The Outlaw's Return. Victoria Bylin

alone!”

      He released her, but his eyes held her more tightly than his hands. “I need you, Mary.”

      “What you need is a bath!”

      “I need more that,” he murmured. “I need you.”

      “No, you don’t.”

      “Mary, I—”

      “Don’t talk to me!” Turning, she clamped her hands over her mouth. The secret burned like fire in her belly. She wanted to punish him for what he’d done, but she couldn’t. Not only did she have to keep the facts to herself, but she knew what it meant to need forgiveness. As much as she wanted to blame J.T. for wooing her into his bed, she’d gone willingly, even eagerly. God had forgiven her—she knew that. She thought she’d forgiven J.T., but the memories left no room for mercy. She couldn’t stand the thought of the scandal coming back to life. She desperately wanted J.T. to leave, but her anger left a sour taste in her mouth. They’d both sinned. If she sent him way in anger, she’d be a hypocrite. She took a breath to calm herself, then faced him. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have shouted at you.”

      Relief softened his mouth. “I had it coming.”

      He stood still, waiting for her to make the next move. She glanced at Fancy Girl. She’d promised them both a meal, so she indicated his chair. “I’ll get the pot roast. Fancy can have a bone when you leave.”

      “Thanks.”

      She escaped into the kitchen, dished his food and brought a plate to the table. He smiled his thanks, lifted his spoon and ate. In Abilene they’d lingered over supper with quiet anticipation. Today she used silence like a stage curtain. It hid her memories the way velvet drapes hid the audience, but thoughts of a curtain reminded her of the career she’d lost. Yesterday Roy Desmond, the new manager of the Newcastle Theater, had asked her to star in The Bohemian Girl. Because of the scandal, she had decided to turn him down. If her name showed up on Roy’s fancy theater posters, people might become curious about her past. At the time she’d thought briefly of J.T. and blamed him. She couldn’t possibly sing on stage again, even though she’d been impressed with Roy. An actor himself, he had managed a theater troupe on a Mississippi riverboat. She hadn’t heard of him, but he’d been in Abilene and had heard her sing. He’d mentioned the trial and the gossip, then assured her he’d keep the information to himself. She trusted him.

      J.T. finished the pot roast, then broke the silence with a contented sigh. “You sure can cook. I didn’t know that.”

      “It’s a family recipe.” She reached idly to straighten the salt shaker.

      His gaze dropped to her fingers, no doubt noticing the roughness. Her hands embarrassed her, but she refused to hide them. He arched one brow. “Are you sure I can’t talk you into singing in that saloon in California? It’s a long way from Abilene.”

      “I’m positive.”

      “Would you think about it?”

      “There’s no need.” He’d push until he got what he wanted, and he wanted her. She had to give him another reason to move on. “My mother died a few months ago. I’m raising my sister and brother.”

      He didn’t like children, so she figured he’d leave her alone. Instead he seemed interested. “How old are they?”

      “Gertie just turned seventeen. Augustus is twelve.”

      He wrinkled his brow. “They’re not that young. Gertie’s practically grown. And Augustus—” He shook his head. “That’s a dreadful name for a boy.”

      Mary didn’t know what to make of his interest. “We’ve always called him Augustus.”

      “So give him a nickname.”

      “Like what?”

      “I don’t know.” His eyes twinkled. “I bet we can think of something.”

      We? Mary had to set him straight. “Even if I wanted to go with you—which I do not—I have obligations. I own this restaurant. I have a mortgage to pay and women who work for me. They need the money. Frankly, so do I. I’m saving to send Gertie to New York.”

      He scowled, a reminder that he’d been left on those crowded streets to fend for himself. “What’s in New York?”

      “Theaters. Gertie loves singing as much as I did.”

      “You still love it.”

      “Yes, but not the same way.” She stood and lifted their plates. In Kansas she’d used his given name for only the most serious conversations. She used it now to make a point. “You’re two years too late, Jonah. I wish you the best, but I don’t want to see you again.”

      Dust motes hung in the light, swirling like ash from a burning bridge in a ray of sun coming through the window. The glare lit one side of his face and put the other in shadow until he pushed back the chair and stood. “I see.”

      When he looked at his dog, Mary remembered her promise to Fancy Girl. “I’ll be right back.”

      She carried the plates to the kitchen, selected the meatiest soup bone she had, wrapped it in paper and carried it to the dining room. “Here.” She handed it to J.T. “This is for Fancy.”

      He took it but hesitated before calling the dog. If the mutt refused to go with him, Mary didn’t know what she’d do. With his brow tight, he spoke in a gentle tone Mary knew well. “Let’s go, Fancy Girl.”

      When the dog ambled to his side, Mary breathed a sigh of relief. He took his hat off the peg and opened the door. With sunlight fanning into the room, he pulled the brim low and stepped outside, closing the door behind him. Mary blinked, and he was gone.

      J.T. turned the corner, stopped and looked at his dog. “What now, girl?”

      Fancy nudged the bone with her nose. J.T. wished his desires were as simple. He wanted a drink. The escape wouldn’t last, but it would stop the ache in his chest. He’d wake up feeling even worse than he did now, but who cared? Without Mary, he had no reason to stay sober. As soon as he bought supplies, he’d leave town. Tonight Fancy could chew the bone in front of a lonely campfire.

      “Come on,” he said to her. “We’re getting out of here.”

      He went to the livery for his horses, paid the owner and put the bone in a saddlebag. He secured the line to the pack horse, climbed on his buckskin and headed to the boardinghouse to fetch his gear. As the horses plodded down the street, he looked for a place to buy whiskey. He saw one closed door after another, then the gray wall of a large stone building. The granite gleamed white in the sun, and gargoyles jutted from the eaves. As he rounded the corner, he saw a sign that read Newcastle Theater.

      “Hey, Quinn!”

      He slipped his hand into his duster until it rested on the ivory grip of his Colt Navy, then he scanned the street for the person who’d called him. When he saw Roy Desmond, he wanted to spit. He knew Roy from the faro tables in Dodge City. The man cheated. Even worse, there was talk he’d killed a saloon girl. J.T. had no desire to speak with Roy, but he couldn’t ignore him with Mary in Denver. The man had bragged about his life as an actor, and J.T. worried he’d seek out Mary. She’d sent J.T. away, but he wouldn’t leave until he knew what Desmond wanted.

      “Hello, Roy.”

      “This is a surprise.” The man flashed a grin. “It’s been what? Three years since Dodge?”

      “More or less.” J.T. had known Roy before Abilene, before he’d been with Mary. “What are you up to?”

      Roy indicated the stone building behind him. “You’re talking to the manager of the Newcastle Theater. I’m a legitimate businessman now.”

      Only a snake like Roy would need to announce he’d become legitimate. J.T. took in the man’s sack suit and pleated shirt. A gold watch dangled from his pocket, and his shoes