiped his hand down his face. The last thing they could afford was another delay. But until he knew for certain that Gem hadn’t suffered a serious pull, he’d not take any chances.

  Through weary eyes, Jess gave the town—if it could be called that—a full sweep. The windows of the false-fronted structures that weren’t busted or covered with boards wore grime so thick you couldn’t even see through them. Paint peeled from signs that creaked on rusty chains. Patches of weeds had sprung up between cracks in the boardwalk and had begun taking over the packed dirt road, and a general air of defeat had settled over the area.

  “You sure picked a helluva place to pull up lame,” he muttered to the animal.

  With a sigh as dismal as his surroundings, Jesse turned to the only open establishment. THE SCARLET ROSE GAMBLING PARLOR AND SALOON was painted in bold, sweeping strokes of red across a whitewashed backdrop. It couldn’t have been more appropriately named, for the building stood out from the others like a perfect blossom in a row of tumbleweed.

  He started toward the front door, but a sudden sense of being watched stopped him. Prickles danced up Jesse’s spine. He glanced up and searched each of the four windows set into the false front behind the second floor balcony. A flutter of curtains made his sight hone in on the corner window.

  Jess froze. His right hand shifted to the holster at his hip and, with one deft flick of his finger, he popped the safety strap. Though he hadn’t seen anyone watching him, that sixth sense had saved his hide too many times to mistrust it now.

  Several seconds passed with no further movement. He stepped onto the boardwalk and cautiously pushed the door open, standing half inside the double wide doorway, his nerves tight as sunbaked rawhide, his senses alert as he scanned the interior of the Scarlet Rose.

  A woman in red silk appeared in a doorway to the right of the bar. Upswept blonde hair frizzed around an oval face lightly powdered with rouge. Mid-twenties, curvy in all the right places.

  Then she caught sight of him.

  “Land’s sakes, you scared the fooley out of me!” she cried, slapping one hand over her ample bosom.

  The genuine surprise in her soft brown eyes made it obvious that she hadn’t been the one spying on him. Jess tipped his hat. “My apologies, ma’am.” He kept his hands in sight and a good distance between them, letting her know he posed no threat. “Are you Scarlet Rose?”

  “The one and only. Who’s asking?”

  Still wary. Smart woman. “Nobody important.” Jesse scanned the rest of the saloon. A stage skirted in worn red velvet was the main attraction, flanked on either side by tall windows draped in a red velvet print. The balustrade rimming the staircase and the second floor wore the same red velvet bunting, and red mats covered a dozen tables scattered about the room.

  Satisfied that no danger lurked in the corners, he strode to the polished mahogany bar that ran the length of the north wall. Shelves climbing to the ceiling framed a mirror scrolled with gold woodwork that many a poker player no doubt used to his advantage.

  Scarlet Rose, recovering her surprise, brushed her hands down the red cotton fabric stretched tight across her midriff, and took up her position behind the bar. “Now that I’ve got my heart back in my chest . . . what’s your pleasure?”

  Jesse hooked one heel over the brass foot rail. “Whiskey—if you’ve got it.”

  “That’s about all I’ve got—five cents a shot.” She plucked a bottle from beneath the bar and poured him a shot.

  Jesse plopped down a few nickels, then tossed back the whiskey. Blissful fire burned down his throat and into his belly, washing away weeks of accumulated dust.

  “We don’t get many visitors around here since the mines played out.”

  He didn’t miss the inquisitive gleam in her green eyes or the subtle question in her statement. He knew the game; he’d played it for years. “My horse pulled up lame. Any idea where I might find a good hostler?”

  “In Last Hope? You’d have better luck finding gold.” She tipped the bottle and refilled his shot. “Folks expected this to be another Leadville. Miners hit color twice, but the shafts played out within a year. Then everyone pulled up stakes and moved on to richer pickings.”

  “You’re still here.”

  One shoulder lifted in a shrug. “Stubborn, I guess. There’s still a couple of prospectors up in the hills who swear they won’t leave till Last Hope becomes Lost Hope.” A crooked smile played on her rouged lips. “I guess I can’t bring myself to give up till they do.”

  “Persistence.” Jesse saluted her with his shot glass. “Now, that’s a quality worthy of admiration.”

  The blush that stained her cheeks confirmed his belief that even such a worldly woman wasn’t immune to flattery.

  “Actually, I’m headed toward Leadville myself to meet up with a pal of mine,” he told her. “He might even have passed through here in the last couple of weeks. Big fel
low, red hair, thick Scots brogue . . . ?”

  “Sorry, sugar, nobody like that’s come through here.”

  Jesse resisted the urge to ask her if she was certain. Scarlet was a shrewd woman who had doubtless seen it all and forgotten nothing, and the fastest way to raise her hackles was to press her with a bunch of questions. Jesse hadn’t reached the ripe age of thirty by making stupid mistakes.

  It had been a long shot, anyway. Duncan McGuire was known to frequent larger towns that provided a variety of opportunities to either load or lighten his purse—depending on which way the wind was blowing. McGuire would have avoided this place like smallpox.

  “Look, I’ve got a stable in back where I keep my mule,” Scarlet said, breaking into his thoughts. “If your horse don’t mind putting up with Bag-o’-bones’ brayin’, he’s welcome to rest up there for twenty-five cents a night.”

  Jesse couldn’t blame the woman for trying to make extra coin, despite the steep price. “Much obliged. It looks like I’ll be needing a room for myself, too, if you’ve got one to spare.”

  “Got half a dozen empty ones upstairs. Fifty cents a day, including meals.”

  Jesse almost choked on his whiskey.

  “You pay whether you eat or not, so you might as well eat. And no one goes upstairs without a bath first.”

  “And I suppose you know just where a man can find a bath hereabouts?” Jesse asked with a lifted brow, fully aware that it, too, would come with an outrageous price tag.

  “Bathhouse closed a few months back, but I’ve got an old tin tub in the pantry. A dollar a filling—a dollar fifty if you want hot water.”

  “That’s robbery!”

  She gave him a mischievous smile that shaved years off her features. “There’s always the creek.”

  That ribbon of mud and muck just outside of town? At this rate, he’d be flat broke by nightfall. “You drive a hard bargain, Scarlet.”

  “So I’ve been told. But I make it worth every penny.”

  The smokey lilt of her voice left no mistake that they weren’t just talking a room, a meal and a tub of water. “How much more for personal treatment?” he couldn’t resist asking.

  “Depends on how personal.”

  “A back scrub and hair washing—for starters.”

  “Well, normally that would cost an extra ten cents, but for you . . . it’d be on the house.” Her voice dropped a notch. So did her gaze. “Anything more will be up for negotiation.”

  The first genuine smile Jesse had felt in months tugged at his mouth. If he looked half as bad as he felt, it was a wonder any woman would look twice at him, much less flirt with him so brazenly. But then, women of Scarlet’s profession would flirt with a fencepost if it meant adding to the till.

  Suddenly, warning prickles once again danced up the back of Jesse’s neck. His hand slipped to his holster even as Scarlet called out, “There you are, Honesty. We’ve got us a visitor.”

  The guarded glance Jesse cast over his shoulder became an eye-popping double-take as his sights filled with the most stunning vision he’d seen in years. She stood halfway down the stair-case, one hand on the banister, the other propped lightly on her hip. A mass of ebony hair that contrasted with her porcelain skin tumbled down her back in loose ringlets and framed a delicate face that belonged on a cameo pin. Dainty brows arched over wide, round eyes with impossibly long, sweeping lashes that, though Jess couldn’t swear to it, looked natural. Her nose was small and narrow, and her mouth . . . God, lips that ripe and full had been made for kissing.

  Desire slammed into him with the force of a lightning bolt. The low-cut, red satin dress hugging her curves from bodice to knee left little to the imagination, but a whole lot to temptation, as if it had been designed solely for the purpose of driving a man crazy. At that moment, Jess would have sold his soul to explore the black lace edging lining the slopes of her breasts, to run his hands down the matching ruffle attached to the swell of her bottom, or to slip off off the dark stockings hugging the most shapely calves he’d seen in ages.

  “Why don’t you show him to a room while I scare up something for supper?” he dimly heard his hostess tell the woman.

  “Sure thing, Rose,” she said. “Follow me, cowboy.”

  Anywhere, Jesse thought, her spun velvet voice wrapping around his vitals, while a familiar fever surged through his blood stream and settled below his buckle. As he numbly watched the twitch of red silk and black lace across her bottom, he couldn’t decide who deserved his thanks more—Rose for employing such a prize, or Gemini for getting him stranded with her. Even from a distance, he could tell she was tall for a woman, just a few inches shorter than his own five-feet eleven, which meant their bodies would fit together like two pieces of a puzzle. Images that would have made even the most seasoned harlot blush sliced through his mind.

  She paused at the top of the steps. “Are you coming?”

  Not yet, but he would if he stared at her much longer—right here in the middle of the Scarlet Rose.

  Jess thanked the beard for hiding the color he felt heating his cheeks. It had been a long time since he’d felt such a swift and immediate response toward a woman, and he knew it wouldn’t be wise to go anywhere near her until he got himself under control. “I’ll be along after I’ve seen to my horse,” he said.

  With a tip of his hat, he strode out the door, leaving Honesty to stare after him with her mouth agape and her heart in her throat. Never in all her born days had a man looked at her like that. Every inch of her skin tingled, and a strange, faintly wicked sensation stirred deep in her belly.

  “You gonna give me a hand or are you gonna stand around gawking all day?”

  Snapped from her musings by Rose’s humor-filled question, Honesty followed the woman into the kitchen. “I wasn’t gawking.”

  “You were. Not that I blame you—that one’s got the makin’s of a true Lothario.”

  Warmth flooded Honesty’s cheeks. “If your tastes run toward the scrawny desperado type.”

  “You just ain’t opening yourself up to the possibilities.” Rose opened the door to the cast iron stove and started shoving chunks of pine into its mouth. “Fetch those kettles out of the pantry, will ya, hon?”

  Honesty moved to the pantry and brought out a pair of banded wooden buckets and two huge copper kettles. She caught sight of the man leading his horse across the back yard with the straight-shouldered, loose-limbed stride of a man at ease with himself and the world.

  Possibilities? Good gravy, he looked as if he’d been dragged through a riverbed and hung out to dry. It wouldn’t surprise her if his face was plastered on wanted posters from here to Mexico. All those whiskers, that long, matted hair . . . Hadn’t she heard somewhere that long hair often hid the cropped upper ear marking a horse thief?

  “So what does he want?” she asked, hoping Rose read nothing more into the question than idle curiosity. She’d done her utmost to hear the conversation between the two of them, but the stranger’s voice had been too low timbered to make eavesdropping possible.

  “Same thing as every other man. Good whiskey, a hot bath, a soft bed, and willing woman to share it with.”

  She should have guessed. Why should he be any different? “He didn’t have to make a trip all the way out here for that.”

  “He didn’t. Apparently he was heading for Leadville when his horse went lame.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “Why shouldn’t I? No one comes to Last Hope willingly anymore.”

  That was an understatement. Even she wouldn’t be here if fate hadn’t stepped in.

  “Water’s just about ready, hon. Go on and take him his bath while I put a stew on for supper.”

  A sudden flurry of panic erupted in Honesty’s middle at the idea of being in the same room with the stranger. “How about if I cook the stew and you take him his bath?”

  Rose laughed. “I want the man pleasured, not poisoned.” Then she glanced over her shoulder, and her face softened. �
�Honesty, are you afraid of him?”

  “Of course not!” she hastily denied. Cautious, yes. And why not? Three months ago her father had been shot down in cold blood. Who wouldn’t be wary after that? “I just can’t shake the feeling that his showing up here isn’t as innocent as he wants us to believe.”

  “That may be true, but his reasons aren’t any of our concern. He’s the first customer to walk through those doors in weeks, and as long as he’s got the coin, we’ll oblige his every whim.”

  That thought made the disturbing sensation in her middle return full force. She couldn’t forget the hungry look he’d given her, and his raw, naked longing had stirred something inside Honesty she’d buried long ago—a desire to belong to a man. To be his alone to honor, cherish, and protect till their last breath.

  Honesty glanced down at her hands, the nails short and chipped, the fingers conspicuously bare. “Rose . . . don’t you ever dream of some-thing more than this?”

  She set down a sack of flour she’d taken from the cupboard. “What, like prince-charming, castles-in-the-sky, people-throwing-flower-petals-at-my-feet kind of dreams?”

  At Honesty’s nod, she confessed, “I used to have that dream all the time.”

  “But not anymore?”

  An unladylike snort blew through the air. “Dreamin’ is for pretty young skirts like yourself, not frayed old garters like me.”

  “You’re not old, Rose.”

  “I’m twenty-five and I’ve done a lot and learned a lot and lived a lot in those twenty-five years.”

  More than most, Honesty suspected. Though only five years older than herself, life had hardened whatever soft edges Rose might once have had. Once again, Honesty was reminded of how much her father had protected her over the years. “What about love, Rose? Did you ever love during those years, too?”

  She looked suddenly ancient and weary. “More than any woman should have to, darlin’.” With a sigh, she said, “Look, take Jesse his bath. If he wants more than a good scrubbin’, turn him over to me.”